Who The Hell Are You Simon Smith? 66x22

Who the Hell Are You Simon Smith?

Chapter 1 : “Near Miss”

The elevator doors split open abruptly, with the traditional accompanying “dong”. He slowly shuffled out of the elevator. “Are you also from the downtown office?” he asked, as his eyes met mine.

His voice was raspy and barely audible. His face was white with a thick layer of dust that covered him from head to toe. Not the typical character you would expect to bump into at the entrance to one of the uniquely high powered law firms in all of the United States. “No” I said apologetically, as we uncomfortably waited together to be buzzed into the shrine. I looked into his eyes and saw a mixture of fear, shock and horror. The contrast of his appearance compared to mine, sporting an impeccably designed Boss suit, was stark. He felt the need to explain: “I had nowhere else to go. There's no communication; no transportation. I had to walk all the way and fight the stampede getting here. Do you know what's going on??”

It is not every day that F-16's are heard buzzing 300 feet above the Manhattan skyline. I was beginning to recognize that this was indeed a monumental occurrence when I peered through the floor to ceiling windows and saw growing clusters of people walking, running in one direction, all uptown, in an endless stream like a herd without a leader. Looking into this stranger's startled eyes, the profound impact that this morning was to have on so many people's lives, was beginning to , yet even then, I didn't appreciate that the world, as we knew it, was about to change.

As the glass door opened, letting us into the foyer to the shrine, the refuge seeker asked “do you know if anyone else made it out?”

“Out of where?” I asked. “Out of the downtown office, the 64th floor of the tower that exploded” he responded. “Only about half of us were in the office when it happened, and I haven't seen any of them since.” The only thing I heard were the words “64th floor”. His words hit my face like pelting rain, and it dawned on me: that's where I was supposed to be this morning, Tuesday, September 11th, 2001, if the change of venue for my 9 o'clock meeting hadn't been arranged for me. This stranger survived, but the fate of the poor souls who were trapped in the burning building was supposed to be mine too.

But then again, fate rules, and being another faceless victim of what will be recorded as possibly the world's most horrific act of terrorism, was not intended for me. Because I am Simon Smith. And no, I am not another attorney at the supremely upscale waspy law firm of Sidney and Laurson. I am Simon Smith and 9:00 am on September 11th, 2001 was the kickoff of my road show for the venture capital fund I was raising. In ways that I am not at liberty to describe, I was able to coax the immovable Marvin Rice, a managing partner at the legendary 220-year-old law firm, into giving me face time with a number of his prime clients, to pitch my fund. Seven, carefully selected, prospects were lined up 30 minutes apart, a casual delay worked into the schedule to ensure that the prospects bumped into each other, which was intended to create an impression of short supply in this exceptional investment. And who would not oblige the iconic Marvin Rice and turn down a ticket to his exclusive club of “insiders”. Super power Rice sent me an email the previous week asking me where I would be staying. I was indeed grateful that he did, since I was reserved at the prestigious Morgan on 32nd street. This was considerably beyond my means but it was necessary for me to convey the message that I wasn't merely another attorney, and this was a way to establish myself. In retrospect, boasting the Morgan was a good move, as Marvin replied that Sidney and Laurson had just acquired a new securities firm with offices in Mid town, closer to my hotel, with better parking and we could hold our meetings there, instead of at their traditional offices in the 1st building of the World Trade Center.

There are only a handful of people in the world like Marvin Rice, who can take a shot from anywhere on the court and it will end up a perfect swoosh, even if they aren't looking at the basket, or, as in this case, didn't even know where the basket was. The meetings began as scheduled, luckily for us both, as it later turned out, at the mid -town office. Things were actually going well for a while, until at 9:15 Marvin got a call to the conference room, to which he responded:

“So what do you want from me? Tell them to do exactly what they're told. Let me know if there are any developments. And make sure they all go back to work as soon as it's all over.” Marvin looked up at all present and said: “Weird. Apparently, a plane hit the first tower of the Trade Center”. It took me a split second to respond: “it's probably one of those helicopter tours of the Statute of Liberty that hit a window or something”. I, of course, had no idea what I was talking about. It was just double talk, which in translation meant: “I have been preparing this pitch for months. We have everything lined up, I spent a shit load of money that I don't have, including on a room at the Morgan, so don't screw this up for me with small talk or silly anecdotes of a plane accident. Back to business. My business!

Being the sharp guy he was, Marvin of course understood exactly what I was saying and pushed the meeting along as planned. Our mark was nicely warmed up and was headed toward the “strategic side benefits” talk, which in business vocabulary means : “Marvin, this guy walks the walk and talks the talk, but I have no idea what in fact he is saying and have no idea how or if it will be profitable for me. Nonetheless, Marvin, if you say it's a must in order for me to get into the Club, I'll do it, because you said so.” Just on cue.

But then another call came in to our room at 9:35. This time Marvin was more attentive. “What's going on?” He asked his PA. “Are you serious?” Another plane had hit; this time it was the second tower. That was when we all made our

way to the window to see what was going on outside. And what a sight it was. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a huge pillar of thick grey smoke. It took us no less than 10 minutes to get the window of the classy office tower to open, and then there were 6 of us leaning out the window trying to see what was going on downtown. We still didn't see much but the smell was overpowering. Gusts of fumes from the burnt jet fuel mixed with a greyish whitish dust covered everything in sight. Then, looking down to the street, we saw the hermetic grid lock, the trail of people making their way on foot uptown, and then came the ear shattering noise of F-16's flying just above our heads.

The PA burst into the room and announced that we won’t believe what she just heard on the news. Marvin was not even listening – “Get me the office manager of the downtown office, now!” he shouted. “And get me someone from City Hall and Harold at our Washington office”. The PA looked at him and with a cocky smirk that only PA's have, “I already tried that, but there are no phones”. All my efforts to remind those present of the religious obligation in the USA of making money under any circumstances, were futile. This was 9/11, which was soon to be reported as a broad attack on U.S. key targets by Islamic fundamentalists. The meetings scheduled thereafter, of course, didn't take place and even reverence for Marvin Rice wasn't enough to keep anyone focused on my presentation. No one even bothered to cancel, as if the absence of phones, mobile connection and email is an excuse. What else was there left to do but order bagels and watch the developments on TV. After finishing my second tuna melt special was when I met our guy from the downtown office at the entrance.

I did feel comion for this poor survivor in front of me and blurted out: “Those Fucking Arabs!”. He derived some solace from my statement. Little did he know that I am Simon Smith, a hardened son of a bitch, unmoved by a little terror and a few innocent casualties. What I was really pissed off at, was that these pilgrims had wrecked my roadshow!

But it's not like Simon Smith to take such a hit sitting down. So I quickly bounced back. With all the transportation to and from Manhattan shut down and all the locals more interested in looking for the neighborhood Pakistani, upon which to release their frustrations, I quickly enlisted my ingenuity and reserved a table at “Beds” which was then the hottest club in town and at which I had no chance of getting a table on any other given night. And the cherry on top was that as a “survivor”, our party's tab was all on the house!

But even for Simon Smith, 9/11 was not all fun. My venture capital fund would need to wait another 24 months before it could get off the ground and little did I know at the time that the workings of global terrorism would soon be back to snare me in. Things didn't fair that well for Marvin either. He never made it off the treill one week later.

Chapter 2: “Real Near Miss”

The Royal Hampshire Regiment, part of the 8th Infantry Brigade is one of the fiercest infantry forces that the British army ever produced. This is a welltrained, highly motivated and highly efficient group of killing machines. Also known as Her Majesty's finest, regardless of the fact that most of the persons enlisted in this exclusive group are either brain dead or borderline psychopaths. Even those who for some reason may have started out otherwise, the thrashing, alcohol and behavioral acclimation overturned such uncommon statistical anomalies and set the lines straight with the rest of the degenerates.

Yes, I Simon Smith, am one of those statistical anomalies turned degenerate. Strange really, as I actually started out on the diametrically opposite side of the spectrum. It all started when I decided I wanted to fly a jet. This, of course, was the product of a completely coherent mental process, only marginally impacted by Tom Cruise on his motor cycle in Top Gun.

So there I was, doing the CBAT test, which is the pre-requisite for acceptance to the Royal Air Force pilot training school. When handed the complex multiple choice aptitude test, which included not only four possible responses for each grammatical, mathematical or psycho analytical question, but also combinations such as 'A and B may be correct', 'A and B are not correct' or 'some of the above are correct', I was set aback. Never had I encountered such a test. But that was only part of my surprise. Once overcoming my bewilderment at the questions, and while skimming through the pages trying to see how many of these were in the stack, I noticed that all the responses in the answer sheet seem to have been marked off already. To the best of my understanding, which was not much, the answers looked as correct as any.

Faced with this quandary, I quickly deduced that there could be three possible explanations for the situation – the marks could be the answers and this could be a test of my character to see if I would do the honorable thing and disclose the fact that my questionnaire was pre-answered; it could be someone else's test, in which case the answers may not be correct; or lastly, those numbskulls could have made a mistake and handed me the master with all the right answers, against which they inevitably mark all the other questionnaires.

I had to make a decision which option to go with. Since I was dwelling over the dilemma far too long, the option of owning up to it fell, for if it was a test of character, there would be the obvious question of why it took me so long to stand up. So I was left with either someone else's answers or the guys at OASC (The Officers and Aircrew Selection Centre) being complete fools. Since this was unlikely, I looked at the questions once more and figured that if it is someone else's answer sheet, there is no reason to believe that I would do any better than them, even if I did actually read through the test and try to answer it. I also had to pee already. So I got up after 45 minutes of a 3-hour test and gave in my answer sheet, as is.

It turned out, in fact, the OASC guys were simple, straight, AAA, first class idiots and that the form I got was the master form with all the right answers. Simon Smith got the highest score ever in the history of the RAF (Royal Air Force) aptitude tests, and in a record breaking 45 minutes. It takes most people longer than that just to read the questions, let alone the answers.

From that moment on, I was anointed as Ace of the next fighter jet course. Thereafter, a classic Pygmalion effect went into play. Simon Smith could do no wrong. Any statement I made was insightful, any question I had was brilliant and thought provoking. Even my flying skills proved to be good, regardless of the fact that I did not know the square root of 984,284 off by heart. So much so, that even I begun to believe I was born with a joystick between my fingers. This

continued for the first eight months or so, until we started to hit the really complicated stuff, not directly related to operating the aircraft; intricate stuff like operating the radio, when and how to change frequencies and what the hell to do if the right wing falls off at exactly the same minute the fuel tank empties. Then the Pygmalion effect started to generate the reverse outcome. Instead of encouragement, all I got was disappointment, ridicule and that they expected better from someone with my capabilities. My instructors were abused by their superiors for not nurturing this great potential properly, and before I knew it, I was branded a loser, who, notwithstanding unprecedented potential, was below acceptable standards.

Since they were unable to make an Ace out of me, they went the only other possible route. A special example was to be made, and not only was I thrown out of the course, but of the RAF altogether. I was delivered to the Royal Hampshire Regiment to teach me a lesson! A lesson which I now know well – “Never believe your own bullshit!”

So it came to be, that after months of hazings, thrashings, and literally eating shit, I too became a hardened, brainless infantryman, worthy of being given a gun and stationed to be a live target to pull enemy fire. Given the fact that The Royal Hampshire Regiment roots go all the way back to the great battle of Gallipoli, I think that is where they perfected their brilliant tactics, of getting 70% of the outfit killed, just to save those few, who were ultimately the dumbest, least worthy to survive elements of the group; those which will subsequently have the most negative impact on society, when they finally make it back home. Armed with these valuable principles and heritage as part of our weaponry, Her Majesties Finest, myself included, we were stationed for a tour of duty in Northern Ireland. No doubt the perfect match was made in heaven by asg the perfect unit to the exact mission. Implementing a wonderful military tactic, known in our Regiment as “The Sitting Duck Thing”, I found myself one night, sitting on the top of an earth mound surrounding one of the most heavily attacked outposts in Londonderry. In order to make absolutely sure that the sentry would be in complete enemy visibility at all times, the tactic entailed not

only sitting on the top of the mound itself, instead of behind it, but on a chair placed on the pinnacle of the mound. Well, it was not really a chair, because then the sitting duck may actually fall asleep on duty. Therefore, the position was fitted with the frame of a chair, just the metal pipe frame, but without the seat that you actually sit or lean on. Aside from the fact that it gave the person sitting on it the association of a bathroom and a constant desire to defecate, it was quite effective, as I don't know of anyone ever falling asleep while on this carefully crafted military device.

It was a clear spring night, not a cloud in the sky and cold to the bones, as only Northern Ireland has to offer. I was on the graveyard shift of 02:00 until 06:00 am, which I was perfectly happy with, as the Irish tend to throw less fire bombs during those hours, so there was consequently less action then. It was quite pleasant actually, the lights of Londonderry were bright, the skyline dark and a soft monotonous rumble of sleeping idiots behind me. Having the graveyard shift also gave me less face time with these people the next day which was also a relief. As I was sitting there fantasizing about the Dire Straits concert I was missing, I was filled with a mixture of self-pity and indifference, which tend to take the center stage when you have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I tried to philosophize about the situation, but after months of oppression, I was incapable of scraping enough IQ together to generate a coherent thought. Out of the blue, or more accurately, out of the dark abyss in front of me, a sharp bright white flash pierced the night, and my melancholy. At first, it was just the single split second flash, but a second later, I heard the thunder that accompanies mortar fire. Being a trained soldier by then, I immediately jumped into action and was in combat position, with my rifle placed in the socket of my shoulder. And then came the ultimate question: “what now”? Depending on the distance and the size of the shell, I had between 2 to 4 seconds to make my move. But what is my move?? I could run for cover back inside the outpost, in which case I stood a good chance of being shot by the sergeant major, who was a mean SOB, for deserting my post; I could shoot back, which would be useless in the pitch dark and will not help much in saving me from what is already airborne and now flying at me; another option was to change position on the mound, for the shell not to blow my ass off.

The latter seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances, so I held down my weapon and looked for the better spot. I looked left and looked right and took inventory of what I had in front of me. Amazing how many mental processes can be effectively performed in 2 to 4 seconds, while listening to the descending pitch of a whistling projectile headed in one's direction. Analyzing the inventory viewed on the mound, I recognized that mortar fire is not the most accurate of weapons, if I go left the shell could go exactly there, and if I go right, it could just as well go there as well. That was the split second the conclusion hit me – my fate was already determined 2 whole seconds ago, when the shell was fired. I had no way of knowing where it would hit or how to avoid it. Armed with that enlightening conclusion, I consciously made a decision that I was going to handle this situation with Simon Smith style – I sat my sorry ass back down on the seatless chair, laid my rifle across my knees, folded my arms and smiled. My rifle and I sat that way for a whole second, which seemed more like an hour considering all the action going on between my ears; and then it came. An earth shattering noise erupted simultaneously with a flash, which was yellow this time. A wild concoction of mud, rocks and shrapnel flew in my direction in one synchronized shock wave. The point of impact wasn't really close, maybe 35 meters in front of me, outside the outpost. But my brilliant positioning on top of the chair, on the top of the mound put me in a perfect position to greet the shock wave and its accompanying debris with the brute force of my face. I was thrown some 20 meters back and landed on my back and ass. Lucky I was wearing my flak jacket, otherwise the pole I landed against would have pierced right through me.

The outpost was jolted to life, people sprang to action, running to and fro all around me, shooting in all directions, as no one knew or could have known what was happening. I was busy taking inventory – toes were OK, fingers too. Legs were fine. I don’t think I peed on myself either. Ears had a loud ring to them so I could not hear much else. It seemed that I was fine actually and I then started to think not of my physical shape but how my crew would tear me apart for being such a pansy. But then the medic looked at me and yelled something. All of the sudden there were 10 people looking at me with worried faces. “I am OK” I said,

“go do your stuff”. But they dragged me to the mess room and started ripping off my clothes. I was thinking what's next: Do they beat the shit out of me or are they actually concerned?

Apparently, my face was all black and my eye lashes and eyebrows had all been burnt off, creating a great visual effect of a war hero. I tried to brush them off telling them all to go away, since the last thing I wanted was for them to find out that there is nothing wrong with me. But they insisted, and thus, I became the hero, best Sitting Duck Guy the Regiment has had that year, a card which I played well from then on.

Chapter 3: ” Almost a Near Miss "

My second brush with extremist Muslim terror was under awkwardly similar circumstances to my first, but prompted a somewhat different reaction by Simon Smith, though equally self-serving. My venture capital fund was finally up and running for over 8 months by July 7th, 2005. My fund had made 5 superb investments by then and I was full of pride, to the verge of gloating, when sending out the fund 2004 financials to my investors. Accompanying them was a well-crafted cover letter explaining what has been achieved and how well positioned we were to rake in all the fruits technology, primarily the internet, were to give us. In my newsletter, I used every single one of the then popular buzzwords that no one understood but everyone used – inter-connectivity; b2b; b2c, cross platform convergence; and, of course, virtual market place, to name just a few, all of which reflected what a real player I was.

But apparently, not everyone appreciated the Newsletter as much as I did. The London Pensions Fund Authority, an organization that isters investments on behalf of various local authorities, and a rather small investor in my Fund, also felt that I was a real player – only that their understanding of the term player was a little different, and they felt that I was playing them. They received my 2004 annual report documentation, trashed the accompanying newsletter and read just the financials. Financial reports are not exactly fun things to read in general and, all the more so, those of Venture Capital funds. Aside from the ordinary dryness, by nature, Venture Capital Fund financials always show a dramatic operating loss, no income and, initially, reflect a steep loss to the investors. At least until the fund investments start to be divested and sold at astronomical profits. The problem was that the London Pensions Fund Authority was not the savviest of investors and was unaccustomed to managing investments in Venture Capital funds, as opposed to liquid funds, in which the annual yields are easily measured and gauged.

As were the rest of the London Pensions Fund Authority 2004 underperforming fund managers, I too was summoned to London on July 7th, 2005 to explain my fund's shortcomings and receive a spanking by the Authority. Considering the apparently large number of underperforming fund managers, the London Pensions Fund Authority rented a meeting room at the Andaz Hayatt on Liverpool Street. The meeting itinerary was straightforward, beginning at 8:00 am, each of the underperforming managers was given one hour to explain his mistakes, offer remorse and promise to fix their ways. Then, in the evening, and all through the following day until the weekend, there was to be a lecture and workshop from their chief strategist to direct the Fund wrongdoers in the right direction.

The order of appearance turned out to be descending, which meant that I was up first, as my portfolio turned out to be best of breed, and had returned the highest percentage loss. That way, they could abuse the worst performers when they were still awake and before drinking hours.

At 8:00 am sharp, the large meeting room doors were opened and I was invited to enter. Walking through the heavy doors, I was hit by the heavy scent, a mixture of stale crisps and pheromones, which must have been left over from the event that took place in that hall the previous night. The setting must have been carefully crafted to be as imposing as possible, from gross disproportion between the size of the hall and the handful of participants; the huge windows at the far end of the hall which exaggerated the impact of the renowned greyness of the London skies, and most of all, the seating arrangement, which was exactly the same as that of a firing squad – ten or so of them, sitting in a straight line across from me, their seats evenly spaced between them, and two chairs placed out for the victims which are to appear before them. No desk was placed before the victims for documents, presentations etc. and certainly not for a laptop.

I took up my position opposite the squad, cleared my throat to prepare my

address, and noted that the average age of these people was well above 65. None of them seemed like they knew what the internet was, that there was ever a bubble and that it had already burst some 4 years ago. Even so, I did not yet comprehend how far these people were from understanding the nature of a Venture Capital investment altogether.

“Yes Mr. Smith, what have you to tell us?” opened the most distinguished of the crew, seated in the center. “You have succeeded in being the top loser amongst all our invested funds, with a grand 22% loss for the year, and that is just in your first year of activity. Is this just a preview of what is to come?” “Sir, as I am sure you are aware, we are a venture capital fund, not a liquid investment fund, therefore I am sure you can appreciate that the newsletter accompanying the financial report is far more indicative of our performance than the financials. We have succeeded in identifying and investing in Five highly promising companies…” I am not sure which part of my statement caused more disdain, the content or my accent, but what is sure is that my first sentence brushed him the wrong way. He took on the stance of high school heaster, with a thundering voice resembling very closely the voice in Pink Floyd's “The Wall”, and proclaimed: “Young man, I am measured by my financials and that is how I measure my fund managers. I don’t know what they teach in business schools nowadays, but investing is a science not literature. Don't tell me stories, show me the money. Never mind profit, I don't even see any revenues!”

This was going nowhere and debating the business model was not the answer. What I needed was a diversion. Maybe a huge bolt of lightning would charge through the large windows and redeem me, but no luck so far, and without it, the only thing I could think of was bringing up the weather, but that would be somewhere between lame and pathetic. I didn't know of any current sports events. What could I possibly bring up that could break the ice and get us on the same side. Of all the dirty jokes I have collected over the years, I could not think

of one that I could slip in under these circumstances. I was drawing a complete blank. In an effort to buy time to think of something, I straightened my tie and stood up to pace before them, hoping some diversion will pop up to save my disgrace. I calmed myself down, thinking: what do I care, they are committed anyhow, there is absolutely no practical implication to this meeting, so it is just an issue of ing the next 30-45 minutes, and why does it cause me discomfort that they think I am a pitiful, lower class, incompetent money manager. In the middle of this surreal situation, I found myself deliberating an existential point, of why do I feel the need to please them? Is it because of the class system under which, like my fellow , we have an inherent need to please our superiors, or is it because these geezers are belittling my pride and joy fund, that I spent years putting together? The deliberation was short-lived. “Young man, have you lost your mind completely? How are you going to make a return on investment if there are no profits? Are you just giving away our money? ”

These people were all within five years or so of their pension, and wanted nothing more than to have things roll on as they had for the past five decades. If it is not broken don't fix it. The last thing they wanted was me to come around with new business models they may need to repeat, let alone understand.

In the absence of the miracle, for which I had begun praying for, I thought maybe I would the time by selling them on a promising company I invested in and that way we will at least part on a positive note. I distributed a hard copy of the presentation created by one of my invested companies and started to go through it. Seven minutes, each of which was like a millennium, and I still did not get past the Mission Statement page, my best school teacher explaining alphabet voice fell on deaf ears, both metaphorically and possibly in reality as well. But miracles do happen.

The tall panes of glass of the meeting room suddenly began pulsating back and forth erratically, threatening to depart from their mounts, all accompanied by a loud rumble. I was so happy for the diversion from the catastrophe of my presentation that I did not jump to any conclusion of what the noise could have been from, I simply asked “what the hell is that?” “Never mind. Please get to the point of this. What does this company do and what does it have to do with us?”

Before I got back to the presentation, again the windows began dancing violently and another boom, only this time closer. This time, the firing squad too actually turned to look at the windows to see if they flew out of place. When they were confident they were still on the wall. They resumed: “I don't know what is happening today, but we have a tight schedule so please proceed”. “Proceed? There is a war out there and you want me to proceed? I was in the Service and I can tell you that those are explosions!” “Young man, you could be Laurence of Arabia for all I care, but it appears that you know no more about war than about investing. This is central London not that countryside you come from and this is what it is like here. Now, what are you doing with our money?”

By the next explosion, there were sirens wailing and smoke was coming out of sidewalk air vents. “Don't you understand what is happening here?!? This is a coordinated attack of some sort! Believe me, I have seen 9/11, I was there when it happened. Let's get out of here, it is getting closer.”

“Young man, stand right there, you nor us are going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this. I will not have a rouge fund manager doing what he likes with funds under our supervision!” “Excuse me Sir, but can't you hear what is going on outside? Gentlemen, there is an emergency of some sort going on outside, let us adjourn and discuss this when things settle down. Or at least let's find out what is going on. We may be in great danger.” By that time, it was not just more than a few sirens, there was a myriad of various pitch sirens going on all around us. “We will do no such thing. The last time I looked in the newspaper, no one had declared a war on Britain and as far as I am concerned, there is some sort of construction disruption or other. Now please get back to what we were discussing.” Their veil of denial was finally pierced by an Indian hotel hostess who ran to the room and urged us to vacate the meeting room to the lobby. “Gentlemen, I have been requested to usher you to the Lobby at the instruction of the hotel manager, pending further evacuation instructions by the police. Apparently, there may be some sort of attack in the area.” Excused from my continued harassment by the grace of god, I repeated the punch line from my last encounter: “Those Fucking Arabs”, only this time, the only person it gave solace to, was myself. These were what was later to be coined as the “London Underground Bombings” and somehow, I, and possibly a few Al Qaeda ers, were the only ones to whom such an event can prompt a positive recollection.

Having no intention of being cooped up with these types until some hotel waiter gave me other instructions, I took advantage of the calamity, and slipped out from the Andaz Hayatt via an emergency exit, which was conveniently opened due to the situation, with no intention of returning there at any time during that weekend. It would be outright dumb not to utilize such a divine get-out-of –jailfree card. Weaving through the backstreets, my joy at being released from the claws of the London Pension Fund buzzards was hit face on with the aftermath of a real life disaster, which took me straight back to my days in the service. The elements

around me became acute: the thick heavy smoke, a mixture of burning fuel and rubber making sight blurry, the chemical scent of C4 debris, the hint of a sweet smell of burning flesh, deafening sounds of chaos, a competition between people shouting, ambulance and police sirens together with the run of the mill car and storefront alarms. Instinctively, my eyelids closed to a crack, the circumference of my stomach decreased to about half of its normal size and I cringed my face so tight that the prominent noise I could hear was my own heartbeat, above all other sounds. I began running west, but was then confronted with even heavier smoke, more debris and even body parts. Apparently, not all of the bombs were underground, two double decker buses were also part of the carnage. I turned and ran south for three or four blocks to Leadenhall Market, where the elements began to thin out. I crouched down and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. I was not in the shape I used to be and was certainly not accustomed to running in a suit and tie, with dress shoes. I did wish for a macro event to get me out of my disastrous presentation, but this was a little much, even for Simon Smith.

From somewhere deep down within me, a strange sensation began to form. A sensation I had rarely before encountered, but one that I had later come to recognize as what is commonly referred to as a conscience. There were people up there moments ago, some dead, some maimed and the rest outright terrified. I, with my knowledge and experience, was probably more equipped to deal with the situation than most, if not all, of the caregivers on sight, but yet I bailed out and ran. What was I running from? It was not fear, as I felt absolutely no anxiety or concern that I would get hurt – not that that would be inconceivable with the multiple explosions, but it just is not my thing to die in a terrorist attack. Had it been in the books for me, it would have already happened. What I was running away from, I soon came to recognize, was that stupid presentation. Distancing myself from a degrading encounter was the sole reason for which I was running, and from which I was running, as, if I could run fast and far enough, the experience would never catch up with me.

Looking back up at the skyline, the grey smoke was not dissipating, and it was difficult to tell if the smell in the air was from the smoke or from my clothes. I

patted down my suit to rid myself of the dust and wondered if this time, I would be the one that looks like a refugee coming from ground zero. Notwithstanding my personal salvation, my emotions were quickly converted to negative energy, and anger for those sick tormented human beings that employ these actions as a legitimate policy, and expect such actions to supposedly further their cause. But then came the next step of the process, the part where the now burning question arises. Where were the other sick human beings? Those who are supposedly on our side, those who were playing for our team and who were supposed to protect us and our Western values from these perverted anarchists, and how is it that they allowed 9/11 to repeat itself in London?

What did not cross my mind, even vaguely, on that morning in Leadenhall Market, is that Simon Smith himself, would someday, in what was to be my future, become an element, through which the inner circle of global terrorism was to be infiltrated.

Chapter 4 – “Life is Full of Surprises”

Some would say it is fate, some would say it is circumstance. Me? I think it is what it is. But this is how it played out.

Fitting in with the guys at the Regiment made Her Majesty's Service less unpleasant, but it also had its disadvantages. Just to name two, and the biggest two were, that Simon Smith began to look and sound like one of them. Nothing would have changed, and Simon Smith would still be there until this day, had our hero not been born with a normally undetectable health defect – Simon Smith's alcohol tolerance was evidently sub-par. He would never be able to drink as they did, which put an unbridgeable chasm between them and him, and which began to take its toll on the relationship. Simon Smith would out before the party began, and this is a blemish that the Regiment could not tolerate. It was clear I would ultimately be an outcast so it was better to end it on my .

After being shunned by the lowest sub-culture, I was thrown back to the knees of mainstream, against my will and against my better judgment. But what was I to do with my life? People like Simon Smith, and coming from where I came from, do not get jobs. Being a 09:00 – 17:00 postman did not run in my, by now, mutated genes. Credit must be served when it is due. It was my mother that set me in the right direction. At one Christmas Dinner, after one too many, she said “Simy, you can be whatever you want in life; so long as it is either a solicitor, a barrister, an attorney or a lawyer. Being one of those posh guys suits you.” To be fair, neither of us knew the difference between any of those. But I did know two things there and then: first, never ever again can I be called 'Simy'. Second, what a great idea it would be to go to university. Get a university stipend and perfect my drinking skills. The presence of an abundance of liberal women in one place did not

evade me either. University is the ultimate bunker from which to insulate myself from real life.

After the initial brainwave, came the crash to reality. I was ordered to Operation Granby, The Royal Hampshire Regiment, or at least part of it, was to be deployed to the Gulf as part of the glorious Desert Storm party. Another issue was that although I did my A levels, in Math, Sociology and Political Science, my marks were below those that any respectable institution would it to their ranks.

Simon Smith has always been known to be able to overcome insurmountable obstacles and therefore, prior to being shipped off to Desert Storm, when others were looking for a lay, I had the audacity to apply to a bunch of universities, including Oxford, simply because it was on the list of possible universities within a 2-hour radius of London. Thus, my applications were popped into the mail just as I was popped into an RAF freight plane to Saudi Arabia to become a hero. Needless to say, all of my applications were rejected point blank by every single one of the universities I applied to. All besides one. Oxford invited me for an interview. How that came to be is partly explained by miracle, which happens to some people, sometimes, and which I thought had happened to me, and partly by the fact that the issions Tutor had an ulterior motive to see me; once he saw where I was stationed.

As it turned out, the issions Tutor had a brother who was a lorry driver for the 1st Armored Division in Operation Granby, who made it home in two parts in one box. The Army claimed he got his head cut off by a local after he molested his daughter, and therefore the family was eligible for minor compensation. The issions Tutor, who hated his brother, but saw this as his late brother’s gift to him, thought this was an act of war, and that he, being his next of kin, was therefore eligible to some prize or other. The issions Tutor was looking to speak to anyone in the army who may have crossed paths with

his brother in Desert Storm and who could testify that he was a warrior, or at least that he was not the scum of the earth the army claimed he was. The issions Tutor thought I may be his star witness or maybe lead him to one. Being the first member in the Regiment in years who could actually read the black scribbly things between the pictures of naked women in magazines, and most certainly the only one in recorded history to ever be invited for an interview at Oxford, I was granted a special leave from Iraq to show up at the interview. Thank god, at least the officers knew what Oxford was.

The for the British military effort in Iraq was limited, if at all, and most people were completely unaware that British soldiers were there altogether. So, walking around in uniform was generally not the best way to get on to anyone's good side. But somehow, I had a gut feeling that being in Her Majesty's Service had something to do with my being invited, so I wore my uniform to the interview. Well, to be frank, I also had nothing else with me besides jeans anyhow, but I would still have worn my uniform even if I did. As was to be expected, the first few minutes of the interview were devoted to my uniform, my unit and niceties. “...No Sir, I did not meet your brother in the field” I told him confidently, and thought it better not to mention the fact that even though we never met, everyone there knew of the sick pervert. “I was too deep inside the zone to have crossed paths with his unit”. I thought that sounded better than: I would have been inclined to shoot that sicko myself if I ever saw him. His brother had a reputation for very kinky sex with very young children. From that moment on, somehow, the issions Tutor lost interest and the interview was pretty much over at that. “As I flew over 15,000 kilometers to make this interview, we may want to cover issues of my education and skills to date? Did I mention that I spent over 12 months in the RAF pilot school and that I mastered quite a bit of sciences while there? I am not sure I will be able to make it for a second interview” I offered. “That will not be necessary. We have the necessary information for our process. I thank you for ing us today” he said as he walked out of the room.

As usual, three possibilities crossed my mind: wring the neck of that self-serving upper class, prick; throw the chair I was until then seated upon, at his sick little conniving head; or play it Simon Smith style. I opted for the final and gazed helplessly into the eyes of the middle-aged issions secretary, who sat with us during the “interview” in complete silence.

It normally does not take more than two or three seconds of a straight and silent gaze directly into another person's eyes to make them feel exceptionally uneasy. That is especially true if that person is a flat chested female and has been, for all intents and purposes, transparent for the past 35 or so years. “Did that go well?” I asked. She did not bother to answer, which was in and of itself a response. Then came the moment of brilliance that only Simon Smith could make happen – I asked her for her phone number so I can follow up the process. When her face went bright red I understood that I had struck gold! She was shocked at not being ignored by me as well. With my uniform and all; I knew there and then what had to be done. But I could not bring myself to do it. Two days later, on my way back to my unit, I overcame deep depression and brought myself to call her. “Of course I know you have no news yet, I just wanted to let you know that I am headed back to the front and wanted to thank you for being there with me. With your permission, may I take the liberty of calling you from time to time to check in? Thank you so much, I do appreciate this. You have no idea how important it is for us at the front to know that there are people back home thinking of us and keeping us in their hearts. Please pray for me and my unit.” Nailed it, she was mine.

There was no point even calling my Mom. At first, I was unable to, even if I had wanted to call. Civil communications from the front were cut down to bear necessity. Who died on either side, and that's about it. So even though we had not spoken in weeks, I decided against calling her and informing her of the interview; why get her hopes up.

The countdown towards my discharge was drawing nearer, daily skirmishes and firings suddenly became more bearable. Even though it was clear I would never be accepted to university, fantasizing about being a student was so much fun. Where I would live, who I would date, what I would drink, who I would tell all my combat hero stories to. Great fun. The women I would have, once I became a classy attorney. And the cars, the beautiful cars. I would take the Aston Martin for morning coffee, the Rolls Royce for lunch, and the Porsche 533 convertible for drinks and supper. The part about lectures exams and clients did not even cross my mind. Amazing what tricks the mind can play to take your mind off the local mom's sending their 13-year-old children to blow up at your feet and buy their shortcut to heaven. I was in my own Garden of Eden.

With no means of communication, the technique I devised to follow up on my fantasy was simple. Every person in the Regiment who got leave back home, got The Number. My ission Secretary remained nameless and was simply known between us just as The Number. Each one would call The Number, ask what's happening with Simon Smith's application and they would meet to discuss it. If any of my mates could not make it out to Oxford to discuss Simon’s application, The Number would happily take the train to London to give a detailed oration of the process and what is happening. These explanations sometimes lasted for 3-4 days at a time. This Number of mine soon got both herself and me one hell of a reputation. Seems she got better and better at explaining. Each “mate” came to me before going off to the mainland and got the full rundown. “You ask her about the process with my application and she will explain. Yes, all free of charge, I have it covered.” This suited everyone just fine, unfortunately, however, all good things come to an end. After a few months when no negative response came, I began sending out more urgent messages to The Number such as “Hasn't Oxford sent out offers yet?” “The acceptance period will soon be over”, “once the academic year begins, it is all over”. Each envoy was made to repeat the exact statement, to make sure the message was well received. It was such a shame the process may soon be over as she was getting so good at explaining.

Then came September 13th. It was a Friday and no maneuvers are ever

scheduled for Friday the 13th. Everyone was scared shitless with superstition. But for me it was one of the most joyous days ever. My sergeant rolled through the barracks barking at everyone and everything, as sergeants are supposed to do. Like everyone else, I did my best to hide and avoid any eye , which could lead to being saddled to some bullshit convoy going to nowhere, which are always the ones who get shot up. He saw me though, and yelled” Smith, you turd”, (he must have been having a good day since he usually did not use sentences that did not make explicit references to various bodily parts, but today, however, he elected to honor the discussion with excrement only). “You don't deserve it but you got your discharge orders. Sunday night we get to see your sorry ass out of here for the last time. Wipe that stupid smile off your face because you know I am going to make you suffer every second until you get on that plane! It is called exit tax.” I was almost about to smile at the thought of getting out of that side of the world for the very last time, but experience told me that that is exactly what is going to happen: I will be made to suffer every second until I get on that plane. Exit tax is real and it is nothing to look forward to. It is not by divine intervention that you hear all these stories of people who fared well through years of active duty and combat, only to get either asses blown apart or maimed just before the end of the tour of duty.”

“OH 600, you are outside with all your gear. I'll find what to do with you, you ass of a limping reptile. And yah, you also got some mail.” He threw an envelope at me. I did not know what to try and digest first, the much awaited news of my discharge, fear of exit tax or the stark reality of the fact that I have no idea what I will do for the rest of my life. Avoiding the need to deal with anything, I went crawling on the floor for the envelope. By the time I got to it, it was stained with gun oil but I could still clearly make out that it had an Oxford emblem marked on it, with the words “ittance Tutors Office.”

It seemed poetic that the day I got my discharge orders, I would no longer need the life jacket in the form of hope of a different form of life, that had kept me sane through the last few months in hell. But just then, I swear I could smell the scent of perfume. It was not coming from me, not from the open sewer outside the barracks and certainly not from the sergeant. I opened the letter and before I

had a chance to read the content, the yellow “post it” note jumped out at me and said “I promised I would do my best”. Nameless. The letter it was stuck to was only slightly more descriptive. ”… we are pleased to offer you a position… reading English Law…” Shock. This is not real. It is just part of the sick delusions that you get in this god forsaken part of the world with all the shit concoctions we take to run away from ourselves. Is my mind so far blown apart? Now it is formal, I have lost it. Not the first, not the last to fall victim to the stress and homesickness. But usually the onset comes with a fair share of fury and violence. Here, the surroundings seem in place. Everything besides the numbness

“Smith! You pathetic excuse for a monkey’s ass, I told you to be here at 06:00 in full gear. If you are not here in 1 minute, I will personally bust your balls with my knee”. Listening to that lunatic bark, I looked at the letter and realized that this was not a delusion, it was real. It took me more than a minute, but I was outside, with my rifle, flak jacket, helmet and all. “Wipe that ugly smirk off your face before I do it for you, and get on the hummer. You are riding shotgun with me”.

As we drove through dirt roads from somewhere to nowhere for something, I was buzzing. In part due to the stuff thrown at us, which we were already used to – the windshield was already smashed by rocks and bottles, but I was somewhere else. I did not sleep for the next 36 hours. There was a saying coined specifically for such instances – “the sonofabitch who can stop time, has not yet been born yet!”

My time was finally up, but my smirk remained. No emotional separations. “Does this mean that you keep No Name for yourself?” was the only thing that really bothered my mates. Only when I committed to share, were they relieved. Every dog has his day.

*********************

Even when arriving at Oxford, I was somewhat skeptical that it was for real. My name was up on the board though, and assigned to St Catherine's college. Simon Smith, the first and probably last person to be itted to Oxford, or any other university for that matter, by the virtues of a transparent and nameless nymphomaniac. In recognition of her contribution to my career, I maintained a loose connection with my mates who came to visit me from time to time, until the novelty of The Number wore off. Even for them.

If Desert Storm was a shock to me, then my first visit to the Law Library at Oxford was nothing short of a panic attack. Rows and rows of books, all identical in size, color, shape and smell. This was before Google, or the internet, days when there were books and books and even more books with the sole purpose of informing you in what books you can find reference to other books. Who can write all this, what is there so much to be written about and who the hell could read all this? I decided I would try and read the first syllabus, two days before the first lecture. Bright and early, military style, I went to the library which was dark, quite empty and very dusty. It took no less than an hour for me to find the row within which to find the first opinion I needed to read, but of course, as I approached the exact spot in which the book should be located, the specific book was already taken by someone, probably 3 years my junior. So were the next and the next on the list, until I got my hands on the 5th on the list. Employing my military skills, I found myself the perfect perch from which I could visually control most of the space of the huge library, but remain relatively unobtrusive. This was to be my spot for the next few years. Opening the book, I was horrified to find print smaller than that of any newspaper or book I had previously seen. Where I came from, people considered me literate. This, as I soon found, was not the case. Not only did I not understand the concepts discussed, I did not recognize many of the words, mostly those with more than four letters. But I did not come all this way for nothing, I was determined to do

this. I busted my teeth and with the help of a dictionary and 4 hours of effort, I made it to the end of my first opinion and felt a sense of accomplishment. But then I turned the page and found the word “Decision.” Flipping through the pages, I noted that some Diplock guy wrote more than 35 pages, writing pretty much the exact same thing as was written in the 5 pages that I had just spent 4 hours deciphering. As it turns out, what I had read was just the synopsis! Surely, no one can be expected to read the whole damned thing. To add insult to injury, at the end of Diplock's opinion, all some other guy had to say was “I Agree”.

Chapter 5: “The Talk”

In the UK, the beginning of the third term of 4th Form in primary school is the time to start choosing a grammar school, which is not a school that teaches grammar, but is what is known as a high school in other, less cultured civilizations. Something heavy was in the air, because no one ever interrupted me when Batman was on TV. “Simy, we need to talk” decreed my mother. “Mum, you know I am not the most popular child in school. If anyone ever hears me called that, not only do I lose my childhood, you will be killing any chance I may have at having a reasonable adolescence. Who will ever want to be friends with slimy Simy?! “Stop that, we need to be serious” she said, “we need to discuss next year.” She took a deep breath and proceeded. “You know I love you dearly, and as your mother, I think the best thing for you is if I talk to you directly, like an adult, and not pamper you like a child. When you grow up you will appreciate it. You know your father and I tend to travel quite a bit. Well, we have decided we should stop travelling together so much.” I thought I knew where this was going, yes we are going to sacrifice ourselves for you, pay for a fancy private school, so you can concentrate on studying and become a superstar. “Mom, I am fine, I have no problem having macaroni 5 days in a row and crashing at various relatives houses while you are away. I have no problem going to a public school. Now can I turn the TV back on?” “Simy, you are missing the point. We still want to travel, we just won't be doing it together.” I was not totally dumb but I still didn't get it. Or, in retrospect, I didn't want to get it and wasn't going to let her off so easily. “What, you're going to separate destinations?” “No Simy. Let's talk straight. I am divorcing your father.” “Why, what's wrong?” A long sigh, then a questioning look, then came the raw truth. “Simy, your father and I have been together for a long time. I married your father for a few reasons. First, he was good looking and I thought he would be good in bed. Second, he was a cool guy. Last and not least, you know your grandfather used to be the regional Assessment Officer in the HMCE (Her Majesties Customs and Excise) and everyone knew he had put away a pretty penny, so that your father was in a position to give me what I wanted most in life - to travel. Your father is not getting any younger, he is not so cool and the money is running out. It is not going to last much longer. That is

why I think the best thing to do is for you to go to a nice boarding school. Get a good education with good people and be less dependent on a family, which may not last.”

By most standards, this was a bit much for an 11-year-old. Even if he really really does want to go back to watching his Batman show. No one filled me in on the protocol for reaction in such a situation. I was speechless and felt a sensation of a large balloon being blown up at the back of my throat, giving a mixture of physical pain, and a slight chocking sensation. Speech was out of the question in that state. Tears filled my eyes, but I did not cry. The movies always made reference to a concept called love. That concept did not come up in any context during the Talk. With nothing else left to be said on the subject, or could be said, in my physical state, I just turned around and ran outside.

Never again did the subject come up.

There were only a handful of applicable schools for me to move to in such a situation, and even fewer that accepted me, which made the selection of my next school a lot easier. A week before I was packed off to the fine educational establishment to which I was accepted, I had a talk with my father, which in retrospect, turned out to be an epilogue to the Talk with my mother. “Son, you will be going off to school and soon will become a young man. Time to set up a bank for you.” That sounded like fun and off we drove to the bank. It was actually a very dry and uninteresting procedure, aside from being able to put my newly coined signature to work. A bunch of paperwork and a phony smile from a guy who seemed like an aging pedophile, and that's what opening a bank was. I told the pedophile guy to keep a copy of the signature, as one day it will be worth a lot of money, but he did not seem impressed.

A few days later, when I got a letter from the bank, my father was already off to Paris. It was my first statement with the balance of my new . It took me a few minutes to understand it, but I finally got to the bottom line – I had a balance of £4,450. This was a hell of a lot of money for someone who until then, never saw more money than what it cost to buy chewing gum. To most people, that would most probably bring a big smile to their face. To me, it meant more than money; it was a goodbye present from my father.

Chapter 6: “The Cesspool”

The first week of Law School was every bit as trying as the first day. Not only were most of my peers 3-4 years my junior, these guys were better acclimated to the surroundings there. They knew how to make their own meals, were more suited socially, they all had the right accent and above all, they knew how to read. There also seemed to be little to no correlation between the stuff I was attempting to read and what was being spoken about in the lecture halls. The disparity between the reading material and the lectures was so vast that I began to question if maybe I was just making a mistake in the lecture halls to which I was attending, even though I actually had rather good navigational skills. Also, I kept on seeing familiar faces in the various lectures, so I must have been showing up at least some of the right places. It may have been the age difference or my slightly scarred eyebrows, but the no one talking to me thing also took its toll. It seemed that someone, who was inevitably destined for the House of Lords, had connected my age, accent and physical condition and concluded, the obvious, I must be a mole, there to confront the rampant soft drug industry on campus.

Breaking my teeth on the reading, too much junk food and being an outcast – one week there was almost as depressing as the army. I was getting close to my breaking point and called an emergency strategy staff meeting, to which all my limbs were called to attend. I figured they owed me their attendance, considering the fact that they have me to thank for bringing them all back home with me from Iraq. The agenda of the meeting needed no introduction. Everyone present was feeling pretty down, each for his own reasons. “Guys, we already completed the basic training bit in khakis, why in the world should we be subjected to abuse once again, and from our own free will? Seriously, this is not much better than the Regiment, just without the Sergeant. Maybe it is no coincidence that no one from the Regiment ever made it through to here?? Maybe the fact that I was not accepted fair and square meant that I really was not cut out for this? This is what we made such an effort to survive for? How about some fun? Besides, we just don't fit in here.”

The meeting was almost adjourned, with what seemed was to be a landslide to bailing out and trying to have some fun, when Logic entered into the discussion: At least if we do get through this without flunking, there is a future for an Oxford graduate to do something besides driving a taxi or opening a pub to serve the likes of these snotty nosed pricks with their Trust Funds. And where exactly is the Aston Martin going to come from? Be it the reference to the Aston Martin or awareness of my lack of a Trust Fund, but Logic did it. He really pulled it off. It could also have been the right timing, after letting everyone ventilate their bitching, but Logic turned the whole meeting around, in a second. There was also a heavy layer of rhetoric in the air as everyone knew that realistically, there was nowhere else to go, which, by the way, was scarier than anything else. Logic gave everyone something to hope for. He got everyone to huddle up together close, and we all decided we'll give it a fight, as a unified team. At least until the finals. Then we would regroup and take decisions accordingly.

Reading improved nicely over the next months, but not the lectures. The only aspect that touched me in the least bit intellectually were the tutorials. Smaller groups, meeting with Tutors and discussing real down to earth issues, as opposed to formal lectures with hundreds of people cramped into large lecture halls, with ancient lecturers, which challenged everyone's alertness – even those without a hangover. The student stipend and military allowance were nice too, so Logic would have something with which to defend his position at our next staff meeting. The real silver lining though, were the grounds. The gothic buildings, centuries old, most of which were rectangular, and each surrounding a courtyard of plush greenery. The color, the pace, the quiet and even the cool weather were such a contrast from where I had recently come from, that it resonated a marvelous tranquility in me. The place was simply exquisite, and had I not actually attended the lectures, I would have been easily misled to believe that this was an institution which instilled some higher level of values, insight or thought.

At the tutorials, I got a better feel of the issues at hand, as well as of my classmates. My tendencies were fairly clear from the outset. Whereas issues of constitutional law and civil liberties brought an onset of nausea, issues of corporate law and securitization appealed quite well to me. It seemed to have the opposite effect on most of my classmates. These tendencies did not put me in a very good position with the Tutor, or my classmates, and just served to reinforce their belief that I was a police mole, there to spoil the party for both the students and faculty. Oxford is the Holiest of Holies of liberal thought, all for the limiting of the power of government and crown, and against all the authorities and principals of honor and order, to which I was accustomed and which I respected. My eyebrows and military background did not help either. Listening to those bleeding hearts who had never seen or done anything in life beyond their private schools and their weekend excursions to Europe, was shallow and sickening to me.

The concept of a Russian spy ring emerging from these places, as in fact happened in Cambridge, seemed not just plausible, but probable. These people shunned at each and every one of the elements which comprised the British Empire but at the same time, cherished the concept, and the riches, brought about by colonialism. More than an education, hypocrisy and how to live happily with it, was what Oxford was selling. And it did it well. All for radical socialism and borderline communism, provided you had a trust fund to keep you going. For those without a trust fund? Well; better luck next time.

At one of our tutorials, I made a rare attempt to wipe the maternal milk from the lips of these children. Prompted by a discussion on immigration policy, I gave them a description of a scene I had the misfortune of witnessing. Not a gruesome horror war story to faze them, just a descriptive take of a religious ritual carried out annually by possibly 20% of the world population. In the Ashura, practiced by the Shiite Muslims, masses congregate in open spaces, where they flog themselves in public with the clear intent of inflicting self-injury, and the onset of bleeding from their bodies, mostly from their foreheads. To highlight the effect, they wear white clothes so that the blood, after flowing down over the face, would stain bright red and would make these religiously enthused

individuals appear even more striking and exaggerated than they already were. This was done in a parade by hundreds of men women and children, while chanting, wailing and screaming all the way. This gruesome sight, which was as close as can be imagined to the ancient practice of sacrificing humans, is not even the worst part of it. Children were encouraged, even forced, to in and participate, and martyrdom is expressly condoned and preached at the event. Posters of suicide bombers are waved and this is done as an entrée, before the animal slaughtering and ensuing feasts. It is one big orgy of gore and blood combined with a village city fair.

Getting pretty heated and emotional about what I had just revealed and relived, after months of blocking it from my mind, I blurted out, “These are not people like you and me, these are animals. Are you telling me you agree to letting them all come here and giving them an equal vote to you and me?”

They looked at me like I was crazy! Like I was the problem. “How can you refer to people as animals? How can you view yourself as superior to other people and their culture?” “I have no problem with them or their culture, or whatever they call it, so long as they stay the hell over there and refrain from strapping their kids with neat little backpacks full of explosives intended to blow me up”.

I got extra points from the Tutor for promoting a lively discussion but not much more. From my classmates I got points too, but as an ultra-rightwing military racist capitalist pig etc., which is quite a role change, since in the Regiment, I was referred to, in all of those same categories, but as the complete opposite.

The rest of my year at Oxford was spent either on my perch in the library or enjoying the aesthetics the town had to offer. All in all, it was therapeutic for me and I even did OK academically, since, as it turns out, the majority of the marks

in Oxford are given by the Tutors and not by the lecturers.

Chapter 7: “ Uva-Vulpis, Fritillaria” AKA: “The Fox's Grape” ”Smith, you OK man? you seem like you are in a daze?” It was Baker, one of the few classmates I formed a relationship with during the first year. He was no less a violent liberal than the rest, but with a father who had served in the military, he was able to look beyond the soldier and relate to the human being inside of me, regardless of how deep down he needed to dig to reach it. Good guy actually. Smart, good looking and apparently rich. Exactly the way I was supposed to be. ”What sort of question is that? Did you see what the new semester brought with it? This dungeon of a library has not been so bright since the roof was built over it over 300 years ago” I responded. “Now look at that over there in the black. That is the Fox's Grape if I ever saw one”. Some 12 meters in front of us were a group of first year students, but only one dressed in black. Her hair shone in various shades of gold, worn down just below the shoulder. Her eyes were hazel brown, blending perfectly with the color scheme of her hair. Her complexion was perfect, with a light tan and a few freckles, that added a childish effect to the overall masterpiece. But it wasn't her face, nor the perfectly proportioned and curvaceous body that did it. It was all about the legs. From the floor, to all eternity, were two perfectly sculpted tanned legs, unblemished in any way, which reflected the shine from the neon lights hanging down from the vaulted ceiling. Furthermore, those perfect legs, never before seen by anyone in the Smith lineage, generated the cutest, but not over exaggerated, ass swerve, with every movement made by this exceptional specimen of female anatomy. With legs like that, it would be a sin to ever wear tros.

“Fox's what? I have heard of Foxy, indeed, but what the hell is a Fox's Grape? That is a work of art not a grape”. Baker was already used to assuming the role of mentor, showing me the inroads of British cultured society. “No, you philistine. Fox's Grape is the name of the most beautiful of the few flowers that dare grow in Iraq. And this Fox's Grape is the most beautiful flower ever seen in this library to date. Do you expect me to sit here and rummage through yellow paged books when that creature is in sight? “SHHHHHHHHH” Was the whip coming from the ancient relic known as the Bat of the Oxford Law Library. “Next time I have to cite you two, you will be banned from here for a full week. This is a place of higher studies not a social club!” I think that deep down under,

the Bat liked me. We shared so much quality time together in the library, sometimes just the two of us, but she felt obligated to assert her authority from time to time, especially with the new guys now hanging around.

”Smith, I am out of here before the old Bat gets her knickers in a twist. Go for it. Maybe you'll have some fun for a change.” Incapable of getting any real work done, I kept to my post on the perch, trying to get a glimpse of the target from any possible angle. The angles in the library were too sharp with too many dead spots, so more time was spent searching than examining. After a while, having lost track for a good 20 minutes, my guard was down, when I was ambushed from behind. “Excuse me, are you done with the All England Law Reports '78.” The surprisingly high pitch voice came from behind. As I turned to look over my shoulder, I saw that the voice was coming from none other than the Fox's Grape, in person. My target making it all the way up behind me, without me being prepared, was bad enough, but the voice and the accent, perfectly fitting to this beautiful body, was nearly unbearable. I was both lost for words and suddenly very conscious of my middle class accent. “Yes, certainly” were all I could come up with. From then on, I searched for my target meticulously whenever in the library, but to my great regret, that was the closest encounter we ever had during my years at Oxford.

It is no secret that Oxford University is an institution with a very clear agenda and prioritization when it comes to the graduates of its English Law degree. Top of the list come those who are to be itted to Academia, who's participants are considered the pillars of English jurisprudence and legal thinking. Thereafter, are those who would eventually be judges. Next are the QCs (queens counsel) who are the top echelon of barristers; then come the civil servants and finally, and the lowest of the low, are those who are to eventually go into private practice as solicitors; the materialistic, money crazed peasants.

As our graduation drew nearer, the faculty invited representatives of the Bar

Standards Board, who oversee the BPTC (Bar Professional Training Course) to promote the barrister professional venue, as opposed to the LPV (Legal Practice Course) for solicitors. Like all my classmates, I too was invited to attend the presentation, even though there was no question where the faculty saw my future. During my days in the military, and as the military is not very good at handling human emotions, there was a very interesting way in which the system would inform enlisted men in the unfortunate event of a fatality in their family. The sergeant would call everyone to attention and he would then call out: “All those whose father is still alive, take two steps forward – Smith, where the hell do you think you are going?!” Not particularly subtle, but yet very effective.

When the BPTC presentation was over, I had a déjà vu of exactly that. One of the College Tutors stood up and notified all present “whoever wishes to apply to the BPTC, please proceed to the adjacent hall for interviews; Mr. Robin, Mr. Rajibe, Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson, please remain seated”. The sub cast were thus formally selected and branded. The good news was that Baker made it out, notwithstanding his social ties with of the sub cast.

With graduation not being far off and no progress with the Fox's Grape worth mentioning, it was either make a direct move, or drop it. I mustered up the courage and called her College, confident that the chances of someone answering the public phone were slim and that the chance that they would actually get her to the phone even slimmer. I was so sure I would not get to speak to her, I did not even prepare a script. Someone did pick up the phone though, but instead of taking a message, took the trouble of going to call her. The vaguely familiar pain in the back of my throat from the times of The Talk, made its grand return:

”Hi there, it's Simon Smith speaking, the guy from the library.” I blurted out,

much too fast, impacted by the pain in my throat. Why on earth did I think that 'the guy from the library' would be a sufficiently defining characteristic from which she was to recognize me, but as I was sort of stressed, I was not to be too hard on myself. “Sure, hi Simon, how are you doing?” Her voice and accent just made things worse for me. But great stuff so far, she's playing along and helping me out on this. “I am great. I was wondering if I could have the honor of taking you out for a drink before I graduate this place?” What an ass, it sounded more like a scene from a medieval play than asking her out on a date. “Oh thank you that is so sweet, but I am actually seeing someone now, so it would probably not be very appropriate.” Is this for real or is it just an elegant brush off. No hints, no indication. If we were face to face, this is when I would employ the deep, two second look. But this is an Oxford landline and not a good one either. With nothing to lose, I altered my approach. “Yes, I guess that would be inappropriate. In that case, since it would not be easy for me to keep tabs on you, let's do this – let me give you my number and you can call me if and when you find it more appropriate.” This took her a little aback, as it went against conventional courting protocol of those times, whereby boy chased girl, not the opposite. The element of surprise worked its advantage though, and she wrote down the phone number of my college. I backed out of that encounter honorably with distinction, as the onus was now on her shoulders. But I had paid a heavy price; I had lost control of the process.

As it later turned out, that night she dropped her then current young suitor and took the initiative to call me at my college the next day. As opposed to her college, in mine, none of the behemoths were particularly conscientious about delivering messages. The message never got to me, not in person and not by the more common practice of shoving a handwritten note in the corner of a newspaper under the door. By the end of the next week, I took it as a brush off. She was out of my league and the Fox's Grape was just not in the cards for me.

Chapter 8: ”The Tipping Point”

With only finals left to , everyone was stressed out but also thinking about the day after. Baker came by to compare notes and asked “So have you made any plans yet?” “Drafted my CV, which is a first step, but nothing specific in mind yet.” “Did you ever make a move on your Fox's Grape?” “Actually, you would be surprised but I did, but she is seeing someone.” “And you took that as an answer? Tell me Smith, were you always such a wuss?” He did not intend that as an insult, more of a friendly jab but yet the statement hit me hard. Hard and deep. It was like being winded by a massive punch to the stomach. Gathering myself I eked out: “Well, you know how it is. Choose your battles.” It was enough to get him off the subject, but not me. Baker was more than right. Ever since arriving at Oxford I was ive, introverted and insecure. Sure, I was a fish out water there, with all the rich and smart kids, but that never rattled me before. I had held my own in grammar school and had done just fine.

Did this have anything to do with the Service? I never thought of myself as having post-traumatic stress disorder or anything of the sort. No problems sleeping either. Just no edge to me anymore. This was more than a punch to the stomach – this was a sledge hammer right to the face. Is this how I was going to manage myself from here on? Thank god Baker left the room. I needed space and put my head out the window to get some cool country air. The urge for a drink was strong, I wanted to distance myself from me a little, but this was too serious to avoid. Baker was so right. Where have I been for the past few years?

Time for another urgent general staff meeting! Logic was all chuffed up from last time and took the floor at the outset. “Don't get all worked up about this, it is just a transition period, going from one world to the next. Let's give it some time and we'll find the right path.” Conscience jumped in reminding all present that we don't have the luxury to sit around and wait for things to work out, there are

certain responsibilities that need to be met and age was not working in our favor. Pride had his turn next, “yes, if we don't shape up soon, we all know what will happen”, and “the last thing that we can even consider would be to move back into mother’s house.” Confidence made an entrance to the discussion and immediately received a standing ovation. Where the hell have you been for the last 3 years? “Guys, sorry to have taken off like that, but I couldn't take it any longer. Just look at you all, a bunch of losers moping around and bitching all the time. Why would I want to hang around with any of you anyhow?”

“So, are you back?” asked Logic. Confidence responded with an exaggerated exclamation mark, “It looks like we are in a jam here! I am willing to jump in. But the only way I’ll come back is if I get total and complete voting power. No equal rights, no polling, no deliberation. Everything goes exactly the way I say it, no if's no but's. I will undertake to listen to your opinions but I navigate, I decide.” The floor mulled this over for a while. Truth be told, Confidence was not a bad leader, and, on the whole, he usually landed best the results. Reflecting back, any time we were in a bind, it was always Confidence who got us through. Logic was still in charge and had the floor. He was smart and felt the atmosphere. He knew that Confidence was overpowering and was really missed by everyone. Logic smartly figured that better to be the one to invite Confidence back to the table with him, rather than being replaced by him completely. If he were to challenge Confidence straight on, Logic was sure to lose. Everyone still vividly recalled the incident where Confidence single handedly saved not only Simon Smith, but 5 other men as well.

This was of course the incident in Dhahran. We were on a patrol in an APC (armored personal carrier) when an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) was fired in our direction. Nasty little buggers, but it was not that close. The APC commander decided to go off in pursuit of the open van from the back of which the RPG was fired. Chasing the van through the dirt roads quickly lead us deep into a populated area. Whether it was premeditated or not, it ended up being a very effective ambush. With our armored APC to wide for the narrow alleys, we were forced to a stop, and then firebombs were lobbed upon the APC from one of the shabby buildings lining the dirt ally. As the flames burst up on top and

around the APC, the crew scrambled out on to the dirt road and we each took cover behind or under anything; garbage dumpers, walls, fences, anything we could find. As we spilled out, there were bullets sprayed at us from all over the place. The noise in the tight ally was deafening. Dust and smoke were all over the place and ricochets, stones and dirt were kicked up off the ground and out of the walls. We were not used to dealing with multi-story environments, where the enemy was firing from above, as well as from the sides. In training grounds, buildings were no more than one or two floors up, unlike here where we had 5 and 6 story buildings all around us. With all the ricochets and the noise bouncing off the walls, none of us had any idea from where we were being shot at. To make matters worse, we were starting to panic, and from all over, mates were shouting that they were taking fire and asking for help. I was no exception. Like the others, I was on the verge of wetting myself in panic. That was when Confidence took over.

“On the left of the APC!, Small house with the Green door. I'll cover! On 10, every one inside. Take the driver too!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I pulled out a grenade and lobbed it in front of the APC, at no particular target, just to stun the enemy and be able to lift my head up to return fire. Under the cover of the exploding grenade and the smoke screen it created, the guys were moving in one by one and they pulled the driver in too. I made my move and locked the clad iron door behind me. Inside we broke up into two groups. The first went through the house to make sure it was safe and the second took up positions by the windows. We had hosts in the house, two women and 5 children who started to whine and scream. They were just as scared as us, but we had clearly different issues at play. While they cried in fear, we resisted the urge of killing them there and then just to shut them up. Instead, we saved the ammo, and just locked them in a windowless basement.

Once we settled down, everyone seemed rattled but OK, except for the driver who had a superficial burn. Shit, the APC. We found a hose and managed to douse the APC and put out the fire from the window, without leaving the house. We radioed in to headquarters asking for assistance. We were told to hold tight and were assured that reinforcements were on their way.

Infantry is the bottom of the military food chain, both in principal and literally. If training teaches an infantryman anything at all, it is to recognize that he is small, vulnerable, insignificant and dispensable. If an infantryman wants or needs something or anything, he quickly learns that if he does not become resourceful and take care of himself, no one else will. That's the way it is with hygiene, food, warm cloths and alcohol. Contrary to common belief, it is no different in combat. When told to hold tight and that there are reinforcements on their way, one must fight the desire to believe them, because sooner or later you will ultimately realize that it is all bullshit. You are on your own, regardless of what anyone says, even if they sound sincere.

How could they be sending reinforcements to take us out of here if even we don't know where the hell we are? It was clear to me. Either find a way to get ourselves out independently, or get used to the idea of praying 5 times a day blindfolded.

Confidence was ready to resign and the control back to the APC commander, but the APC commander, himself a 19-year-old, was trembling so much that it was obvious that if Confidence didn’t take the lead, no one else would.

I pulled out some chocolate from my pocket and called the guys together. “Guys, its 16:00. We have about 35 minutes until it gets dark. We all know that if we don’t get out of here by then, we're all goners. We also know, there is no way anyone is coming to get us out by then either. So, we have to get out of here on our own.” We had no idea how many of them were out there or if we had got any of them. But the fact that no one here had been hit meant that they were probably as shocked as us and certainly less well trained. So, the first one to get a handle on the situation wins. “We are not going to give them time to regroup. Since we

are still full on ammunition, the way we can get out of here is with brute force and, a lot of it. We have to shoot at everything and anything. Don't even bother looking for a target. Blow the shit out of everything and use it as our shield. We need to get to the APC together. Everyone drink, reload, make sure you have earplugs. When I give the signal we’ll throw smoke grenades all around the APC, the driver and I’ll go check out the APC to see if we can get it running and turn it around. Each one of you choose a direction and blast the shit out of everything in sight. We kill anything and everything. I'll take a court-martial, my name on CNN or whatever it takes, but I am not going to die in this god forsaken shit hole.” It was only 10 – 15 minutes into the skirmish and these guys looked beaten. “Are you guys with me or what?”

They each nodded, took their positions and we were a go. On the signal, we gave off such a blast of fire power that even I was starting to believe this was an SAS crack team and not a bunch of trembling weeds who drink milk in their tea. We got the APC going, tore down two walls turning the thing around, and backed up the APC troop door directly opposite the green door to the house. I got on the mounted machine gun on top of the APC and shot wildly around in long bursts making a statement of “don't fuck with me coz I don't give a shit!”. We left the alley ripped apart, smoking, and looking like it was a true war zone. The enemy may have been faceless, but the battle was not. We sped off feeling we were spared from a bad fate, taking with us anything in our way. In our haste, I found myself manning the gun, with one foot on the APC commanders seat, and the other, on the APC commander's head. That's when Revenge got his turn. During the trip, I twisted my boot a few extra times over his nose just so he would know what an asshole he was, not enough as to make it too obvious, but certainly not as much as he deserved either.

Back at the staff meeting, Analytics was making his contribution to the discussion. “Confidence does react very well under pressure, but it is not only Confidence's leadership skills that get things done. Maybe even more important than Confidence's leadership is the way it is perceived by others. This is an era of insecurity and when Confidence is in charge everyone seems to give him the right of way.” Logic again addressed the floor, “considering how poorly we've

been doing, I move to grant Confidence full authority, on his , and let him lead. Anyone opposed?” With that, Logic adjourned the meeting and Confidence became the undisputed leader.

Results seemed to follow rather quickly from that moment on. The LPC (Legal Practice Course) was a breeze and I completed it while still residing in Oxford. I landed a super training contract (internship program) with a topnotch firm in London, specializing in commercial real estate. Commercial real estate is like one of those funny mirrors at amusement parks that stretches out the reflection, and replicates the economy. When the overall economy is hot, the commercial real estate sector is not just booming but it goes that much further and the overall economy was hot. I got more practical training as a trainee than associates get during low or even medium economic cycles. In the office, at my new job, being a little older and more mature turned out to be a definite asset. Coupled with Confidence at the helm, it was a winning combination. I may have been the first non-certified trainee on record to have ever been assigned to a Closing of an acquisition by my firm. Pay during a training contract is nothing to be proud of, but it was enough to pay for a reasonable apartment and for my late night fast food dinners on the way back home from the office.

Between iring the distance I had come since Confidence was back, and planning my assault on the City after I was to be certified, there was an old bone I had to pick in order to complete the turn around. The Fox's Grape. It took me three days to track down her details and the first three times I tried there was no answer. But late one night at the office, I tried again and this time she picked up. “Hey there. I finally got hold of you; it's Simon Smith, how are you?” “Simon Smith?” “Yup, the Simon Smith, tall, full head of jet black hair, bright blue eyes straight from the Seychelles advert, broad shoulders, perfectly sculpted biceps, without an inch of fat, and happened to study a year before you in Oxford. That Simon Smith.” I was cool. “Oh, I thought it was the Simon Smith with the funny eyebrows”. She was cool too, but her tone was a little too cool. More like frigid. Maybe I am coming on a little too strong. “Funny you should say that, because those two Simon Smiths

are closely related, very closely related actually. Listen Daphne, the last time we spoke must have been about 18 months ago, I believe, and if I recall correctly, you were supposed to call me back so we could get together.” , this is not the same Simon Smith she spoke to last time, this was the new, confident, upgraded successful Simon Smith. “Since I would not want to wait another 18 months to speak to you again, can we get together anytime this week?” “Where are you nowadays anyhow?” She was not giving in so fast but still, for me, it was a question from heaven. “Working in the City. Since I'm calling you at your parents' house in Hampstead, we are apparently not far off.” Good one, she knows I am now working, she knows I made it to a City firm so she would not be an embarrassment if we were to be seen together, and she knows I made an effort to track her down, which demonstrates determination and effort. “This week is not great for me. Next week I have stuff to do for a friend's wedding. Maybe the week after?” She picked up on all my points, but for some reason, she is female, she wants me to crawl. Hey, if crawl she wants, crawl it will be. “The week after next is perfect.” Nailed it! Simon Smith continues his roll. Good she dragged it out for two weeks as there were a few things I needed to do before we went out. Like figure out where to go, get some cool clothes and buy a car. It would be extremely awkward taking her out without any of these primary components, and certainly out of the question when trying to break into her league. The next two weeks were devoted to setting things up. The obligatory 14 hours in the office hadn’t changed it was still required, but before, after and a little in between I bought a cool looking tin can Mazda from one of the junior partners. Cheap, but it looked expensive. The firm secretaries, or PA's as they are now referred to in the politically correct environment, seemed to have appreciated the fact that I didn’t look down upon them and brought me up to speed on the cool bars in town and even helped me choose some reasonably priced but yet appropriate clothes. In the interim, I found myself caught in a power struggle between a finance partner and a property partner at the firm: Both wanted me on their teams. Simon Smith did come a long way, from the kid whose parents, during their divorce, each fought venomously for the other to take custody of him, to a professional, whom distinctly separate teams in a City Law firm fought over. In retrospect, as much as I enjoyed the professional compliment and being in demand at the time, and I did enjoy that immensely, it was this power struggle that was responsible for me not being offered a long term position with the firm after ing the PSC (Professional Skills Course). Anything causing a commotion in a Law Firm is out the door, no questions asked. Including a promising intern.

After 18 months and two weeks, the day finally came and I drove my new car to pick up my date from her folks house in Hampstead. I had never been to the area before and in another life, I would have been intimidated by it. Everything about the area was yelling at me: the streets with no sidewalks, the vast green areas with the tall trees, the distance between the houses (from which, no doubt, you could not hear shouting from one to the next, let alone purloin any dinner table gossip through a t wall), the multi bedroom suite mansions and fancy cars with custom plates were all blasting loud and clear, “This is an old money town. Tresers, you yes you, are unwelcome!”

But me, I had my new second hand Mazda, with folding headlights. I had a handless car phone in my new car, and this was before anyone had mobile phones. It was not hooked up to anything because I could not pay those kinds of bills yet, but the antenna on the windshield was all I needed. I parked the car in the driveway at an angle to make it clearly visible from most of the windows of the mansion. It was spotless and shining. When I rang the doorbell, there was no doubt in my mind that when it would be opened, on the other side would be a maid, if not a butler, in full robe. I was wrong. In front of me was a distinguished man, in a tweed jacket with a pipe. Her father I presumed. “Good evening Sir, I am Simon Smith” I said with a broad smile. He had no intention of making me squirm. “Yes, of course, please come in. We were expecting you.” As he let me in, he shouted up through the gothic staircase, “Daphne, Mr. Smith is here for you.”

He led me into the drawing room. I think this may have been the first time I was ever in a drawing room, so I figured I better flush out my insecurities before he did. “I hope I am not under dressed in my leather jacket, I didn't have anything formal in mind.” “No, you’re fine, please sit. As Daphne is genetically related to her mother, I might as well keep you company until she comes down, because it will take some time. So, what brings you here?” he asked as we sat down. He did not leave room for any doubt, this was not small talk, this was a job interview we

were having. “Well, your daughter and I crossed paths briefly in the Oxford law library unfortunately she was too busy for me then. Now that I took up a position in the City, I thought that we could catch up.” I was sending across as many messages as possible: Oxford graduate, law school, working in the City, put his daughter on a pedestal, all going fine. “So you studied with Daphne? You seem a little older.” “Not that much older, maybe more mature would be more fitting. Being in the Service does that to a person, but I was only a year ahead of her.” I assumed the Service carried a positive connotation in old-moneyville, which in retrospect, it certainly did. Though I am sure he thought I was an officer there, and I did nothing to correct his misconception. After pointing out that I spent a year in the RAF and flew jets for a while, all my inhibitions, including my scorched eyebrows, seemed to melt away. He was every bit the stereotypical Professor of political science, participant in high level think tanks. With the right accent and the right lineage. Since there was no scent of smoke or tobacco, I wondered if he ever smoked the pipe or if it was just part of the outfit. Then came an interesting twist which I had not even contemplated in my wildest dreams – he began selling himself to me! “A career as a Professor in LSE was not enough to keep me engaged so over the years I have taken up positions consulting to various functions at Westminster, which I must say are far more interesting and useful than lecturing to a bunch of foreigner's who have come to London to get a British diploma to decorate their office walls”.

The Fox's Grape finally made it down, just before her father was about to propose to me. She really was astonishing. Every bit as ravishing as I had ed her. And, thank God, blessed be he, she was wearing a skirt. We finally left the house. The fact that I opened the door for her made more of an impression on her than did my new car. There was no doubt in my mind her parents were watching from the window. She was sweet enough to let me choose where to go – after so many instances of having to steal glances, my plan was to go to a quiet bar with sufficient lighting for me to finally be able stare directly at her.

We spent three wonderful hours together during which I learned that most of what I had fanaticized about her was in fact true. She was charming, pleasant,

notwithstanding the high pitch voice, funny and ambitious. She felt comfortable enough to tell me how pissed off she was at me for not calling her back, which is why she gave me a run around before agreeing to go out with me. Before then, she had not even considered the possibility that I never got her message.

After 9 exciting weeks of intensive dating, we were on a first name basis and I could finally call her Daphne. Even her name was nice.

I was in love.

Once it was verified that I too was a Roman Catholic, her parents were in love with me too. They pretty much threw her at me, which got me a little suspicious – even with my Oxford degree, I had the wrong accent, was the product of a broken home, no family money to speak of. What was the great find in me? After I got to know the family a little better, I got a full list of her previous suitors, which included a punk band drummer and a poet, so I began to understand that her parents wanted to hedge with me, and quit while they were ahead. Against all odds, all these vectors pushed together to produce a shotgun wedding.

We had a wedding date before I knew her birthdate or shoe size. It was their show, so her parents did most of the planning and checking. I just ed them out of respect to formally sign off on their final decisions.

It was on one of those viewing runs when I ed Daphne's parents to observe the setting of a wedding

service taking place at the Roman Catholic Church of St Thomas More. Sitting in the back so as not to interrupt, I saw someone approaching me with hands spread out wide for a great big hug. It was Baker. He was attending the wedding taking place there at the time. We had not seen each other for over a year. We were both in the City, but who had time for social events when you are at the entry level in the service industry. He was genuinely happy to see me. After the how are you doing, and the where are you at etc. he asked if I was on the bride’s side or the groom’s. “Neither”, I answered. I informed him I was there to check out the services for myself since I am in market. “I am stunned, Smith. You're biting the dust? Who is the unfortunate cow that is expected to tolerate you?”

I broke out a huge smile “You are not going to believe this. It's The Fox's Grape!”

Chapter 9: “If life gives you Lemons, Make Lemonade”

My career in the City came to an abrupt ending. Shortly after my certification, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The prognosis was not good and the process even worse. A tough regiment of chemotherapy every 8 days, blood tests in between and dealing with the side effects were all to become a full-time job. It was clear I would not be able to become a full-time caregiver but even the logistics of getting to hospital and back, arranging the help and getting through the NHS maze to enforce eligibility to obtain basic treatment was more than Mom could handle on her own. With my siblings long gone, it was up to me to keep things intact and I owed her at least that. At first, I would commute between London and Brighton, but it became too much to do that 3-4 times a week whilst interviewing for a job in parallel. I got a few reasonable offers but I could not start a real new job this way. Daphne was about to complete her training and take some time off for the PSC exam.

It then became apparent to me that regardless of whether Daphne's family was old money or not, Daphne and I were not going to get a penny of it before her parents were not only dead, but cold beyond resurrection. I was OK with this, since in truth if anything, I married her for her looks not her money. In any case, we needed money from which to cover our day to day expenses.

Daphne agreed to take off a few months and go to Brighton. She would study, I would take a temporary position over there to pay the bills and hence could keep an eye on my mother all along. I took one or two interviews but coming from the City to what was essentially one big old age resort, nothing seemed the least bit challenging. My mother suggested I speak to Rodney Billington, an old friend of the family, who once worked with my grandfather, the tax man.

I called to coordinate an interview and was notified by the secretary that the two senior partners in this fine three-person establishment, would not be available for the next week, as they were off to a golf tournament. I cynically asked if she thought it wise for the only two partners of the firm to vacation together, and she responded seriously that they have a great time together and that they do it all the time. Coming from a City firm where the job takes first priority over everything and when called for, 30 hour shifts were not unheard of, this was odd at least to me, but yet strangely intriguing.

When I arrived for the interview, the offices were basically a corner realtor shop converted into a law office. Could I stoop much lower? Is this the type of place for an Oxford graduate? After waiting for 20 minutes, a flawless 1964 Silver Shadow convertible Rolls Royce maneuvered into the office parking spot. Not bad, partner golfing trips and a Silver Shadow. This got my attention and I was getting genuinely curious. In came Rodney Billington, an aging, jovial character, who would have been considered impeccably well dressed, if time had stopped 20 years ago. At the outset, he said he knew exactly who I was, and where I came from. He had worked closely with my late grandfather and they both did well from the relationship. He went out of his way to explain that this was a family office in more ways than one. He viewed the office and, as I later found out, the secretaries as well, as his family. He served clients with not only pure legal advice and drafting, but provided a whole array of services a high net worth individual's family would require. He knew my alternative was a City firm and stressed the advantages he had to offer – “with us, you will see the real world and use the skills and knowledge you have acquired for your benefit. In the City, the way up the ladder is long and hard, and the pyramid very narrow. The ones who make it to the top are few and have to kill to get there. Here, we can offer a good quality of life and the financial gain will be whatever you make of it. Our clients are a mix of established families and businesses and we have an influx of wealthy immigrant clients who need us to show them the ropes in their new environment.”

His pitch was as good as could have been under the circumstances, but I was not taken by it. This is a small pond and you don’t get big fish here. But I walked out

with a smile though.

Discussing it with Daphne, I pointed out the highlights, and even noted that it was quite pleasant not to be completely anonymous for a change. He knew me and my family and there was no need to make even a basic effort to fit in. We decided we'll give it a few months, since we needed the money anyhow, and then we would return to the fast track in the real world.

Working at Billington Esq. was a different profession than the one in the City and pretty much a different planet altogether. There I learned and practiced not the law of the land but the law of the backstreets. All the fancy drafting and the smart suits of the City cannot achieve 120% of acquisition financing as they do in this world. In this backstreet world, the players give the appraiser an extra 15% of his quote fee, the baker gets a bottle of really good scotch, the borrower gets a 20% profit before he even closes the deal and everyone goes home happy. Including and predominantly the solicitor.

Rodney began introducing me to his clients. In one instance, he brought me into a meeting with a Bahai family exiled from Persia. These people, very wealthy and very shrewd, were buying a chain of local laundromats. For these people, paying taxes was worse than a religious transgression. Seeing the numbers, it was clear to me that the only laundering they wanted to achieve was that of their money. Why else would someone pay a cash for a losing business. After getting up to speed on the deal, I decided not to play along. “If the point here is, as it seems to be, to launder money, may I suggest a simpler solution. Drop the whole business of managing an operational business and losing good money on it. Go instead to a forex trader and just open two s, a black and a white one. Work it out with the operator that the with the black money miraculously always loses the trades it enters and the white brilliantly gains trade after trade.” “Great idea. But if we were so smart as to know what the winning trades were, we wouldn’t need the black

altogether, would we? We would just operate the white .” They didn't get it. “The point is that you enter the trades in after they occur in reality, by then you know exactly which position to put into which . That way you can shift and create profits in the place and entity desired. On the profitable you only pay a discounted foreign exchange tax, equal to the tax on bank interest, and not full income tax. That way the black turns to white at a discounted tax rate”. Now they got it. “Not bad.” They turned to Rodney. “These City guys may actually know something. Is it legal?” “Are you sure you want me to answer that? No one can know exactly when the trade was entered. In any case, on the spectrum, if you push it, one could place it as a dark grey. My philosophy is that if you are going to do anything completely white, you don't need me. If you are going to do something completely black, you don't need me either. I am just here for the various shades of grey.”

That was when I earned the nickname as “Master of the Grey Domain”. The more I got involved with the firm and its clients, the more Rodney got disengaged. His lunch breaks got longer and longer and not only did his fat useless partner him but they would take the secretaries with them and have a great party. It was OK by me though, at least for a while. I was enjoying the freedom, the creativity and a sense of achievement. Daphne got offered a position in City Hall and things were working out quite nicely. It was obvious on my salary life was unsustainable but after a few months they gave me a partnership on a silver platter. The money was, by then, comparative to that of associates at the City firms but my net after expenses of city life was far higher. I got my first real car. It was, of course, a Porsche 911.

Things were not at all as planned or even as I hoped them to be but regardless, on the whole, were turning out nicely. Until I received The Talk, take #2.

One morning Daphne asked me to her for coffee at a corner café before

work. “Simon, we need to talk”. Never in my life did anything good follow the words “we need to talk.” “Simon, we are both Catholic and it is high time we stopped using contraceptives.” No small talk. Point Blank. Straight to the head. I had two strong urges, the first to run away and the second to hug her. I played it cool. “Honey, that is such a relief to me, after that intro. Please, never ever do this “we need to talk” thing unless it is an absolute emergency.” She knew I was trying to divert the discussion. “But it is an emergency. I know you are not keen on kids but I am. It's a package deal Simon. It is me without contraceptives or contraceptives without me. Nonnegotiable. Capitulate. Now!”

“Daphne, is this what you call an exchange of ideas?” I asked. “Yes, Simon, that is exactly what it is. You come with your ideas and then you exchange them for mine.” Simply irresistible, physically and otherwise. How could I deny this god sent creature her wish to bear my children? A small gesture on my part, turned into a long string of pregnancies and an even longer string of midnight pacing.

Day by day I was gyrating further and further from the law, and closer and closer to a money manager. Evaluating investment schemes, tax plans, financings, bringing in investors, negotiating deals and putting them into practice. During the process, I was meeting with the right people and coming across investment grade opportunities. Even though I had no technological background or knowledge, as an early adopter of internet and mobile technology, I was considered by those around me as an authority on such matters.

Rodney was wise enough to know that the only way to keep me was to let me go my way. He told me to go do my venture capital stint, but instead of leaving the office for it, do it as part of the office. The upside was that I continued to draw a salary and profits during the fund startup phase. Downside was, I split the equity derived from the fund with the office. It was a fair proposition. What's more,

with the extra mouths to feed, a steady income was an asset I couldn’t easily give up.

It took time, effort, a lot of travel and kis to investors to get it off the ground but, 3 years into the process, I finally had my own little venture capital fund. Actually, very little thanks to 9/11 that scared off foreign investors. I had to make do with the locals and a fund about half the size of the one I wanted. Thankfully, at least I was still alive after 9/11 to be able to manage anything altogether.

Only later did I find out that raising the fund is only half the job, managing it, with no real experience, was another thing completely.

All the pieces were falling in to place though: the family, the partnership in a small but successful law firm, the Porsche and now the new venture capital fund toy. There was never a clearly defined master plan, and paradoxically, most of the pieces came to me, and not the opposite. My peers, no doubt, had a heftier balance in their bank , but money, per se, was not the end game, for me. For me, it was more about being a player at the game. Day to day, and every day, was in itself a challenge. Literally, I lived a three ring circus, balancing between two jobs and a young demanding family. Notably, it did not leave much room for any vices such as women, drugs, gambling or even friends.

Chapter 10: “The Pickup”

My secretary at the law firm asked to coordinate a meeting for me with a new client. It was getting to be too much, as I could barely manage my existing clients, and hated legal work by then anyway. It was clear to me that this was another brush off by Rodney, who had since taken a clear preference to playing golf over playing attorney. “Unless it is someone dying who wants me to draft his will leaving all his money to me, make it something the week after next.” I knew that putting off unwanted meetings, was like peeing in bed – at first it’s a nice and warm feeling, but then, as the meeting comes nearer, it gets cold and stinky. But, I still indulged in it at times.

And thus the two weeks ed and I was still not in the mood for the meeting. Running into the office in the afternoon, after not being there the day before either, my secretary called out: “Simon, you do you have that meeting with the new guy at the Metropole in less than an hour.” “No I do not.” “Well, it’s in your calendar, that is what it says. Did you reschedule it?” “No, I meant that I do not that the stupid meeting is at the Metropole. Who is the meeting with anyhow, and why is the meeting not here?” “No idea” she answered. “No idea, what?” “No idea on either of those. Just be at the Garden Meeting Room in half an hour. Take a tie! These are not your tech geeks; these are law firm clients.” Why is it that the women around me always think I am lost without them? It's either my eyebrows or they know something about me and I could not function without them. Luckily, I wore a suit that day. A wide selection of fancy ties was always available at the office and I took one that matched my outfit.

Walking into the Brighton Hilton Metropole, I pulled the knot of my tie very tight, as lawyers tend to do, in order to give off a red complexion and a dead serious look. Entering the Garden Room, I was greeted by two strikingly young

gentlemen who introduced themselves as Jack and John, neither of whom produced a business card, a ritual which must be obeyed before any business can be discussed. I thought this odd, but having not eaten lunch so that I could make it to the meeting on time, I was busy eyeing the croissants on the table. “Please, may I offer you something?” asked Jack. I had to refuse because I was there as a lawyer and lawyers are omnipotent. We have no feelings, no desires and no urges, aside from serving the client's best interests. No one wants a human, earthly, lawyer.

“Gentlemen, as nice as this meeting room may be, I would have been honored to host you at our offices.” I broke the ice. John opened. “In full disclosure I must tell you that we are holding a beauty contest to select counsel, so it was more convenient to hold meetings, one after the other over here instead of running to a number of different offices.” Experience taught me that whenever someone gives the “to tell you the truth” or “in full disclosure” or “Frankly” prefix, you know that what comes next ranges, in a pretty liberal spectrum, somewhere between a half truth and a complete lie, so always make a careful mental note of the statement which follows it. “I am happy to be here, though had I known it was a beauty contest I would have brought my better half or at least the founding partner of our firm.” “Actually, it is you we wanted to see. We are looking to make a sizable acquisition of a technology related company and are looking for someone to lead the effort, and thereafter, assist in overseeing the company.” I then gave them a rundown of M&A stuff I had done, related and unrelated, including listing several deals in which I had little or nothing to do with myself. “Have any of these been international?” Jack inquired. “International, yes, in as far as deals which included foreign activity and/or subsidiaries, but not cross national of a foreign entity. I am not licensed abroad and would need local counsel in the jurisdiction of the target company.” I responded. “You may want to know that in parallel to my legal activity, I do manage a VC fund so that if the activity is of interest, we could consider cooperation.” It was a stupid thing to say if I wanted a pure legal services engagement, but I figured that if they wanted me involved post acquisition, this may actually have been what they were looking for to begin with. In any case, better to have it out in the open rather than them finding out later and being concerned over a potential conflict of interest. John came to life and said “If I

would ask you to point us to one attribute that sets you apart from the pack and as result, we should entrust our business to you, what would it be?” This I believe was taken verbatim, either from a text book called “Interviewing for Dummies” or was it from “How to Sound Like You Know What You Are Talking About”? Fighting my instinct to make a joke out of it, I went instead for the profound and insightful: “In this day and age, people will do anything for money. People try and cheat you, steal from you, entice you in any way they can to get your money. If I, not being a bank or selling anything, without any force or duress, can get people to give me their hard earned money and trust me not only to give it back to them but to make it work for them until it is returned, I must be a master of diligence and capable of getting messages across. So you can rest assured that I would employ these same skills for your benefit.” They then moved on to how many years I have been practicing, where my education came from etc. They asked if I have had any criminal issues, I responded that I do not do criminal law. When they clarified that they wanted to know if I was ever “printed,” I was more than happy to respond “Only in the Service.” They were taking notes on all of this. Then they asked where I was on the 7/7 London Underground Bombings which had just occurred a few months ago. The question ignited certain memories and feelings in me which I did not care to , let alone share with a stranger.

“Excuse me, is this an interrogation?” I asked in a clearly annoyed and abrupt tone. Jack was quick to apologize and clarified “That sounded wrong. What I meant to ask is how you felt about it as a person who had been in the Service.” I didn't see what my being in the Service had to do with my feelings about the attack, and besides, I had made such an effort to block the encounter out of my mind that I could not risk even the slightest opening of emotion on the subject. “Any senseless loss of human life is a tragedy” I said, “and all the more so when it occurs to in the heart of a civilian population.” I took that right out of the Oxford handbook of pseudo-liberalism. I was not even sure it sounded sincere so I added, “But I try not to think too much about issues which I cannot have any impact over.”

After about 45 minutes, they asked for my mobile number, which was not on my

card, and we parted as they promised to get back to me within the next week, one way or another. It was clear that Billington Esq. was not the firm one was looking for to execute a sizable cross border transaction and that I would never hear from them again. Which was OK because this type of stuff goes to the City firms in London. They were two inexperienced kids, who did not bother to ask me basic stuff like how many solicitors we were in our firm, who would be on the team, did we cover tax issues, our fee structure etc. They were dressed in polyester suits and failed to give me their cards. Either they are looking to disguise a two-bit brokerage deal they stumbled across as an entrepreneurial effort or they just inherited a lot of money and they wanted to piss it away as fast as they got it. Besides, they said “in full disclosure”, so it was surely not face value.

Back at the office, it was manic hysteria as usual. I was assailed by double booked meetings and completing paper work until I was too hungry and too tired to see straight. On my way home that night I drove by the Metropole and ed the odd meeting earlier in the afternoon. Out of curiosity, I called the hotel from the car and asked for the events department. I told them I had left a lap top at my meeting earlier in the Garden Room and asked if they had it, which of course they wouldn't. I told them the people who had reserved the room were in meetings there all afternoon so that I am not sure when the function there would have ended, but I was quickly corrected that the room was only rented for that hour. I asked for the name of the company that ordered the room so that I could ask them if maybe they had the laptop I misplaced. The event clerk had no idea, so I asked him to look at the name on the credit card which paid for the room. I told him how important my lap top was to me, but he replied and told me he could not help me. The room was paid for in cash.

Now, I was really curious. I called Rodney, hoping that he was still coherent at 21:45. “Hi Rodney. How are you doing?” “Listen, I wanted to ask you, who are those two kids you asked me to meet regarding some technology acquisition abroad?” “Which two kids are you talking about Simon?” “I met two kids today at the Metropole about some deal, said they were holding a beauty contest.” “Simon, I have no idea what you are talking about.” “Rodney, is this an I drank

one too many and thus have no idea No Idea or an I did not arrange the meeting and therefore have no idea No Idea?” “Simon, since when do we do M&A and why are we discussing this in the middle of the night? And you know me for a few years already, my memory is much clearer when I drink, not the opposite.” Patting myself on the back, I was pleased about my decision to bring up my position in the VC fund before g on with Billington, as this was probably a Private Investigator firm keeping an eye on me on behalf of one of my investors. Institutional investors try to keep a tight leash on their money managers, and this was probably one way they do it. Even so, this was a slightly beyond what I was led to expect.

More than three weeks had ed since that night when I eventually got a call to my mobile. The Caller ID on my screen was blocked, of course. Bouncing between two offices, no one bothered calling me at either place anymore. My mobile was now the primary target instead, so I made a mental note to get one of those new blue tooth devices. “Mr. Smith, it is Jack speaking.” “Sorry?“ “Jack. We met at the Metropole a few weeks back about an acquisition.” “Oh yes, I apologize, I am in the middle of a tight day. How are you?” “We're doing fine. Our transaction is coming together nicely and we want to see if you can facilitate it. Can we have coffee tomorrow to discuss?” I was tempted to tell him I have two all-consuming jobs at hand, and that his engagement is not even in the middle of my to do list. But tension with an investor, before you have any results to demonstrate, is not a smart move. “Sure, tomorrow is fine. Can I invite you to me at my VC office?” I didn’t have time for these games so I was basically saying to him: let's cut to the chase, come see the offices, see that we have security there, that we did not run away with the fund set up fees, write your little report and let's move on. “No, that is not necessary. Can we meet at the Starbucks on Western Road at about 12:00?” “Let's make it 12:30.” I thought we were past the games, but if he wants to play, let's play: “Shall I have my partner Mr. Billington us?” “I think we will do just fine without Mr. Billington.” Too bad subtext is not an Olympic event, as if it were, there would be at least one sport in which the English would be the favorite to win Gold. J&J were there before me, in the same polyester suits, and the same ties. At least they ordered coffee for me, not sick English tea with milk. And thank god for a croissant, since, again, it seemed I would not be having any lunch today either. I

was no longer playing the lawyer, so I came with no tie and helped myself to the croissant. Small talk went on for over 20 minutes and was getting very thin. “Gentlemen” I said and did my first ever 3-second-deep look to two people simultaneously. John took the lead. “When we met last, we discussed our intended acquisition and think that you are the right person to lead it.” How far does this charade continue? Like most professionals, over the years, I had received my fair share of popular email phishing attempts comprised of the Nigerian scam. At one point, I even wanted to see how far I could string them along and maintained a series of correspondences of about 120 email exchanges with them lasting for over 3 weeks. I even got them to send me flowers through Interflora to my office on my birthday, before they realized that the hunter had become the hunted. However, with so many balls in the air, I did not have time for that kind of game. Let's put an end to this. “Guys, I mean no disrespect, but what is this all about. Really?” John responded “Well, if you really want to know what this is about, it’s really about buying a foreign company for us.” Yah, that’s not really going to work. “If I promise to pay for the coffee will you then tell me what is going on? I have no idea who you are, my partners don't know who you are, I have no idea how you found me, you don't want to come to my office, I don't know what it is that you need and I get the feeling that you don’t either. And your names both begin with J. Are these enough oddities for breakfast?” Jack was no push over. “This is Starbucks, so the coffee here is already paid for. We have no interest in your dump of an office nor your over aged and overweight partners. The only thing odd here is being criticized about our names by someone who's initials are SS!” “Touché.” “Mr. Smith, or if I may call you Simon, I can assure you that the acquisition we are contemplating is a very real transaction and that we are highly determined to do the deal. Moreover, I would even view it as critical that it be completed. I do accept that we have a different way of doing things, but that is why we are very careful about who we bring on board to work with us.” This was a new feeling, I had no idea where any of this was coming from or where it was going, but I was there anyhow so let's see how it plays out. “So what is the deal?”

John was the one responding this time. “Base stations for mobile communications. This segment is a rare combination of technology, infrastructure, real estate and service. Mobile and Internet Service Provider companies globally have spent billions of dollars on bandwidth, technology,

marketing etc. but without the base stations, they are worthless. The more technology advances, the more dependence there will be on base stations. Complex installations built up on each location, all requiring new everything: power, maintenance, infrastructure. It is the ultimate bottleneck of the next century. When competition increases, you will have multiple sales on each site. It is already a cash cow in the present and growth will be exponential. That is all before the funny money comes into play in the form of exclusions, exclusivity, jamming etc. which are sure to evolve in a tight market. Setting these things up, regulation and breaking ground are all tough processes, so the way to do it is vi an acquisition, upon which to build and expand.” It was not bad for an elevator pitch. I didn’t know much about the segment per se, but the guy was making sense, and I instinctively got a gut feeling that indeed there may be a business case here. “OK, I can appreciate the concept and the potential. So, you have a deal set up and finance to back it, or is this early stage?” “We have a target company that we are looking at and we know where we want the financing to come from but we have not engaged either of them in discussion yet.” “OK, so this is early in the evolutionary process. Have you ever done this before?” “Not something of this size.” “Who are we talking about?” I asked. Jack took back the reigns, “We would like to know you are on board with us before we give you any details.” “Now that we are on a first name basis, we can be more direct. The idea sounds interesting and a challenge. I like the idea of getting involved in things at the ground floor and not just the formalization stages. A few things we need to be aware of. These things are not cheap, they take time, and the chances of closing such a deal are not great, especially when you don't know if there is a seller. Many times there are regulations involved in such acquisitions. I don't particularly appreciate your reference to my law firm as a shitty little office but, nevertheless, I would stipulate that I do not have the team in house to do such a deal. If you want my involvement, it could be on a consultancy basis and we can buy a team or outsource one. What would be the next step from your end?” “Money is less of an issue at this point, and we are aware of regulatory issues, but from our perspective, the next steps are a sign off of your role on our side and your commitment. For that we will need you to meet another member from our side.” “I assumed you were not the principals on this. I am still unclear how or why you guys are coming to me for this, as there are investment bankers and brokers in London who do this stuff for breakfast. So why would you want me? In any case, for me to commit to this, we would need to work out the format of my engagement, compensation and I would also need to know that you have the money to back this and that the funds are not funny money, as you put it.” “Simon, I can assure you there is nothing funny about the money. We know there

are professional bankers who do this stuff and be certain we did not pick your name out of a phonebook. We did our homework. We know your background in the Service and Oxford. You come highly recommended. May I suggest that we take a cab to meet the rest of our team.” “J&J, you guys have an unorthodox way of doing business, but you certainly got my attention. I'm following your lead.”

During the taxi ride, I called to make sure my calendar would be free for an hour or so and asked my secretary to email me all my messages because I can't take the incessant buzzing and will be shutting off my phone. By the time I got off the phone, I found that we were in a residential neighborhood of Moulsecoomb on the outskirts of Brighton. Not the type of place you would expect to find technology companies, international holding companies or even a latte for that matter. I turned to face John and asked nonchalantly: “I am not being abducted am I?” John replied in a similar nonchalant tone, “We try not to use taxis when we abduct people.” The taxi stopped and we walked up to a middle class, run of the mill apartment that neither I nor either of my secretaries would live in. We entered an apartment with the name Rogers on the door. I had no idea what to expect but the apartment we entered was an original vintage 1975 Brighton apartment with nothing changed in it since then, including the telephone, which could have been sold as an antique.

I sat down on a creaky couch in the living room which smelled like the owner, who probably ed away some years ago, and may still be underneath it to this day. “Yes,” I said with a grin that I could not conceal, “are you going to introduce me to your grandmother? Let me guess, her name is Jacklyn.” “I am glad you think this is funny” responded Jack, “But I do actually want to introduce you to Jim.”

I was thinking this is too much already, but then, from one of the bedrooms of the grim shoebox apartment, entered a heavyset man in his 50's. He looked like

he may have been a boxer in his earlier years. He had a full head of hair cut short, a sharp chin and laser eyes, all connected to his body by a huge neck. His eyes were small, sky blue and I’m not sure he blinked, ever. If I had eyes like his, I could have physically burned holes through people when employing my three second look.

He came directly to me, shook my hand tightly with a big smile and stood very close to me. I felt very small in comparison up close, even though I stood as he approached and our actual heights were not that different. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you Simon” he said in a deep voice, most becoming of such a frame. “Come, I'll make you some coffee, the real stuff.” He proceeded to the kitchen to where I followed and he started tinkering with the gas hob and a small tin pot in a process which would ultimately lead to the cooking of thick black Turkish coffee. “I hear you are getting along nicely with my guys” he opened, now looking directly at me.

“Yes, we are fast becoming great friends. Let me see if I have this correct, you are all one happy Rogers family and by a complete oversight, you are Jack, John and Jim, just like the three piglets from the fairytale.”

He smiled and said “Just having a little fun.”

Sitting in the relic kitchen with all the original discoloration around the sink, a state which modern décor aficionados would deceivingly refer to as vintage, Jim poured the coffee slowly into small little cups. “Wait a bit” he said, “Let it settle

a little before you drink it. I am from the pre-instant generation. I like things done well, not fast. Simon, we have known of you for a while and want to congratulate you on your fund. You spent a lot of time and effort on it. We have done our homework and you have the combination of certain qualities and experience that are not easy to come by: loyalty, determination, not money crazed. The combination of the Service and Oxford must have done good things for you.”

Jim was not a man of many words and he actually spoke slowly and softly. Words coming from that massive body, made his message very strong. Aside from his overpowering build, and maybe in contrast to his soft speech, he gave off a very confident radiance, which produced a protected and pleasant environment. “We are not your typical clients Simon. However, I want to assure you that our determination is stronger than that of most of your clients. Very simply put, we need a base station company and we want you to buy it for us. To do that, we will give you all the and back office you need, but we insist that you be our point man. It will be a tough ride but I assure you it will be both interesting and enriching.” “Who is this we that you are referring to?”

“I will not insult your intelligence, so you can call it the Crown, call it the country, call it the Service, call it whatever you want. It all comes from the same place. You know the drill from the military. Don’t ask me questions neither of us wants me to answer.”

“Jim, I did my Service a long time ago. This is not the same Simon Smith that was enlisted.” “I know that and I don’t want the Simon Smith who was in the Service. I want you.” “What exactly are you asking here?”

“All I am asking is for you to do what you do anyhow, buy a company and manage it for us. I am not asking or expecting you to enlist, your life is yours. Just factor us in as another client, utilizing your venture capital and legal skills. “So this is about buying a base station company?” I said, sipping the now cooled and drinkable thick sweet black liquid. “Simon, you do not know me well but you will come to appreciate that I say what I mean and I mean what I say.”

I guess one might call this a well-timed dramatic pause. “I need you to buy me a base station company in Saudi Arabia.”

Black liquid squirted all over Jim's white shirt, originating from both my mouth and my miniature cup. I was laughing and gasping simultaneously. “Sorry about that, but you caught me by surprise there. Did you say Saudi Arabia!?” I found a towel and wiped my face and handed it to him for his shirt. “I don't always spit at people when we first meet. Generally, only when they want to send me shopping for them half way around the world in places where they dismember sex offenders for looking at women and flog people publicly for having a beer. Been there before and can't say I appreciated it. I promised myself I would never go back to the Middle East. Aside from personal distaste, not the best place for a business, by the way.” Jim was unfazed. He just sat there looking at me as if we were talking about the Arsenal football season. “What are you getting so uptight about. You'll come to know us, we have our way of doing things and so far, our record is impeccable.” “If you are so great at what you do, what do you need me for? I can't even hold my coffee.” I swear the guy never blinks. “A key element of success is knowing your limitations. You should know the

saying “do what you do best and outsource the rest”. We need someone fresh in the system, a new face, fresh ideas, no record. Someone who has both legal and business capabilities. I understand my guys had a challenge even getting you on board this venture, let alone having them try to buy a base station company. Simon, I know who you are and I know all about you. Look at it from my point of view. You are the product of a broken home, were in the military, attended Oxford, are financially secure and have a stable family. You are a dream come true in my business! Furthermore, I understand that you were there to witness 9/11 so you know the stakes we are playing for and what we are trying to avoid. You are going to do it. I am going to do it with you and we are going to have fun. So, let's not spoil the party.”

I got to hand it to him, he was overpowering not only physically but in his character as well. He had done his homework and seemed to know pretty much everything about me. A reflection of how good he was or how predictable and mundane I was. The mention of the London Underground Bombings at my first meeting with Jack and Jim now referencing 9/11 made sense and was probably intended to push my buttons as well.

I called an emergency internal staff meeting right there and then. No one bothered showing up. I was left there alone with the Hulk. It seemed I had a lot to learn from this guy. He was using his laser eyes to dominate me. “It will take a few weeks for Jack and John here to get you up to speed on how we do things, a bit of practicing, and then we can start setting up the transaction. I don't expect you to desert your family, your firm or your fund. We will work around your timelines. I'll leave it to you guys to work it out technically.” He took out a key chain and put it on the table. “This is now your place for all your stuff with us and you can start by cleaning up this mess you made on the table. Please keep some real coffee available for me for when I come. Welcome aboard Simon Smith.”

I was unable to say anything at all. He shook my hand and left.

Jack and John walked into the small kitchen. “Hell of guy isn't he? So we will need you to start by setting aside some time windows for us to get you up to speed.”

I suggested a few time slots during the next week, expecting them to choose whichever worked best for them. They just said that is fine and thereby collared all of them. They dropped me off back at the office and the rest of the day was a hurricane as usual, no different than had I just allowed myself a long lunch break.

Chapter 11: “Pupilage” “Hey guys I’m home” I declared as I walked through the door, giving them fair warning to shut off all electronic devices and mechanisms for driving me crazy. Exclamations of “Dad's home” came from all corners of the massive dormitory we call home. Who are all these kids and why are they calling me Dad? Pinching and twisting them one by one, I re-familiarized myself with each of them. They looked like their mother so I guess they belonged here.

Daphne swung by me, “Hey hon, how was work today?” I was considering how I was supposed to respond to that somewhat charged question, but by the time I gained my composure Daphne jumped in, “Hold the little guy for a second, he spat up during supper and I have just got to change my shirt.” Before I could respond, she was off leaving me with a stinky little package. What was I supposed to do with him before I even took off my recently dry cleaned suit jacket? A regular evening at the Smith residence included a kitchen that was a mess, that for some unknown reason only I was somehow licensed to straighten out, a cacophony of various electronic and musical devices, one or two mild skirmishes between the boys, an absolutely required heated screaming match between the girls and finally the most frequent pillow fight between the boys and the girls. Now that the older ones are not so young anymore, Daphne and I were barely ever able to have dinner together. Between getting the rugrats to shut up, brush their teeth and find whatever it was they decided to hide from each other that day, we had little room to breathe. If we survived, by 11:00 pm things would wind down to a mild buzz.

Daphne went to take a shower and sent me to finally put the little guy to bed. “Hon, don’t fall asleep there, I need -sorry- want to talk to you about something,” she yelled from our room. “Yah, me too” I added lamely. When I finally settled down, Daphne was all cuddled up in her down duvet. She looked adorable, serine and obviously in dire need of some rest. “OK Daph, you go first.”

“Hon, the nanny wants a raise. Otherwise she is leaving next month. She is making more than I made at work as it is. She is good but I feel like it’s extortion.” “Daph, it is extortion, but Daph, principals aside, she has us by the balls. Without her we are both dead. Screw it, give her the raise and against your instincts, do it with a smile so at least she will not take anything out on the kids.” I looked back at her, but she was out long ago. I don't think she even held out for the part with the smile and stuff. I nevertheless stated out loud, “Anyhow Daph, I had a really weird experience today. I guess someday I'll tell you about it. And by the way, I had no intention of suggesting sex so you just wasted an opportunity to actually talk to me.”

**********************************

John was entrusted with my pupilage. He would be waiting for me at the apartment every day before I got there with fresh coffee and croissants ready to go, even if we had multiple sessions during the same day. It started out academically, lectures given one on one: t, Humint, How to assimilate in a crowd, How to blend in, How to be perceptive, How to obtain information without providing any of your own, How to conceal one’s identity, How to talk without saying anything. None of it was entirely brilliant or beyond common sense for that matter, assuming that this was the type of occupation one chose. The lectures were moderately interesting even though only half of my mind was present to begin with. The other half was constantly concerned with my other parallel positions. Things flowed so gradually and seamlessly, that I can’t even put my finger on the point in time when it finally sunk in and I understood that they expected me to do my role acquiring the base station company under an assumed identity. A few weeks into the process, my new time commitments were becoming a major problem. Each of my roles was claiming a priority position. Fortunately, the lord does work in mysterious ways and the possessiveness of each of the women in my life became my strongest asset. My two secretaries and my wife each thought I cherished them beyond all others and distorted any

possibility of normative communication between any of them. If they would have simply compared the schedules that each one kept for me, they would immediately discover that a large chunk of my time was uned for.

From time to time, Jim would check in unexpectedly to keep tabs on my indoctrination. He and his coffee were starting to grow on me. His presence always gave off the impression of being engrossed in some high priority issues, and that he put everything aside just to take , a firsthand of my progress and ensure my engagement. Either they did not have a master plan yet or I was not yet deemed ready to be privy to it, but they kept me engaged just enough so I wouldn’t contemplate dropping the project altogether. The academic aspect was not much of a challenge intellectually, or any other way for that matter, aside from the strain of being in that environment altogether. However, the implementation and physical training for whatever I was going to have to do were a completely different story.

First, I had to build an identity which started off with choosing a name. A generic name which would leave no impression on anyone and would pull up big fat zero or an abundance of confused information on Google. The perfect name would obviously and ironically have been Simon Smith but John did not appreciate the humor of it and instead, we went with Tom Cook. We chose a birthday, address, life story and we were all set. I was a divorced economic consultant who lived in a rented apartment and was an avid skier. Of course, this guy Cook now had to go out shopping for a wardrobe which turned out to be a series of segregated torture events, all geared towards testing my ability to complete embarrassing, challenging, and at times, downright degrading tasks. All of this wrapped up in my getting accustomed to manipulating people and getting them to do whatever I wanted them to do through whatever means necessary. It supposedly put into practice all the elements covered in my various previous lectures, but in practice, it was not much more than the art of negotiation that takes place in any commercial transaction between unrelated parties, but with a twist of testing the limits of acceptable social behavior by the trainee.

It started off with the purchasing a generic pair of socks and exchanging them 5 times in 5 minute intervals. I was then instructed to get a bank manager to introduce me to his family, followed by getting a sales lady in a lingerie store to try on and model a certain brassier for me. I was not the pranking type to begin with, and at my age, I was not suited for games of this type. I found myself polling bystanders, obtaining the cell numbers of mayors and g up guarantors for fictitious loans. These exercises, for me, were all part of one big nightmare. I was terrified I would be identified by people in public, for one, but also I felt a deep seeded remorse for toying with people and manipulating them for no good reason. I mean for God’s sake; a second hand book store owner was this close to marrying his only daughter off to me. Actually, more accurately, married off to “Him”, some fictitious Cook guy who was nothing but a figment of our exercises. I think it was the economic advisor with a liking for science fiction that he was getting excited about entering into the family, not the married solicitor with a brood of children. All sorts of morals and principles I never before knew existed were starting to play up and, inevitably, Conscience, after taking an elongated deep cover hiatus yet again, was beginning to show his annoying face again. I was being transformed into a low life, con artist and I’m pretty sure I despised it.

Progressing the next phase of meetings which were held in public places and were comprised of games of friend or foe and the like, were a great relief to me. There was still the risk of being recognized by someone who knew me but at least I didn’t have to interact too much with anyone in particular. Participating in one of these exercises, I realized that my new exercises and endeavors were precisely what certain hotels were built for. Who else in their right mind would be sitting in the lobby of an expensive hotel at 11:30 am on a Wednesday morning in February, sipping disgustingly overpriced lukewarm coffee, unless you were on the payroll of some government or some such organization and would only be reimbursed for expenses on a hotel bill and not on a Starbucks purchase. I began thinking about a direct marketing internet site which would market special hotel rates for undercover agents and trainees during low season. These were customers and valuable during low season. It could be a lucrative opportunity for the right company, I’d have to get my fund to look in to

it.

Daphne and I had an understanding between us, she took the day shift with the kids and I did the nights. This was to include everything from wet nappies to nightmares to bed time stories and glasses of warm (microwaved) milk. Sure, Daphne needed the sleep, but there was more to it than that. She was a nice and loving person and would comfort the gremlins, regardless of the hour, which was hardly a deterrent for them not to return 10 minutes later for some other form of TLC. I, on the other hand, was a mean son of a bitch. I saw right through them and had a deep understanding of the gremlin mind, having been one myself in some previous life. Any gremlin waking up at night got such a cold shoulder and outright meanness from me, that it would inevitably find it much more comforting to just sleep it off, whatever “it” was. Unfortunately, before the message was sufficiently received and while its validity was still being tested by any new test subject, I was on night duty. The latest being the Little guy who had teeth growing in, and inexplicably, for some reason teeth have a tendency to grow in only at night. These new additions to the wild animal’s mastication machine cause increased salivation, nauseating nappies, and thereafter, bad nappy rashes. All spot on my watch. Little guy was in such a state and so miserable that even I couldn't find it within me to just throw him back into his crib without offering some sort of consolation. Against my better judgment, after changing his nappy and pasting the better half of a whole rash roll on his little ass, I hugged and comforted him for a bit while sitting in the rocking chair in his room. He started to doze off and so did I, with him in my arms. From within my haphazard but yet deep sleep, I broke out with a cold sweat. Putting little guy back where he belonged, I began a crazed pacing from the kitchen to the living room at 3:00 am. I revisited every single interaction and fact I knew about Jim, Jack and John and categorized each of them as either hard fact or mere conception. I finally gathered my thoughts and the conclusion was staring me straight in the face:

I am being played!

I have never been to any formal office which I could as being of any authority; I have no idea of the real identities of any of the people I am interacting with; I have no idea as to the legality of or civil authority under which I am authorized, licensed or permitted to do any of the activities they are preparing me for. At the end of the day, everything is nothing but stories and virtual reality arenas that they have created in my mind. Pretty much the same as they were training me to do to other people during my pupilage. Someone must have picked up my CV from one of my fundraising presentations and together with some minor digging of public information, knew who I was, where I came from and what makes me tick. I now knew all about how to manipulate others and that is exactly what was being done to me. I was a loner, no father figure, very loose core family, independent decision maker, I would throw myself at pretty much any challenge just to prove I could do it, especially if I thought it had any real significance and recognition in it. They knew my number and were dialing it on speed dial. I had no idea who these guys were, no idea who they were working for or if anything related to them was even remotely true. They were clearly very effective because I was as snowed as one could be and they accomplished it all using nothing but simple props and a good story.

Putting aside my analysis and need for a staff meeting to determine how I, with my military and professional background, could have been so naive as to be set up this way, I set about devising a strategy to flush out what is really going on with these guys and what they wanted me for. There was nothing that they could say that could be empirically believed. Truth was not part of their vocabulary. I could try a simple direct approach but that would be too easy to subvert. When in doubt, there is only one way to find the truth: follow the money. During my next session with John, when he mentioned the term us, I asked him who exactly was “us”. He looked surprised as if it was obvious:

“us? we are subsection W department. I thought you knew that”. It meant nothing to me and he must have known that as he continued “well you probably

know of the t Intelligence Committee or at least of its better known MI5 and MI6 Intelligence Agencies for secret services and foreign intelligence? Well, we are part of the lesser known step child entrusted with military offensive intelligence services. Where did you think Jim, John and Jack came from?” “You’ve lost me; I still don't know where these names come from.” “I thought it would be obvious to someone of your perceptive abilities: Jim Beam, Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels. They are all from the W or whisky subsection. Think of it as you would whisky, we are deep underground, wellaged and very potent.” I didn’t know if this guy was serious or if it was yet another elaborate story created on the on the fly. If it was on the fly, he was very good, as it almost sounded authentic. Thinking back to my military exposure, there was so much folklore mixed in with true military activity that it was difficult to differentiate between the real stuff and the bullshit, so this absurdity may actually be the truth. Following the money trail is a much better path to pursue to what is really going on.

Just in time, Jim arrived for one of his randomly selected visits. He came in carrying a manila envelope, which was odd in and of itself as he never carried a briefcase or anything else of that sort with him. Not even a mobile phone. After the customary coffee brewing ceremony, we sat down at the vintage kitchen table with digestive biscuits. He told me that they have been following my progress closely and were debating whether I was ready. Not quite sure what for. “I have full faith in you and, no less important, I am eager to get the project off the ground. Time for a test drive.” He poured the contents of the envelope onto the table and out slid a shining new Irish port and a golden credit card. They each had the new smell of their respective mints, each under the name of Thomas Cook. I smiled instinctively and said “I only now get the punch line in the choice of my name, I went from the generic Simon Smith to the mega tour operator Thomas Cook.” “With a name like that, no one can expect to find anything of relevance or value about you on the internet and no one will be surprised at not being able to find a single hit that relates to your cover story. Go through your cover story one more time and once it is solidly completed, we'll

mark up the travel history in your port accordingly. The port is real so no worries on that front. It will any border crossing examination, physical or digital. The credit card has never been used and it connects to a corporate in Switzerland held by a corporation you are on assignment for. Zurich, which is our usual playground, is rather crowded lately so in order to avoid any friendly fire, you will be going to Rome. John will provide you with a full mission plan. We'll be keeping eyes on you but I expect everything to work just like clockwork.” He smiled at me and slapped my shoulder just as a sergeant would do before sending out a rookie to a mission everybody else in the room knew was a suicide run. “No problem. I think I can handle an evening romp into and out of Rome.” As Jim was getting up to leave, I brought up the issue that would initiate my new strategy in pursuit of the truth. “Jim, one thing has been troubling me. In the office, people are starting to notice my absences and I need something that I can show for it. Perhaps you can arrange an engagement for my firm with some entity so I can demonstrate receivables from all these hours?” “Sure, no problem. Jack should have thought of that earlier. I'll make sure he takes care of it.”

I took my time coordinating the timetable for the test drive and preparations until the engagement was confirmed and on track. After a few days of anticipation, the first funds hit the firm’s . The bookkeeper was surprised at my newly found interest in collections, as it was usually the other way around, she would normally be the one prompting me to chase after legal payables. I requested that she the bank and have them check into whether there was a transfer in process to our designated firm and, if so, where are those funds coming from. When the transfer did hit, two days later of course, it came from an offshore corporation, as expected. However, given my experience with offshore entities, I knew exactly how to back trace one, as I knew a good part of the nominee directors, who would be playing the various roles in this industry, by their first names. Before I got a chance to start asking around about the company, its directors and origins, I got a call on my cell. It was John on the line. “Someone has been asking a lot of questions about the source of funds of our transfer to your firm. Everything OK?” “Sure, no worries, I assume it is nothing more than standard know your customer issues.” I still did not know who these guys were but their networking was evidently very efficient. This made me even more suspicious and I began contemplating if and how I could go about

informing the real secret services that someone was trying to recruit me, without incriminating myself in any way of course. Then came a second call. This time, it was from a at Barclays, whom I had asked to look into the transfer. “Thanks Pat, I know this is highly unorthodox for me but I really have to make sure on this one that the source is clean. The last thing either of us would ever want to get mixed up with is a money laundering gang.” This got his immediate attention. He wouldn’t bend the rules just because I asked him to, but if there was a risk that we were both exposed to, or primarily him, then he would do what was necessary and check the origins. “Simon, I don't know why you are so uptight about this. It does not get much cleaner. This wire came straight from the Treasury, not even through any of the istrative offices. If you had more of these s, I could sleep better and smoke less. This is far cleaner and reliable than the shady stuff you have been bringing in lately.”

Shocker! It was for real. I was so sure I was being played I didn't even stop to consider the consequences if I was wrong. Putting aside my hero fantasies of single handedly uncovering a Russian spy ring trying to infiltrate the UK ranks by recruiting unknowing participants, along with putting aside my hope of being relieved from the impossible balancing act of my respective roles with them, at home and at work, am I actually going to go through with this? Am I really going to go play cloak and dagger? In the real world? It did not require too much contemplation to realize I was in far too deep already, as, if anything at all, these guys had demonstrated that they know how to penetrate very deeply. I had to it, it was still an intriguing challenge and Jim remained a nagging mystery to me. With a large side portion of disappointment, and against my better judgment, I found myself proceeding forward.

Chapter 12: “The Trip”

The mission objectives were quite simple actually, get the cover story down pat, muster up the reminiscence of an Irish accent, fly to Rome under my assumed identity, rent a hotel room, open a bank and buy a mobile phone. Nothing I hadn’t done myself endless times before. Once I knew what was required of me on this mission, I actually saw it as a pleasant diversion from reality, just with a few snags. Daphne was ok with me travelling, provided it was not for too long. The main question was how would I pull off being without my mobile phone for 3 days. Worse, how can I not talk to Daphne for three whole days. That is something that has not happened since we were married. Even amidst 9/11 with all the mediums of communications in the US cut off, I managed to find a way to her. I had to speak to her multiple times a day, even if for only day to day issues. She was my life line.

I was immersed in hours upon hours of tedious details. Planning, reviewing and going over again my every move for every minute since I was to leave the Rogers apartment until the second I returned. What happens if this. What happens when that. I, honestly, just tuned out half of the time because it was just such a bore. They must have been accustomed to training complete dimwits before me, or teenage kids, as no normal person required so much repetition to get through simple day to day tasks. Finally, after a thorough inspection of my bags, including my pockets and even my toothpaste and underwear, they had to make sure I had nothing with me which could in any way contradict my assumed identity, they were ready to finally give me their final words of wisdom, as if I was off to the front: “, your cover story is your strongest weapon. If they can't penetrate it and so long as you have done nothing illegal, you are Scott Free.” I did not really connect with what they were trying to say since I was Scott Free to begin with so what exactly was the problem? It was all just a game to me, but I followed the rules. After leaving, I walked around the corner, took a random cab from there, gave the driver a wrong destination, corrected myself midway, gave the driver a different terminal to drop me off in than the one I was really flying from. If John was in any way trying to follow me, I must be making

him so proud with the way he managed to train this old dog little kids tricks.

Checking in at the terminal was a little odd. I had my first conversation, albeit short and to the point, with a broken Irish accent and a new name. The ground attendant could not resist the comment: “I don’t suppose you are the owner of the airline are you?” “If I were, do you think eeid be flying economy, do ya'?” She smiled but I thought to myself, why is it that I am flying economy?? Is it not more fitting of my new identity to be traveling business class? I made a mental note of pointing that out next time. If they are so big on character play, let's see them play it across the board. Next was port control, which is the annoying little line they make you stand in, only to be confronted by a scarecrow with a flashy uniform inside a telephone booth, as he pretends to take interest in stamping people’s ports. What do they have people doing this for anyhow? I can understand wanting to control entry into our splendid kingdom, but if anyone wants to leave, we should make it as easy as possible for them. Standing in line of the non-UK ports, I began to get a little uptight. My heart started racing and I had to open up my tie a bit to get some ventilation. Logic tried to get hold of the situation. “Open the stupid port, look at it. It has no more than 9 pieces of dry information. Look at them, you know each of them off by heart. For god's sake, you have been repeating them for hours already, what is the big deal. Even if the scarecrow punches something into his stupid little screen, what do you think he sees there? Nothing but the same details he already has in front of him. My turn was fast approaching and my temperature thermostat was out of control. I was sweltering. Taking the last two steps towards the booth took forever. I feebly handed out the port and could not even break a phony friendly smile. Scarecrow must have seen my condition and asked me where I was coming from. How much more straightforward of a question could there be? My response should have been The Metropole Hilton but instead I blurted out my office address, which uncontrollably came out of my mouth. An Irish accent was out of the question under the circumstances. “What was the purpose of your visit?” The answer was supposed to be tourism but instead I said I had a meeting with a

solicitor. “Having some legal problems are you?” What the hell is going on here? The speechless scarecrow is becoming a mastermind interrogator? Logic made another effort. “No, I thought of buying a piece of real estate but it did not work out. I'll be off to Italy to seek my fortunes there.” “Do you have a return ticket?” This guy is not giving up. “No, eey do not.” I was successfully getting a little of the accent back and added a little assertiveness to my response. As soon as he began flipping through the pages of the little blue book, I knew this incident was in its final moments and never again would I see him. He found the perfect spot in my port, which prior to this week was brand new but now looked well used, and hit it with an official stamp. More than relieved, I walked away from the little booth, but I felt defeated, not by the dumb scarecrow but my own self. How could I fall apart at the first and most benign of interactions? Maybe I should have paid more attention to John yesterday? Maybe I am not cut out for this? By now my body heat dropped and I was actually cold from my wet shirt and the over ventilated terminal.

When you are under cover there is no cutting things close to the edges. You safely arrive at the terminal the full two and a half hours before the flight. Which means you have lots of time to kill in the duty free. Wondering through the whisky section, I decided to buy a bottle of Glenfiddich for the guys, just to prove a point that there are whiskies that do not start with J. I didn't think it was in line with the expense policy to allow for practical jokes, but I was so bored that a little humor was worth them charging me personally for it, if there were to be any issue with the gesture. After the calming stroll, I got some coffee and retraced the experience, step by step. There was no call for my overreaction. It was nothing but a rookie anxiety attack. There were no external triggers for it. Nothing but my own self, playing against me. This whole thing is an exercise to begin with. Maybe they know what they are doing and it is not as futile as I initially thought. Let's try and keep it together upon the next encounter. This mental process took all of 90 seconds, including scratching around the wet

patches of my shirt. So, what was I supposed to do with the next 60 minutes until boarding? The prophylactic extension to my right hand, commonly known as my cellphone was not with me, which was also a new sensation. I had been holding one in my hand during every single of my waking hours for years already and I continually and instinctively kept reaching for it. No phone, no one to talk to, no lap top and no reading material with me that I had to catch up on. This was a new aspect of the challenge I was not quite ready for. Dead time. It is the time during which you must be aware, of course you have to be awake, but have nothing in particular to do other than notice what is happening around you. Very uninteresting unless a catastrophe were about to unravel before you. Of course, if that were to happen, I would be in deep shit anyway. So nothing exciting to look forward to here. I found a newspaper and that soaked up no more than 12 minutes. My mind was automatically drawn to focus on work and work related issues. Surprisingly, without the ever flowing presence of adrenalin and enraptured with the new overwhelming sensation of being detached from people, physically and electronically, work lost its appeal. My mind drifted to Daphne and the kids. What the hell am I doing distancing myself from them like this and more importantly, why? I am completely betraying Daphne's trust. She thinks I am on my way to to meet with co-investors and I still don't know what I will tell her when she can only reach my voice mail for three days straight. Even a pigeon takes less than 3 days to convey a reply from Paris to Brighton.

Fiumicino airport was exactly what you would expect from an Italian airport: loud, disorganized and vaguely reminiscent of the 20th century. I began my preemptive breathing exercises walking down the endless walkways, long before port control. The EU line flowed quite quickly which was a relief. The scarecrow uniforms in Italy were far more impressive than those in London. Had this been my first time in Italy, I may actually have been intimidated, but it now seemed rather pathetic. I looked through my port once again ing my birthday and where the port was issued. To this day, I still have no idea why this piece of information is so critical that it has to be included in one’s port. This irrelevant factoid was somehow more important than, say, where the person’s address is or one’s telephone number or email address. There are any number of items that have much larger inferences into a carrier’s real life, but somehow, luckily for all of us covert operations professionals, some clerk somewhere thought that the “place of issue” of a port was most important

and worthy of inclusion in the document. By the way, that made it far more easy for people like me to assume a new identity. A combination of an uninterested scarecrow and, by now an experienced infiltrator, made my next official encounter uneventful. The previous encounter was a first and last. From now on it should be a breeze. You’d be surprised to know that checking into a hotel, by comparison, is so much more complicated. Not only do these busybodies at reception check your port, you need a credit card, one that actually works, an address, telephone number, signature, and finally check-in and check-out dates. I became shockingly aware of the oddity that the hotel owner is evidently far more concerned with who he lets into his hotel than a country is about who is about to enter its borders.

I had made it to Rome. I had my room. I had a pocket full of cash, and what now? Bathroom, CNN, lookout the window, all great fun, but what next? This under cover business began to pose an unexpected challenge, how can an ordinarily hyper personality like me, accustomed to balancing multiple tasks on an hourly basis, adapt and accept a monotonous and painfully slow pace? I had to do something. I jumped ahead of schedule and left to buy my new phone. Thereafter, I sat down in a café playing with the instructions, loading the prepaid credit and lots of action packed fun like that, all of which somehow gets cut out in the editing of James Bond movies. I checked in with John to let him know I was in place and now what? Incapable of ingesting any more coffee, even though it was by far superior to anything I could find at home, I started walking through the city. It must have been 3-4 hours of walking, humming the song of an Irishman in Rome to the tune of Sting's “Englishman in New York,” and I was getting tired, and hungry when I noticed a new phenomenon. I could not bring myself to stop in a restaurant to eat something. It was as if that time spent, time stolen and cheating on Daphne, did not count. It was a black hole in time during which Simon Smith did not exist and could enable himself to indulge in the simplest of activities. Fontana de Trevei on stolen time was not the experience nor the charm it was supposed to have in Simon Smith's life. Experiences that occur which could not be shared and could not even be expressed to someone emotionally close, simply do not exist. This Thomas Cook character was a zombie with nothing but a dull sensation of any feeling or desire, physical or otherwise. I had apparently stumbled upon the answer to the age old philosophical question of: if a tree falling in a forest with no one there to witness

did actually fall? The answer to me was unequivocally, Who the hell cares as it makes no difference if it fell or not. Fitting to such a state of mind, instead of an Italian meal, I got a roll of Pringles, some soda and headed to the hotel. With all their concern for expenses, at this rate, they were going to be well under budget.

The next day was set to be another zombie uneventful day, dotted with various clearly meaningless errands, which I went about completing in any case. I then formed the idea of developing an interest which Simon Smith and Tom Cook could share. I ed the Bloomberg application on to my newly purchased phone and put together an imaginary equity portfolio. I started looking up stock analysis and was getting quite involved in my secret endeavor, until the screen of my phone ceased reacting and the whole thing begun buzzing. It was an incoming call which was quite startling, both because I was engrossed with my stocks and because no one knew my number, or so I thought. It was of course an undisclosed caller. “Hello?” I answered hesitantly. “Tom my man, how are you?” I recognized the voice, it was of course Jim. But Tom Cook and Jim did not know each other, so I responded: “I am sorry, there must be some mistake, do I know you?” “Well maybe not. Please meet me in 15 minutes in the courtyard restaurant at the Hotel de Russi, I'll be there next to Julia, so please dress appropriately.” “OK, see you there”.

Jim, in Rome? Is this a coincidence? Has he been following me? Who the hell is Julia and what does he want me to wear? And where is this Hotel de Russi? I was thrilled about the meeting, as I could not bear another lonely night alone with no communications, nothing on television in English other than CNN and no one to talk to. Protocol did not allow Tom Cook to simply call the front desk

and ask them where Hotel de Russi is, so I started looking for it blindly on a tourist map I had. If I was to be able to get there in 15 minutes, it had to be in a reasonable radius from my hotel. There must have been at least 50 hotels within the 2-mile radius around my hotel so I started going through them methodically. Eventually, there it was, Hotel de Russi appeared down the street from the bottom of the Spanish steps. Not only did its name appear but it had an insignia to boot. Such a mark indicated it was a high class hotel not like the dump they put me up in. I dressed with a fresh shirt, light suit and tie, and walked to my destination.

The doorman who welcomed me was very formal with his top hat and gave off the impression that he was really there to serve, unlike anyone else in Rome. I asked him to direct me to the courtyard restaurant. When he responded in a Scottish accent, I understood where his service orientation came from, as it certainly could not have been local. Hotel de Russi is a nice hotel, very nice, and walking through the lobby I was smiling to myself wondering if Jim and I were both working from the same budget. Approaching the courtyard restaurant, I lifted my head to scan for Jim. The ambiance was taken straight from a Botticelli painting with soft colors, lots of greenery, vines creeping up the surrounding walls and there was even soft live music emanating from one of the corners. The spring weather made the courtyard restaurant a pleasant and therefore popular venue for an early dinner and served a very specific class of clientele, one which was dressed very elegantly and could afford an exorbitantly overpriced meal. The sun was in advanced stages of setting which gave the whole courtyard a wonderful shade of peach, but it also made my view of the tables, and the task of identify my host, more trying. At one of the further tables on the lower level, I saw not only Jim sipping wine but Jack was with him too. Even from the distance from which I was standing, it was obvious that Jack, who was still dressed in plastic from head to toe, was just a sidekick. Jim, in contrast, looked like he was wearing a Versace cut and fit seamlessly into the crowd. As was to be expected in their line of work, they were otherwise inconspicuous yet well positioned to take in anything that happened in the area, including my entrance. Seeing Jack there too was unexpected. However, what was far more unexpected was that at the table just before them, the one and only Julia Roberts, in person, was sipping an aperitif in a gorgeous fashion which seemed to come so exceptionally natural to her.

The hostess approached me and apologized that no tables were available. She asked if I wanted to wait in the lobby for one to free up. Only half hearing the hostess, I was enjoying the overall setting. Inspired by the fact that my evening had been transformed from complete seclusion to seemingly eventful, I got a mischievous bug. If these guys were into appearances, let me give them an experience, for once.

“No need” I told the hostess in a voice that was slightly louder than necessary, “I will be ing my friends here”

My volume was high enough to draw looks from the guests seated nearby but not so load as to be regarded as a nuisance. I started walking briskly towards my crew. Drawing closer to the table, I turned up the volume even louder, opened my arms theatrically, put on the Irish tint to my accent and exclaimed: “Jules! My darling, it's been years. You look great!” Ms. Roberts looked up at me puzzled. I stopped opposite her and said, again loudly: “Don’t tell me you don't recognize me. I haven't gotten that much older, have I?. Tom, Tom Cook, from the set of Notting Hill.” I just stood there with my arms open and by now, there was not a head in the courtyard not watching us. Ms. Julia Roberts gracefully stood up, gave a able smile and hugged me. “So great to see you. You do look marvelous.” I whispered in her ear. I looked at the two older men she was sitting with and said “I apologize; I did not mean to steal her from you but it is just so adorable to see her again. Jules, I do hope we get to do something again some time. I had such a great time on the Hill thanks to you. I apologize again, I did not mean to interrupt.” Julia smiled, wiped away the puzzled look and said “No, no, the pleasure is mine. I am happy to see you too.” I mean what more could she say? “I'll leave you people and my friends over here,” turning back to Julia I

parted saying “Maybe we'll get together some time. Great to have seen you. Bye. Guys, please do be nice to her, she is one of the most awesome people I have ever had the pleasure of working with. Have a good evening.” I said as I waved and moved on.

Jim and Jack were torn between shooting me and giving me a standing ovation. In their business, the last thing you do is make a scene. What I just did was exactly that, a scene. Jim leaned back and, in a manner more becoming of a Russian oligarch, made a semi gesture of recognition and wave towards Julia, summoned the waitress for another gazpacho and an extra wine glass for me. Once the courtyard was back to its pre-scene hum, Jim looked and me and said “I guess we have the answer we came here to find. You are ready. After the encounter at port control in Heathrow, we were afraid we fucked up with you but you bounced back nicely. You're our man.” I had no idea what Jack was there for but who cared. I was having a pleasant evening. Julia even came over to say goodbye as she exited. For me, it was my pupilage graduation event and only god knows why Julia kept up the charade.

Chapter 13: “Scorched Earth “

The trip back to England was uneventful, even going through port control. The only challenge was how not to tell Daphne I had hugged Julia Roberts the previous night while she was wiping runny noses. Guilt ridden at being well rested after two full nights of sleep, I entered the dorm, expecting a cold shower. Instead, the house was clean, orderly and the kids greeted me with a smiles and kisses instead of hitting me with various projectiles. The mystery was quickly solved. Daphne's parents were over. This was a rare occasion, as they rarely made it over to the house and even when they did, they made a point of ing I was not expected home while they were visiting. It was not that they had anything against me, on the contrary, they were pleased that neither I nor their daughter, to their knowledge, were raging drug addicts. Still, I could not avoid the feeling that they went out of their way not to interact with us or more specifically with me. Maybe in the back of their minds they may have regretted pushing Daphne towards me, possibly thinking that she could have probably done better for herself. That’s the way life works. First you look for any possibility to get out of a tight spot and then, once you’re out, the afterthought emerges that you could have done it much more effectively. After all, who lives in Brighton? Brighton is nothing but a holiday destination for people who are uncultured and don’t ski. They must have just not expected me home so early. Even if they were disappointed, they did not express it in any way but, to the contrary, they were very accommodating and pleasant towards me. Her father went as far as to step aside and have a drink with me, asking me if everything was OK at work, something he had never before done. Daphne was all smiles. Actually, too many smiles. Either her parents had been pressing her buttons or she was pissed at me. Her parents eventually left and the kids finally were asleep. I wanted to know how deep was the shit I was in, and handed her a box of Godiva chocolates with a puppy smile. She said nothing. But her eyes became watery so she did not have to say it. I melted on the spot. If she would have yelled, hit, screamed or slapped me, it would have hurt me far less than the way I felt seeing her this way. She sacrificed the world for me, at the least the world and the future she initially had in mind. She was one of the few people ever that believed in me and this was the position I put her in. I may have done nothing wrong but what difference did it make? It was what she thought that counted.

This was worse than any interrogation, examination, test trial or torture, and I was about to crumble. Think fast, this is a turning point.

The only solution I could think of was what a kid does when he is being bullied on by the neighborhood gang, call in your big brother to bully them back. “Daphne, don't you dare even think it! I will not even utter the words or try to make any lame excuses which you may or may not believe at this stage when you seem to be all worked up. This is what is going to be. This weekend you and I are going to London to have dinner with my new clients that I have been with during the past few days. If after meeting them, you tell me you are not comfortable with them in any way or if you have the slightest reservation as to my complete truthfulness then I will drop them, never again to be seen. You and this family are more important to me than anything including a new and very rich client. I promise with all my heart, never have I, nor will I be unfaithful to you. So please, please wash your face and prepare for Friday night dinner in London. I will make sure they will make it.” It worked.

Reservations were made for UFSB which was the hottest place in town. Jim was probably one of a handful of people in the entire world that could make a reservation at such a posh place at such short notice. We were met at the valet booth by Jim and a shining blonde half his age, who I had never seen before. A second Versace for Jim and a drape evening dress, at least one size too small, on the blonde who he introduced us to as Natasha. We were seated like royalty and most of the conversation was about the latest fad in eateries, of which UFSB was the new gold standard. UFSB, for those who don’t know, stood for Ultra Fast Susi Bar.

Unlike most upscale restaurants, the UFSB had bright lighting, clean white design reminiscent of an operating room, and was adorned with huge glass mounted photographs, clearly visible, placed on the walls which had various scenes and shades of the ocean. The novel trick introduced by the UFSB was

that it kept nothing in stock, nothing pre-prepared. As soon as one placed an order, they would set off a 16-minute timer for each plate and preparations for each dish, from scratch, began right then. Everything from retrieving the fish from the great big aquarium, which doubled as a semi- transparent wall to the kitchen, to the cooking of the rice, could be seen and observed. The selection of main dishes was inevitably not huge but the food was pretty much as fresh as it possibly could be. If the buzzer on the table went off before the order was served, each buzz credited each of the diners at the table with an ice cold shot of clean vodka, and the timer was reset for successive 5 minute stretches until the order was delivered. Without taking exact statistics, it seemed that UFSB met approximately 60% of the orders before the initial buzz. Logically, the bigger the party at the table, the more smashed the group got until the remainder of the order was eventually served. When rather complicated and obviously more expensive menu items were ordered, more shots were invariably delivered and subsequently ed from table to table as they became overly abundant for the initial party. Pleasantly, everything ends up turning into one big party with a lot of waiters in constant semi run semi sprinting mode, fish literally swimming for their lives, cooks and sous chefs chopping for their jobs and lots of buzzing and toasting from all corners of the place.

Just like Jim to choose the perfect place which was flashy and fun but left almost no opportunity for a cultured or even superficial conversation. Natasha was perfect for the occasion. She smiled a lot showing a perfect set of large white teeth, though too big for her mouth, which was perfectly fine since she barely said a word all evening. Daphne knew I could never be attracted by a voluptuous bleach blonde, obviously of Russian origin, so she had no concern or thought of competition. Jim ed himself off as a connoisseur of just about everything and was extra nice to Daphne. It was a fun evening and we were giddy by the time we left about two hours later. Fighting our way out against the queue of people trying to get in, Jim invited us to them at their apartment which was walking distance from the UFSB. I had no idea how far Jim thought of taking this half charade half social work event, or whatever he thought this was or could be, but, as we seemed to be ahead in the game, I decided not to test him. “I have a better idea, let's have some coffee at the café down the road, as I am not in a condition to drive all the way home without some.” So, we ordered coffee and Jim, sitting opposite Daphne, reached for her hand, in a fatherly sort of way,

looked her in the eyes and began his oration. “Daphne, it is an honor to finally meet you. As you know too well, your husband here is a person with outstanding qualities. A valuable professional. I am in a very delicate situation consolidating holdings from various locations into a tax efficient and manageable structure. All of which is being orchestrated by Simon here. At this point in time, I am in dire need of his assistance and his time. Furthermore, I have aggressive competitors and various tax authorities who would be more than happy to catch me off guard. To ensure that that never happens, I take drastic and, yes at times, excessive precautions. I hereby wish to request that you share your husband with me for the coming few months and please forgive any peculiarities which are all upon my request. From my side, I will ensure your financial security and as, I am a man of influence, I will use that influence to assist the welfare of your family in any way possible. Please take down Natasha's mobile number which is the best and probably only sure way to me directly.” He should have been in show business. Robert DeNiro would have a thing or two he could learn from Jim. Of course it worked and the only thing Daphne had to say before she fell fast asleep during our drive home was, “I will not ask you what business Jim is in but just tell me it is not illegal.” “Not illegal, but not completely legal either. Online gaming, offshore“ came out quite naturally.

It seemed that all the bases were, with the evening wrapped up, nicely covered. Things with Daphne were patched up perfectly, I had a week to put my two day jobs in check and I was formally anointed by Jack as a certified and trained pathological liar. Anything that came out of my mouth instantly became the complete and total truth for me and I even generated vivid memories to it.

The time had come to commence the main performance and the whole team assembled in full at the apartment to unveil the ever secret, much ballyhooed screenplay. Jim, John, Jack were present as was even Natasha, who I only just then learned was more than the standard bimbo even though still not a peep was heard from her. Maybe she was just too busy making sure those shiny, way too large whites stayed contained within her mouth. Jim started.

“Project Scorched Earth. Our target is a Saudi division of a company called Zain. Zain is a mobile services company with activities in the Middle East and Africa, which deals with all facets of mobile technology. In recent years, Zain has initiated activity in Saudi Arabia, the outcome of which, so they hope, is to obtain a license to become a full mobile network operator there. The activity in Saudi Arabia was started in the base station side of the industry. So far, they have over 5,000 base stations spread out all over Saudi Arabia, servicing the existing mobile operators and thereby making it the fastest growing network of base stations in the Saudi kingdom. From our perspective, we have no interest in Zain's activities elsewhere and we would prefer that they not obtain a full operator license in Saudi Arabia and rather, instead, just continue to provide services to the existing operators, STC and Mobily. Why are we interested in Zain and its base stations? Our interest in the base stations stems from the fact that through them we can ultimately control almost everything in the Kingdom and, indirectly, the Kingdom itself. The base stations are a pathway through which all mobile services allowing for everything from eavesdropping to controlling communications and even a form of direct control of various industries, including banking and gas and oil. This would all be possible by simply controlling the existing assets. What else can be done with these assets is almost limitless. Through the network of base stations, we can override any long distance communication control system. For all intents and purposes, as it relates to a disbursed country like Saudi Arabia, this type of control is almost as effective as conquering the country, just much cheaper and with less casualties.” Looking at the others in the room, either I was the only one there to whom this was new or they were simply more accustomed to strategizing and planning global conspiracy. They were as expressionless as would be had we been discussing the intellect of Prince Charles. Needless to say, a straight shooter such as I am, I had to speak up. “Jim, last time I looked, Saudi Arabia and the UK were allies. Well, at least that was the way it was last time I was in Saudi Arabia, a few years back. I don't know about you but they were nice enough to me.” “Simon, or shall I call you Tom, you must appreciate that we live in a dynamic world. You said yourself you are not the same person you were 12 years ago. People change, outlooks change and so do alliances. UK and the Kingdom were not only allies but strong allies. You can appreciate that without our technology, istration and arms, the Saudi oil and gas industry would not be what it is today. 9/11 changed all that. 9/11 was the manifestation of the strong

fundamentalist and extremist undercurrent sweeping throughout the Saudi Royal family. Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaida did not just appear out of a black hole. They evolved from a grassroots theological and cultural school opposing western society and promoting an apocalypse. Radical Sunna is what it is called. No more than one in a thousand people in Western civilization may have ever heard of the term and probably less than one in a million has ever even heard of the Salaffi movement. But, I guarantee you that it is a bigger threat to modern civilization than the cold war ever was. 9/11 was just the initial call to attention. Salafism is a religiously motivated movement stemming from the Sunni school of Islam that not only believes in the apocalypse, it has set itself a goal of setting it off. They are extremely violent and very well-funded by oil proceeds. They multiplying in number as they exert force to bring about the conversion of all heretics and non-believers to Sunni Islam. Trust me, within in a decade, there will not be an intelligent mind worldwide that is not aware of and possibly even participating in some form or other, on either side of the global Islamic Sunna revolution. It is a so far rather silent but very real war. The Foreign Office, due to their lack of understanding of radical Sunna, insisted that we in the UK were immune from this process and, for some reason, believed that Sunna resentment was directed solely towards America alone. There were some in the Foreign Office that were even cheering from the sidelines, looking forward to the move in and taking over the spoils when and wherever the Americans were to be formally rejected from the Middle East. But then came the 7/7 London Underground Bombings in July. The “US only” concept formally collapsed. The Sunni movement, personified by Al Qaida, demonstrated it was out to get us as well. When we are attacked, naturally, we attack right back, right. As you well know, the first step of retaliation is taking hold of strategic assets. That is what offensive intelligence is all about. The source of radical Sunna is in Saudi Arabia, both theologically, as Mecca as you may know is in Saudi Arabia, and financially, as they drill and distribute the cheapest to extract and most abundant source of oil. So long as Western society continues to consume, Saudi Arabia will get richer from their oil exports, exactly like a South American drug lord. And so long as Saudi Arabia gets richer, the more time and resources they will have to promote their radical Sunni agenda. This issue is now a high priority threat on a national and even global level. That is what this is all about and this is what you are now all about too. We Are going to lead the way towards defusing the time bombs scheduled to go off throughout the next decade. The threat is not exclusively against the UK, but neither was Nazi , only our problem. These base stations will be the bridge head for

the UK operations to infiltrate and undermine the Sunni revolutionaries in Saudi Arabia.” “That's the plan? So I, with my 6-week part time con man training, am simply going to walk up to them with a check and buy a strategic Saudi asset? Is that the best plan we can come up with?”

Jim gave me a laser sharp look and said very slowly and quietly, “Tom, please do not belittle or underestimate us. As things unravel, you will find that we are quite good at what we do and our success rate is higher than yours at either of your jobs. You will not be expected to lift a finger if you don’t believe you can pull it off. May I point out that you are sitting here of your own free will. Does that, in itself not prove a certain point?” “Point taken, but, and this time without the cynicism, how exactly do you expect to pull this off. This is big money. There is regulation with which to comply, they will perform due diligence on the purchaser and they will research the funds from which the asset is bought. Besides, what are we talking about here, hundreds of millions of pounds, maybe more. Sums like that make waves. You can't fudge sums like that. They jump out even in national budgets. It is probably not far from the price of a conventional military attack.” Jim cracked a smile. “The difference is, as opposed to a war, we are not going to pay for the base stations, someone else will! You are correct that there is regulation we would have difficulty overcoming and I have trouble budgeting for hotels and telephones so there is no way in the world I can just buy a communications company if I feel like it, no matter how important it may be. That is why we will have someone else do it for us.” “If someone else is going to do it for you voluntarily, someone who can regulation, and someone who can due diligence from the seller side, what do you need me for?” I seemed to have adopted a one track mind of getting the hell out of there. “Who said anything about voluntarily?” Jim said, again smiling. He was enjoying this. “We have what we believe is the perfect candidate and all you have to do is to convince this person to do it. Please note, there are two elements here, convince him to proceed with the purchase and convince him to provide you, Tom Cooke, with an element of control over the purchased company, post-acquisition. We will have to get him to appoint you as vice chairman or something of that sort of title

of the acquired company so that we can exert the necessary control we need of the network.” One of our phones, meticulously deposited in a metal box placed on the kitchen counter before we began our discussion, went off and, judging from the ring tone, it was Jim's. “Excuse me, I think I will have to take this one.”

Natasha looked at me the same way my second grade teacher did and said “It is perfectly legitimate in our business to raise any concerns, especially with as farfetched and bizarre as some plans may seem, but you do need to change your tone. Jim here is one of the best spymasters in modern times and he may not have patience to take shit from you for much longer.” Those teeth now seemed huge. Hadn't her parents ever heard of an orthodontist? No wonder she kept her mouth shut most of the time. I didn't appreciate what she had to say much either. But what could I say? That they sounded like amateurs, expecting the world to waltz to their tune? I also wondered if there was an international spymaster competition or league I could somehow follow from which to choose my favorite, but no one present would probably appreciate that either. “I sincerely hope that Jim lives up to his reputation for many years to come”. Feeble, but I was not going to roll over to this bleach haired shark. From the other room, there were short sentences. I could not make out anything specific, but Jim was very much into the “yes Sir,” “no Sir” mode of speech and it was somewhat slightly reassuring to know that this guy was able at least to someone. We toyed with the coffee and croissants until Jim returned the phone to the metal box in the kitchen and ed us in the makeshift meeting room in the apartment living room. Jim took a few moments to collect himself and said “Where were we? Yes, who is to be the purchaser. We have done quite a lot of work on this one and we have a match. His name is Jaheed Ellah, Chairman and part owner of Shrine Media Limited, a t venture between himself and the daughter of the notorious Rupert Murdoch. For those of us less familiar with Jaheed Ellah, aside from all his business positions and equity holdings in various media and communication companies, Ellah was appointed as a life peer and member of the House of Lords by none other than our Prime Minster, Tony Blair. No less important, our friend Jaheed Ellah, aside from being one of the few Muslim of the House of Lords, is quite unique in that he is openly gay and has used this unique combination many a time to achieve various business and political goals. He has an interesting background of electronic journalism, investment banking, media and communications.” “He must be very capable

this, Jaheed Ellah, and probably quite young. Openly gay Muslims are not known for their longevity.” I really was trying not to be an ass but it just slipped out. Sharky gave me a stare. Jack and John were less phased. I became curious as to the hierarchy between these guys. Of course Jim was a level above but between the rest of them it was not quite clear. Maybe Natasha's discomfort at my causality with Jim would indicate she is lower in the chain of command. Or maybe she and Jim were involved together and she was more than a prop at the UFSB dinner. I suppose there must be someone out there who must find bleached hair, big teeth and big boned women attractive.

“Indeed, our friend Lord Ellah is both capable and young. In fact, one of the youngest Lords ever to be appointed as a life peer. Being part of Tony's Cronies has its advantages.” Jack took over. “While you were having fun playing games in shopping centers with John here, I was spending a lot of time collecting information on our friend Lord Ellah, both that which is openly available to anyone, but more importantly uncovering unknown information on the man and his operations. Lord of Croydon and media prince are just his day jobs.” Jack pulled a short file from an unmarked manila envelope and placed the file, open to a large photograph, on the table. “For the lack of a better term, I think we can safely say that Ellah here is a mole.”

I flipped through the file, concentrating on the chart of Ellah's various holdings and positions, which really were very extensive, politically and commercially. “A 'mole' as in he was sent here as a kid to eventually turn into an operative etc.?” “Not quite. That's more of what is termed a sleeper. This guy was set up by a foreign source to infiltrate various nexuses of UK power and influence, including UK government. To our understanding, he has, in the past months, moved from penetration and supply of information, to assertion of influence and active service. He has a lot of money backing him. All of it from local banks here in London. Ellah is a hard worker, and, despite his age, has spent many years working in the financial sector, providing analysis and later financial management to the mega rich from the Gulf, which is probably where and when he was picked up. The big unknown from our side is who is behind him. It does not have the traces of a US or Russian operation. It is too big and too deep to be

European or Chinese. We may have the first ever Arab oriented operation against the UK. More of a concern is if this is not an operation by a sovereign country. What if this is an operation by an organization like Al Qaida or some other Sunni sister organization? It appears we know embarrassingly little about them.” “Again, I am the outsider here, but if there is no known operator, what's to say that this Muslim faggot is not simply a legitimately successful business meteor?” Jack responded this time,” Because Cinderella only happens in the fairytales. If the guy came from nowhere, is playing with big foreign money, is in close circles with Tony Blair and Rupert Murdock, is a Member of the House of Lords before he walks with a cane, something is too perfect. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it is a duck.” “Well there is also something else” added John. “Our guy Ellah came up with the concept of the “Talk of the Street,” which was a program designed to spread a broad net of amateur journalists in the poorer parts of British society and get supposedly authentic footage of the trends and currents of the real UK. By complete coincidence, every one of the of the July 7th underground bombers was a member of a mosque and every one of those mosques has a Talk of the Street reporter. None of the bombers were on the payroll directly but each of the reporters was allocated additional expenses in the three-month period prior to bombings, yet somehow, none of them ever delivered any footage of any relevance in the corresponding period. Sure, it may be coincidence or simply very poor journalism instincts but worth noting. The Talk of the Street project has also been close to other subversive activities and questions have been raised as to the fine line between documenting trends and creating them.”

“Another piece of the puzzle finally tips the scale. This guy Ellah is not simply open about his homosexuality, he parades it all over the place. It has become part of his calling card, part of his credo. For someone into men, he seems to get quite excited about women.” With that, he spread out a few pictures of Ellah in full thrust about to pound a slinky black babe while pinching both her nipples. Very much not gay material. “So if this guy is funding some terror cell, a mole, why aren’t MI5 all over him? Is this file from them?” “No” said Jack. “so give it to them!” It was Jim's turn. “Tom. That is not the way it works. We have a strategic role,

not a tactical one. I am not interested in the finger nor simply in the hand. I am after the head, the brain, the spinal cord. Ellah's bombing connection is not our business. MI5 has their job, we have ours. Our business is offensive intelligence. If we find an asset, we use it. If MI5 want Ellah, which, being a Lord, they probably don't, they can go get him. If we clash with them then we'll work it out then. In the meantime, Ellah is mine purely as a means to infiltrate the core of radical Sunna and I will use him to achieve my objectives, for my stuff.”

“Millionaires who are not really millionaires; gay people are not really homosexuals and intelligence services who don't jump the the bad guys. Welcome to the real world, Tom. If you think about it, he chose a perfect cover: He is openly gay so he supposedly is not susceptible to any personal leverage, he deals with media which is a perfect setting for money laundering, he can move endless sums from wherever he wants to wherever he wants without the need for any brick and mortar deliverables, he exerts power over the media so he can paint any picture he wants over any occurrence big or small, and because of his money and social milieu he has decision makers by the balls. He, or whoever are behind him, deserve some professional respect.”

“The thing is, I can get into this guy Jaheed Ellah's head. Scorched Earth is going to hinge around turning this guy upside down. Posing as a gay, I think he is much less religiously motivated and his political agenda does not seem to be a major priority. He likes the game, he likes business, he likes pulling the strings. He is not here for a particular outcome. He is here for the ride. Our leverage against this guy is not family, not money, just the game itself. He’ll try to play both ways until he learns, play with us you get a bigger part of the game, go against us and you are out; in the gutter into the daily grind of existence. For a guy like this, being tagged as a big fist conspirator and spending the rest of his life in a jail in that role would be far better than being cast to anonymity. That's the angle we will approach on this guy, play with us to be a player, cross us and you become a no one.”

“This is what is going to happen. I want to know everything about this Jaheed Ellah: where he sleeps, what he eats, every single call he makes, every email he sends, who he talks to, what business he is looking at, what troubles he has. Everything. Full psychological assessment. I am going to crack this guy. And quiet, no waves. We need to think of how we flip this guy, something smart. He needs to respect us more than he fears us. This guy is a challenge, put on your thinking caps.”

“I think we will call it a day here. We know where we are headed and what we all have to do. This is going to be a challenging and fulfilling job.”

Everyone was getting up and heading towards their phones when I said “actually, I don’t know what I am supposed to do. What do you want me to do with this now?” “You, nothing. Nothing at all. I just did this with you here as a courtesy, so you'll be part of the team and add any observations you may have. We will do all the preparations. You go home, be nice to your beautiful wife and forget everything you heard. These guys here know what to do and how I want it done. I want it done perfectly and by tomorrow. That’s what I want from you too.” “I think I can do that.”

It was difficult for me to take this all too seriously. Subversive of the House of Lords, MI5 being a bunch of dummies missing such an obvious breach of national security, that only these J people picked up on. It was new to me and I did not know how far a reach these guys had. W Subsection. Sounded and continues to sound like a joke to me. Regardless, these guys seem to be taking themselves very seriously and who was I to argue.

Chapter 14: “A Trip to Greece” The next three weeks were the best I had had in years. Simon Smith had a great life. Jim's guys left me alone, giving me plenty of time to tend to my two jobs. Spending more time at home, things with Daphne were great. Every now and then the gremlins would slip out of their roles and be more like other people’s kids. One of the fund deals made a really quick turn around and landed a nice 180% exit after 7 months. This got the investors all warm and fuzzy and I would have loved to see the faces of the old cronies at The London Pensions Fund Authority now. It was a pity I was not set up properly and couldn’t raise a second fund right there and then. By the way, the money was great too. Billington was actually handling my clients in my absence. The law firm was taking on more associates and we were taking more space. It was better than winning the lottery. Daphne decided to allocate a budget for interior decorating of our dormitory and she was even thinking about going back to work, which thankfully meant she had no plans to get pregnant yet again. I got a budget for an Aston Martin.

This is very close to the life some guy once fantasized about some 20 years ago sweating profusely under a helmet, bouncing up and down in the back of an APC. Back then, a house in Knightsbridge was more of what I had imagined but a dormitory in Brighton was not a bad tradeoff considering we had rather cute kids to show for ourselves.

Though I had put it out of my mind completely, when I got the call it was no surprise. “Simon hi. I hope everything is good. Could we meet on Thursday at 2:00 at the apartment? Could I ask that you keep the rest of the day free for us? Another thing, I hear you have a new car. Please park far enough from the apartment when you come. No need to draw attention. Great. See you then.” It was Natasha. They were always so polite about everything. I don’t think I could have turned them down even if I really wanted to. The scheduled meeting weighed on me. I knew that my honeymoon was soon to be over. It was apparently visible on me. Daphne picked up on it within half an hour of me being back home. “You OK hon? Bad day?” “Nothing serious. Just that guy Jim is back in town and he usually brings these extra special assignments especially

for me. He is a really nice guy but it is no news I’m losing interest in being a solicitor. I would be happy to trash the Office altogether and just do the fund. I’m hoping to get this guy Jim as an investor for the next round so I need to keep him happy and engaged.” “Hon, you do what you have to do. You've kept everything together nicely so far. Run with it. If the office takes off, ride with that. If the fund takes off, ride with that. If you ever get tired of both of them, we can switch. I'll take your positions and you take the lead role with the kids.” “Thank you very much. I'll take on a third job before I stay home with the gremlins every day!” “Stop that. I hate when you talk about them that way. They are my kids and you just happen to be their father. Or at least so I think.” It came with a cheeky smile. “Anyhow, I like my kids and I got you something you can thank them for.” She pulled out a gift wrapped box with a bow and called for all the gremlins to come and see. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean and it was not even my birthday so it was a true surprise. Probably something for my new car. The box was quite heavy but no moving parts. Peeling all the wrapping off, I found in the box a coffee mug with nothing but graffiti looking writing on it: “Not completely useless!” “How did you know, this is just what I wanted!” I hugged Daphne while all the gremlins took turns at taunting me. They were very good at it too. They took the worst from both of us.

Someone smart once said that “the sonofabitch who can stop time, was not yet born,” so 14:00 Thursday eventually arrived. The full team was there. That’s actually incorrect, this could not be the full team. The back office required for this stuff must have been huge. This was the team I knew. Sharky was there too, smiling with each and every one of her teeth. “All phones aside?” asked Jack. We all confirmed and Jim began. “Tom, I hope you had a pleasant break. While you were giving your kids rides in your new toy, we've been doing some more work on this guy Jaheed Ellah. Our initial assessment is still in place. He is indeed our guy and the way to flip him is through power. The power and the spotlight. Take them away he will wither. Give him more and he will thrive. We need to get to him directly, no middle men. Just him one on one. We need to get to him when he does not expect it. He thinks he is omnipotent. He thinks he is above the system so we can't come from within the system. This means arresting him on a bogus charge won't do it. He'll kick our ass in every way imaginable, professionally, personally and in the media. In addition, we can't meet him in his office nor will we be able to penetrate his overworked schedule.”

“We can beat the shit out of him in a public bathroom or something,” I offered. “That would be better than meeting him in his office but you already know that we never do anything illegal, at least not locally. Besides, he would only twist it around to some gay bashing thing, use it and leverage it to his benefit. Don't forget, it’s not just a question of getting him to work for us, we need to get him to fund the project from his own pocket. Even if we did use force or some form of leverage, it would only do half the trick. We know he will not help us from his own free will and certainly not if he knew where we were heading with this. That is why we are going to do something else.” I guess they all practiced being performers at one point or another because Jim paused just the perfect 2.3 seconds for maximum effect.

“We are going to go for something right at him, in a situation where he has no audience, no defense mechanism, nowhere to hide, when he is completely stranded. It is going to be a two stage play. We get to play both the stick and the carrot. If we go for the stick first, he may get caught up in rage and retaliation so we naturally will have to go initially with the carrot, undermine his power and omnipotence, then give him the stick. This is the plan. We isolate him on an international flight and we place Tom on the seat right next to him. We clear the business class from everyone else or make sure they are the only ones in first class, whatever works. We get Tom into close quarters with him in a way that he can't back down. We find out what challenges are on Ellah's mind and prepare an appropriate solution in advance. Tom, you shock him not only by being aware of his issues but by providing a viable solution, supposedly off the top of your head. Let him simmer and then you go in for the kill. Smack a picture of him and his sluts in front of him. By doing that, we will penetrate right into his head, get him so insecure that he has no idea who we are, what we are capable of doing or what we want from him. This simply demonstrates, very effectively, to him that he is vulnerable from multiple sides. Once he accepts the presented reality, we are 90% of the way towards getting him to do whatever we want. But that will come later. We need to rattle him, to show him we are a level above him and always a step ahead. Tom, the delivery is the key here. If you do this with a straight face he is yours.” Jim was expressive, heightened and contagiously electrifying. I never saw him this way. He was like a gambler while the ball is

spinning on the wheel. His charisma was persuasive and addictive. He gave us, or at least me, the feeling that this is perfectly doable.

“Jim, are you seriously going to try and blackmail a gay guy, threatening to expose that he is not gay? How whacked is that? Besides, even if we do that, how does that get us our base station?” I asked, killing the electricity in the room. “Just put aside rationality for one minute will you. We are talking about cracking people, getting in their head. Once you achieve that, they are like putty. You can do whatever you want with them.” Fuck! Isn't that exactly what he did to me!? “Jack, what is his flight schedule for the next two weeks?” “Looks like we may have a perfect opportunity, he has a conference in Singapore the week after next. He is a keynote speaker so he has to be there. He'll most probably be going there from Paris. He usually follows a certain pattern of flying to Singapore after a stop in Paris.” “Paris to Singapore is plenty of time for us to fry him.” Jim was smiling. He could see it happing. He was already writing the script. “Jim, how are we supposed to get Tom on his jet?” Natasha was being the killjoy now. “So, he has his own jet? OK, well you know how to take care of that. Standard, put out a recall on it or something. Put a reserve on the usual corporate charters for that date. Put a hold on private jets landing in Singapore for that date. What do I care? You know how to do it. Jack, did you find out what business issues are bothering him?” “Usual stuff. Annual reports, revenue, costs, new content. I am not aware of anything particularly troubling this guy. He is a happy camper. Doesn’t seem to be in conflict with anyone. One thing though, he is spending a lot of time on “Hooves” a private company he wants to float on the AIM.” “Alright, so, if he doesn't have a crisis then make one for him. Tom, you know this world, what would be very annoying to a guy like this for which he would

be very grateful if you were to solve it for him?” “If he is spending a lot of time on an IPO on the AIM, most of the interaction there is between the company and the NOMAD, the Nominee Advisor. He, or she, is the one who basically manages and takes responsibility for the whole process. If the Nomad starts raising all sorts of ing issues and threatens not to proceed, that would get Ellah's serious attention. The plan would be kick up dust with some bullshit ing issue. I come along, the whirlwind genius, scrape together a solution for him and wham bam he’s your happy camper again.”

“John, do we have people to work with in Paris and Singapore? More important, does Ellah have infrastructure in Singapore? If we get to him, we need to make sure that as soon as Ellah is off the plane he doesn't get Tom here pulled out of commission.” “I'll make sure of it but it doesn't look like he has any pull there, while we, on the other hand, are very well connected. The airport in Singapore is totally ours and so is the one in Paris, to a slightly lesser degree of course. There is always the French factor.” “Good. We have our plan. However much you are on to this guy Ellah, double it during the next week. Everything that happens with him, in a two-page report, to me every afternoon. Logistics, prepare to kill his plane 4 days in advance. Make sure we control business and first class of the relevant flights from Paris to Singapore during the two days leading to his key note address. John, sit with Tom and see what he needs to stick a pin in the IPO, one that can be relieved with a brainwave. I want a full script of the dialog. Plus, I don't want stills. I want footage of this guy's humping of the opposite sex. The hotter the better. We do not have long. It is 10 days off and as usual we need to cover every angle. No surprises. I want to nail this project. I need to nail this project and fucking with this guy Jaheed Ellah's head is the key.” He added with a smile, “The pun was intended”. “So once I kill the IPO, I have another week off?” “No way” John protested. "Close off three half days next week, two whole days

before the D day and two if not three days for the meet as well”. He was not joking. Back to time pressure mode. Office, Fund, Home. Home, Fund, Office. Home, Apartment, Fund. Office, Fund. Apartment. Apartment Home. Home Apartment. The Aston Martin was no fun anymore. Hours were spent reprogramming back into Thomas Cook, his life experiences, addresses, telephone numbers, family addresses, beers, Irish accent, hobbies, parking spot, consultancy jobs, bank s, mobile phone numbers, friends, countries visited. The pressure was getting to me.

“Listen, I know it is a lot to go through, I have seen it before. You may find it easier if you sleep here tonight and just stay Tom Cook.” John suggested. “Going back and forth can drive you crazy.” I seriously considered it but the thought of a collision with Daphne at this sensitive time was worse than my stress.

Then came the day before D day. Jim, who I had not seen all week, since the last team meeting, was to us for a final sign off. Thick Turkish coffee was already settling on the table when we walked in. “OK, where are we?” asked Jim. Sharkey was uncharacteristically talkative. “I Just got an update. Ellah's plane is grounded. He was reserved for the Singapore Air flight from Paris to Singapore but he just changed his reservation to a first class ticket to Athens on Air . We ordered all of the First Class tickets on the flight so we are still OK but flight time is cut down to a third of schedule. Take off, landing, meals and other plane shit only leaves us with maybe an hour of private time.” Jim was concerned. “Time we can deal with. I want to know why the change of plan and I want to confirm we control Athens airport. Let's assume everything is on track here.

Tom, as we spoke, it is all on you. We can arrange the background and scenery as best we can but you are in there with him alone and you have only one shot. You don’t have time for niceties or any small talk banter. You have to be steel

cold and move through your progressions like clockwork. Even assuming you get all the points across, it will not do the trick unless the delivery is perfect as well. You have to convince this guy that you are one step ahead of him all of the way and that you have him by the balls. Factor in another thing: take into that it could get physical. A guy like that, exposed and in a corner, can react in a panic. If that happens, I trust your combat experience but no blood. If he comes at you, I want him with a black eye, but nothing more, nothing else. Are we all clear?”

“All clear aside from one thing. What is the punch line? Assuming I get right to him, he is convinced he is dealing with someone more powerful than himself, he sees the material and is at my knees. What then?” “If you reach that point, you have completed your mission perfectly. Then all you do is tell him this was all because you wanted to get his attention and that you will be in touch to schedule lunch with him. By the way, a technique you may want to consider, if you feel the timing is right, don't tell him your name. It is a stupid thing but it can drive people crazy especially a control freak. One last thing Tom, no alcohol.”

We spent the rest of the day trouble shooting, considering almost every foreseeable possibility and determining the best reaction, including a crash landing or my being detained. The following day, I was off to Paris through the Euro tunnel. The team determined it was best this way. I told Daphne I was travelling with Jim so I had no real way to know where I would be, if or when I could call, or when exactly I would be back. I made sure she had Natasha's number if there is anything urgent. I was finally able to see beyond her teeth and broad shoulders and appreciate her focus and efficiency. Daphne was in good hands should she need anything while I was to be unavailable.

Simon Smith, and all his traces, were folded away and handed to John who was responsible for my cover and the severing of any connection between Simon Smith and Tom Cook. port, wallet, business cards, mobile phone, notebook all reflected a different life and, like a hermit crab, I moved into a new shell, completely discarding my old one.

Back to the dead time. Hours of travel, no emails, no business, no mental notes for tomorrow’s meetings, no business plans to review, no structuring of deals and no tax avoidance advice. I was too tense thinking about my mission and the flight tomorrow to sleep. The only thing left was to play with my imaginary stock portfolio from Tom's last trip. Not bad. I may be on to a new occupation, 4% up after 3 months. Beat the S&P and even the Oracle from Omaha. Sold, bought researched and tweaked. Dead time again. This thing better be successful since the J's and I have spent so much time, effort and even money in this that I better be able to deliver something for it. On the other hand, I will be there alone. They will never know what happened even if I do screw up. I can always disappear off the face of the earth if I screw up so badly that I wouldn’t be able to show my face again to these people. But then I would lose Daphne and the kids. That would be too much of a punishment, even if I did screw up in a nuclear way. Oh Daphne, I missed her already. On a busy work day, I can go through a whole day without her crossing my mind between phone tag plays. Now, given more than 10 minutes of down time and I could not get her out of my mind. But I am now Tom Cook and I needed to start acting like it. None of this soft mushy stuff.

port control was a breeze. Either I was now already a professional or the French scarecrow uniform is less intimidating than the Italian. Gare Du Nord, then directly to Charles deGaulle airport. I got my First Class ticket, checked in and proceeded straight to the gate. I avoided the lounge where I would have run the chance of bumping into my target prematurely. I boarded the plane as soon as possible and was actually the first one on board. In retrospect, this was a mistake because the crew made such a fuss over me, when all I wanted was to be left alone. Thank god it was an Airbus A330-200, just as planned. First class was just 2 seats, separate units at the hull, not too far from each other. First class was

segregated from the rest of the plane with a thick curtain, snap shut on either side of the isles.

My heart was racing while settling in. I hung up my jacket, rolled up my sleeves to below my elbow so as to appear as casual as possible. Scrunched up a Wall Street Journal to make it look used. I took off my shoes, to look homely, but quickly put them back on. It just did not fit and did not feel natural. I was and I looked too nervous. This is not going to work. I needed alcohol. When the stewardess asked me for the 43rd time what she could get me, I asked for a gin and tonic. This was against a direct order but I felt I was justified to override it, especially because obeying the order was to risk the whole thing. I couldn't sit. When the stewardess brought me the gin and tonic, I figured the only way for me not to burn a hole through the floor was to keep busy. I stood and struck up a conversation with the stewardess. It was a win win. I needed her to calm my nerves and she preferred engaging in a brainless discussion with me rather than do the very busy nothings that stewardesses do while engers are boarding. It was an intriguing conversation about how many times a week do you do this line and where do you stay in Athens. At least she was not unattractive. Plus, I got to practice my Irish accent. One swig of the gin set me straight as it immediately got absorbed exactly in the heart, where I needed it. Midway through my 'calm my nerves get in the game discussion', the curtain snaps were pulled open and in came a surprisingly short, well-dressed man, who looked more Pakistani than anything else. Without the suit and the determined look, he could have been nodding his head and serving curry and rice for lunch on a corner store.

We must both have been staring at him as he looked at us and said, “I hope I am not interrupting anything. Don't mind me, I'm only sitting here.” Armed with the knowledge that you never get a second chance to make a good first impression, I needed an appropriately strong comeback, fast, so he wouldn’t have control over the situation. “We don’t mind at all, please do sit.” Reading from her name tag and smiling at her, I said “Fiona and I were just catching up on old times.” We ignored him and giggled. Feeling uncomfortable about taking a one up on a First

Class enger, my new stewardess friend excused herself and left me standing at the hull, with my shirt sleeves rolled up and sipping my gin. It gave off a rather cool and collected impression. I maintained my pose playing with my drink and then did my first true assessment of my target. He was not the happy camper Jack had described to me. He looked more like a gambler who had just lost his fifth hand in a row. He seemed very self-involved, concerned over something and generally unpleased.

Oh, my poor little Muslim faggot whose private jet toy was snatched from him, I feel so sorry for what you are going through. Confidence was taking over big time. Assuming the extraverted Irish good nature, I went for a jab. “Hey, don't I know you? Aren’t you Ellah something, friends with Murdoch's daughter?” He gave me a half look, obviously annoyed. I could read his mind. He must have had to kiss ass, quite literally, to dozens of people to get to the House of Lords, only to be known as “friend of the daughter of his competitor”. He decided to let it , seeing as I was obviously just an Irish jerk. “That would be Lord Ellah of Croydon to you.” “Seriously? Lord Ellah of Croydon? I thought Lords were really old guys. Aren’t you a little young for that? How did you manage that? Your dad buy you an estate or something?”

He did not respond, though his overall pissed attitude was clearly increasingly aggravated. The plane was getting ready for takeoff and even I was asked to be seated. As the plane started its acceleration on the runway, I looked over and said, “Just looked it up on the internet, you are a Lord. And Gay. Good job old boy. I am all for you people. Nothing wrong with you people, nothing at all. Speak up for yourselves and all that, very good job. Say, can I offer you a drink? with all this Lord stuff, maybe I owe you one?” He took this as a peace offering and let down his guard. “No, its fine, no harm done. I need to work a bit before I have a drink.”

“Oh whatcha working on then. It wouldn't be that offering on the AIM would it? Hooves or something or other, would it?” “As a matter of fact yes. How would you know about it?” “Well, I keep my eyes and ears open so I know a little about what's happening, especially in City. At least stuff from the City is in English so I am not completely reliant on guesswork.” I figured this would be a good opportunity for some quiet time before his nose started sniffing me out. I didn’t want him to get to the clam up stage just yet. I closed my eyes and pretended to rest. The buzzing began and, with it, the stewardesses resumed fussing around us. I ordered my meal and a nice wine and listened as Jaheed did the same. Time to rattle him again. I turned to him and started, “How does it work with you guys, it’s OK to be gay? And what about the wine and the pork, I thought you people weren’t supposed to do all that?” “And you people are notoriously thick. How do you fit in to that categorization??” “Ahh, well, there is an important difference between the two. The Irish never claimed to be thick, that description is only the way others refer to them, in a condescending manner. Whereas Muslims, such as yourself, in contrast, are the ones who came out with all these holier than though self-imposed restrictions.” The who is more obnoxious game was well played by both parties so far, but it seemed he was losing patience with me. I had to let it go. There was a lot fussing happening anyhow with the wine and meal and coffee and chocolates. This was my first time in First Class and I was thinking what a pain in the ass it is. Why would someone want to pay double the price for a flight just to play Twenty Questions with the stewardesses for a few hours.

She finally snapped the curtain shut. I returned to mission objectives and reassessed. He was leafing through a stack of documents. This was my opportunity to go for the first direct blow. “I would imagine you’re probably trying to get a handle on that depreciation thing.” Yes, that landed well. Very

well. He looked up slowly. During our prior discourse, he barley glanced in my direction. “It is a bugger. I've been there before myself.” He was still looking at me, puzzled. “What depreciation thing?” “IAS 38. When I submitted financials for a client on a movie production I once oversaw, the set we used required unique equipment which was exceptionally costly. I played with the depreciation to our advantage. The tax authorities didn't like that and took an approach that would have completely screwed up our free cash flow. Would have killed our entire project financing.” “Yes, I am familiar with the issue. But how do you know about it? Have you been looking at my stuff? Who the hell are you anyhow?” It would seem that Jim really knew his stuff. This guy definitely had an attitude, making it quite obvious that there was no way a working relationship of any kind could have been worked out. He had to be humbled into submission. “Me? I’m just a consultant. I told you I know Murdoch. Anyhow, it’s not exactly a secret that your Nomad is giving you a hard time and wants you to make reservations on your financials because of some depreciation nonsense. The financial community is sitting this one out to see if you will cave in or if you trash your Nomad, risking your IPO.” “How do you know so much about this? No one knows about it. This is an internal issue. Where are you getting your information from? I don’t know who you are but you will be well advised to mind your own god dammed business and keep out of my affairs.” “Easy there Ella, you should calm down a bit you know. Your attitude is not conducive to good business or good health. All I am doing is offering a helping hand. No need to bite it.”

It is simply wonderful to have a captive audience. Under any other circumstances, he would have had me thrown out or hidden behind something or possibly under it. He was now simmering in his frustration with no cover from

my presence. My next move will need to be very subtle or he would likely blow. I toyed with the newspaper, keeping a constant eye on my buddy Ellah through the reflection off the face of my watch. I maintained a nonchalant pose and noticed him glance in my direction from time to time. He was still obviously annoyed.

I laid down the paper peacefully and looked at him. I wanted to give him the 3 second look but he wasn't facing me. I turned down my tone considerably and leaned over closer to him “Listen mate, in all honesty, I don't mean to bug you. Let me just tell you what I did. If you like the idea, it’s free of charge. If you don't like it, you lose nothing. Fair?? What I did was a tax exempt reorganization: I spun out both the production equipment and the financing of the equipment into two separate subsidiaries. I backed in both the financing of the equipment and the payment for the services to fit the cash flow I needed to achieve. Once the tax authorities saw they would not be able to challenge the structure for future years, they had no choice but to drop their claim against us for the current year. There was no point anymore. We would fight them forever in court and for a single year there simply wasn’t enough incentive left in it for them. As anticipated, they simply gave up. You can handle your Nomad in the exact same way. Show the structure and tell them how it will play out. The Nomad will drop his demand for a reservation, as he will not want to screw you over if he knows you have no real exposure down the line, especially with you being a Lord and all. Anyhow, suit yourself. By the way, the reorganization itself is also tax exempt.” He was listening intently, though he did not react one way or another. My guess is that he liked the idea but was very suspicious of me. I also suspect his pride would not let him it that some strange Irishman came up with a solution to an issue that had been stumping him.

We were some two hours into the three-hour flight. Discounting 20 minutes for landing and preparation, that left me half an hour or so for my final punch. I fought my instinct to order another gin and tonic. I got my stuff together, asked for my jacket and flipped through my newspaper, again. Ellah remained

perplexed. How do you react to a complete stranger reaching right into your life? He went to the bathroom, came back and still not a word from him, not even a gesture. OK, Mr. Muslim Gay Lord or whatever, time for some real fun. I pulled out my laptop, which was placed in a carefully selected sleeve of my carrying case. It was a brand new, nice big Sony Viao laptop with a huge screen. I opened it with the help of an anti-static wipe cloth, which doubled as a guard against any finger prints. I booted it up, always using the anti-static cloth. As the machine hummed, beeped and flashed its little lights, I was busy memorizing the entry code and the location of the file I needed. It was carefully hidden away in the inner bowels of the machine, far away from any unsupervised review. Finally, after an eternity, I got to the alt-ctrl-delete screen. My friend Ellah had calmed down, so much so that now he appeared as if he might doze off. Like those American boy scouts, I had come prepared having taken this eventuality into consideration and had a Metalica disc ed to my drive so that I could jump start my neighbor at the press of a button, if necessary. He wasn’t out just yet. I dug deeper and deeper into the computer until I found the necessary file. Clicked it and up came the player. The laptop proudly reported to me that it was Buffering….. What the hell is buffering anyhow??

Suddenly, there was my target file prominently displayed on my screen. It was an image, a large image, of a bright bedroom with a round king (or Lord) sized bed in the middle, all draped in satin pale blue sheets. Six or seven down pillows were thrown around the circumference of the bed. In the middle of the bed, on the down duvet, was a slim black lady, whose dark shade was emphasized against the pale blue color code of her surroundings. She was, of course naked, displaying a perfectly flat stomach and unnaturally firm breasts. She seemed to be enjoying the softness and luxury of the linen, slithering her back against the duvet. Her hair was long and surprisingly straight for a black lady. The camera was mounted somewhere high on the wall of the room, at an angle catching the bed and some of the surroundings, but not the full room, nor the entrance. I put the volume down until I could get to the optimal point in the video. The movie clip started rolling as the star motioned with her finger in a direction outside the frame. Into the scene entered our neighborhood homosexual, Jaheed Ellah in his birthday suit. I tried to flick the movie clip to later in the scene but the drag pad didn't react well to the anti-static cloth. I was tense and maybe not a hundred percent by regulation, but I just did it with my finger and wiped the sensor board

clean afterwards. I started turning up the volume slowly, so the other first classer could hear, but not the rest of the 325 people on the flight. I slowed the player down to normal speed right at the part where Ellah is hovering over his prey, tracing her body with his lips, appreciating every part of her as he moves from her legs up to her nipples. Not what I would think is traditionally considered gay material. She was moaning, in exaggerated tones, which was perfect for me, as by now, it was all about getting his attention.

It didn’t take very long and he was looking up at me. “Excuse me,” he blurted in what sounded more as a command than a request. This time I was the one who disregarded the intrusion. The performances rolled on and on and by now, the lead actress had flipped herself over on top of her co-star and was placing him inside her, quite softly, at first. She was huffing and puffing. He was speeding up and she in turn started riding him with rhythm. “Is that what I think it is? That's disgusting. Will you shut that off, I am trying to concentrate here.” He was very abrupt clearly perturbed and obviously still oblivious to what was really being played. I, naturally, ignored him and pretended to be very entertained, engrossed in my disgusting habit. On the screen, he now rolled over on top of her, getting very close to the edge of the round bed. She dug her nails deep down along his back until she reached his buttocks. She then at once pushed her middle finger down hard, penetrating deep up his ass. Now it was his turn to groan loudly as he in parallel pushed deep inside her.

“Well, at least that might be considered a little gay. Isn't it?” I asked out load sarcastically, still focused on the screen. By now he was catching on. I got up slowly, draped my suit jacket over my arm and left the First Class section, leaving the laptop open on my chair tray with the film running. He was looking at me, clueless as to what I was doing. As I ed him, I looked him in the eye and said: “Gee, that must have hurt with the nail and all. No? afterwards?” As I turned to close the snaps of the curtain behind, I saw Ellah walk towards the lap top. He bent down to the screen, both of his hands went up to his

head as recognition struck, while his dark Asian skin turned to a deep fire engine red. I smiled as I ed Fiona. She was on her way to the speaker phone on the wall and began reading her cue cards, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our final decent towards Athens and the captain has…”

I was eating myself up in curiosity as to what was happening on the other side of the curtain. One didn’t need an expansive imagination to venture a guess. Over the noise of the engine and Fiona's important message, I could hear the new Viao being slammed shut, accompanied by a succulent “That son of a bitch.” I walked all the way to the back of the economy class where there was an empty seat waiting for me and where I was to remain for the final stages of the flight. Sitting down, I took inventory of all my stuff, to make sure that everything was with me other than the laptop, the computer carry case and my boarding stub. I left all of that in my other seat.

Mission accomplished. Jim was quite the magician. A maestro for cracking minds of total strangers and I made a mental note of this ability for future reference. There may be more than one way to skin a cat but there was only one way to really piss off a homosexual Muslim Lord! And Jim had found it.

Chapter 15: “The Heat is On”

As a First Class enger, Ellah was ushered out of the plane the second the plane doors were opened. With some 40 rows of everyone else and maybe 200 Greeks scrambling to get hold of their belongings from the overhead bins blocking any sightlines between us, there was no chance he saw me ducking at the end of the plane, even though I am sure he was searching for me. Sitting at the very back end of economy, it was 20 minutes later when I finally deplaned. I put on my anti CCTV golf cap, that I had folded nicely into my jacket pocket, and I headed to the first public bathroom I could find. Obviously, I would be going in the opposite direction from the airport exit sign. I stayed on high alert with my eyes ever darting and reviewing to ensure Ellah was nowhere to be found waiting for me.

My plan was to stay put in the bathroom for a good 20 minutes, long enough for even a spooked midget limp wristed Allah bowing miniature English Lord to have given up waiting and, as such, I would then be free to move about the terminal freely. To my utter disgust, this supposedly European country did not have toilet seats in the bathroom stalls. Instead, they had these golf holes and outlines of shoes in which one had to stand to ensure getting a hole in one. This may have been great to go with my golfing cap, but was otherwise revolting. It stank to high hell. How do I find myself being relegated time and time again back to my army days? I was just in First Class an hour ago and this is where I had to kill 20 minutes? At least there is no chance of meeting Ellah in there. Reevaluating my plan, considering the odor factor, I determined that 10 minutes was more than enough waiting time, more time than I could stand in any case. I reentered the foot traffic flow in the terminal and headed to the transfer desks. I bought a one-way economy ticket back to Paris, in cash. As I was taught in Monopoly, I did not go through port control, did not GO, and did not collect 200.

Waiting for boarding, without a real email to occupy me, I engaged in the time old sport of people watching. That’s when I noticed a stunning young lady sitting, similar to myself, next to the gate for the Paris bound flight. Her hair was black, straight and long, cropped tightly in a rather high mounted ponytail. She was very slim, youthful, with a very athletic body. To top off the look, she was wearing tight weathered jeans, brown boots and a cream knitted top, with a deep drop at the back, exposing a large part of a beautifully tanned and unblemished back. Stunning was actually an understatement. Magnetic was more accurate, as I could not take my eyes off her. Not that I had much of anything else to do, so I just stared at her like a hormone charged teenager. To add to her beautiful appearance, she carried herself with an agile energetic type of movement, which I suspected migrated into her character as well as to her overall appearance. The mind began playing its tricks. Conscience lashed out its wrath. She is just a kid in her early 20's, how can you stare at her like a dirty old man? You are pathetic and disgusting. Besides, you are a happily married man. Go do a crossword puzzle. Even if it is in Greek. Rationalization then had its turn. It is always a wonder listening to this guy. He had a god gift of words and thoughts and could twist anything and everything. Underscore the everything. The married guy is Simon Smith. This here is Tom Cook. Let me remind you that Tom Cook is a successful consultant, happily divorced. Don’t believe me?? Look at the port in your pocket. Being attracted to this panther here, is the most natural thing in the world. Moreover, if Tom Cook were not to make a move on her, that would be completely out of character of him and he would be jeopardizing the character of the cover. That is why we have to make a move on her. That was a very convincing argument if I had ever heard one. I had not done this in years but John's training made this much easier for me, even easier than 20 years ago when I was in the game. I walked towards the panther and sat right next to her, even though there were two empty seats on each side of her. She looked at me and I said nothing. Then gave her the 3-second-deep look. In the movies, we would be all over each other, then and there. But this was not a movie.

Over coffee I learned that she was an unattached graphic designer from Paris. We miraculously found ourselves sitting next to each other on the flight to Paris. To top things off, her name was Celia, a name I always adored, and her French accented English was as beautiful as her mostly exposed back. I excused myself

and went to the men's room at the back of the plane. Along the obstacle course of shoes, newspapers and miscellaneous body parts scattered along the aisle, I noticed a familiar plastic shoe. Connected to it was none other than John the Mentor himself. I was unsure how to react. What was he doing here? I thought it best to ignore him and continued to the lavatory. He followed me and we waited in line together. “In First Class the line is shorter isn't it” he asked. “It sure is. Which is exactly why I can't understand why it is that I am here” I replied. “I see you are getting along perfectly well where you are.” “I am indeed. Isn't she stunning? What the hell are you doing here?” “Did you really think we would send you off alone without covering your back? How did it go?” “Perfectly, according to script.” “She is stunning, just don’t get too attached.” “Listen, you and I need to get together some time and go shopping. You'll get nowhere with these viscos threads.” “We'll get together some time. Go, your turn.”

To my grave disappointment, the flight was over. What a downer. I took her card though and promised to look her up every time a client of mine needs a logo in Paris. From the airport to the Eurotunnel, London, Brighton, the apartment, debrief, switch back to Simon Smith and finally, a bed. Or so I thought. At home, I was surprised to find “gifts” waiting for me. A huge bouquet of flowers and a box, the size of the microwave, of assorted chocolates were front and center when I walked in. A large adorned note said: “Thanks for everything, so far. Love Jim”.

The Gremlins polished off the box nicely, like a pack of termites. Daphne was happy with the flowers. Everyone was happy.

****************************

At that exact moment, I knew of at least one person who was most definitely not all that happy. Everyone else, worldwide, may have been at some level of elation, including myself by the way, but I was pretty sure my guy was sweating. Far away, and probably still stuck in that supposedly European country, which for all intents and purposes has not been referred to in any positive light since the days of its mythology, Lord Ellah was fuming on the phone.

“Get me Hunt on the line. Now.” He had checked into the Athens Hilton at the airport where he was scheduled to execute a media distribution contract with an Adriatic channel something or other before continuing to collect Honors and deliver his speech in Singapore.

“Hunt here.” “Hunt, get here right now.” “And where would that be M'Lord.” Hunt spoke slowly in a deep and hoarse voice with just a hint of cynicism, making the point of demonstrating to the boss that he was in no way intimidated by him. “Athens.” “I can probably get there by tomorrow.” “That's not good enough, tomorrow I will be on my way to Singapore.” “Shall I meet you there directly M'Lord?” “No, that will only be in two days and I need you to move now.”

“M'Lord, if I can understand what this is about, maybe I can begin before then.” His pronunciation was the same as if he were talking to a child. “I am being blackmailed!” “By who?” “If I knew that, I would not need you, would I?” “OK, what are they asking for M'Lord?” “I don't know!” “M'Lord, I must be missing something. Maybe we can start at the beginning?” “Some guy sat next to me on the flight from Paris. He knew exactly what business was, what I was working on and on top of all that he left me some obviously fabricated sex movie in which I, supposedly, appear.” “How could someone get on to our corporate jet without our knowledge?” “It was not our corporate jet, Hunt.” “So you were on a commercial flight and someone approached you on the flight?” “Yes. Well, technically no. I was in First Class and this guy was already sitting there when I arrived. It was only the two of us in First Class.”

Ellah was beginning to understand what his ranting must sound like on the other side of the line. No wonder Hunt was talking to him like he was an idiot. That demanded a pause and the act of regaining composure and perspective of their roles in life. Lord Ellah started once again. “Listen, someone is screwing with me, big time. It sounds ludicrous and maybe farfetched but it is what happened. Our jet had something wrong with it so I had to take a commercial flight. I bought a First Class ticket from Paris to Athens and a connection flight on to Singapore.” “I'll get the flight details of who ordered your flights and how, from here, Sir.”

“There was one other person already in the First class when I got there. He was familiar with the stewardesses. He did not introduce himself, just said he recognized me from something to do with Murdoch. I think he googled me before we took off, or at least that is what he told me. Thinking back, that had to be part of the act. During the flight, he somehow came up with a solution to an issue I am having with the Hooves IPO, an issue no one was supposed to be aware of besides our team and the Nomad. He said that he had encountered the same problem as a consultant and had, what seems to be, a decent solution to the problem. It did seem odd that he knew the issues so well but, when I questioned him about it, he brushed me off. Then as the flight was nearly over, we were starting our descent, he pulled out a laptop and started playing a blue movie.” “Blue sir?” “You know, porn. He made some reference to or insinuation that it was supposedly me caught in the act in his video.” “What did you respond to that, M’Lord?” “I never got the chance. He put the damn thing down, still blaring his filth, strolled out of First Class and never came back.” “Where did he go?” “No idea. I couldn’t find him after the flight. Maybe he had something to do with the crew. I don’t know. It was an Air flight. He forgot his boarding though. His name is Thomas Cook, he spoke English and made a strong attempt to hide his Irish accent.” “Do you have the boarding ?” “Yes, and I took the laptop he left as well.” “M'Lord may I suggest that I handle this from here. Please take the laptop, wrap it in a towel with as few prints as possible and have the hotel courier it and the boarding to me. Any chance you have a picture of him?” “No. I guess that would have been helpful but he was gone by the time I would have thought of or wanted to take his picture.”

“And he made no demands?” “None, he disappeared.” “OK, be sure to get me the laptop ASAP. Maybe there is something planted in there. Did he slip you anything maybe? Did you check your pockets? carry on, phone etc?” “I did not think of that. I'll trash everything I had with me. I have no idea what the son of a bitch could have done when I was in the bathroom. How exactly am I going to send you the laptop with that filth on it?” “Just have them FedEx it for you?” “No Hunt. Not an option. That movie, video whatever it is. I can't have anything with that on it floating around. It’s a fake and a good one or so it would seem. It would be devastating if it got into the wrong hands. I don’t think my enemies would care to check the authenticity. They would run with it to ruin me.” “Sir, we need the film. We need to see if we can trace anything from it. Where it was made, when, how. These electronic things all leave traces. There could be hard leads.” “Hunt, if I put that thing in a FedEx pack, it is dynamite.” “M'Lord, you have trusted me with delicate items before. I will personally collect it at the Heathrow FedEx depot and will not let it out of my sight.” “Hunt, if I ever find out that it was copied, by you or anyone else, your life will be miserable until it ends and you will pray for that ending.” “M'Lord, I give you my word. Besides, as you may have noted, that threat is wasted on me, my life is already miserable.” “Not as much as it could be." “Are there any physical characteristics you can recall about this guy?” “Middle aged, Caucasian, just a normal guy. I didn’t really focus on him. Why would I? Something strange in the eyes maybe. I don’t know. Just a normal guy, reasonably dressed. As I said, spoke English well and I think was trying to conceal a trace of an Irish accent.” “M'Lord, let me start with Air , border security in Paris and see where I get to, at least until I get the FedEx. In the meantime, anything else you

, big or small, please let me know. One last thing sir, shall we involve Scotland Yard? You are a public figure and all. It will make things much easier if I can use their resources. But that would naturally mean that I would have to share the film with them.” “Absolutely Not! No way in the world, do you understand me! This film never existed. No one besides you and me know about it. And this shithead Cook, we will have to erase the film and HIM! No Scotland Yard. Go catch the son of a bitch.” “One last thing M'Lord. If there were no demands, he may and probably will try to approach you again. Assuming it is a blackmail situation, there will be demands. Maybe by phone, email somehow. When he does, try to extract as much information as possible. Keep him talking, take a picture, record, anything you can get can help. If you are OK with it, I would advise against a personal security detail just until he makes his next . We should enable easy access and . That might catch him off-guard, perhaps cause a slip and allow us to attain information he did not intend. Besides, this won’t be resolved until he makes his next move” “Understood.” “M'Lord, I am on to it.”

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For the first time, the Simon Smith scales tilted in favor of Tom Cook. Home was fine as was the fund. The office was as good as could be expected, as a standard cash cow, but otherwise completely uninteresting. My recent adventures introduced new levels of challenge and adrenalin Simon Smith was not accustomed to in the past or at least not in a long while, pre-gremlins, preDaphne. Tom Cook, in contrast, was exciting, new, refreshing, had a French panther waiting for him and, in all honesty, being outright mean was fun. Simon Smith never was the ruthless type. But Tom Cook on the other hand has a distinct sadistic side to him. The jolt and high of experiencing the exciting and challenging sensations could not wait to be uncorked once again. I did not have

to wait long.

“I went over the debrief in detail. My compliments to the whole team. Perfect execution. That is the way I like it. No surprises. I hate surprises. And the delivery on this one was no surprise.” Jim’s radiance was contagious. “But, as you all know, we have achieved nothing yet. That was only the softening. We haven’t even started the game. This was all foreplay. Light, investigative, introductory foreplay. Jack, do we have his phone, emails and secretary all covered?” “Yes, certainly. He is leaving Athens tonight on his way to Singapore. He has so far only spoken with Hunt about the event. Hunt is his head of security. He knows exactly what we wanted him to know, no more. Ellah is definitely spooked about the movie. He instructed Hunt not to share anything with Scotland Yard because of it. Nearly lost his lunch at the thought.” “Perfect. Right on script. If he does not inform Scotland Yard now, at the very beginning, it will be increasingly difficult for him to involve them later. It looks like we won’t run the risk of those guys and gals getting on our tails. Thank you Tom. We have revealed the stick. Next phase, introduce the carrot. Jack, the book.”

Jim stretched out his long arm out to Jack. Jack placed a 15-centimeter-thick binder on the table, the cover of which was a National Geographic bird photograph and the words “Project Hawk – Business Case.” “Tom, this is the business plan prepared for our target acquisition by the consultancy company of one of the Big 5. Please familiarize yourself with it as this was, for all intents and purposes, prepared by Tom Cook. You will need to know it off by heart, backwards and forwards.” “No problem Jim. This is what I actually do for a living. We can start with the fact that there is no such thing as the Big 5 anymore. It is the Big 4, unless it is

that you got someone from the defunct firm of Arthur Anderson to prepare this and it is about 15 years old.” He needed to know I am a professional not a subordinate. “Don’t concern yourself with the actual author, who or where this was prepared, you will find it is very current. I prefer not telling you who did actually put this together. Any questions you may have, Jack will put you on the phone with the person or persons necessary. In this business, the less one knows about particular details, the better.” “Natasha, outlines and timelines for our next phase.” “Next week the Cannes film festival begins. Ellah's company has a submission that is expected to get recognized for at least one prize for documentary something or other, for his film about little barefoot Muslims something or other and dirty river, lake, stream something or other. The film was clearly staged, but that is a completely separate issue. The festival encourages their VIPs and contenders to attend with their spouses, if they have one. Otherwise, most others walk the red carpet alone or with their “team”. Going by critics’ reviews, it appears that his doc has a reasonable shot at winning an award of some kind so he will almost certainly be there. His project was put together by some French producer, not really of note, and the documentarian director. They are a small group. So the pros are that we have a high level of certainty of his attendance at a place and time, that is within our time frame, in a jurisdiction where we are strong and well connected, and he'll be there relatively alone, meaning with reduced personal security, at least for a good part of the time. The major and only real con is the evet security at the festival, and he may ask for or get additional attention, is always very high and well-practiced.” Jim took a long and deep drag of the Turkish coffee and smiled. “I like it. Detailed plan by tomorrow. This guy Ellah is toast.” John was agitated, “Jim, please put irony and ego aside for a moment. The place will be crawling with public and private security, lots of dignitaries and public personas, cameras on every inch. Is this the best stage for us? Is this an appropriate setting in which to send Tom?” “Hold on there. I am not quite sure what point you are trying to make. Are you suggesting that the plan is not good enough or that I am not good enough for the plan?” I could not believe what had I just said. I had been in the “game” for no

more than two months and already I had developed a professional ego? But then again, I still honestly only considered this whole thing as but a game and, basically, all I wanted was to play well. “Neither. And both. It just doesn’t fit right to me.” This argument did not get so far as past Jim's facial hair and he brushed it off like an annoying fly. “Come up with a half decent plan, not too complicated nor too bold and Tom will be just fine.” Jim replied. “Gentlemen, and Lady, please get to work. Tom, study the folder. Here please. Don't even think of taking it anywhere. Everyone else, get me a plan. And one last thing, Tom, you got an email from some French graphic designer. I do hope you have no intention of following it up.” “As pleasant as the thought may be, it would be unprofessional of me if I did.” I was not going to let this meeting finish with my being slapped on the wrist. “One thing though. If I am to have John following me around, would it be OK if I took him shopping and introduced him to natural fabrics such as cotton, wool and leather? He lights up like a Christmas tree on any nylon scanner.” I think I pushed it too far. The blow was too low, it did not even draw a smile. “If Natasha gets around to it, she'll take him out for a little shopping. Jack, red flag us if there are any changes to Ellah's plans or if his security guy gets overly active.” Time pressure was now back in full force. Luckily, the littlest gremlin was sleeping better, which gave me more productive time at work. But with a new deal to dive into, I needed to learn the market, the comparables, the drive for each of the acquirers and the target. Get a good mental grip of the numbers. John finally agreed to let me bring my laptop to the apartment so I could, at least, use the internet in researching the deal. That also enabled me to clear my email inbox from time to time and made it easier to cover up all the time I was spending away from my two other day jobs. I managed to talk Daphne into taking off a little more time off before she went back to work. I appreciated her need to get out of the house and use her head a bit more but there was no way I would have been able to manage if she wanted me around more. I had absolutely no extra time, not for personal matters. If money was the issue, I think I would have even considered taking on a fourth job rather than having to spend more

time at home. Don’t get me wrong, the kids were great but I did not have half the disposable energy needed for them. Obviously, it was far more easy to fight with people on the phone and blackmail complete strangers.

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“Hunt, however miserable you think your life is now, it will get much, much worse if you don't have something for me. If what that son of a bitch did to me is not enough, at your instruction, I replaced my phone, my laptop and threw out my Louis Vuitton computer case which cost me more than you make in a month. The little shit hasn’t made yet, no fucking demands. Did anything land at the office? Do you have my lap top?” “Yes M'Lord. I prefer we do not speak over mobiles. May I request that we speak on a land line and not from your hotel.” “Ok, listen, stop with your Mr. Professional shit. This is not high crime or espionage. It is a low life loser trying to make my life miserable. So, let me know what is happening or are you just trying to mask the fact that you have done nothing?” “M'Lord, you are compromising my best advice but as I note you are distraught, I will brief you in short. This guy Cook appears real at least to the extent that there is an Irish issued port in that name. It is definitely not a forgery. Cook has no criminal record, no known IRA s and no record at all for that matter. I’ve taken down his tax numbers, diplomas, all the standard details. He has no marriage license, no kids. No recent address. His ticket was bought online by an agent and paid for, directly to the agent, in cash. I have footage of him from Charles DeGaulle but nothing there gives us much. I do not have access to the test advanced facial recognition services, if such things can even be trusted at all. He did not enter Greece, at least not under that identity, and I was unable to track where he continued on to. He simply disappeared when you landed in Athens. The boarding was real but we were unable to get any finger prints from it. More surprisingly, the laptop had no prints on it either. It is new and previously unused. It was never connected to the internet, the browser was never opened, the wireless never turned on. This, M'Lord, leads us to quite an interesting point. Viao laptops are programed to open the utilities upon initial set up. This mode was preempted by whoever bought it. That indicates that we

are dealing with someone who clearly knows what he is doing. The film was probably loaded via a disc on a key but it too left no external traces. The film itself seems flawless from a software perspective. No patches, no splices and no downtime angle switches. A flawless fabrication from what I can see. One additional, potentially misleading point I would like to bring to your attention M'Lord, the Viao charger had an original UK plug on it. Yet, there is no record of our guy Cook arriving from the UK or Ireland.”

“M'Lord, if I may put forward my suspicions notwithstanding this early stage?” “That is exactly what I want.” “But this is not a secure line M'Lord” “Out with it already!” “M'Lord, the identity is as real as it gets. This guy has the makings of a true professional. He appears and disappears from and to nowhere. He knew exactly where to find you alone. Obtaining the type of detailed information he had is a far more intricate process than you may be aware of at first glance. He must have had a secondary seat in the back of the plane to retreat to. M'Lord, this is not a two-bit criminal looking for a small time blackmail.” “Well then?” “Sir, this seems to have government characteristics written all over it. Considering the real Irish port and the UK plug, it is either Irish or an agency from back home.” “Plug. What does the stupid plug have to do with it?” “Well M'Lord, this is not a hard fact but when it comes to expensing items and props, no service will allow anything to be bought abroad if it can be acquired locally. Issues of budgeting and such. If this was the Russian mafia, they would have bought the type of plug in question in . If this scheme was designed by a state security organization, they would purchase any and all items they could locally because they have far more paperwork on foreign expenses. Different agencies but people all react the same. Between the Irish and the British, I highly doubt the Irish would have the balls to target a person such as

yourself. Which brings me back home. If you would permit me to do so, I can touch base discreetly with s at Scotland Yard to see if anyone is looking into your affairs. Keep in mind, if this really is a UK operation, it would most likely be kept under extremely high secrecy. The British government investigating or blackmailing a member of the House of Lords, the fallout would be immense and any minute leak would blow up in their faces. I tell you this because even if the responses from the Yard or other sources back home are negative, it is not necessarily conclusive. Rather it may simply portend a more dangerous adversary,”

“I don't like this. I don't like this one bit. How strongly do you feel that your suspicion is founded? My course of action depends upon it.” “As I said M'Lord, everything about this is consistent with a domestic origination. But this is all preliminary and assuming they are as good as first indicated and will not commit a huge fuckup, we may never have conclusive evidence. If I had to put it on the scales, I am not 100 percent sure it is a home operation, but I feel quite strongly that this is backed by some government. I would not rule out the CIA or even the KGB, but I doubt either of them are that close to Irish back office systems. And do not overlook that plug. Everything else is so squeaky clean. It could be a red herring or an oversight. My gut feeling is that it is an oversight.” “So you are saying that it walks like a duck and talks like a duck?” “Yes M'Lord. Though it may still be a swan. Shall I touch base with my s.” “No. I will need to check with my channels first. What should we do with the video file. Can we discard it already? I don't want it to exist.” “May I suggest that I keep it under lock and key? It may come in handy.” “No. I want it gone. That way if we do need to involve Scotland Yard, they will not get the film from us. Hunt, blow the file away but keep the laptop.” “M'Lord I will do that, but in order to clear it completely beyond resurrection, I

would need to sweep the laptop a few times and that will be clearly traceable.” “Indeed. Trash it without sweeping for now. Keep it under lock and key. Thank you Hunt. Put a hold on everything for now. If you are correct about this being an operation by my enemies at home, they will most likely be alerted and none too happy with us snooping their affairs. Let's hope they are not on to this call. Funny Hunt, isn't it? We've just switched places haven't we? Now my life is the miserable one.”

Lord Jaheed Ellah of Norbury pulled out his mobile and punched in a short SMS “Tony, when can I have a few words with you discreetly. Personal Nature. Jaheed Ellah.” Almost simultaneously to his hitting the send button he got a response. “Sorry Jaheed. Not into that .” “No, seriously, I would request a word.” “I'll call you on this number shortly.”

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JIC (t Intelligence Committee) meetings were always inherently tense. If one were to disclose anything, all the others attending knew what you were doing. If you gave an opinion or a perspective, all the others would jump to disprove you. If you said nothing, you were useless and would quickly become the new target of budget cuts. So, the only safe way to go about these meetings was to be very outwardly opinionated, but not in any constructive way, which would require taking a position. Make a lot of authoritative noise without saying anything. Best thing one can do is to fiercely criticize anything anyone else said. The more pompously and derogatorily, the better. After all, it was only the Her Royal Majesty’s cabinet attending whose job it was to determine the budgets

and standing of each of the member organizations: MI5, MI6, Army et al.

The strategy and game plan for these meetings were perfectly clear to all those who attended. All but the cabinet themselves of course. They were the elite who rotated through committee after committee every year or so, such that by the time they caught on to what was happening, what the rules of the game were, they were happy to move off to a less boisterous committee. The commonly held preference was to an elite committee from which you could leak information freely to the press, bask in the favoritism glory, without too many eyebrows being raised. Once the JIC game started, inevitably, the first true victim was always the one whom the Committee Chairman addressed first. The initially targeted poor sod would most definitely have to respond somehow and then it was open season on the carcass for the rest of those present to chew him up. Regardless of the issue at hand. It is under these guidelines and rules of conduct that these intelligence committee meetings came to be referred to as JDSU meetings. Long, interminable gatherings from which no determinative outcome or substantial benefit were ever expected. JDSU, of course, being the acronym for “Just Don't Screw Up.” All you needed to do for these monthly meetings was read the recent newspapers and avoid drinking too much alcohol beforehand.

This morning’s meeting began somewhat differently though. The Chairman did not address any agency head, but rather, I’m guessing to muck with everyone’s game strategy, put forward an open question: “The Cabinet has become aware of the possibility that a Member of Parliament may have been targeted by one or more of the agencies attending here. I have been instructed to inquire as to which agency initiated such activity and to the authorization process of such activity.” Not exactly a question but what else could he say. He knew nothing more and did not know who to direct it to. In line with the strict JDSU guidelines, no one said a word. More silence. And still, no one said anything. Pens were twirled, tea stirred and fingers twitched. But not a word. People were absolutely thinking though. Someone here must

know something. Are we behind the curve? How can something this big be happening under our feet? Who is it? Participants’ suspicious gazes shifted between each other. The Chairman was more effective in his silence than in his question. He went around the table looking at each one of the attendants, searching for an answer. After a long while ed, he broke the silence. “The elephant in the room is whispering to me that this is a charged subject we have hit upon here. Is this a singular effort? Is this some sort of cooperation between the lot of you?” Still nothing. “Gentlemen, this is not something that the Cabinet can turn a blind eye to. It reaches down to the root of democratic governance. If any legislative member is under suspicion, it is indeed your responsibility to do what it is you need to do. I am not asking who the individual in focus is nor what is being done. Quite simply, I want to know who is doing it and by what authority. I will not be stonewalled. This meeting will now be adjourned for a 15-minute recess. Everyone but the heads of the agencies will leave. Feel free to consult with your respective s. This meeting will resume in 15 minutes from now.” With that he, and all but the agencies’ heads left the room. The door shut and they just looked blankly at each other. Do the JDSU rules still apply when there are no outsiders in the room?? Those present concluded that JDSU rules may be relaxed under the current circumstances. At the risk of being the last to know and left out of the party, each of them claimed that they had no idea what was going on. It even looked and seemed genuine. Certainly, it was plainly obvious that the chairman knew something and each of the member directors was aware enough to know that if they all said nothing, their chairman would not believe them and would have no choice but to dig further. The “How to Get Out of a Tight Spot in a Bureaucracy” handbook was pulled out and in full review. The answer was there, right in front of them, black on white, principle number 8: “When shit happens and the culprit is not yet known, always shift the blame to the one who is not in the room.” Good one! That will do.

The Chairman resumed the meeting 20 minutes later. “Yes Gentlemen.” JDSU

rules were most assuredly reinstated. The Chairman still had no claimant so he turned to the most prominent and easiest mark, MI5. “MI5, any knowledge about this?” “Mr. Chairman., these actions have not been undertaken by MI5 nor with our consent.” Before the others could jump down his throat he quickly added, “ BUT, without any specific information that I would appreciate to share, Mr. Chairman would be advised to take notice of who is not present with us today and if their absence could possibly be related in any way to the issues referenced by the Chairman bla bla bla bla bla…”. No one “challenged him,” “contradicted him,” “ begged to differ,” “in contrast'd”, “others might say'd”, “on the other hand'd” him, nor did anyone utilize any of the other standard JDSU terminologies normally employed for double talk. The Chairman took this as a unanimous verdict convicting the DIS (Defense Intelligence Staff). The DIS budget was slashed so deeply in the last 24 months that the Committee felt sorry summoning them to the meeting altogether, as the cost of attending alone would take up most of their annual allocation. “I thank you for your assistance in this matter. Now we can move on to the Agenda.” And the games began.

*********************************

Back to Paris. The only thing that kept me from total boredom was my constant lookout for the off chance that maybe I would somehow bump into Celia. Simon Smith never even thought of her. But Thomas Cook was infatuated by her. Miracles do happen in the world, just not to Thomas Cook though. She is a graphic designer, what would she be doing in Cannes? None the less, there was no harm in looking. The Cannes film festival did draw a pretty crowd. There was a big crowd and all of them pretty. None were as naturally stunning as Celia. It is a strange business this show business. With plastic surgery readily available, whereby you can put any nose and any bust on any living body, and with Photoshop ubiquitously available, anything that plastic surgery could not “fix” would be “corrected” by the deadline. Why then were these people so obsessed

with Silicon and Botox? Celia would make them all seem pale in comparison. Lucky for them she didn’t show up.

John magically got me into one of the limos lined up around the corner of the Palais des Festivals et des Congres. As it turned out, even the event judges saw that our Lord’s barefoot Muslim kids were too fat and sluggish to have truly been under privileged and could not bring themselves to give his spoof a prize for any whatchumacallit documentary. So, like the spoiled kid of any class who would not play unless he won, our friend Ellah would not be hanging around for any festivities. He would bugger off as soon as he got the chance. Alone.

I sat at the front side of the limo, close to the driver partition and made sure the speaker was off. I made myself look as if I was comfortable there. How could anyone be comfortable driving sideways? I slipped off my shoes and sipped the blended stuff there they sacrilegiously labeled whisky. The car was summoned and my heart started pumping. Here we are: Ellah, act two, take one. Luckily I had ingested sufficient alcohol to enable me to look less uptight. Does the tension ever subside in this business?? The car stopped at the curb at the edge of the red carpet. My good friend Ellah was half way down the steps twirling to the crowd and camera men. The crowd was probably looking at him thinking who is this ugly ass anyhow. Get him off already so we can get to see some real celebrities, to demonstrate to us what clothing we can’t afford to wear, or fit into, for that matter. The doorman opened the limo door for Ellah who eventually crawled in, like a mole, and collapsed into the leather seat at the back. He was not a happy man even before he saw me. Seeing me, however, did not do much to improve his disposition. He recognized me immediately and made a mild protest. My hand was already in my pocket and I pressed the Bell as soon as he entered. The Bell being an interesting device that every person should have. It is the size of a car key and what it does is emit a powerful current, essentially creating a bell shaped undetectable barrier through which no electronic signal can penetrate. Not only does it block external signals, such as GPS, microwave and mobile, it latches on to the mobile signal and freezes its utilities. It is a powerful little thing and I was advised to keep it away from my groin if I ever wanted any

more kids. I had suggested having it on all the way over from Brighton, but we compromised on: as of when the limo door is opened. I let my presence sink in. Next came the heavy mechanical click, identical to that of the black taxi’s back at home, as I locked the doors with a flick of another switch.

Then he spoke: “Mr. Cook. What an unpleasant surprise. May I ask you what you want from me and what the hell you are doing in my limo?” The limo drove off to enable the next celeb to retreat honorably. “May I offer you a drink Lord Ellah?” “It is my drink to begin with but no thank you. Mr. Cook, you were about to start saying something so please get to the point before I have you thrown in jail. What do you want from me?” “Well, first I wanted to apologize, I think I may have come on a little too strong last time we met. In truth, (I must stop saying that, it is such a tell) I just wanted to catch your attention.” “Well, you have succeeded in that. Now what?” “Lord Ellah, all I want is your undivided attention to pitch you a deal. Simple and straight. A business deal.” “And if I don't want your deal? What if all I want is to call the police and for you to fuck off?” “Well then, that would be setting us off on the wrong foot again. What I am trying to do is to start again fresh, on the correct foot. You are a powerful person and I have my capabilities as well. Instead of clashing and guiding us into what surely would be a big bang, just hear me out and see if, or, I ought to say, how we can work together.” I could sense Ellah's instinct to smash me in the face. I could smell his anger fuming and even hear it hissing. But he must have ed Hunt's instructions to keep me engaged. He exhaled extendedly, smiled and then said sarcastically: “I am all ears. Shoot.”

“It is just a simple business deal. Although, a really good one.” I pulled out the folder with the business case and pitched it in exactly the way I have received an endless number of experienced entrepreneurs pitching to my fund. A two-minute overview of the vision, the market, the opportunity, advantages, challenges, how to overcome the challenges and then punch line with the benefits. Ellah, sitting in front of me, was like an Escher metamorphosis picture. He went from loathing me to being astonished by the idea, all within the course of 10 minutes. Ellah, not to be fooled that easily, caught himself midway and went back to loathing. It was clear there was a conflict growing inside of him. He was hooked on the deal and the idea of getting a strong foothold in infrastructure, not simply content. By the time I got to the financing, the idea of issuing non-recourse sukuk in London to finance it, he was melting. “Are you familiar with how the sukuk works?” I asked. It is for all intents and purposes a bond but instead of an interest coupon payable, the holder is provided a participation in the concerns profits, and as such, overcomes the Islamic prohibition against collecting interest. “Yes, of course. I pretty much invented it. If it is structured with recourse to the project only, basically, I would leveraging my brand name and financing 100% of the project, or close to that, with little or no financial risk me, against nothing but 10-15% of the profits.”

“Lord Ellah, if I may interject here. With you at the helm, your company's track record in communications, all the Arab money floating around in the City and the project numbers, I think that not only will you be fully subscribed for 100% of our financing, you can factor in a stiff management fee from day one and lock in a steady cash flow in addition to full ownership of the new company and its assets. If that will not be enough, spare me the need to spell out for you the nexus of your financial connections in Saudi Arabia itself. We both know you can move any sum you need or could ever want and for any cause you see worthy. I do my research better than the securities exchange does and, I think I have demonstrated twice now that, I know you better than you may care to accept.” “If this deal sells itself, then why have you been chasing me?”

“Well first, because your name in communications most definitely will sell better than mine. Second, and more importantly, there are very few companies which will regulation and scrutiny locally in Saudi Arabia. If they trust you as their outlet for money, then I am banking on that they will trust you with their base stations.” “How do you know there is a seller?” “That is for me to know and for you to find out. I think I have demonstrated that I command certain persuasive capabilities. All I want is the opportunity to use them for our t benefit.” “So all this shit, all this effort, is just for a pitch on what would otherwise be an interesting business deal?” “Yes, but it is a little more intricate than that. This is my deal and I can't run the risk of you taking my business case and doing it without me. I have stipulated that your participation in this is irreplaceable but you may be, say, ‘’disillusioned’’ that my participation is not irreplaceable. So, I bought some insurance. When one buys insurance he needs to make sure the insurance company is strong enough to withstand any disaster. I do the same. If I go down, we both do. I do not see how it benefits either of us to go into the negative 'what if' scenarios. Let us remain on the positive side. This here is the business case, including the central spreadsheets, price assumptions, sensitivity charts as to the price and financing, pretty much all you need to make a decision to begin a process.” “OK, you had your pitch. What else do you want?” “In the back of the file, you will find my engagement letter. are simple. I get two percent in straight out equity, 2% in options with a three year vesting, I am Chairman of the Advisory Board to be set up, with a $750,000 USD annual remuneration. All of it is contingency based, of course. No deal, I get nothing. A fair proposition if I ever heard one.” “4% of a 1.5B USD venture is a pretty penny.” “Need I spell out what you would be getting?? I will need an investment bank to do the deal. I choose my team, bank, attorneys, technical due diligence team etc. I orchestrate the play.”

“Mr. Cook. If you are so proficient and resourceful, how is it that I never came across you before? I found nothing about you over the internet. My chief of security has not a clue about who you are or where you come from. Do you expect me to get into bed with a complete stranger who has no verifiable background?” “If I were to take that statement literally, it would have no argumentative effect as I know that yes, getting into bed with a total stranger is something you have done before, actually many times in fact. Please, be practical, Lord Ellah. I am presenting a win-win scenario for both of us and you keep trying to blot it out by nourishing a conflict between us. The way I see it, we can always go to war. Why start with it and then hope for peace. Let's do it the other way around. Let's start with peace and if that does not work, then we go to war. Look at it another way, what do you have to lose? If I fail to deliver and the deal is not 100% third party financeable and has zero recourse, you can always back down. Scouts honor. What more can one ask for??”

Ellah was pondering. Seems like he needed me to grovel a little, after invading his space and robbing him of his pride. He is after all from Arabic decent. Not once but twice. This was a delicate point in the discussion. He is hooked on the idea, if I press his balls anymore, I'll scare him off. But then again he needs to know I am in charge. “Lord Ellah, what I am asking is to let me do a deal I believe in, with your name. A t venture, of course, but my deal, your name, with a 96-4 split between us. I want you to sign my engagement letter, here and now. I want you to summon a board meeting and deliver them the deal synopsis in the folder. I want your Board to approve my appointment and the initiative and I want you to issue a press release substantially in the form included in the file. Lord Ellah. Do we have a deal?”

Ellah leaned forward, stretched out his hand to shake mine. I took his hand and shook on it firmly. “Mr. Cook, your methods are unorthodox but I am willing to go along with it. If all that is required from me is what you asked, I am on board.

I will give you my card with my direct details so you will not have to show up like this anymore.” “Lord Ellah, do you seriously think I need your business card to you?” “And how do I you Mr. Cook?” “I will email you my details. I will attach the counter signed engagement letter. Please put me in direct with your head of M&A telling him to give me the lead on this. I promise to play nicely and, from here on, I will provoke you no more.” This was going too easily which probably meant that he is not on board and has a loophole in mind of how to ditch me at the first opportunity. I needed to enhance the stick part of the pitch to mitigate any incentive to go behind my back. I looked him directly in the eye and said sincerely: “Lord Ellah, it will be a pleasure doing business with you. I am so happy we can build a constructive mode of communication so I can put away all the ugly stuff I had piled together about the funding for Street Talks, the London Underground Bombings, and all that other associated shit. All I want is to do straight and honest business.” I landed my upper hand and judging from his discomfort, Ellah definitely got the message. I would be all over him if he did not comply. He took a moment to evaluate and deliberate the playing field I had described and evidently figured it was better to take a shot at a good deal with an enigma, or at least play along, than having a lunatic capable of pretty much anything dogging him with what was more than likely weapons he may not withstand. Ellah went through the motions of deep deliberation, moved to resolution, reduced the annual remuneration in pen to $375,000 USD, evidently to save some face, and signed two copies of the engagement letter. “First lesson of working for me is to be modest. Deal with that, and quit while you are ahead.” I folded one neatly into my pocket and left him the other, together with the folder. I shut off the Bell in my pocket and buzzed the driver to let me off anywhere along the beach.

“I can only restate, it will be a pleasure working with you, as opposed to against you.”

Looking out towards the ocean, opposite an unspoiled stretch of the French Riviera beach, I pulled my tie loose and opened my collar button to soak up more of the cool breeze. My adrenalin level was still high and I believe I had what is commonly known as runner’s high, which is a strange concept seeing as I did more than my fair share of running in my time, but never got anything close to a high from it. I could not avoid thinking that this guy Tom Cook really has it. He is one cool cat, keeping it together under pressure. Never losing focus of the big picture and yet, at the same time, keeping track of covering all of the small details. It was damned right skillful the way I turned this guy from a fierce enemy into a believer in the cause I presented to him. I do have a rather unique skillset. Maybe this is my true calling in life. This is what I was created for, to be the secret weapon of the West against the Evil powers of the Middle East. Just the right level of leverage to keep him in check without sending him off the deep end. I would love a gin and tonic, here and now.

Fuck! The glass. I poured myself a whisky in the limo. I forgot to wipe the glass. I made sure the file was squeaky clean but the glass was like a petri dish. What an ass. So much for every little detail. Only seconds before Tom Cook thought to announce victory over Simon Smith. Simon noted yet another lesson for life:

“Never believe your own bullshit!”

*********************** “Hunt, he made . I found him in my limo when coming off the red carpet in Cannes. Hunt, what are the chances you were wrong about this issue of Cook

being connected to some secret service?” “M'Lord, I have been mistaken on hunches before. Why, what did he say?” “He pitched me a deal and a bloody good one. Made a lot of sense and it looked like he had put a lot of research into it. Commercial stuff that security guys would never know anything about. He claims all he wanted was to catch my attention. He knows he can not pull it off without me and said he needed leverage to ensure I would not cut him out. He is right on that because I probably would, if he was unprotected.” “M'Lord, as I said, there is nothing conclusive and, without involving other parties, I have nothing but my gut feeling. Let your instincts guide you. I'll be here to follow and take over if it goes sour. Is he trying to manipulate you into doing anything shady?” “That is exactly it. Nothing shady, a straight acquisition. It does not look like I am getting dragged into anything here. It is an opportunity to buy into a strong asset in a sector I am interested in and I incur almost no cost aside from my name, reputation and s. I think I want to do this, even kicking myself for not having come up with this idea on my own. I want to proceed with the deal and see how it plays out. But I most certainly do not like the idea of anyone with any leverage over me, so I want you to continue full force to rule out anything but what I have just told you. Be very, very discreet. He is more exposed now and he has what to lose, so you can afford to be careful and take your time. After I do the deal, we'll see how to feed the son of a bitch to the dogs. Be, very low key Hunt. By the way, I am pretty sure I have his prints. I'll be bringing in all sorts of stuff he fingered.” “Yes M'Lord. Good show. That will be a good start”

Chapter 16: “It is All About the Money” John caught up with me on my way back to Paris. Before I updated him that we are perfectly on track in the plan, I told him about the glass I left in the limo. John thought about it. “Tom, you fucked up. Do you realize you fucked up? I told you a hundred times in our prep, if you screw up on the business shit, we can always play things up or down, never ever compromise security. And what for? a stupid glass of whisky? You had clear instructions never to drink in action. What the hell is wrong with you? Fine, strike that, everyone can make mistakes. But why didn't you call the emergency number? Maybe we could have retrieved it. I told Jim this was a mistake. Do you still think this is all just a game?” “What are you getting so worked up about? So I made a simple mistake. Like he is going to take it to his portable finger print lab he has with him at his hotel?” Midway through my downplay, I caught on to the inference John was trying to make. “Besides, what is that supposed to mean that this is a mistake. What is a mistake?” “You. You are the mistake. It was stupid to think that we can take someone off the street and turn him into a pro within a few months. I knew this was not going to work and that your ego has grown bigger than your IQ. This is not a job for amateurs and if Jim was not so personally caught up with this, he would have packed it in after the first round!” “What first round?” “What did you think, that you were our first choice on this? That we were sitting around putting this operation together and waiting for Simon Smith, the messiah with a jaguar to come and redeem us? Face the music Mr. Smith, you are an understudy and not a very good one.” Ok, so now I am truly dense. “What exactly are you saying?” “I am saying that you were not our first choice and nor even our second. Our first at Ellah was a friendly one, to see if he would cooperate with the Service. He declined. The second was getting someone from our team to develop the required business acumen but Jim was afraid it may take too long and that we would miss the boat. So you are just a fill in, brought in at the last moment, from nowhere, and this painfully inept operation is only going through

because no one has the guts to stand up to Jim and tell him to sack it before it all goes really bad.” Maybe I was not the cool cat I was made out to be. Maybe I was just a shot in the dark for Jim and a means for his advancement through the ranks. But it certainly seems that John here is taking this much too personally. Alternatively, maybe he was truly offended by my comments on his choice of wardrobe, or even worse, he probably saw himself as being Tom Cook and I came along and snatched that away from him. “Forget it Simon. Just letting off some steam from the tension. I'll take care of this. I will have someone pull your prints from the military files and replace them with those from some other bugger. I hope that is the only place your prints are recorded. Otherwise, how did the rest of it go?”

I gave John a quick rundown and miraculously John changed his demeanor rather quickly and even transformed into a much happier state. “Excellent, now that we are on email, I will be able to interface with Ellah's M&A guy on behalf of Tom Cook, pull in the investment bank, manage the due diligence teams, assemble all the intel and turn this from a sting operation into an intelligence project.’’ I guess that inter personal issues are unavoidable, even in a supposedly altruistic environment, so I made a note of being a little more receptive of John's sensitivities. As the reality sunk in, I was confused. I ought to have been substantially relieved that moving forward, pressure would now be off of me, and that John was going to take more of the load, and I was in fact relieved. Although, deep down, at the same time, I felt a much stronger sensation of being robbed. I am Tom Cook! Who gave John here permission to interact with anyone in my name and on my behalf?? “Are you sure it’s a good idea to manage everything this way?” “Why, are you proposing to do this as a fulltime job?” Smartly, I kept my mouth shut because if I were to answer him it would have been something along the lines of, “as opposed to you, you loser dressed in viscose, I have a real life and a successful one. I can do both my life and Tom Cook's with time to spare, you two-bit pencil pusher.” But he was, of course,

right. I had no intention of giving up on Simon Smith, after all the effort and sacrifice put into him up to now, even if Celia or even multiple Celia’s were put into the equation. There and then I made a concession. I surrendered Tom Cook's back office to John.

*************************

The phone of the Chairman of the JIC rang. “This is a call from 10 Downing Street. May I put the prime minster through to the Chairman?” He felt like an idiot having answered the phone himself, but said “Speaking. Please do.” Clearing his throat. “Hello and good morning to you, it's Tony speaking” He would have preferred calling the Chairman by name but he couldn't for the life of him recall it. So instead, as a form of compensation, he had to give him a first name address. “Good Morning Sir.” “Jolly good. I just wanted to check in and see how things went with this whole business of some MP being mucked about by one of our security forces. Did anything of the sort come up in the latest JIC meeting?” “Well, Mr. Prime Minister, I did address the issue quite strongly during our last meeting. As you are well aware, it is not easy getting anything out of the agencies but I am quite sure that MI5 and MI6 are not involved. They were either uninformed or truly surprised by it. They both seemed to point to Defense Intelligence as a possible culprit. I must say I find this unlikely and my guess is that they just wanted me to lean on DI for other reasons. This was the bait at hand. I would need something more specific, in order to take further action from my end.” “I think you may be right. I do not have any specifics and I am not completely sure there is anything there to begin with. If I may suggest, maybe you would consider sending Defense Intelligence a visit from the NAO (National Audit Office) to rattle them up a bit. If there is something there, maybe they will give it

up and call for a truce. If there is nothing there, an audit can do no harm. It will let them know we are keeping tabs on them. Everything else all right then?” “Yes, certainly Mr. Prime Minister. That is exactly what should be done”.

***************************

As is the case with all throw away ideas from our dear leaders, this was easier said than done. How could an audit be justified when the DI recently underwent a full reorganization and a budget slash no less than 9 months ago? The chairman fortunately found a way to do it without sounding like an absolute complete idiot. He instructed the NAO to inquire if there were any DI divisions within which the budget slash was not implemented in direct proportion with overall budget slash of the DI. Three such divisions jumped out immediately upon first review: Human Resources, Pension Division (HRPD), Head Quarters (HQ), and the notorious Offensive Intelligence (OI). The NAO were used to defense and security forces running circles around them during audits and always prepared themselves well for their assignments. Obtaining security clearances for the auditors normally took 3-4 months and clearances for facilities within which delicate documents could be reviewed and handled took 3-4 months as well. NAO received their orders and commenced gearing up towards the instructed audit. They started, as usual, with obtaining security clearances for the examining team in addition to securing facilities within the actual Defense Intelligence and Security Centre (DISC) facilities. By doing this, keeping the investigation local, the DI would have less time within which to cook the books or even to fend off the audit altogether.

In general, the way to go about auditing any government body was to preempt any pushback from the audited body by having the answers before the questions were ever asked. This was even more critical when auditing any part of the security forces. Not only did they have a 'holier than thou' approach, based on

attitudes that strong security forces are that much more important for national security than control of public funds. But that was no excuse and could not deter from the fact that in most cases, they were downright negligent in the way they maintained and applied their budgets. Information on pensions from HRPD was easy enough to obtain. The Examiner went through the motions but the information was so readily available that he did not consider it taxpayer money well spent to dive in too much more deeply. HQ details were also pretty much evident and available before requesting any additional information. It is to be expected that when streamlining, the last budget to be cut down is the one for those doing the downsizing of all the rest. Still, it looked like the correct processes were being dragged along. There were quite a few positions which were to have been cut long ago, based upon the downsizing Gant chart, that obviously someone did not have the guts or the attention to complete. In many cases, people were in possession of information that their bosses did not want floating around. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' The shit hit the proverbial fan when it came to looking into Offensive Intelligence. The numbers were off the graph completely. Not only was the budget not cut by 30%, as was required, but the budget actually rose by 15% as compared to the previous year. What was even more of a concern was that no information was available as to the breakdown of the budget, when it was approved and who in fact did the approving. All flags went to red and the Examiner got a whiff of what he referred to as a Stink.

The NAO Examiner removed and cleaned his thick round wire rimmed spectacles, adjusted his yellow bow tie, pulled his belt one notch tighter around his beer belly and said out load to himself “time to sniff out this Stink. Let's bring in the info.” The Examiner presented the DISC and the Defense Ministry personnel with a list of questions and reports to be submitted to him within 48 hours. The list was short enough for them not to require more time within which to comply but comprehensive enough for the Examiner to get a handle on things due attention. Within a day, he asked for a secondary batch and, by the end of the week, he reached the conclusion that it was not simply a case of haphazard management. Whatever was going on in OI, was deliberately misrepresented.

*************

Tom Cook was quite the busy project manager. He was occupied with coordinating between Ellah's M&A guy and Duetsche Bank, the bank selected by Tom to be the banker, due equally in part due to the bank’s extensive relationship with Zain and the fact it was one of the few Continental banks that Simon Smith had never worked with. Tom did the majority of his business via email so that, aside from the participation on conference calls from time to time, Simon Smith was able to maintain a normative life. Normative life was, for better and for worse, normative. Or at least so I thought, until Daphne invited me for coffee. “Simon, ever since we bought the little espresso machine, we never go out for coffee anymore.” “That is because the coffee we make from the pre-packed capsules is better than that in any of the coffee shops found around here. It was the point for buying the thing in the first place.” “Maybe, but let's go out tomorrow morning.” “Fine by me. My first meeting is not until 10:00.” We got the kids out, were relieved of the little guy by the nanny and were off to town. We arrived at our pastime coffee shop in separate cars and each took up our historically designated seats. It was as if we all at once slipped back 5 years in time. “Daphne, the last time we made a date for coffee in the morning, our life changed dramatically. Should I brace myself?” “No Simon, I have no dramatic announcements in mind, you can calm down. Well, you already know that I intend to cut short my relationship with our dishwasher and that I look forward to going back to work soon.” “Good for you. I like the idea of you being an active professional instead of a country club mom. But you already know that, so why the drama? I am happy to enjoy bit of early sunshine together, but there has to be more to it. Am I right?”

“Yes, sort of, now that you mention it, you are a little distant, a little detached lately. Are you OK?” “Yes super, everything is great. I mean, things could always be better. You know, stress here tension there but nothing dramatic. Things are looking quite well both in the office and in the Fund. I may need to begin thinking of a follow up fund if the IRR keeps up the way it is, 'take the money when you can, not when you need it!” “Because at home, you just seem to be either distracted, or at times, even absent. You used to be more fun, more energetic, laugh more, more charismatic. Now you’re all like weathered or something.” “Hey, I do take care of the night shift which takes its toll. Though that actually has been somewhat better recently, now that the little guy finally got his teeth out and the kids are over their winter colds.” “Oh no, since you’ve been travelling more recently, I have done a lot of the nights as well so you can't complain about the nights.” “True, I can't complain and I am not complaining. In fact, yes, I can see how I’ve been a lot more occupied lately. As things get more complex, I guess they take more of a toll on me. And Jim, he’s all over me all the time. You know the majority of the traveling is on his . A very demanding fellow.” “If I must be honest too, I really don't like the way you disappear like that with him. He seems like a nice fellow and all but he gives off the impression that he’s hiding a lot more than he gives out. Is everything you’re doing for him legal? I don't want you getting mixed up in anything over your head. You do Simon that no client is worth you risking your profession or your family. Right? Do I need to remind you of that?” “No, you don’t need to remind me of anything, I know where my priorities are.” “Even my Dad has been asking about you recently to see if you are OK. If he can sense it all the way from London, then there is some issue. So how do we get you back on track? You do realize that we have not had sex in over month. Don't get me wrong, it suits me fine, sort of, but something is getting to you.”

I was genuinely annoyed. “Is that what this is all about? You think I am having an affair? Well I am not! You want my phone, maybe you want me to wear a tracking device? Actually, I think this really pisses me off. What does that mean when you say it suits you just fine if we don’t have sex? Why is sex just my thing and at best case you are just a consenting bystander? If you don't want it, I don't either. How's that??” “Simon, that is not what I meant and do keep your voice down. The whole side of the street does not need to participate in our conversation. I know you are not having an affair. You couldn’t fit in an affair into your timetable even if you wanted to. Besides, courting is such an effort for you, that was probably the reason you proposed to me before you knew my shoe size. And I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, about the sex. Women are different. I am different. When we were just the two of us, you know, I was just as much a nymph as you. But with all the kids and everything, my needs and wants have somewhat changed. You know that is not the way I meant it. You have your twists and turns and so do I. So, don't dump it all on me all of the sudden.”

She was of course right. There was a whole side of me that she is not part of. She was smart enough to sense it and her instincts were obviously sharp enough to know to point the cause somehow at Jim. It would be so easy from this point to simply drift away from her, from each other. I could see it happening. Daphne would go back to work and create yet another new world we would not share. It didn’t look like Tom Cook was going to be any less demanding in future, if anything, the opposite was more likely. A decision needed to be taken. Did I want this marriage to stick? Do I want the burden it places on me to perform as a functional parent, as a functional husband? Is the sensation of belonging and having something of my own and considering whether it was worth the effort and the stress it costs? I have an office, a fund and a whole other life. Then there is Celia sitting out there who knows maybe waiting for me somewhere down the line. Is there enough of me to go around? Do I need Daphne and the kids? This mental process went buzzing through my mind sitting at the coffee shop, soaking in the sun, and staring at the miniature jug for the hot milk placed on the table. My concentration was broken when Daphne brushed her long hair, draped to the side of her face, back behind her ear. That moment I had another streak of a split second mental processes. I caught myself and thought that I must be out of my

mind for even thinking about anything else. What is wrong with me? How the hell did I get into a situation whereby I am contemplating my marriage all of the sudden? What has Tom done to me to turn me upside down, inside out, into a totally different person? Ass is probably the word. This person sitting opposite me was and still is, without question, the best thing that ever happened to me. Before she entered my life, it was a hard call if I was more lost or more broken. Anything I have evolved to, is her doing or at least attributable to her. The kids, the little helpless gremlins, how could I even consider letting them down? I was also reminded of Rodney Billington's hugely popular words of wisdom, which may or may not have been appropriate, “it's cheaper to keep'er.”

I reached forward and put my hand on Daphne's. I smiled and said: “Maybe it's time you and I had some quality time together, before you go back to work. Just you and me, anywhere you like, for a few days?” She smiled. I enjoyed looking at her smile and let it hang for a while. “Any chance we can ship the gremlins to your parents with the nanny for a weekend?” “It is not completely unreasonable. It is getting warmer, maybe they can use the pool at the house. Let’s not fool ourselves, in the larger scheme of things, the toll of sending them there may be higher than you think.” Regaining my notorious cynicism, I asked, “Why is that? Will they cut off that huge monthly stipend we live off ? Will they cut the kids’ trust funds? Will they stop making our mortgage payments on the house? Which toll exactly are you referring to?” “Not funny. As it is, they have a tough time with our rowdy kids. But they actually offered it to help us out a little” “That is an interesting twist. Maybe we can we bring in another nanny to help out or something? Want me to make arrangements?” “This is turning out better than I thought. All I wanted was for you to smile a bit more at home and I’m getting a romantic weekend away. But I don't want to end up fulfilling the fantasies of your secretaries. I prefer fulfilling my own fantasies, thank you very much. I'll take care of all the arrangements if you don't mind.” “Suits me just fine. Make it a surprise.”

As I stood up I asked, “Seriously Daphne. In one sentence, why did you marry me when you could have easily married into nobility and money?” “In one sentence, I respected you as an individual thinker and a self-made man. That is the most attractive attribute I find in men. And you have it.” I ran to the office, and left both her and I, much happier people than when we had initially revisited our old coffee haunt. How could I have ever considered switching off on this woman?

********************** Natasha gave Jim fair notice. Monday morning 9:00 AM, Jim was to report to room 131 at DISC for an interview with a number cruncher. Some guy from the NAO who had earned himself a nickname, the Sniffer. Jim was not aware that the DISC building had room numbers with less than 4 digits. He hated number crunchers who did nothing but criticize people who actually did something, or at least made an honest effort at doing something. He had just gone through a series of meetings like this a few months ago, why again? Does the system have nothing better to do but spend endless time and money checking and reviewing how to spend money? These istrative processes comprised, to Jim, the ultimate solution to the timeless quandary as to the existence of a perpetual motion machine. The bureaucratic mechanism could spend day in day out doing nothing but checking itself and the level of efficiency of its own checks and its methodology of review. We could solve all the unemployment problems in Great Britain by simply having everyone unemployed checking and reviewing the reviewers and submitting conclusions and suggestions to committees determining the level, form and format of the various reviews. And when workers needed job advancement, they could promote them to formulate correct terminology to be used and implemented in the review and checks they and others perform. When the next generation of bright young Britons graduate their university studies, they could be unleashed to oversee, check and review if the methodology and terminology coined by their predecessors were correctly reported and implemented. Unfortunately, without paid taxes, this structure could only last so long. Fine, maybe it’s not a perfect perpetual motion machine but a monumental effort at it. It certainly had the makings of a well-crafted motion machine. Just one that goes absolutely nowhere.

The way Jim saw things in the public service, for every one person doing something, there were ten people doing nothing with an additional three people reviewing them, and very often one last person doing exactly the opposite of what the very first employee was doing. Needless to say, he was not especially looking forward to his “interview” today with the Sniffer or any other form of audit. The applied terminology was all new to him as well. He had been through enough “reviews,” “warnings,” “notices,” “reprimands” such that he could them in his sleep. An “Interview” sounded more civilized but he wasn’t sure it would be so.

Jim usually employed one of two approaches when facing bureaucratic evaluation. Both equally uncooperative. There was the nobility elite approach, which entailed an overly aloof posture with a holier than thou attitude, and a mindset that was easy to attain because, simply, he did truly believe that he was holier than any of them. The other, was an attitude that was diametrically opposite on the spectrum. Something he called, the incapable approach. This entailed him undertaking a performance where he in effect presented as being virtually completely autistic, unwilling and unable to relate to whomever was attempting to communicate with him. This second approach functioned in some part to illuminate the point he always saw within “them”, the interviewers, who are generally incapable of relating to anyone not at their exact level. Natasha had requested that Jim acknowledge the importance of the moment and take the interview seriously. She had been tipped off by several higher ups that the evaluations were no joking matter. Naturally, Jim figured that if the impending inquisition was proclaimed to be serious, he too should prepare for it seriously. So he took what he considered to be necessary precautions. He began his preparation and implementation by not shaving as of the Thursday before his Monday meeting. Friday, he mounted the treill for the first time in 3 months and dragged his huge frame for the better part of 45 minutes, by which time his tee shirt was thoroughly drenched. Before he stepped off the treill, he peeled off his fuming tee shirt and placed it in a carefully selected

supermarket bag, previously containing onions, and tied a tight knot closing it hermetically. He could not avoid showering but he made a point of not shampooing or even wetting his hair. Sunday, he opened the plastic bag in the open air and laid the tee shirt out to dry a bit more, or at least for as long as he could tolerate it. Even he had limitations. He then put on the used tee shirt and repeated the process on the treill, again leaving the soaked shirt in the onion bag. He continued to not wash his hair.

Monday, the D day finally came. Jim woke up, had his tea without brushing his teeth and laid the tee shirt outside to dry a little bit more before officially bringing it into action. By now, the disgust level had peaked to the point where even he was affected and had to stop his stomach from convulsing, more than once. He put on this extra specially prepared tee shirt, pulled a shirt and pants from the laundry basket and was ready to deflect whatever they threw at him. He, of course, was fully aware that he had assembled a solicitation get up that only a Greek souvenir salesman could possibly appreciate. Everything prepared and in place, he was ready and headed out. He grabbed a trilby hat, the one the neighbor's dog always raged upon, even though it would not be easy to get it to stay put over his, by now, wiry, somewhat greasy African like, hair. He drove to the “review” with the driver's window open of course. He burst out laughing during the drive and even took a selfie of himself to show Natasha. In the message accompanying the picture he wrote, “please call bomb squad and tell them it is a false alarm.”

He made it to the building uncommonly punctually and considered taking a walk to make the jerk waiting for him, actually wait for him. The smell, discomfort and eagerness to see the results of his preparations were all too much for him such that he could not stand it for long and preferred to head in and get this over with. He found the room, which did exist, just that it was three floors underground, next to the janitor's storage room. Oh god, how fortunate, it had no windows, which would ensure the meeting would be short. He had a few more tricks up his sleeve, which even he himself feared, but it was too late to unwind. He had Natasha locate the room in advance, put the heat on full steam and break the thermostat. By now, he had lost track of whether this was indeed the best

course of action under the circumstances or was he just using the pathetic number cruncher he was about to meet as a punching bag upon which to land his most recent practical jokes. He even thought of electrifying his interviewers chair but that would be a bit much, even for him. Of course, he could always still add that element when he later tells the story to his mates.

As the room was in the basement floor, the ceilings were lower than standard ceilings, so when he walked into the room, his presence filled the room almost in its entirety. He looked and smelled like a homeless Greek version of Frankenstein. The Sniffer looked above the rims of his wire framed glasses at the spectacle in front of him. It was like looking at the abominable snowman, only in 30 degrees Celsius. “The director of OI unit I presume.” The whiff must have hit him as his voice was somewhat chocked. “Yes, please call me Jim.” He said as he turned his head back to reach for the chair. This was simply cover for the huge smile on his face and providing time to compose himself so as not to burst out laughing straight into this poor guy's bow tie. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unique attire? Have you been under cover all week, keeping tabs of London's homeless community?” “No, actually I am coming from home not far from Swiss Cottage.” “As you introduced yourself as Mr. Jim, I will introduce myself as Mr. S, if I may.” He was already without his jacket when Jim entered the room and was now rolling up his sleeves. “Would you mind opening up the door so we can get some air in here?” “Actually I do, as the issues we have to discuss may be of a highly confidential nature, even for this building.” His disappointment was evident. “As I mentioned, my name is Mr. S, I am a senior examiner for the NAO.” “Which is?”

“The National Audit Office. I am here to interview you as part of our review of DI units that are not yet in full compliance with the recent budget revisions. I wish to stress the term “interview”, as we are not in formal process of an audit or inquiry yet. Most certainly we are not at any sort of disciplinary level or anything like that either. We do hope that we would not need to reach such proceedings to obtain our objectives.” “And what objectives are those?” “Our objectives are quite simple to ensure compliance and implementation of governmental directives, primarily of budgetary objectives.” “In that case, I think that you will find that our objectives may be defined somewhat differently but all for the better good of our state and country.” “Well then let's begin. Would you prefer that this interview be on record or off record?” “Your interview, your choice. Just please inform me of your clearance level so I know what I am and am not permitted to disclose.” “I have taken care of that already so no bother to even try that on me. My clearance is identical to yours. Due to the material at hand, I would wish to proceed, at least initially, off the record. Phone please Mr. Jim.” “What makes you think I have a phone with me?” “Mr. Jim. Appearances can deceive. I catch on more than you may think. I assume your appearance is not always this….whatever you call this. I would also think your scent is not always as pungent as it is now. I am fairly certain this room is not always this temperature and being of a senior level in your department, I am, again, fairly certain you have a mobile phone. Furthermore, I would be disappointed if you did not have another secondary phone with you so that you can record our discussion, dig through it, maybe manipulate the recording in an effort to find some possible slip up by me which you would then try to use to leverage me out of here. Mr. Jim, please do not underestimate me nor my determination. I challenge you here and now to see who leaves this room last. Now, your phone please.”

Round 1 was won by the Sniffer. But the war is far from over. “Mr. S. I find your insinuations uncalled for to say the least. It is my full intention to comply with any inquires there may be. Neither me, nor my unit have anything to hide and if there are any unauthorized or unwarranted actions, I shall be the first to eradicate them.” “Jolly good show! So let's begin.” Jim was trying to assess this guy, get into his head. The only thing that came to mind so far is that this guy has Asperger's. If he did not realize that Jim was being cynical, that is a huge Asperger's red flag. His tight belt over his big belly, the glasses and bow tie would be consistent with that. “Both phones here on the table, batteries out. Now then, what exactly is OI? What do you do.” “Simple. OI stands for Offensive Intelligence.” “And what is that?” “It basically means that we are an intelligence unit and that we are offensive.” “You are referring to your attire and your smell?” “Also.” “OK, and how does that progress the interests of the United Kingdom?” “To respond to that, we would need to define what are the interests of the United Kingdom.” “Point taken. Let's drop that. Please give me an example, if you may, of what you do.” “Well I am not permitted to go into specifics, so I can give a hypothetical.” “As I said, you can give me specifics, but let's go for a hypothetical for now.” “OK. Let's assume you were to launch a landing of troops in Normandy. Would

you, as a field commander, not be happy if there were, say a French earth moving infrastructure company you controlled, not far off the beach head, through which you could send two or three bulldozers to clear the way for the incoming troops?” “Yes, that would be clever and helpful.” “There you have it. That is the general concept. Acquiring of strategic and tactical assets abroad via non-military means for as yet unknown services and purposes.” “Jolly good show. What activity do you have in the unit on a day to day basis?” “Day to day, we think a lot. We come up with ideas. We train people and we implement some of our plans.” “Is what you are describing not part of what is referred to as special ops?” “Not at all. Special ops provide immediate solutions to combat situations. We provide non-combat solutions. That is the intelligence part of OI.” “And all of your activity is beyond our borders?” “To a large extent.” “So why then should this not be part of MI5 activities? Is this not superfluous?” “No.” “And why would that be?” “Because it is not. They do not do what we do. They are too big and too structured to be able to design, define and manage specific objectives.” “And who determined these deficiencies that you are referring to?” “History has.” “Do I understand you correctly that this division exists purely because you feel you can do a better job than MI5?” By now Jim himself was almost unable to breath. This discussion was not

helping much either. He had not prepared himself for a macro discussion. He was expecting more of a slap on the wrist for not keeping within his budget. He was stifled. After an initial challenge by this funny man in a bowtie, he could not roll up his sleeves or even remove the stupid hat he was wearing. It was not his most impressive day, fortunately, at least, none of the conversation was being recorded. “That would be an incorrect paraphrase of what I said. They are structurally incapable of being as effective as we are.” “Let's assume for a moment that you are totally correct. That scale has a negative impact on certain activities. Theoretically, if your division was a department within MI5, would that not make more sense? We would not need double overhead, you could share resources and information, you would have increased supervision and the division activity, success and failure, would be more measurable?” “Not at all. First, they would not want us. Second, our mere existence is what makes MI5 function to begin with. Without competition from us, they would be doing nothing but collecting pensions. Lastly, certain activities would simply or could simply not be implemented by them.” “Am I to understand that you are willing to take risks that they would not take?” “Not exactly. Larger organizations are bureaucratic and tend to lose focus of their function and functionality.” “Who supervises your activity and the risk management of your activities?” “JIC. Same as MI5.” “Mr. Jim. If I may ask, what is Subsection W?” “It is a department within OI.” “And what do they do?” “Same thing.” “So why do you need a subsection”

“Easier to manage it that way.” “In what way is it easier to manage?” “Operationally.” “What does that mean?” “I don't know, it just is.” “If I were to put it to you that it is easier to manage subsection W only in as far as you budget it as one block number instead of an itemized budget, what would you say?” “I would say that you have no idea how this activity is and needs to be managed. I would say that you are working on an underlying misconception that what is being done is for no other reason than to circumvent the system and its constraints. I would say you are totally ignoring the actual reality that OI exists for a purpose. It has specific goals to achieve, and in many certain cases, full transparency is more of a foe than a friend, and that this is a perfect example of such a case.” “Mr. Jim. I see your physical discomfort and unfortunately share it. I propose a draw. We end this discussion here. I would request that you have an itemized list of OI expenses for the period of this past quarter provided to this room by the end of the week. I would request both the full itemized expense list and the budgetary provision according to which each expense was expended. If you can convince me that the expenses are reasonable, budgeted, and that the goals could not have been achieved unless done under this framework, then we are all clear. I do expect you to include the breakdown of subsection W expenses as well. While I do not appreciate your attire or scent, I do appreciate candidness and fair and earned compliance, I will refrain from giving you my 'if not' speech. Furthermore, I would wish us to continue this discussion next week at the same time. Please do save us both the unpleasantness and arrive in some sort of uniform or other acceptable attire.” “May I ask how long have you been doing this job?” “22 years, give or take a few months.”

“Have you ever considered a different line of business?” “Are you trying to sidetrack me Mr. Jim?” “No, just considering if your skills would not be better utilized in some other setup.” “I am a content person and enjoy my job. Even when it calls for times like this meeting, which will most definitely make it into my memoirs, when they do get written.” “Yes mine too.”

The door finally opened and they booth drew a deep breath. Jim was not very happy with where this new relationship was going. Not Asperger's, something much more benign but possibly even more difficult to penetrate.

Chapter 17: “It Is Not All About The Money”

The initial approach to Zain was made by our bankers and Zain refreshingly seemed receptive to the idea of an acquisition of their business interests in Saudi Arabia. The approach was well prepared and was assisted by the fact that Deutsche Bank was very familiar with Zain activities. They knew the people there. They knew the corporate mindset and they knew enough to recognize that the chances of Zain attaining their strategic goal of obtaining a full Mobile Operator license in Saudi Arabia were slim, at best. Saudi Arabia had a few hundred Princes all of whom needed to be set up in good, respectable and well paying positions. This factual reality, by design, virtually eliminated any chance that the Saudi Royal family would permit Zain, which happened to be controlled by a Kuwaiti family, of obtaining a full mobile operator license within the Kingdom. The Saudi hierarchy would never allow such a valuable utility to be swept from under their feet into the extended hands of a neighbor, albeit, a Kuwaiti family that is itself tied into the Saudi Royal family.

The initial introduction was accepted with enough enthusiasm that the Zain management initiated and prepared an overview of the Zain assets and corporate activities in Saudi Arabia for review by the intended acquirer and requested that any offer bids should be formulated off of the documents provided. The material was very well assembled and prepared so as to highlight the fact that all the elements required to the hypothesis that a Mobile Operator license would be imminent. The natural interpretation of their packaged information was to recognize and set the stage for what would be a hefty for a purchase of their assets that they believed they would be due to collect.

The material prepared by Zain was of course locked and coded so that only specific pre-determined desk top computers were permitted to open the file and beyond that no information could be electronically copied. The information was

protected from outside viewers unless someone either hand copied all the information or took a picture of the computer screens displaying the information. Zain had control of the code system and could shut down access to any if it was misused or inappropriate. Tom Cook was, of course, listed as a permitted of the material and afforded a number. A heated discussion was erupting at the apartment as to which desk top computer should be used in order to open the files. It needed to be at a location under project control, somewhere that would be logical for Tom to be located while at the same time somewhere that could not be tracked from which the coming and going could be monitored. It was not only Zain activity that one had to be concerned about, it was the probing eyes of the Saudis, MI5 and Ellah. Each of which would have vested interests in tracking down and checking into Tom Cook and his activities. This did not immediately include any other world governments or conglomerates that may become alerted to a rather large Mobile transaction in the ever growing media landscape of the middle east. We adopted the safe, standard, tried and true conservative approach. Jack was to rent an apartment in Paris, which essentially functioned as the UK special ops's backyard for all dirty activity. He was to buy a new computer and do the work from that terminal in .

“Great to see you all again but it seems like Tom Cook is proceeding just as well without me.” By now, the team were all well aware of my discomfort of being separated from Tom, who, for the past 14 days, was in the epicenter of a mega deal, something Simon Smith could only dream of ever doing in reality. “Not so fast. Simon, your attendance will be required sooner than you think. In a week or so, we will need you to take over pricing discussions. This is the Middle East. These guys are genetically programmed traders. Money will not be discussed long distance, not electronically and not with bankers. It is a Principal's game. Second to Ellah himself in this hierarchy is Tom Cook. So, don't go anywhere just yet.” I had been out of the game for so long that even Jim now referred to me as Simon and not as Tom, a detail he had always made a point of doing in the past. This prompted the latest and quickly confirmed board resolution to kick in: if they want me back in, they will have to realize I am a factor not to be taken for granted.

“If you want me to do it, I am available with pleasure. Mind you, we have to take into consideration that I promised Daphne we would take some time away at the end of next week. We better make certain I am back in time because there is no way I can put that off.” “It may be a little tight, but we should be able to make that work. Do you want to go to Paris with Jack and start going over the material there or will you have enough time to prep when he returns in 2-3 days?” “It depends on the level of info Jack will be able to provide. Do we have a way to copy anything without it being noticed on the other side? Or will Jack have to take notes?” “We will not risk playing with the software, if we screw that up everything would go down the drain. Jack, can we set up a second computer with a web cam and stream the info?” “Yes, we can have a secure connection, that is doable.” “There you have it, problem solved. No point in me going to with Jack. Let's do everything from here.”

Clearly, Jim was not going to let me off the hook so easily. “First, Simon, even before we have the secure connection set up and the file online, I want you to appreciate that once we get it, that information is invaluable. Even if this mission was to crash and burn the minute after we get that file and we accomplish nothing further, this whole effort would have been worthwhile. The information is that valuable. I want to thank you and the whole team for getting us this far. Who knows, maybe one day someone will appreciate how much we have achieved on the pitiful budget we have been given. No one, on our side of the world, has access to the stuff we are about to receive. In the meantime, this is a file containing the openly available information on one Bader Nasser AlKharafi. He will be your counterpart on the details of price and critical path discussions. Bader is earmarked to head the next generation of the Al-Kharafi dynasty which controls Zain. He is young, was educated at the London School of Economics and therefore you should expect that he knows Western civilization, our mannerisms, argument structures, logic associations and thought patterns very well. Despite his age, do not underestimate his experience. He has a lot of

family money, and by a lot I mean a hell of a lot, and he plays with it quite well. Having said that, most, if not all, of his business has been done in the Middle East. , facts are, he may look and sound like a Westerner but, below the surface, he is very much a camel driver. Simon, get to know the guy. Everyone else, let's do this!”

Information began flowing in from Paris. The file piped back to the apartment was indeed extensive containing everything one might have thought was needed, numbers, locations, capacities, system architecture, bulk loading, system components and even three, five and ten-year development plans. The investment bank was now in its favorite medium and our bankers went to town. Everything was analyzed, addressed, packaged, repackaged. We were getting it all: pricing the equipment, the revenue, replacement value, going concern, roll out pipeline, CAPEX, OPEX revenue and profit projections, and extensive sensitivity charts. There were so many pages and spreadsheets flying around from side to side, one could actually be fooled into thinking that investment bankers have an idea of what they are talking about. If investment banks were paid based upon the accuracy of their projections, as opposed to how many projections they made, the world would be a better place. The rest of the week was spent understanding and analyzing the business and planning the meet with Al-Kharafi. Tom held a final conference call with Ellah's M&A guy, and the Deutsche Bank team, to put a stamp on the negotiation red lines and then Tom was ready to rock and roll.

The meeting was to take place in Dubai. A location carefully selected by AlKharafi so that he would feel secure on his side of the hemisphere but would not carry too much of a home territory advantage. It was an environment that provided him with the comfort and chance to parade his Arab pride while at the same time, sufficiently resembled Western cultural norms so as not to put Tom off guard. We were scheduled to spend three days there. The meetings were coined by the Deutsche team as one on one’s so that we two could bond. Get to know each other. Somehow this was projected to help achieve final deal faster or easier or perhaps without either of us getting our heads lopped off if a term was not ideal. I, obviously, was not too worried about the safety of my head

and its attachment to my body, but I could not make the same assertion for my new friend to be Bader. Considering the culmination of all our efforts was supposed to be no more than one long all-encoming number, the process involved was to be a long one and I was counseled to expect multiple ups and downs which would require internal fortitude and a strong bridge to hold the package together. The Deutsche bank lead executive on the deal made a gallant effort at putting himself forward for this central function but it was clear to us that it was crucial for our strategic interests that Tom be the pivot. After several intensive days, including all through the intervening weekend, during which we churned through every detail, multiple times, and examined all the provided numbers, theoretical numbers and presumed numbers as well as the known comparables worldwide, we deemed ourselves as ready as we were ever going to be to embark on our journey and commence discussions. My instructions from Jim were clear and simple: No business talk whatsoever during the first day. Second day, business was permissible, but no numbers, even if it seemed that Al-Kharafi would agree to anything. Numbers were only permissible 45 minutes before I was scheduled to leave. A flight delay is and had to be factored in so there was some flexibility in that numbers could be discussed well after the supposed deadline. And even when addressing numbers, they were to be regarded as a dirty inconvenience, not overtly spoken by persons of such stature, and possibly even just written on a napkin. In the days leading up to my trip, I was exposed to increasingly higher levels of caffeine, nicotine, and mineral water. Having never done any real business with Arabs, aside from buying a coke and kebab in backstreet eateries, Jim filled me in on the basics of business in the region.

“An Arab will not do business with you unless he feels he knows you, your family, your ancestors and their respective shoe sizes. Brush up on your cover story, there is more of a chance you will need specified detail and color with AlKharafi than in any of your other activities. Another issue, when in the market, you trade like anyone would in a market. Even though someone else is paying for this jewel, and I don’t really give a shit what price you commit to on behalf of Ellah, , and this is of the utmost importance, whatever amount you were authorized to propose, you slice off 30% and do it with a straight face.

Your counterpart will do the opposite and you don't bat an eyelash. These are the rules for these types of transactions, as crazy as it may seem. There is no such thing as a nonstarter. Play the game cool, at all times. Never raise your voice aside from when in greetings. Do not be afraid to ask directly if, aside from the formal price to be agreed on, you have uncertainty as to who needs to be paid kickbacks and what these ball park figures would be. These are the finer and absurd details that will indicate you are serious. And this one I cannot express too often and with too much importance, never and I mean NEVER say anything derogatory about Islam. It doesn’t matter how trivial or insignificant the thought or comment may be, and even if he himself initiates some remark to that end, it is a big no go. He is allowed to trash his crew, you are not. Otherwise, never say anything which could be understood as belittling his mother or father, family and the like and don't bother trying to trim comments designed to boost his ego. It doesn’t matter how thin or transparent you may seem, they really get off on that stuff and it goes a long way.

If he tries to toss you around and keep you waiting, not only are you not to be phased by this, you must show him that you cannot be rattled and everything can be positioned for your benefit. In such a case, go do something play boyish - rent a yacht, a jet ski or something of the sort, maybe crash something for fun and flip the circumstances on him. Make him have to wait for you. One last point, Dubai may be in the desert but it is as damn sure expensive as Tokyo. In addition to a pile of cash, you will have a credit card you may need to use. It is a corporate card which unfortunately may be traceable, if they try hard enough. Use cash for all expenses where you are required to give a name, hotels, flights, reservations and so on. Stuff with no name, restaurants and what have you, you can use the card. Other than that, go do what you do. Play businessman and make certain you come back with a deal.”

With that adolescent rah rah pep talk, and the numbers I was authorized to offer, I was off. Daphne was fore warned that I may be cutting it close arriving back for our weekend and that she could be in touch with Natasha while I was in transit, as Natasha was the one arranging the itinerary for Jim and I.

And so the games then begun.

Taking advantage of all the dead time en route, I picked up a few designer shirts while transferring via Paris. The new purchases were perfect compliments to my otherwise immaculate business wardrobe. Arriving in Dubai, I was met by an ultra-modern terminal which was vast, clean and aesthetic. Riding the long escalators and walkways, at a perfect temperature of 21 degrees centigrade, it was almost unimaginable to think that outside was a desert with a sun blazing sustaining temperatures of 42 degrees centigrade, in the shade. The airconditioning of the terminal alone, per year, must have cost more than the average third world country GDP. After the brisk, though mandatory, processing at modern airports, I was met at the arrivals hall by my driver. He was dressed in full chauffeur attire, compliments of the Burj Al Arab hotel, and he led me to an immaculately white vintage Rolls Royce. At over two grand, USD, a night for one of the smaller rooms in the hotel, this was the least they could do. The thirtyminute drive to the hotel was uneventful but an experience none the less. Contrary to my previous experience in this region, there was little to no ducking, no one shot or threw anything at me and the yearning to reach shelter just was not there. There were no crowds in the streets and there were sky scrapers everywhere, which in itself was a strange phenomenon. Common logic has it that sky scrapers emerge when land is in dire shortage and the price of it surges. Looking around, it seemed like there were vast expanses of desert and sand dunes just waiting to be redeemed from there dormancy. Yet instead of the city/state expanding sideways, the community leadership elected to immediately begin spurting upwards. It is not as if the land had an obvious alternative use for say, agriculture or some other productive service. Unless these people had plans

of developing a natural gas field, purchasing the Olympics to host there or anything of that sort, what were they saving the space for?? Even more overwhelming or confusing, was the decision, instead of simply developing the endless coastline in either or both directions, they (again not sure who) felt the need to jut out into the ocean itself, converting and constructing whole neighborhoods built into the ocean, thereby challenging the gods of the seas. In any case, I was headed for the crown jewel of Dubai, the Burj Al Arab, an impressive trophy on any standard. Constructed some 300 meters into the ocean, it was designed as a massive sail some 400 meters tall with a beautiful restaurant and tennis court on the penthouse level.

Nothing should come as a surprise at the hotel known as “The World's only 7star hotel” but when we drove up, the driver politely asked which room I would be staying in. The question caught me off my guard as I had but barely arrived in the city never mind at my hotel. It seemed like an odd question so I asked him how could I know my room number if I hadn’t checked in yet?? Besides, even the wording of the question seemed odd. He asked in reference to “which” room I was staying, as if the room itself had an individual trait or possibly a name, as opposed to the standard “what” room, as in “what is your room number?’’ Clearly, this was not an original or intellectual question as he then proceeded to explain to me, as one would explain to an under privileged child, how to use an elevator for the first time. He explained, quite slowly and clearly that each of the rooms in the hotel was individualized in design and name and that one needed to know one’s room name, otherwise, he wouldn’t know which reception are to direct me to. I was not aware that this hotel, or more accurately this micro cosmos, had a reception on every second floor to ensure that people aspiring for anonymity have little to no risk of being identified by communal lobby bystanders. I had no useful information for him so I simply just gave him my name. He informed me that my booking was for one of the standard suites on the 70th floor but that Sheik Al-Kharafi had graciously upgraded me to the Waddy Shakir ocean view junior suite on the 90th floor. The token effort was ed and logged, but something so trivial and banal could never influence Simon Smith or Tom Cook. That being said however, the exquisitely Arabian decorated 3-bedroom duplex, with its winding staircase, complete office and full size bar, should not really be referred to simply as a junior suite. Mini penthouse would be the more appropriate description in my vocabulary. In a place like this, with

such standards, I couldn't imagine what wonders they could put together as an qualify as a full suite. No less impressive than the ocean view of the Burj Al Arab, was the view inward towards the hotel Atrium. Each floor disclosed a pyramid of arches which, in my imagination, is how I had always visualized the biblical Tower of Babel.

The tour of the room by the “floor Butler,” took no less than 15 minutes. I was then informed that, once organized, Prince Bader Nasser Al-Kharafi would be delighted to meet me for tea at noon on the 110th floor. This was the big league.

I arrived at the sky lounge an hour later. Taking note of Jim's instructions not to be belittled in any way. As Al-Kharafi had been so generous as to upgrade my room for me, had I arrived dressed in a business suit, it could have been perceived that I was reporting for some kind of duty and succumbing to his aspired superiority. Thus, I put on chinos and a loose shirt. Next up, the calculation. I would have thought my arriving 35 minutes late would have been enough time after which Al-Kharafi would most likely have already made his entrance and hence would have been waiting for me. Alas, I was mistaken. Once in the lounge, I sipped a Perrier taking in the spectacular view while waiting for Prince Al-Kharafi to grace me with his presence and added an espresso for kicks and to overcome any as of yet noted jetlag. After another 20 minutes, I asked the hostess when Prince Al-Kharafi was expected to arrive. She responded that she had already informed his assistant that I was waiting for him. I got the message loud and clear. I had orders to follow, nothing was more important than staying occupied. I asked the lovely attendee if she could find me a partner for a tennis match on the court situated on the roof of the Hotel. The one adjacent to the helipad, of course. She responded that the tennis court could be rented for a fee of $150 USD an hour, including balls, rackets and a coach. She added that it was quite rare for people to rent the tennis court before sunset, as the heat on the court hovered north of 45 degrees. Good thinking. Sitting inside this customized spaceship at a perfect temperature, you tend to forget the hell it is outside. Instead, she proposed a cooler form of recreation, either renting a high performance Italian car or possibly, as absurd as it may seem, alpine skiing in a nearby shopping mall. Both were very appealing options but the latter sounded

so much more unique, considering it was the middle of the desert. I politely asked her to inform Prince Al-Karafi that I maybe slightly held up.

The idea of creating an indoor alpine ski run in the middle of the desert is, by any reasonable standard, completely ludicrous but, with enough money, evidently anything is possible. During the drive to the ski mall, formally known as the Emirates Mall, I could feel the sun scorching my skin through the car roof. It was that hot and that uncomfortable even with the heavy duty air conditioning turned way up. Naturally, I would be on my way for some downhill skiing. To my surprise, but not shock, the ski mall was very much the real deal. Arriving at the ski area, I was provided with a full ski suit, ski equipment (only the best) and disposable socks which were exactly that, disposable. All for one price as part of the chairlift ticket. It was all the real stuff. There were real chairlifts and I skied on real snow. This wasn’t a dumping ground for some plastic make believe replacement look-a-like flakes but was an honest to goodness incline with the real wet gooey cold stuff. There were two real snow runs available. A few kids were on the hill at the time learning how to slalom so I actually 'stole' a run through their evenly placed poles. I doubt that the ski attraction alone was by any stretch of the imagination cost-efficient or self-containing, but it was there as a very notable attraction to the shopping mall built alongside it. What a marvelous draw it was both for the skiers and for the spectators alike. The ski runs in the mall were nowhere remotely close to being as extensive and challenging as those in the Alps, to which I was more accustomed, but that mall was certainly up on the list of remarkable skiing experiences.

For a very short moment, I almost felt guilty for being suited up and playing around on snow in an Arab country on the Persian Gulf. I efficiently set those thoughts aside as orders are orders and at the end of the day, I was just a soldier. My orders were very clearly stated - keep busy in play boyish style. So, it seemed becoming that since I had more time to occupy, I should proceed to rent myself a Lamborghini to round off my motor skills and education. The car came to pick me up directly at the Emirates Mall.

Expectations were high and were not disappointed. The Gallardo Spyder is a car to die for, or at least to dream about. Most of the models produced were red, but this one was a bright yellow and it had a pick up that even my Aston would be envious of. Driving the coastline close to sunset was nothing short of divine. No less important was that when renting the Spyder, I was informed that the speed limit in Dubai applies only to locals. After a moderate test drive with the instructor and much self-control such that he was comfortable I could handle the beast, I was let loose to fulfill one of maybe three remaining and attainable childhood fantasies. I was pushing my own limits once I blew by 240 Km/hr. I hovered at my top speed (one fifth the speed of sound) for a couple of minutes after which I was more or less drained of adrenalin, and after all, I was not on a race track and there were obstacles that I needed to avoid.

On the whole, the afternoon was quite spectacular. Not one, but two experiences I would not ever forget, both part of a masquerade that one normally stops dreaming about once they start grammar school. Or maybe this is more of a Last Supper type of experience. The whole shebang set me back a little less than $1,000 USD. Not exactly cheap, but I had the responsibility of maintaining the proper air, character and presentation laid upon me in my role on behalf of Her Majesty’s interests. There were no worries, I had the plastic, courtesy of Jim, to pay for it all.

Finally, back at the hotel, I called the hostess to see if the Prince was ready for me and indeed we set to meet an hour later. Again, although I made every effort to fulfill instructions, I somehow managed to arrive before him. Leaning against the wall, once again enjoying the astounding view, I realized that my fun in the sun did take its toll as I had acquired wealthy man’s sun burn. The one you get when your arm hangs out the sports car window, but you can’t feel because you’re so caught up by driving your convertible. The occasion had finally occurred. The Prince made his entrance no more than 15 minutes after me. He came alone and looked slightly younger than I. He was dressed in a traditional

white thaub with a red woven kafiye on his head. He wore the mandatory handlebar mustache and a four-day stubble beard. Having very little to go by in the form of background on Tom Cook, who was nowhere to be found on the internet or anywhere else for that matter, I think Prince Al-Karafi was relieved to see in front of him a member of his generation. He was very calm and confident and gave me a strong and friendly handshake. He spoke impeccable English and aside from his attire, he could have ed for a VP at British Telecom just as easily as the Deputy Chairman of Zain. We quickly went to first name basis. “So, Tom, are you a new player in the mobile business?” “Well first, I am not the player, I may call some shots but the real player here is Lord Ellah. But in response to your question, I may be new to mobile, per se but I have been a long time player in voice over IP and if I must say so myself, I played a big part in bringing it mainstream into the telcos.” Thus more of my full cover story was introduced seamlessly and in an uninterrupted manner, far easier than the stress tests Jack and John seemed to enjoy putting me through. Apparently, Bader and Tom were in parallel circles during their early professional years in the City. Same clubs, same football teams, ired the same English skirts. Only coincidence somehow miraculously kept them from crossing paths earlier in life. “Basically, Bader, you seem to have spent your beautiful years, pretty much the same as I. Since we both know how it works there, how did you make it through all those years in London without drinking alcohol?” “I would be lying to you if I said that I did not partake. I would be lying to you if I said that I did not enjoy it and so would I be lying to you if I said I do not miss it at times. But as we grow older, we are wiser, we take decisions and we make choices. I can appreciate the benefits of my culture, its virtues and the wisdom of its limitations. I have also seen firsthand where such things without limitations can lead. You and I may be of the class that can draw the line responsibly, but not all men can. I am sure you have seen that too. Limitations help provide structure to society”. Given the rise of my previously unnoticed, masked by adrenaline, jet lag, I was happy that he did not drink anything, so that I could remain sharp for the rest of the evening.

We went up to the penthouse restaurant for dinner and were seated in a quiet

corner overlooking the shore line which I was pretty sure was out there, somewhere down beneath us. The lighting in the restaurant was rather dim such that the glare would not reflect back from the large windows. The resulting effect of the long drawn out process of the sun slowly setting, was spectacular. This is the type of place god must be sitting in when he manages the world. Though it was just Bader and I, the table between us was large and overflowing before we even thought of ordering.

In French cuisine, the pinnacle of decadence is what is known as the Menu Degustation, a tasting menu, where the chef shows off his most elegant and tasty samples of his creativity. It normally has ten to fourteen courses, with assorted treats in between and is a 90-120-minute process all in all. Naturally, to be worthy of being called Menu Degustation, the courses need to each be freshly made. The minor snag when partaking in the Menu Degustation is, that it is la petit cuisine, small dining; each course is slightly larger than bite size and aside from the breads and wine, during most of the meal, the table is generally empty. Do not hold out hope for the Menu Degustation if you are hungry, as you will end up simply eating baguette and butter for dinner by time you get served anything decent. By contrast, in Arab cuisine, before we even sat down or ordered anything, our table was full of assorted dishes of all shapes, scents and colors. I was famished after skiing, driving and no lunch, but followed Bader's lead so as not to appear overly keen. When they presented the freshly baked pita bread straight from the oven, I could hardly wait for Bader to finish his sentence to taste it. The meal began when Bader tore the large round Pita bread and threw half of it to me. The term 'breaking bread' now had a new and more literal meaning. The bread was not all that we broke together that evening. We broke Lebanese vine leaves stuffed with rice and goat meat together, we broke 20 or so salad variations together, we broke shishkebab together, we broke ox testicles together (which would have been more enjoyable had I not been told what exactly I was eating), we broke goat tonsil stew together and we broke lamb chops together. Dining set aside, most importantly, we broke the ice together.

Bader went through the obligatory list of his toys, including his Ducati Monster, his Ferrari California, his Hummer, his summer home in Sicily for the hot season

and, of course, his Arabian chestnut stallion. As there was no way I could compete with his toys, I ired them fully, but had to maintain posture by sharing my appetite for adrenalin in the form of Heli-skiing in various exotic locations, something that if he ever challenged, I could excel in, and my high capabilities in rally driving. We discussed his family life of one wife, so far, and five kids, so far and my divorce and two long distance children, so far. His strong, tight knit family of father and brothers as compared to my estranged siblings. I found myself appreciating this guy more and more. Bader was comfortable, conversant and opinionated in all facets of politics, economics, sports and arts, and could easily fit in to any Gentleman's club back home. To top off this 'heavy' meal, in all aspects, and in a manner which personified Bader's character, Bader had a Coke Zero and Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream. I stuck to the mint tea, which was just about all I could fit in by then. We parted at the elevator with a hug and set to meet the next morning at 10:00 to talk business.

It had been a long day and I was nearly unconscious but I had obligations to live up to, responsibilities to the Crown or whatever, so I forced myself to go downstairs and take a cab to town. I had to check in and update John. Calling from the Island was not an option because even I knew that any calls and all my activities would be monitored. The best course of action was to find some sort of crowd, congestion or public activity and just mesh right in. Naturally, I went for a walk downtown. I turned on my other cell phone and, as expected, it was picked up by a local tower signal. For a brief moment, I chuckled at the thought that the local tower enabling my call may someday be mine altogether, if we expanded to Dubai post acquisition. The call went through to Jack. “Everything is on track, perfect to the script so far. No problem with getting to know him, breaking the ice. Tomorrow, we are scheduled to begin.” Jack reminded me of the instructions from the big guy. I was to do and give nothing tomorrow either. Simply continue to build the cover and build the bridge. “Understood” and hang up. The next little while was spent working on presentation and character aesthetics. Close the phone, buy some cigarettes, smoke a little to justify my evening excursion to anyone and everyone who may be watching, act all annoyed when I lose the cellphone signal and, finally, back to the hotel. ing my floor reception desk, I decided it was important that

Bader not see me as a subject, especially after he upgraded my room. I decided I would pay for dinner. I produced my credit card and asked to settle the charge for dinner. The reception clerk said it was taken care of, but I insisted and paid the $1100 bill. Dinner was indeed exquisite, but never before had I paid £550 for a two-person meal. All part of the playbook, when up in the big league, you’ve got to play the part. Finally, totally exhausted, I got to bed, slept on a cloud and like a rock.

*********************

The same, unfortunately, could not be said for Jim. Back in London, he was scheduled to meet the Sniffer the next morning and he had no idea what to say to him. It was out of character for Jim not to sleep well and it was even more out of character for Jim not to know how to deal with someone. Jim was highly regarded as the master of HUMINT. Usually, solutions came naturally to him through three basic steps: feel the person out; determine what drives the target; and use the acquired information to manipulate situation. For most people, the driver was generally simple stuff: greed, drugs, sex, fear, ego, family, idealism, inferiority, whatever. The list of primary psychological motivators is not particularly long. Every now and then, one would come across someone who just didn’t fit a mold or ran to a tune that most people never heard or even thought of. The Sniffer character, he was one of those. There was no telling what the hell he was all about. None of the usual stuff was even close to the radar. Natasha, either fulfilling part of her job requirement or perhaps she really had a thing for Jim, shared in Jim’s insomnia issue but due to a completely different but related reason. The uncharacteristic absence of Jim’s snoring must have made her uneasy. “Jim, you OK?” “Nothing serious. Just deliberating how to deal with the weasel of a Sniffer tomorrow. You can go back to sleep.” “By the way, you know Tom checked in and he says he is doing fine.”

“Yes I am sure he is. He is a winner and very mission orientated. I am sure he'll get it done ok. My gut feeling is to be more concerned about the bullshit I’ve waded into here. Go back to sleep, I'll figure it out.” Natasha sat up and said insightfully, “Maybe this guy is a true bureaucrat at heart. An idealist, in his own way. If that is the case, give him a rough overview of the operation, let him feel a part of it, get him on our team and tell him to call back in 90 days and, by then, once we secure the asset, he won't dare touch us.” “I thought of that but if I go that route, we inherently run the risk that he doesn’t appreciate our efforts and see this our way. He would then be able to go ballistic and blow the whistle on the whole thing. 12 months’ hard work and a valuable asset goes straight down the drain. It’s just too risky, this early, especially when I know nothing about the guy.” “So play for time, string him on until we are in place.” “That would be the natural course of action. But you can be certain he is expecting that. He cut right down to it last time. Even was so bold as to warn me about tossing him about. He was ready. He arrived fully armed with necessary clearance and an office in house to brew in. He will sniff me stonewalling in a moment. Never mind now, we have teams in the field right now. I think I’m a definite red flag to this guy.” The wheels could be heard turning. “It is low, I know you hate it and I know that it will not work in the bigger picture but maybe it will buy us some time until we are less vulnerable. How about you go in there tomorrow and do some of your Blonde thing?” “Sure, no big deal, I'll do it. I am yet to meet the guy I can't string along for a week or two.” “Well you've kept me on a tight leash for six months so far, a few weeks for this guy should be no challenge.” “Exactly, so let's get some sleep.”

Taking into proper consideration the age and executive position of the Sniffer, Natasha decided to go with a bright red lipstick, which considering the size of

her lips, took a healthy moment to apply. Add to that, she put on an unusually unrevealing white blouse with a black bra underneath, black slacks and heels. The advanced concept was quite clear, if she were to show up as a complete bimbo, big cleavage, short skirt etc., it would have been far too obvious. There was no way the Sniffer goes for that bait and probably is insulted and follows up with counter measures of his own. This would be the more advanced and mature approach. She could be very businesslike and yet successfully distract him in a Benny Hill type of way. And it worked! For all of fifteen minutes. He ired her. He adjusted his bow tie and he was even going to ask her out before he speculated that she was probably sleeping with Jim. “I thank you for coming in this morning and introducing yourself, but I was actually expecting Jim. I can appreciate he has very urgent things to deal with, all of which, I am sure, concern national security. However, this is quite important as well. Had this not been so important, I would not have been vested with all the authority and powers I can wield. Do you think they would authorize me to search businesses and houses and place people under arrest if they did not think that what I was doing was fairly important?? Perhaps even as important as some aspects of national security?? In effect, I have only myself to blame. I thought I had a good conversation with Jim and, evidently, naively, thought I clarified myself enough so as not to require the 'if not' speech. I was supposed to have received the material I requested by the end of last week, have studied it over the weekend and was to meet Jim this morning to discuss it. Again, my mistake, no materials received and this morning I am meeting with a lovely lady instead of a mal-odored army officer. Doesn't he know that, if I choose, I have the authority to sequester him and the entire DI for that matter?” It was definitely not looking good for team Jim. This guy was working himself up into a fury, adding more and more coal onto the fire. “Under normal circumstances, this situation warrants a stiff warning. Even warrants a citation in his personnel file. I can do that you know, and I would do it. Yes, this is definitely a situation where I would do that. This is not me sitting here, it is the JIC. It is the NAO. They want answers, they deserve answers and they will get answers. It is my job to get answers for them and it is Jim's job to

give me those answers for them.”

Natasha sat there expertly playing the dumb blonde, she was letting him ventilate all over her. It was seemingly following the playbook: Let him blow off some steam, he puts in some request for a citation, we set up a meeting for reconciliation, get the Ministry to calm things down, bring in the asset and everything will work out fine. “You know I would do that without batting an eyelid.” “Yes, no doubt you have the power to do that.” “Yes, I would do that without thinking twice, had there not been exacerbating circumstances here!” “What does that mean?” “What that means, young lady, is that I have not been sitting around waiting for Mr. Jim to provide me with his reports. I have utilized my authority and powers with the treasury and have reached deep down into the finances of this OI of yours. Do you know what I came up with? I'll tell you what I came up with, just in the last 6 months. I came up with lap tops. I came up with first class airline tickets. I came up with expensing of whisky purchases. I came up with expensing of trendy down town sushi restaurants. I came up with expensing dinner at one Hotel Russi in Rome. Does this smell like work to you or is someone having a great big party? Multiple parties? What did he think? That he can hide these things from me?? That he is unable?” Now, he was red and fuming. “I'll have you know young lady that I flagged certain s. Shall I tell you what I found on my desk only this morning? I'll tell you what I found on my desk. On one single corporate card, connected directly to a treasury and authorized to our friend Jim, I received notices for charges from an indoor skiing facility and for the rental of a race car in Dubai. I found a 550pound charge for a restaurant. Young lady, you people are out of control and this stops right here!” I am ordering the sequester of all OI personnel above the rank of Major, all, each, and every single one of this subsection W, to the Military Corrective Training Centre, better known as the Glasshouse, by 17:30 today. Written orders will be distributed by 12:00 pm today. Once there, we will begin a process of releasing those not necessary for our inquiries and you, Jim and all

those others whom I have not yet had the pleasure to meet, who are playing with JIC funds, will begin providing answers. Young lady, don't give me the pleasure of sending military police to arrest you people one by one because I will do it. And one last thing, don't bother calling your friends in Dubai, I already cancelled the credit card. Now go report that to Mr. Jim. Good day now, we will see each other in the Glasshouse this evening in a different setting. In handcuffs, if it is necessary.” Natasha maintained her composure and shot back the only possible pour some water on the flame response she could think of. “Sir, are we not getting a little carried away?” “Get the fuck out of here already!” he shouted abruptly at the top of his lungs. Now that scared the living daylights out of Natasha. Once the shock waves from his surprise outburst dissipated, the echo in the confined space faded and Natasha resettled herself, he said, in a perfectly calm voice: “You see? that is getting carried away. Before was just normal”.

“Jim, I just got out of the meeting with this guy, we are fucked. He wants us all in the Greenhouse tonight. You had better call the Minister immediately, this guy is out of control.” “Shit, what happened there?” “Yes, it all hit the fan and we look bad. Really bad. There is nothing you nor I could have done. To make things even worse, he knows something is going on in Dubai, he flagged the credit card and canceled it. Jim, we are in a bad state. This is the time to grovel!” “That bad?” “Every bit as bad. He says he will have us arrested and he doesn’t seem to be joking. I am telling you, he knows about Dubai, Tom's card is dead, so we need to deal with this before the damage is irreversible.” “Any point in me talking to this idiot?” “It will just make things worse. Call the minister. Jim, we are there. Trust me.”

“Let's meet at the café in 20 minutes and see what we can do.”

Chapter 18: “Ignorance is Bliss”

“Natasha, don't blame yourself. It is my screw up. I underestimated this Sniffer and played him wrong. It was probably over before you even walked in the door. This is what we are going to do. I agree I have no alternative but to try to talk to the Minister. I am not too hopeful but it is a last resort and I have to try it. He hates my guts but maybe I’ll be able to get him to overlook that and to see the bigger picture. In the meantime, we all go into American Football mode.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, the whole team pulls into a tight defensive ring to protect the quarterback. If the quarterback goes down, we all go down. If we protect him and he succeeds, we are all back to super hero status, and this whole thing becomes nothing but static. First priority, have John look into those credit card charges. Who is the ed purchaser in each of the charges? I want the names and transactions that ticked off the Sniffer ASAP. Second, bring Jack back on the double. Explain to him where we stand. Tell him to take responsibility for all the odd charges. He'll have my backing all the way. Simon Smith doesn’t and never existed as far as any of us are concerned. Jack is to assume the roll Tom Cook, he needs to take the heat for the charges and we’ll pray that Simon can keep on track in the meantime. Understood?” “Yes Jim, but bring back Jack? We are going to leave a guy in the field all alone? We never do that.” “The best thing we can possibly do now to protect him is keep his activity completely discreet and keep him away from here. If this stupidity continues, we stand the risk of him and this whole operation being blown, not from the other side, but from home.” “Jim, he doesn’t even have a credit card. It’s been blocked. Never mind if he gets exposed, what if he gets mugged? what if he gets hit by a car crossing the street? What if he is short 10 pounds for a taxi? Jim, this is a rule we have never broken before.” “First, he is more than capable of handling himself. I followed his progress, he has good instincts. Second, these are not ordinary circumstances. You know I would never do this in any other situation. It is a call I have to make and I am

making it. Simon takes care of himself, Jack takes the hit as Tom Cook. I told you, our only chance of getting out of this is if this goes to successful completion. That only happens if Simon completes his mission. For that to happen, Jack needs to take a short term hit. Natasha, you don't need me to explain the alternative. This business with Ellah can land us in even hotter water. So this mission must succeed 100%. You know what the corollary of 99% success is?” “1% failure?” “Wrong! No those are chances. The alternative to a 99% success is, 100% failure. So we have to make sure he comes through. Natasha, one more thing. Nothing, but nothing, over the phone. We both know that in more cases than not, the cover up is worse than the crime. No cover up, no talking to anyone about anything. American Football. We never met Simon and for all we know, he does not exist. Let's do our job, he will do his and it will all . You go do your thing, I'll chase the minister.”

***********************

Jim expected the Minister of Defense to take his call immediately. The animosity between the two was so great and so overt that for Jim to call the Minister had to foretell a major incident, the magnitude of an imminent nuclear threat or similar, in any case, not something to be brushed off by the Minister. “Good morning. May I speak to the Minister please. Please let him know it is the Head of OI.” “The Minister will be taking your call in his private room, one moment please.” “Good Morning Jim, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Everything fine and dandy on the dark side?” “Thank you for taking my call Minister. Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures.”

“And what might those be?” “Minister, with your permission, I will speak very directly. We have been working on a 'whale project', one that can prove to be a major strategic asset in the Middle East in the near future. The project is very close to closure. Unfortunately, we have been faced with some sort of audit by the NAO. Being consumed with the project, we have not been in full compliance of the audit, as of yet. Things have become, tight. Very tight. To the extent that the OI senior staff are being sequestered, as soon as this evening, to enforce compliance. The thing is, we have no problem with the audit and we intend to comply with it to the fullest extent but the timing is terrible as we need to concentrate on the closure of the project, which is imminent. What I am asking for is your intervention to put the audit on hold, including and especially, the sequestering of our staff. I know how this works, so in return, I am willing to offer you full credit on the project. And this operation Sir, is a project that will go to down in the history books on the same page as Enigma.” “My, my, that is an earful at this early hour Jim.” “Sir, I am asking that you put aside the differences between us, which are insignificant, compared to what is at stake here.” “Jim, shall I tell you what I am hearing? What I am hearing is that you got yourself into a right pickle. You got in over your head playing your under cover game. You have been caught out and are on the verge of being exposed by our own guys. You have a botched up project trying to knock off some irrelevant party official somewhere around the globe with a poisoned Coheba cigar or something fancy like that, and now you are trying to cover your ass by supposedly getting my approval for an unapproved operation. Loosely translated, you are looking for someone to take the fall for it when the shit hits the fan. Hmmmm. It is a hard call, but nevertheless, given the choice between taking the fall for whatever it is you may have cooked up in your warped mind, or letting you fry, I think I'll go for letting you fry. Next time you call me, may I request that it be on official business, not one of your little schemes.” “Sir, I am not requesting anything on my own behalf. I'll take full responsibility for this whole audit thing, which is trivial. The issue is that I have people in the

field. This sequester would, for all intents and purposes, be abandoning them.” “Tell that to the NAO. Have a good day Jim.”

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“Good Morning Prime Mister Blair.” “Lord Ellah, thank you for ing me on such short notice and at this inhumane hour.” “It is my pleasure. For you, any time any place, Prime Minister. How have you been keeping?” “Wonderful, and yourself? What can I offer you? My recommendation would be to avoid the soft boiled eggs. Claridges is no longer what it used to be my friend, another symbol of our declining empire. How difficult can it be to get a 4-minute egg right, or is it these genetically modified eggs that are contaminating the market. One way or another, it is my feeling that things are getting more difficult in life, rather than the opposite. How is the media business?” “Business is business. Ups, downs and a lot of in between. All in all, so long as there are more ups than downs, no complaints.” “So long as your bank manager meets you at the door when you walk in, you are OK.” “Yes indeed, he still jumps to attention and it is not because of my physique.” “Lord Ellah, I made some inquiries as to the issue you raised over the phone and it does not seem that HM Service is the culprit. I mean, nothing conclusive but I rattled the right trees and nothing fell.” “Good to hear that Mr. Prime Minister. It is a great relief. I can deal with my competitors any day any time, as long as it is a fair playing field. That is all I

ever asked for.” “Exactly. If none other than that, at least a fair playing field is what one is eligible to. As a matter of fact, that is one of the reasons regarding which I wanted to consult with you. There seems to be a growing frustration that we have not yet hung anyone in Trafalgar square for the London Underground Bombing incident. Not that we are not trying to get to the bottom of it, but we are just not quite there. I have been pressing the security services as hard as can be done, short of doing their job instead of them, but we do not have a break through to report just yet. I sense that my opponents, via their respective mouthpiece networks, are to begin a campaign against me. A campaign centered around my supposed inability to bring those responsible to trial. As I said, the outcome is that we have not yet uncovered the culprit but it isn’t for the lack of any action or motivation on my part. The truth is that our Services need some shaking up. The cabinet under my leadership has prioritized this investigation far above anything else. I have provided them with ample authority and even excessive resources, if I must say so myself, but yet, they still haven’t delivered. Given my growing frustration with this matter as well, what I have done is to order an audit mandated by the JIC to see what has been done with those resources and why it is that they have not yet yielded the expected outcome. When a closer look is taken, I think a fair review of the situation will reveal that the problem here is not with the Cabinet and leadership, and not with the soldier on the field, but with the midlevel bureaucrats that are not managing the effort properly. If and when this issue does surface, I would like this aspect of the issue fairly presented. Using your words, all I ask for is a fair playing field.” “Mr. Prime Minster, your frustration in this regard is highly evident and the shortfall in the outcome does not stem from the lack of determination on your part or of that of the cabinet. The last one who deserves the blame is the man on the field so I agree the responsibility must lay somewhere in between.” “So we see things eye to eye. Thank you for your . Once the audit is complete, you will see first-hand how the funding, which the cabinet has painstakingly managed to make available for this effort, has not been efficiently utilized, or rather misused by midlevel persons, at no fault of the politicians or the man in the field. I think you will find the audit professional and the conclusions newsworthy.” “I will have my people give it the required attention.”

“Thank you. How is the House of Lords treating you?” “Let us say, it is entertaining. However, it does give me the opportunity to promote issues that I believe in.” “And in doing so, assisting in the evolution of a multi-cultural society. Thank you for ing us in the House. And thank you for ing me this morning, even though I did the talking and the eating for both of us.” “No, thank you Sir, for inviting me.”

************************************

“Hunt, I'll meet you downstairs in 10 minutes, let's have some coffee.” This, of course, translated, meant we need to talk off the record, no witnesses, no phones, no notes of the meeting and no entry in any form or record of this meeting ever taking place. “Hunt, fancy bumping into you down here. While we are here together, let me tell you where things currently stand. My sources have not found any connection between Cook and MI5 or MI6. Tom Cook, the little bastard, is now in Dubai, meeting with Bader Al-Kharafi, the principal from Zain's side, to try and close the numbers aspect and structure of the deal. The deal looks solid so far and I want it to go through, assuming the price is right. They are down there talking numbers and the dynamics seem to be that if Al-Kharafi is not unreasonable and if Cook is not a total fool, this may actually go through. Cook is correct that financing it will be a piece of cake. But, there is no way in the world am I going to give the little shit a piece of the pie. Cook needs to be taken out of the equation.” “And how would you prefer that be achieved M'Lord?” “That is what I asked you here for. Suggestions?” “I can talk to people who do these things, but it is not cheap and, of course,

brings on certain exposures, that need to be considered.” “As much as I would like to pull that cocky prick's head off, I am not sure that is the best course of action, or is it? Can we be totally insulated from such a thing?” “As I said, it carries exposure. We can take precautions but I couldn’t guarantee complete insulation. There is always a risk at some level. People are people, and as you well know, interests change, alliances vary” “What are the other options?” “We could always just have someone lean on him, as opposed to taking him out. If we had more time, I could find leverage and set off the score, but you had requested that I lay low for the meantime.” “Leaning on him is not good enough, I need to ensure results. I need him out of circulation for a month or two and I need the engagement agreement he is holding trashed. Then the ship will have sailed without him and he can disappear for all I care.” “If all we need is a few weeks, I can take care of that myself, M'Lord. I can have him flagged in connection with drugs or laundering or something, and have him tangled up for a while, even much longer. I can have him so deep that he will not be able to touch his engagement agreement, even if he will still have it by then. Two months is definitely achievable if that is all you need.” “That is what I need, but that is not all I want. Don't forget, we also have the other issue. Aside from the deal, I don't want the little shit spreading his lies about me, so he is still an overall nuisance.” “In that case, I can take it another step forward. I get him nabbed before he reaches his hometown in Ireland, which will complicate things for him and keep him away from any of his material, agreement or anything else for that matter. While he is engaged, depending on where he lands, I can probably get a of ours to take care of matters in a very localized manner.” “It is just the two of us here, can I have it in English please?” “I always prefer plausible deniability but suit yourself – I still have my s

at Interpol. At the right price, I can have him pegged as wanted, leaving the reason as one of 'national security' only, so as it does not come back to haunt you or the deal, in any way. That alone should trigger enough alarms to make sure he is incapable of any air travel and if and when he does get picked up, depending on where that may be, I should be able to get him locked down long enough for you to complete your deal. Besides, once he enters that system, there is a slim chance he will even get out of there at all. And at no extra cost. Suspected terrorists don’t ordinarily make bail, and they don’t have a long life expectancy either. Especially not if they are white.” “That is more my style. I knew there was a reason you are paid a salary here. Anyhow, nothing before he leaves Dubai and nothing can reach the media. I don’t want a big stink. I want them to achieve something in their meetings and I want Al-Kharafi to report to his guys that there is a deal. Once that happens, he will not be able to back down even if Cook disappears. Then do your stuff and Cook will silently disappear, and I will come in as the White Knight to save the deal and maybe even knock off a few bob from the price. Are we coordinated?” “Perfectly M'Lord.” “So timing is critical, make sure nothing happens before the end of the week, after Cook leaves Dubai, but make sure he never makes it to Dublin.” “Understood, M'Lord.” “Still want some coffee? I just paid £65 for a breakfast for 2 at Claridges without even having a single bite!”

****************

I did not get a full night of sleep, like the one I had just woken up from, since my army leave days. First and foremost, sleeping in total darkness, no whiny kids pulling my foot, no one tugging my duvet, a decent mattress and silence. There is something to be said about sleeping in a bed alone on an Island with no streets

at 200 meters up in the air. Brainwave; how about bringing Daphne here for the weekend! There would be a lot of explaining to do but not completely out of hand or inconceivable. Have Natasha bring her over a ticket and I'll meet her at the airport. No names, no ID. But then again, we would need to fly back separately. Save the thought for later, as I still have a crucial 26 hours ahead of me.

My stomach was bloated from a supper, the proportions of which I was simply not used to. I needed a longer recovery time. Thank god there was no drinking, otherwise, I could not imagine the destruction. Now in a formal pin stripe suit and yellow power tie, I was again first to arrive in the lounge. This was nothing new or unusual by now. I left my notebook and files in my suite downstairs so as not to overdo formalities. Instinctively, I put my hand in my pocket to review my morning emails but ed half way through the motion that this was Tom's phone and Tom's emails. Maybe it was the thought of Daphne, or was it just habit, but even surrounded by riches, I missed Simon Smith and his life. I quickly snapped myself to attention. I am here on a high stakes mission not a soul seeking trek. Get into focus, drop Simon Smith, he does not exist. Right now there is Bader, there is Zain, there is Ellah, and nothing else matters.

Bader entered with a freshly starched thoub, crisp and sharp, and he was even cleanly shaven. “So how are the accommodations?” “Frankly, I don't think I have ever been in such a magnificent hotel. Nothing I can recall in London, New York or Shanghai comes remotely close to this. And I wish to thank you for upgrading my suite for me. Not necessary, but certainly appreciated.” “Nonsense, you are my guest. You travelled half the world to meet me. This is but a small gesture acknowledging that.”

Bader poured us both some fresh Turkish coffee which had been brought over by the hostess when Al- Kharifi walked in. Jim's habits came in handy, as by now I

definitely knew that the coffee granules need to be given enough time to sink to the bottom of the cup before the first sip is permitted to be taken, but, you can't wait too long for that inspired first sip, lest it would get cold. Demonstrating my acquired knowledge and expertise in this field, I leaned forward, lifted the small cup and gently tapped it on the table. The tap was an expert’s trick affected to speed up the settling of the coffee. I believe it came off quite professional. Bader did the same to his cup. Seated at our breakfast table and absorbed in our coffee routines, we ended up in close physical proximity to each other and I found myself looking Bader straight in the eye. “I must it it is an interesting experience getting to know you. You and I both had similar experiences in our schooling and early professional years, same atmosphere, similar environment, except for my Irish background, we almost have the same accent and yet you now live a somewhat different life to the one we both knew and grew up in during our formative years.” “Not as different as one might think. Business is business any side you look at it from. Money is still money. Interest rates are still interest rates. Regulation is still regulation and airport security is the same airport security.” “Yes, but I was actually referring to a different level. For instance, if I may ask, does your wife wear a veil?” “It is called a Burka and yes she does. It is customary here, part of both tradition and religion. I wear a Kafia too. That is the way it is done here. The same way there is no way you would enter an office in the City without a suit and tie and the same way you instinctively dressed in a suit this morning.” “Yes of course, but don't you find it difficult bridging between the West and the Middle East?” Bader leaned back and smiled. “Correct me if I am wrong but is what you are really asking is: 'having spent enough time in a cultured society, seeing and tasting the real world, how did you manage returning to living in an ass backward region and society?' “Well, I would certainly not phrase it that way, but you seem as European as I, how do you assimilate so well here?” “Tom, since you are direct, though sincere, I will permit myself to be just as direct. Your question is based upon a fundamental superiority complex that

Western society has developed. I have news for you Tom. As you pointed out, I have seen both sides, not just superficially, but deep into the respective societies philosophy, culture and lifestyle, and if you take a step back and look at things in a wider perspective, I believe you will find that Western society really does not have much at all over that of the Middle East culture. In fact, the contrary is correct. The concept of colonialism and redeeming the dark side of the world is nothing but thinly disguised fascism. Before you lecture me on GDP and OECD benchmarks for education and productivity, I just want to point out that all of benchmarks which are supposedly objective are based on criteria which themselves are in their origin tainted by Western society ideals and therefore by simple definition will always indicate a clear and supposedly undisputable superiority of the West. Of course it is easier to measure things and compare them simply by putting supposedly objective numbers next to them but terminology designed to make measuring easier does not necessarily produce an accurate outcome. To clarify my point, I it that Western society has more of everything and anything on a materialistic level but that is due, primarily, to two simple facts: First, Western society has more natural resources, aside from oil maybe; and second, colonialism, whereby any resources which were in need in the West, including oil, were simply extracted, in most cases stolen and delivered to the West. So the average OECD resident has more physical resources, more money in his bank , has more cars, has a bigger house, lives longer and has more diplomas on his wall. So what?? I put it to you that a more just criterion for superiority of a society is, and should be, contentment of its residents rather than their material effects. Therefore, if we were to take criteria such as active participation in a family unit, level of addiction to alcohol or narcotics, level of suicide and homelessness and simple contentment within life itself, I think you would find that Middle Eastern society is far superior to that of the West. The average man on the street in Cairo, Damascus and even Bagdad is far more content than the man on the street in Brussels, Dresden or Manchester, even though they may not have a summer home, a Mercedes and a late model Iphone. Does a smartphone really make people happier? So, to answer you in short, once you get to know the Middle East, you will find it is actually superior to Europe, save for some materialistic wants. And if you are middle eastern and have money,” he smiled, “then you are indeed in an ideal situation. Live in the Middle East, visit London once a quarter, ski in and bank in Switzerland.”

“But doesn’t it bother you the unequal way in which power and fortune are distributed here? I don't mean you personally. Doesn't the man on the street resent the fact that he has no say in major issues affecting his life, has no equal opportunity and has no real vote? I can stipulate that personal happiness is more important than material effects but the absence of equal opportunity and lack of free expression, in the broad sense of the , ultimately leads to frustration which in turn results in a lower quality of life.”

“The Middle East may not have the best track record in the field of freedom of expression but I can't accept that Western Society has any advantage to offer in the field of equal opportunity or political expression. No one in this day and age is naive enough to truly believe that by providing the laymen the opportunity, one day every four or five years to cast of piece of paper in a ballot actually gives him any real or equal say in anything. It is nothing but show and lip service. As a good friend of mine once said, Politics is the gentle art of getting votes from the poor and campaign funds from the rich and both are achieved by promising to protect each from the other. I don't accept your point on equal opportunity either. Save for the communications and internet revolution of the past fifteen years, has there really been any shift in wealth between the classes in Western society? How many Kennedys are there in political positions? How many Bushes are there miraculously capable of ruling the free world? How many of the UK premiers graduated Cambridge and Oxford and how many obtained a degree in community college. No, the way things are done here is so much better.

First thing is fundamentals. We have culture. We have religion. We have respect. We have social structure. When you have instituted these elements, there is less frustration. Western society is busy brainwashing their residents with what is supposedly important to them and scamming them into believing that that is exactly what is being provided to them by their governments. Look at the United States, which is a coarser implementation of Western Society. Their former President is an immigrant with no family roots, no culture, he is a nothing, kisses up to the low life Hollywood icons to fund him and represents exactly what the United States stands for: a glossy shell, hiding a hollow core. The next was a TV

game show participant, albeit a wealthy one, who is widely regarded as a lunatic. Look at them crumbling in their spineless hollowness. Western Society worships materialistic achievements and nothing more. It has created a man-made god called money. They worship their god day and night, eat and breath it. Who in the West is awarded the highest social status? Writers? Clerics? Philosophers?? Or hedge fund managers and OJ Simpsons? In the Middle East it does not happen that way. A leader needs to be a ‘’someone’’ to claim power. He needs to earn it, to take it, to hold it. He needs to have religious values. He needs to demonstrate capability to rule, capability to provide social structure, capability to lead. Structure and principals are more of a key to personal and collective happiness than the worship of material things or the hoax of personal liberties. It is true that this, at times, can lead to clashes but these structures and values on a whole, are more stable and more enriching for the people.”

Bader delivered his well-versed speech almost without emotion. He spoke slowly, confidently, softly and in a low tone, clearly and decisively. It was plainly clear this was not the first time he was having this discussion and equally clear that his position was not based upon ignorance nor speculation but from having seen and experienced both sides of the Mediterranean.

“Do you believe the same could be said for women in the Middle East? I can’t imagine you would you say that they too are more content and that ultimately, they are better off than in the Western World?”

“Indeed I would. Save for maybe Saudi Arabia, which may have taken it a step too far in not allowing women to drive, I feel that woman in the West are in an even bigger bind than the men. Here, women's roles are very clearly defined and there is a very clear priority to their roles. Women are in charge of the house, are in charge of the children, both of which are central pillars of society and culture and regarded as such by society. Women can take pride in their role because they are responsible for what really counts. In Western society, where children are a

nuisance and Burger King replaces family values, no wonder women feel humiliated dealing with such low valued roles in society. Women in the West ultimately find themselves in a very difficult bind. On the one hand their maternal instincts and genetics drive them towards the house and reproduction but, if they want to obtain any significant social status, they need to participate in the rat race and demonstrate their capabilities to obtain materialistic trophies, and, at the same, they need to be super models to achieve any regard. In our society, women have their respect, their role and pride. We do not degrade our women by turning them into sexual objects. We do not force them to run the rat race to acquire social status and we appreciate their maintaining of our house and our kingdom. Is it not cruel to make a woman choose between career and family? How many single 35-year-old women do you know who are no longer in a position to have a family after following the crowd to university and work? In our society, even if a woman must settle for being a second wife, you will find very few instances of unmarried and childless women.”

Jim would probably not have liked my next question but, aside from my role of letting Bader parade himself as a progressive philosopher, I was really curious how he was going to rationalize this next one. “Bader, I find it quite fascinating having the opportunity to be exposed to the way the world looks from the other side of the Mediterranean and I certainly have no intention to be argumentative, but, if as a whole, people of the Middle East are, as you claim, more content, how is it that the majority of the extremism and terrorism in the current age stems from the Middle East? From the logic you describe, it would be expected that more of a Dahli-Lamma or Mahatma Ghandi approach would be prevalent towards the rest of the world, would it not?” “Yes and no. On the one hand, yes indeed, I think the silent majority do hold more of a ive opposition to the Western Civilization. But having said that, I cannot deny that there is a proliferated concept of Jihad, which is definitely a religious concept and not a social or cultural one. Aside from the generations of oppression from the West and their stealing of our few resources, to understand the concept of Jihad, which in free translation would mean Holy War, you would have to go down to the roots of Islam. Prior to the appearance of Mohamad, the Middle East was a culture of idol worshipers, each tribe, each town, each city

had their own set of Gods and Idols which they worshiped. These idols were the source of endless wars and tensions whereby each tribe would force others to worship its gods as a prerequisite to through its territory, trade with its and marry tribe . The idol worshiping was so dogmatic that it threatened the existence of the civilization and the between rival tribes. When Mohamed understood the effect that idol worshiping had on civilization, he was instructed by god himself to destroy and abolish all idol worshiping, essentially creating one, unified world in which all can participate in freely. One god, one world. This came to be the fundamental epicenter of Islamic belief. Middle Eastern people are simple people with limited resources and strong beliefs. If you combine their intrinsic plight against idol worshiping and relatively limited military and other power, the Middle Eastern people are basically using the limited toolset at their disposal to implement their ideology, and alas, you get acts of terror. When the West decides to fight for its so-called principals, it is deemed heroic and altruistic, as the US has skillfully portrayed itself in World War 2 or in the Gulf war, even though it is difficult to rationally justify the US participation in either of those wars. But when Middle Eastern people are willing to sacrifice themselves for their beliefs and principals they are considered barbaric and sadistic. Obviously, there is a difference of opinion as to the principals worthy of fighting for or self-sacrifice, but why is a suicide bomber any less idealistic and heroic than a Japanese kamikaze pilot, a samurai warrior or a Christian crusader? Had there not been a double standard, these people would be considered idealists, heroes and role models.”

“Bader, I apologize, but this is something I cannot accept. There was nothing heroic about 9/11. A small fringe group of, most probably, brainwashed people hijacked and crashed planes full of innocent people into equally innocent targets, bringing a massacre, pointless death and maiming of over 5,000 people. Believe me, I happened to be in Manhattan when 9/11 occurred and I saw it with my own eyes. That was not lost or displaced ideology. It was pure bloodshed for nothing but media coverage and an ego trip by its instigators.”

“Tom, I am not condoning or justifying 9/11 or any other such action. I am just explaining to you where it stems from. Look at it academically for a moment,

from another perspective. Islam is emphatically opposed to idol worshiping, Islam sees the worship of money as identical to idol worshiping and ergo, destroys the twin towers, which in some Islamists viewpoint, is equivalent to a modern day idol. As I said, I am not justifying it, just explaining it. In fact, it is just about the same logic and justification that the US used or had when it elected to invade Iraq. Iraq had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11 yet the US destroyed Iraq and executed Saddam Hussein. If we are counting body bags, I think you will find that in Iraq, there were far more than 5,000 casualties. Again, if to compare the two actions, 9/11, justified or not, stemmed from ideological or theological motivations, whereas the Iraq war stemmed from none other than materialistic motivations, be it pressure from the defense industry to sell their wares or a drive by the US companies to take over Iraq's oil resources. To give you the benefit of the doubt, I would say that both sides are equally evil, even though, I tend to have somewhat more sympathy towards someone who takes actions for which he alone bears the consequences, as opposed to Western society, in which the decision making classes are never those to pay any personal price. During the Vietnam war, US students were exempt from duty. In the UK, how may Oxford and Cambridge alumni do you expect to find amongst the enlisted people sent to the front?”

Bader had no idea how close to home he hit on that point. Tempted as I was, I did not respond to the remark. We spent another hour or so comparing Islam to Christianity and, even on that front, not only did he know more about Christianity than I did about Islam, but he seemed to know more about Christianity than I did about Christianity, even with years’ worth of Sunday school at church. The thought crossed my mind that maybe Bader here was on a counter intelligence mission of his own and just came better prepared than I. Fortunately, when we finally got down to business, as eloquent as he was in the arts, politics, theology and philosophy, he still had a lot to learn on the business side.

We discussed the scope of the business assets to be acquired which, of course, included all the infrastructure, all the licenses, all the physical assets and all relevant agreements. I did tell him we would not need his billing system as we

had one far more advanced of our own. This is where the boys are separated from the men because we had no billing system whatsoever. By carving out the billing system, I could take a chunk out of the purchase price and would end up licensing his billing services for an 'interim' period until we get ours up and running. After the interim period, he would realize he has no alternative value for the system and I would buy it for peanuts. In any case, at this point, I was more interested in a lower acquisition price which would be easier to finance than a lower running cost. Had he been more hands on in the business, he would have known that if he does not get out his cost on the billing system up front, it would end up as a relic or anchor with no practical use. Either inexperience, ignorance or my effusive buttering him up was effective as he did not respond and failed to recognize the bargaining strategy. A second central point I managed to put into play, was seller financing. I told him the last thing we would want was for he and his group to close the deal and walk away after which we would then be introduced to new regulatory or HR issues. I asked for 25% zero interest seller financing which would also guarantee a smooth transition. He agreed to a 20% financing, interest to be discussed as part of the price discussions. Assuming the Sukuk I thought of raising would be able to achieve at least 70% of the acquisition price and a bank financing contributing at least 25%, throw in a seller financing of another 20% and my guy Ellah will lock in a 15% cash profit before he even dishes out a single penny of his own on this deal. My mind began immediately racing to calculate what my agreed participation would be and how Tom Cook would accept and scurry away his share of this mother lode. I was embarrassed to it that for the first time it dawned on me that I would be faced with a pretty significant issue. Presuming I figured out how Tom Cook could technically receive his share, how was Tom Cook going to transfer his spoils to Simon Smith. Why should the government pocket my commercial success? They were getting what they wanted, access to the assets, so why can't I enjoy the fringe benefits? Just like the skiing and the Lamborghini I had the pleasure of toying with the day before. Did Bond ever forward his Casino winnings to Q?? Besides, Jim had no way of recording or holding profits anyhow, so the money was simply there for the taking. My mother had always educated me not to let things go to waste and I was not about to let her down now. I made a mental note of playing out this Bridge game of how to transfer control of the spoils from one hand to the other, from Tom to Simon. However, in the meantime, I reasserted control of my bearings and refrained from getting too carried away as that could translate to the easiest way to slip up. Personal gain is one of the most effective motivators around and, as in my case, introduces adrenalin in to the equation.

The cardinal issue, comprised of two critical elements, still remained to be settled. The actual price for this whole deal, which broke down into the cost of the hard equipment and an agreed upon for each of the licenses of the going concern. We both danced around the elephant in the room and only touched upon these points in a tangential way when Bader began a lengthy description of the process initiated by Zain to obtain a full license as an independent mobile phone operator, as opposed to just an infrastructure provider. There were the committees, commissions, the market surveys, the analyses and the various aces in the hole that Bader claimed he was holding. “Bader, we have become rather close in the past 24 hours so I’ll once again take the liberty of speaking succinctly and directly. How much will it cost to get the license? How will that price need to be paid? Will it be on or off the books, and lastly, will that cost change substantially, if it is you or I paying it?”

“Tom, although common perception is that the Irish are claimed to be less intelligent than the British, you are proving that claim to be entirely untrue and quite the opposite. Take into consideration that it is not customary in our culture to be receptive to such a blunt approach, in contrast, I personally appreciate it. To give you a direct response I will say that I myself am deliberating the exact same questions. Having said that, I am completely confident we will obtain the full mobile operator license, the cost of which I estimate would be anywhere up to $100 Million USD on the books and $25 Million USD off. The value of the license is probably three times that amount, if not four, depending on the multiple you plug in to your excel sheet. Bottom line, as the license will be mine in 9-15 months, I have no intention of leaving that on the table. I will expect full for it.” This on the license could change the game completely with regards to the numbers. This, also, is not the easiest thing to negotiate. He, apparently, truly believes he has the license in his pocket, while I and the professional team think there remains a substantial risk element of successfully obtaining the license and thus we would want a serious cut in the we would be willing to pay for it. I figured that this was as much progress as I was going to make for the day, especially since it was fairly evident that we both were under similar instructions not to address the elephant quite yet. I intentionally side tracked to give us both a

break. “Bader, may I? Getting back to our discussion earlier about cultural differences, I have actually noticed that Middle Eastern people, in many cases, do not address sticky issues directly but rather prefer to discuss them in parables, hints and in some cases even with half-truths. Why do you believe is that so?”

“You are indeed quite perceptive. This is, of course, not completely accurate but, as a generalization, not completely incorrect either. Once again, this is a cultural issue. In our part of the world, we are very hospitable and very respectful of strangers. When in a position whereby an Arab feels a truthful response may lead to disappointment by the person he is facing, he may at times prefer to paint a rosier picture and distort reality a little. All of this being deemed better than disappointing or risking insulting the person with whom he is speaking. Truthfulness, in the Arab culture, is not a single utmost and absolute principal but rather a principal to be considered in proportion to other no less important principals, such as honor and dignity. It is part of a larger philosophy preferring short term comfort to long term stability.”

I took this to mean, I paraphrase of course, 'yes, we Arabs feel fine about lying as truthfulness is low on our principal list and in any case whereby distorting reality and lying can bring us some benefit, however small, even if it is to be uncovered immediately or even plainly obvious, we will nevertheless do it.'

I did grasp that conveying my translation of his statements back to Bader probably would not be the smartest move so I kept my thoughts on the issue to myself. By the time Bader completed his next lecture on the virtues and superiority of the Arab nation, it was early evening and we made plans for dinner. Bader suggested we get out of the hotel a little and I played along. In fact, I was completely exhausted and would have been perfectly happy to

order room service and call it a night. If you are not a pathological liar from birth, maintaining a lengthy dialogue under an assumed identity requires unfathomable amounts of concentration, for starters maintaining the accent but then everything involved with all dialog itself: what you say, keeping a close mental tab of which details of the your cover story you have divulged, where the counterpart is leading the conversation to, which direction you want the discussion to flow to in order to avoid certain areas of the cover story you are less comfortable with, and, of course, the need to constantly be in control of topics and agendas with no down time. Add to that the stress of a conventional detailed commercial negotiation and throw in a pre-defined script that was instructed to be adhered to, six hours with Bader drew every bit of energy out of me. I therefore told him I needed about two hours to catch up on emails and such. He was plainly amenable, and we set to meet at the hotel entrance 2 hours later. I immediately fired off an email to the team, including Ellah, Deutsche Bank and the rest of the endless list of persons hung on the transaction mailing list, updating them on the commercial progress. I obviously assumed that the email would somehow be picked up by Bader and his team, so the report was very dry, pointing out the points which were agreed, issues still remaining to be discussed, complimenting Bader on his presentation and concluding that even though we might be giving up more than we had initially planned, that we will probably be pressed on the use of their billing system until we get ours in place, regardless the overall value of the deal is worth it etc. etc. I managed to get a good 20 minutes of rest in, put on moccasins and a light jacket and was ready to hit the town with my new pal, Bader.

Though I was already accustomed to Bader making a later delayed arrival, to his credit I can say that the wait periods were getting shorter and shorter each time. As he exited the elevator towards me, I witnessed a metamorphosis. The person walking out of the elevator was no longer an Arab in robes. He wore slacks, suede loafers with no socks and a light jacket. Had he not been wearing sunglasses at night, he would have looked just like any other billionaire you may find strolling on Banhoff Strasse in Zurich. We entered the black Mercedes waiting at our beck and call and crossed the bridge from the hotel to the Dubai mainland. Bader sustained his dark sunglasses look the whole way, which would

have suited his outfit just fine, were it the afternoon. But this was early evening. In my books, one is only permitted to wear sunglasses in the dark if one happens to be African American, a lifelong fan of the briefly celebrated Canadian singer Corey Hart or if one is a first relation to Jose Feliciano.

“First, let's eat. You are my guest Tom. What can we get for you?” “I do not mean to insult but my first choice would be a gin and tonic. Is there anywhere we can have one of those in this region?”

“Yes indeed, but not at any of the serviceable restaurants I would care to visit. That was to be the second stop I had planned for us tonight. Since you wrecked my surprise, I get to choose Dinner. Let's go for French. Driver, La Petite Maison please”

“Are we talking the real thing? Frogs legs and foie gras?”

“Certainly. By now you should have accepted that the Middle East is the center of global trade. Everything and anything is available here, though it may not always be cooked in red wine.” This was immediately followed by another earful on how it is that every map in the world has the Middle East smack in the center of it. I tried to the professional term for it in psychology when, as a mechanism of dealing with personal hang-ups, a person parades them and turns them into a virtue. I soon gave that up as I figured it may be better not to , so as to avoid a potential, perhaps alcohol induced, slip of the tongue. He may not have been aware of it, but my preference for foie gras was purposeful. If I was to drink tonight, I needed fatty food to line my gut so as to insure that my ingested alcohol would not be absorbed too quickly. I had to make every effort to avoid any mishaps.

Given my lower middle class upbringing, I felt quite at home with mediocre French cooking. I doubt Bader enjoyed it much either but the food was, of course, not the point. All he wanted was to show me that even though he lives in a god forsaken, albeit air-conditioned, corner of the world, surrounded by camel drivers, he still eats and can enjoy French cuisine. On my way back from the men's room, I stopped off at the reception to pay the bill. I could not have Bader paying for everything. For some reason, which I could not understand, the payment on my card was denied. I did use it a little heavily the day before, but then it was accepted then just fine. So, I settled the bill in cash, even though I was beginning to run a little low of my usual $2,500 cash reserve. I was heading back to western society the next day so I had no reason to really be concerned, I should be fine. Bader seemed to appreciate the gesture and my reciprocation for paying the bill. "I see some of our hospitality customs are rubbing off on you.”

Our next stop was a bar on the penthouse floor of one of the buildings in the Dubai World Center business park. The place was every bit as much a contemporary bar as any other trendy New York bar. The only difference was that this place had an expansive selection of non-alcoholic daiquiris in addition to the selection of all the regular beers, whiskies and vodkas. The music too was no different than what you would find in the West End of London. Bars were never my thing but since Tom Cook’s presentation to Bader indicated otherwise, I had to pretend to be really into it. I got my long awaited Beefeater gin and tonic, which did hit just the right spot and I quickly needed another. Be it the alcohol or be it the Western ambiance, I nearly forgot where I was. The clientele at the bar were a good mix of locals and expatriates who I assume worked in Dubai. This would be all normal and expected since all the multi-national financial institutions were well represented in town. Not surprisingly, anyone in the room who appeared to be above a secretarial or very low management level was certainly not a local. Only after my second drink did it dawn on me that the reason I felt a little less alienated and little more at home was because there were a fair amount of women at the bar, dressed, as I would describe, ‘’normal’’, and not in various forms of black robes. They were maybe slightly older than the women you would find clubbing at home but that was to be expected if they were professionals and expats.

“Tom, next on our menu for this evening, would you like another drink or shall we move on?” “I am great. All fixed now. I will follow your lead. What's next?” “You choose.” “Bader, I am lost here and wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s all yours to lead the way.” “Tom, you are missing me. Choose. We deserve some fun when on the road.”

Bader made a gesture towards the bar. I really should not have had a second drink as I was losing my sharpness. Bader was referring to the women and I was answering him like I was from Mars. He wanted me to choose one of the women at the bar. I had envisaged a situation of him sending a girl to my hotel room at night or something of the sort which I would have been able to blow off quite easily but what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I had not worked out a contingency plan for this situation. Jack, you asshole, why did you not bring this up during prep? It is your job to think of these things. What choice did I have? Refrain and play a puritan? This would brush Bader the wrong way, he will think I am looking down at him, it will likely deepen the chip on his shoulder and everything will go sour. Go through with it?? I never did call-girls before. I don't even know the common practice. What do you do with a condom? I certainly did not have one with me and no way could I screw a slut without one, certainly not here where half of Bader's traders crossing Arabia had probably screwed this selection. The idea of it, even before going into graphics repulsed me. I don't even know if I could get myself in gear for it altogether. So then, what do I do? pay her to have coffee and shut up? And what happens if she does report back to Bader? I come across as a pansy that Bader will then not respect and will not close a deal with? Even worse, what if Bader is rigging this and will tape it for future leverage. Jack you son of a bitch, where the hell were you on this? What the hell am I supposed to do here?? There must be some protocol in the spy handbook on how to deal with this kind of sticky situation. Only on the 9th millisecond did I think about Daphne. I have been completely faithful to her since the day of our marriage. Is this worth killing that for? This could be the top of a very slippery slope. I could rationalize of course as it would not be me, it

would be Tom, but still, I couldn’t avoid it, it is cheating Daphne, at least a little. Board meeting now, guys, everyone! Anyone have any idea how I get myself out of this one? Even though I was already used to having extensive thought processes which lasted a split second in real life, this one lasted longer. Bader's gesture was already lingering in the air and starting to become uneasy.

I have no idea who sent it and where it came from but I was struck by a brainwave. “Bader, we're friends, right?” I said with a smile. Looking him in the eye I said, “Bader, my thing is watching.” “Watching??” “Yes, watching. Voyeurism. Is that so strange?” “I have heard of it before, but I don’t think I have ever met someone who said he preferred it to action.” “I think you will find it is not as strange as you think. I am sure you get turned on by porn movies at one point or other. That is the way we men are. We need a high level of graphic stimulation to get off. Ever notice how sex in the dark just is not as interesting? Try just watching and you'll see it works wonders.”

“Tom, I’m happy if it works for you but no way do I just sit and watch someone fucking in front of me and not be part of it. As a matter of fact, no way in the world I want to see another man fucking anything in front of me altogether.”

“Who said anything about men?? I don't watch men; I’m talking about watching women.”

“OK, that makes a little more sense. That maybe I can connect with. But, we'll save that for another time. You get first choice. Who would you want to watch then?”

“I don't go for the anorexic thing. Given the selection here, I'd take the red head and that brunette in the little black dress. Funny, I did not have these tagged as professional ladies. They look rather sophisticated.”

Bader, not surprisingly, went for a blond with a Princess Di haircut.

“This is not a street corner. Just the way I like them, not too young, not too thin.” “So we head back to the hotel?” “No, no, no. That's not the way it works here. Over here, we don't piss where we sleep. There are rooms down the elevator here.”

Bader spoke to the waiter and motioned me to the entrance. Moments later we were followed out by the three women who were all smiles but in no way forthcoming. They were well educated to wait for appropriate instructions. I didn’t know whether to shake hands, introduce myself or what the normal procedure was. What I did know was I could not continue being a ive wuss either.

“Good evening ladies,” I put my arms around both my ladies. We were both assigned our rooms and took our selections with us. The rooms were not in the least bit seedy, as I would have expected, and did not give the impression of day

use units. My guess is that the building had a hotel in it and these rooms were used during the low season. When we got in, I turned to the women and said to them, smiling from ear to ear, more to put off my discomfort than for any other reason:

“You two are going to have a great party with each other while I watch from here. You do speak English, don't you?” Apparently, these two spoke anything I wanted them to speak. They seemed rather relieved by my plan and embraced it with ease. It is also entirely possible they just put on a good act for me. I’m not sure it made any difference for me. I pulled back a sofa and played with the lighting so they would be in the light and I out of view in the darkened shadows. They peeled each other's clothes off piece by piece and were entirely comfortable with it. I doubt it was a first time for either of them. I was quite happy they ignored me and got into doing their own thing. The idea was growing on me and I began thinking that maybe this was not so bad at all. In the past, when confronted with all sorts of porn pop-ups trying to sell me access to lesbian web cams, I never gave it much thought before hitting the X button. Now, my initial opinion was being challenged and changed. The show was soft, slow, delicate and highly erotic. Watching this, why would any woman want a guy pounding her breathless? Maybe my completely off the cuff bullshit to Bader about visual stimulation wasn’t completely absurd. These two were certainly catching my full attention and curiosity and most effectively getting me going.

By the time all the lingerie was removed I was having second thoughts. The girls, or ladies, whose names I will never know, were really getting into it. They were at each other, touching and licking places where I did not even know women thought about, liked or wanted. I would certainly not consider myself inexperienced when it came to women, yet it seemed I still had a lot to learn about female anatomy. By the way these ladies were panting and puffing, I again, for good or bad, found myself thinking of Daphne. Maybe she is missing out by sticking with me and the limited toolset of tricks I had to offer her.

More than likely, I should have been paying more attention to the technique that was going on in front of me but, frankly, it was already getting too graphic for my liking. A few filters would have helped and I could also have done with a little less on the side effects too. The moaning was not what bothered me, perfectly fine actually, but the noises made by various forms of suction and release were a bit too much. From that point on it just got worse. Undefined liquids were eventually releasing from all sorts of orifices, until I was on the verge of participating myself by giving them some of my half- digested Foie Gras. Instead, I closed my eyes and did my own bit of groaning as I tried to settle down and recover.

The next problem immediately popped into my head. How was it going to work from here? Will they say when they are done or do I have to throw in the white towel. My experience had always been that you know when it is over because everybody ultimately cums, regardless if it is real or fake. My experiences and all the porn I had seen. The high pitched, fat breathing and sign generally indicates it’s over, or soon to be. But in my present situation, since everything is most likely inherently fake, when does it end? When do they give up? Do they expect me to cut it? As I was debating the appropriate interruption, they served up my excuse. Thankfully, they turned to me and asked if I wanted to . I feigned a little too much drink nausea recovery, informed them that I was done and gestured for them to go to the shower. They may have thought I was polite even a little bashful but all I wanted was for them to get the fuck out of my face. Literally. Respecting the chance or likelihood that there were web cams in the room, I pretended to wipe myself and then took out two 50's and dropped them on the bed. Exit tax. I left them there to continue playing in the shower as much as they wanted and went upstairs to the bar. My mind was still able to control my body and I wanted to keep it that way, so my next drink was a club soda with ice and lemon. The lemon was a nice touch as it helped displace the smell of the juices, fluids and sweat of the performance from my nostrils.

Shockingly, to my great surprise, Bader, for the first time since I met him, was at the bar before me! “I hope yours was as good as mine,” I told Bader cryptically. I had no interest in recapping. “Indeed it was. Any better I would need a doctor. Come, let us proceed”. What proceed? Sleep was all I wanted. Where does he get the energy from? “Lead the way, I am right behind you.” “Next stop, a nice narghile shop. An evening out cannot be complete without it. Ever tried it?” “I have seen them around but never tried one. Any difference between that and cigarettes?” “Well, you will find out shortly and you tell me.” The Mercedes took us to a less, call it, flashier side of town. The roads got narrower, the lighting became dimmer and I was having a flashback of taking a wrong turn in the APC during Desert Storm. We reached a spot where I most certainly would not to be found alone, even if I did have my rifle with me. We got out and were shown into a store not much bigger than a small Parisian café. The floors were lined with heavy decorated Persian carpets and embroidered pillows. Scattered throughout the room were tiny stools used as miniature tables. Lazing around the perimeter were probably 15-20 Arabs sitting, leaning and lying against the walls, ed by the pillows, looking like a school of alligators sunbathing. One or two were engaged in a slow game of backgammon. Each of them was holding a tube and each tube was in turn connected to a glass water pitcher, placed towards the center of the room. It was reminiscent of an oversized octopus. All the glass pitchers had hot coals on them and on top of that were placed various forms of tobacco. The coal, water and fuming tobacco gave off an extremely heavy cloud of sweet scented humidity. Bader arranged a corner setting for us. As we were moving through the room, he nodded to all present. I don’t suppose they all knew him personally but they certainly knew he was some sort of VIP. It was evident by the way the proprietor was treating him. “What's your poison?” he challenged me upon getting seated.

“What is the sweet stuff?” “Cherry tree tobacco.” “That’s my call, sounds good unless you have anything else to recommend.” “Good Choice. I'll go for the something a little stronger. I'll take the naffass” Bader ordered and the proprietor immediately turned around and poured us freshly brewed, Jim style, Turkish coffee. He then painstakingly slowly began setting up the contraptions for our order. We sipped our coffee and puffed up our narghile. It was actually very nice and soothing. The whole experience is a little deceiving as while you’re smoking it you feel none of the coarseness you feel when you smoke the occasional cigarette. Naturally, you end up taking more puffs than you would ordinarily drag on a cigarette. Then it creeps up on you as the nicotine hits the head and look out because there is no stopping it. I was partially cloudy when I noticed the order from Bader's narghile was not letting off the same benign smoke as the stuff I was loaded up with. He was smoking the real thing. By the time I noticed, he was as stoned as a brick and had a dumb irascible smirk on his face. Now I got the point of the sunglasses part of his outfit. Thus, we easily fit in and ed the slow motion floating as the rest of the participants in the smoke filled room. I’m not one hundred percent certain but I think that at some point we both fell asleep and were assisted by the driver into the car and back to the hotel.

Contrary to common belief, life of a prince is far more difficult than it seems. After a day of hard work and evidently harder play, as I experienced over the past two days, I needed a month of rest without recreation, not a weekend. Simply from an energy, move around and interact perspective, I was counting the hours until I could get my ass out of there. Faithful and committed the agent that I am, or at least wanted to be, the day was not over yet, even at that small hour of the night. I forced myself into a cold shower, made some strong coffee and went out for my nightly light “stroll.”

I crossed the bridge back to the mainland on foot to collect my thoughts and

surprisingly, I found myself addressing some serious thinking. Tomorrow morning, I had my last few hours during which I needed to get a deal done and I needed to squash Bader's expectations regarding the price or value of the mobile operator license. That one wild card issue could be the cause of serious risk that this deal would not go through, simply due to the numbers and difference in expectations. I was pretty certain, and thought it best to assume, that Ellah was not committed enough to the deal to put in any substantial equity of his own into it. This meant that I couldn't present an outcome whereby the deal price was reflective of a full-on operator license. This only led me to the other side of the dilemma, convincing Bader to share the risk of not obtaining the license was going to require a magician. No one with any business knowledge or savvy would leave so much money on the table if they really believed success was within reach. I needed leverage. I needed a way to somehow force him to do a deal now. To do that, Bader's perception, his whole situation awareness needed to be changed quickly. His confidence in obtaining the license needed to be shaken, but good. Obviously, it needed to be done in such a way that whatever I did or caused to be done could not be exposed, if it ever had to be, from the moment of inception until the closing of the deal, which was a minimum a few weeks. I needed to think outside the box, beyond the ordinary. It was all so complicated because even if I could come up with some sort of Jim style virtual reality game maneuver on Bader, how could I get whatever it was, to last the minimum time required until the Closing. Whatever chemicals were still coursing through me and specifically through my brain, something caused inspiration and the outline of a plan of attack began to appear through the haze in my mind. Chain of command was the answer. The confidence needed to be shaken not at Bader's level. Being second generation, he couldn't afford to show himself as soft, insecure in his position and certainly not the one making concessions. The effective 'cave in' needed to come as a directive from above. If I could somehow shake the confidence that not only was the operator license seemingly in question, but the core business as well, the only practical move would be to agree to my , if they could even resist the impulse to simply throw the company at me. By this time I had covered sufficient distance from the hotel, I pulled out my mobile got a signal and called John. Woke him up actually. “Wakey Wakey mister, this is your pal here.”

“What happened to you, I expected your call hours ago.” “Had a big night in town. Remind me to punch you when I see you but that is an entirely different matter. Listen, there is something I need to discuss with you. Give me a land line or something else I can call you at in a few minutes when I find a real phone.” “Sounds serious. Here it is. Are you writing?” I wrote down a number and went to look for a neutral phone somewhere in Dubai at 3:30 am. Down the block, I saw a familiar green, red and more green sign of a 7/11 which internationally means: for anything you can possibly need at 3:30 am come right here, we will provide it for you, in small sizes or amounts at three times the ordinary price, which in short hand is written 7/11. That being said, I was lucky it was open at all. I told the poor midnight to eight am kid I needed to call my wife but that my mobile had died. I asked if he had a mobile phone for sale. His knowledge of English was no better than my vocabulary in Arabic so we reverted to sign language. No, he did not have a mobile phone or a sim card for sale but when I put down a $100 bill on the counter, he offered me his personal phone, indicating he wanted it back when I was done. I have to note that in a trader’s environment, it is amazing how much communication can be achieved with no words at all. We understood each other quite perfectly and a deal was struck. I called John. The phone mouthpiece stank like a camel's ass but my alternatives were no better, frankly non-existent. I explained to the now wide-awake John that it appeared we had but one major stumbling block on our way to the promised land of deal closure. Shortly into my quite important quite substantial conversation, I realized where I was so I conveyed to the phone’s owner, again entirely through sign, that I was going to pace outside so as not to disturb his viewing and appreciation of a dubbed 1975 James Bond movie screening on the television in the corner.

“John, this is what I want you to do. My friend here takes orders from no one but his father. You have 4-5 hours to find out if his father uses mobile or desk top email. Let's hope he uses email on his mobile. Do your magic, take it over, find out who his external regulatory council is in Saudi Arabia. Once you have it, do the alias thing you mentioned, send the father an email telling him that the talk

on the street is that no way will the Royal Family will let any foreign player obtain a local operator license in Saudi Arabia and that there have been opinions that the Al- Kharifi activities in their space have grown out of proportion, especially given the fact that it is a captive market and that the existing operators could decide to establish their own base stations and drive him out of business altogether or at least kill his margins. Make sure that there is wording in there about the communication being in confidence and that the lawyer will deny it ever taking place. Obviously, you absolutely must keep control of the email from now until we close. You have to be able to monitor and intercept any further communications between any of them on the subject. This is crunch time. This may be a risky move but I’m certain it’s crucial. This is a must. If the old guy doesn’t use email, do the exact same thing to his sms . Monitoring mobile may require ten times the effort than that of monitoring email but I need the background information dropped and coals lit to the fire.”

“OK, I am on it. I need to clear it with the big guy first.” “Do what you have to do but I am smashed. I need to sleep otherwise I will not be able to function tomorrow. How will I know if it is done by my meeting tomorrow? I will not be able to you again beforehand.”

“Don't worry about it, I will get it done. You get your beauty sleep. If for any reason there is a problem and I can't do it, you will get a sunny side up omelet delivered to your door for breakfast. I don't expect there should be any problems, this should be doable. It seems I have my work set out for me tonight.” As I must have been on the phone for 15 minutes or so, I put down another 20 on the counter before I headed back to the hotel. That is another $120 for which I did not have an invoice and I will need to fill out forms for, but I would deal with that when the time comes. I fell completely unconscious as soon as I hit the bed. As I opened my eyes in the morning, everything came back to me in an instant. I was bombarded by racing thought processes, memory imprints and finally

mission concerns. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I ran to the door of my suite and looked outside in the hall. No room service in sight. I took a short tour of my junior suite just to make sure nothing was somehow already placed there. I may be the first person in history to let out a sigh of relief at not getting a room service breakfast in a hotel. I still had a certain buzz in my head, though thankfully no hangover. After another cold shower and two Aspirins, I packed my stuff and got myself psyched for one last meeting with my man. The objective now was to close numbers before I caught my flight at two o'clock, though, as per Jim's instructions, I had a reservation on stand by for the later flight at six as well. I proceeded to our 'spot' in the lounge and began my wait with introductory shot of coffee. I was there for two full hours and still no sign of Bader. In the tossup between repercussions of last night’s escapades and possible covert activities by John, as the primary cause of Bader’s now extreme, even for him, tardiness, I tended to fall on the side of John’s intrusive fire starting. I was curious as to what impact last night's move would have, how fast things would filter down? how good a poker player Bader was or would he be? I had been here before, waiting for the Prince to arrive, but this time around there was absolutely no way I would be up for skiing, race cars or any other high roller games. Give me business, planes and sleep. I just wanted to get it over with and get the hell out of there. Regardless, orders were orders, so contrary to all applicable logic and personal preferences, I headed to the pool and took a swim.

That in and of itself was an experience. There was a glass partition inside the swimming pool, which separated a sweet water pool and an adjacent pool which had salt water. Furthermore, the saline water was in fact a huge aquarium with sharks and other sea life swimming in it, so looking through the glass partition of the sweet water side, you got the sensation of swimming with sharks. Good luck to those who get off on that! The multi jet powered shower was a bigger hit for me. I was back up at our spot by noon and now, surprisingly, still no sign of Bader. Maybe last night’s romping was a little more damaging than even I ed. Hopefully, he and his Dad and whoever else were in consultation over the new twist I had John inject into this stew. I had gotten up, showered twice and gone for a swim, and by now am already missing my first reserved flight out, even before reaching the last round with my target. The only thing at hand to do now was eat. I sat down and ordered a satisfying filler meal but one

most likely unusual for adult attendees. Halfway through my grilled cheese sandwich, Bader showed up, back in full robe. As he sat down opposite me, with a broad smile he tapped my shoulder all friendly buddy style and said, “You are OK my man.” He plumped down in the chain next to me and then quite nonchalantly, reached out, took an olive from my plate and popped it in his mouth.

That was the split moment at which I knew he was mine. I knew that every single one of Jim's little ideas was worth its weight in gold. Within 48 hours, I came from being a complete stranger, a member of the opposing team, to him eating off my plate. Literally.

I was no longer tense and no longer questioned the viability of success of this mission. A dollar more or a dollar less, I knew I could manipulate this guy to do just about anything and give us what we needed. This certainty was always under the proviso that good ole Bader here remains ignorant to the overriding reality that although I was in name and appearance representing Ellah, by concluding this deal, he was assisting the evil powers of the West. The peoples and cultures that he so detested. This transaction would never go through if the purchaser was not himself an Arab. We reminisced a little, had a lot of coffee and began the very long process of goodbyes. “There is of course one last issue we need to close.” “Yes, the price.” “Bader, what do you say?” When he did not respond, I took the lead. “Bader, you are a friend. I respect you personally and I respect your heritage and your culture. I feel I will be dishonoring you by haggling price. You are above that to me. Therefore, let me fast forward the next 30 minutes if I may.” “Please proceed.” Said Bader with a slight smile, as he lay his coffee cup on the

table and leaned back. He was enjoying this. “We both know the cost price of the hardware is about 1.2 billion with an average age of about 24 months for the central systems. We both know what the return is on the equipment based upon current service rates. You are going to say you want replacement value plus 300 million for the licenses and agreements. Plus, you'll want another 300 Million for the anticipated operator license. My counter will be that the hardware is outdated, will need replacement within 18 months, and I will offer 500 million for the hardware and 200 Million for the existing licenses and agreements. My offer will include nothing for the operator license as it is still up in the air and if it doesn’t succeed then I am really lost. You will counter my response, I will then counter again, the tennis match will continue, we'll both walk away and come back but in the end, this is where we will fall out to. 900Million USD for the equipment, I know this because I simply can't do more than that. You know that there is no way I can get financing for more than that. I'll concede the 300 Million on the existing licenses and agreements, the number I anticipated you would ask, and I will give you 12 months to get the operator license. You get it, you get another 150 Million. If the license doesn't come in within 12 months, we pay nothing on that item. In addition, if you give me 25% vendor financing at 0% for 30 months in equal quarterly installments, I'll give you 15 Million USD a year for use of the billing system. Now, let's shake on it before too many people stick their all-knowing noses into our transaction and someone shoots me for this.”

My heart was pounding. I could hear the throbbing in my ears. All my physical and mental powers were being flexed in an effort not to let lose any slight stutter, twitch, hold my adorable accent, blink or enact any other tell that would indicate my very real and very fragile insecurity. The next ten seconds would determine if the last year or so of my life was a complete waste of energy or not. Isn’t it always like that, x hours, days, months, years committed in an effort that comes down to your opponent’s, adversary’s, potential partner’s decision that takes place in a matter of minutes if not seconds. “Tom, you are a very, very interesting man. You are absolutely taking the fun out of this, but I find that refreshing. I will go along with you on this because I believe we can and will do other business together.”

I almost let out a sigh of relief. I could have kissed him there and then. If not for his mustache. “Give me 950 Million for the equipment and everything else you concluded is fine except for the zero interest on the vendor financing, which I simply have no flexibility on and cannot agree to. Financing I will not do at less than 5% per year.” The quick evaluation was: he accepted the concept of a contingent payment for the license and the sale exclusion and mechanism for eventual shorting sale of the billing system. Overall, this is better than could have been expected. Naturally, his thrown in adjustments were the final little stabs required, as he would not have felt satisfied unless he thought he had drawn a little blood. With his well-worn chip on his shoulder, he needed not only to get the money but to feel that he’d beaten the colonialists. “Bader, you’re asking for that are beyond the limits within which I am authorized. You know how much I want this deal. I ran after you for it, but this, what you are asking is beyond what I was authorized to commit to when coming here.”

“Those are the , no more no less. I have an idea; this is what we will do. Here is a $100 note form me to you. I hereby engage you as my representative, to go and close it with Ellah on these . I repeat: 950 Million USD on the hardware, 300 Million for the licenses and agreements, 150 Mil contingent for 12 months on the operating license, 15M a year for use of the billing system and 25% of the package will be provided as seller financing for 30 months at 5%. I will shake on that and send you off to go do your job.”

“Bader, it’s not that I am not grateful but you are putting me in a tough spot. I

don't want to disappoint you, with all your hospitality. I can promise to do my best but, in earnest, I cannot guarantee that I will succeed. I give you my word I will do my utmost to see this through. Keep your $100 as this I am doing as a friend.”

At that, we both rose and hugged. I almost laughed out loud as he was asking me to close the deal at some 100 Million below our red line. Oh man, I am good. And Ellah, the son of a bitch terrorist, doesn’t deserve it! We parted ways and I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

On the way to the airport I had but two thoughts in my mind. The first was meeting up with Jim and the guys and saying the words: “we did it!” The second was a long quiet weekend alone with Daphne. Needless to say, neither of these was to happen.

Chapter 19: “When The Going Gets Tough”

My Airport check-in was swift and efficient. I even had enough time to compose a detailed email to the team at Deutsche Bank, to run the new numbers based on the formula Bader put forward. No doubt there would need to be more concessions along the way, but the framework was solid. It was workable and more importantly, with the right s, it was easily financeable.

The flight to Paris was terrible. No adrenalin any more. Just dreary time to kill in a tin can, until I got back to familiar ground. Sleep was simply impossible with all the quantities of caffeine I had pumped into my system all morning. My body was so fired up, I couldn’t even follow a movie, let alone read a book. No onboard internet meant no playing my inventive stock picking portfolio game. I avoided going to the bathroom as I had no desire to bump into John. I had to stay away from that possibility. There would have been no way I could have stopped myself, if I saw him, from delving into a detailed play by play description of every move, every gambit and all the situations I had just navigated over the past three days.

Daphne. She was the only thought I was able to be focused on. There was no escaping the fact that I felt really guilty having run off and had adventures, all behind her back. This is almost like having an affair, which it almost in fact was. I needed to find a way to get her involved, for her to participate, even if it was just in her mind. I knew it wasn’t wholly set on my shoulders, playing these games and orchestrating maneuvers, it was partially her too, whether I itted it or anybody else knew, or not. I may be bringing home the trophy, but she was paying a large part of the price. She deserved to be part of it all and to receive at least part of the credit.

To settle down, and as a mental diversion, I flipped my attention back to how much money my fee came out to be on this deal as per my agreement with Ellah. I still had to formulate a method of how to relay all that green from Tom Cook to Simon Smith's . Cash? Client escrow ? Back to back loan against Tom's deposit? Create a bogus engagement by a Tom Cook and pull in the fees and loans on an as needed basis? Set up a new VC fund with all of Tom's money to be managed by Simon Smith? Clearly, I had a plethora of options to choose from and I needed to prioritize them. One thing was absolutely certain. Any way I played it, this deal was a game changer. This train of thought inevitably led the fanciful meandering thoughts of ‘now, what do I do with the money, all my money, once I have it?' At this point in my life, what did I really need?? I had a nice house with an easy mortgage. I guess it could be nicer with a little remodeling or maybe a lot of remodeling. Not a productive option though, as there was no point in doing that kind of work until the gremlins grow up a little more. We could put in a swimming pool in the back yard and add a conservatory with an air hockey table, a billiard table maybe a grass tennis court. The kids would love that. Hold the thought, a swimming pool may not be the greatest of ideas, as aesthetic as it may be, with our weather, when would we get to use it altogether. Scratch the swimming pool, consider the tennis court. No argument, a conservatory or a games room would be fun. How much would that cost fifteen, maybe twenty thousand pounds. The ultimate irony here was I didn't even need Tom's money for that, I could do that tomorrow if I wanted. A car, what car would I get? Ferrari or maybe a Lamborghini like the one I just tooled around in Dubai? I could do it but it is a little too flashy. I wouldn't want to give the impression we had that much money, even though we did, nothing good could come of that. We could get a house not far from Daphne's parents but it seemed we both enjoyed the space between us and our better side. Skiing would be great. We could get a beautiful chalet in Verbier. Although, going to the same place and doing the same runs year after year doesn’t seem to ratchet up the excitement level. That’s a retirement kind of move. Far better to visit different locations on a trip by trip basis. Fine, how about a yacht?

The mental games continued for another ten minutes until I reached the conclusion that there really was not much I needed or even wanted to change in my life style. It was quite amazing that even though my last fifteen years had been spent mostly chasing money, in some form or other, all of a sudden, on the

precipice of obtaining that goal, say another 5 or 7 million pounds, it seemed it would have little to no impact on my lifestyle. Of course, the overall concept of financial stability is very reassuring and it would give me immense satisfaction poking large wads of money in front of Daphne's siblings and a few other acquaintances, but at the end of the day, all I needed was a little peace and quiet. Oh, and did I miss Daphne ever so much. Now more than ever, I recognized the value of her intoxicating, placid peace of mind. I may have wanted it in the past, but now, I needed it. These thought meanderings circled for another seven minutes of flight time but the flight droned on and on. After a few more club sodas, thankfully I was drinking caffeine free funny tasting water, I finally dozed off. That was all I needed because I woke up at the touchdown. My connecting flight to London was scheduled with enough of a time cushion such that had I had to take the later flight I would still be on time. This meant that I had a few hours to kill in Charles De Gaulle. After the last few days, the prospect of killing more time, sitting around in dead time was too unsettling. Furthermore, I was all too aware of the resounding fact that once I returned to London, I would be robbed of my day to day Tom Cook identity. With all my love for Simon Smith, I was not ready to give up on Tom Cook. Not just yet anyhow.

I looked around to try and spot John, he had to be lurking around. He was supposed to be somewhere in the shadows watching out for me. He wasn’t around or, at least, I couldn’t find him. Since I had a few hours to kill for my connecting flight, I decided to play along with my cover story some more. I pulled out my phone and called Celia who, if nothing else, was an absolute pleasure to look at. In all honesty, she was also a touch of something fresh and new. I asked her if she’d like to meet for coffee and she jumped at the offer immediately. I was pretty sure she was mistaking me for someone else because I wasn’t even sure she ed who I was at all. I mean I would not have ed her if she weren’t so eye appealing so why would I carry the same stature for her? Apparently, I was wrong and Tom Cook did leave a lasting impression. Conversely, maybe it was Simons Smith's unparalleled capabilities of rekindling old relationships that was winning the day. Either way, I found myself rejuvenated and off to have coffee with a beautiful Parisian on a sunny morning at the Café de la Paix.

Traffic was lighter than expected and I made it there from the airport in about forty-five minutes. I was there no more than ten minutes before Celia arrived. Watching her advancing casually on the sidewalk, my immediate association was of watching one of the wild cat family. Carrying not an ounce of fat and absolutely perfectly proportioned, every stride Celia made was of perfect precision and pure elegance. All of the French art prodigies combined could not have produced such a beautifully artistic salute to life. Not being a particularly religious person, this was as close as I would probably ever come to a religious experience. At that moment, what was playing out before me could not be explained in any other way but an act of god. Not Rodin, not Monet, not Degas, not even Darwin could come close to creating such a being. And she was headed straight to me. We participated in the peck on both cheeks ceremony and I was, for at least one moment in time, the envy of anyone in a 300-meter radius. We discussed everything and anything at the same time until she finally asked if my visit was business or pleasure. As much as I would have liked to, I could not lead her on, so I went with time tested decision abort response of “both”. I told her I was in the middle of a big acquisition, that the deal would require that we to redo the whole branding, advertising and international non-verbal positioning and that I wanted her to consider leading it. In my defense, nothing was pre-meditated. It was all on the fly. It just came out naturally, a strategy to place her as a consultant in my latest effort. This way, I could see her from time to time when I shuttled back and forth in and out of the project. With her looks, no one would think to question her capabilities. Who would care about the answer? I asked her if she would freelance and she excitedly responded that for her it presented as the chance of a lifetime. This was all before she even knew which company we were talking about or where it was located. Time flew by exceedingly fast and I, to my disdain I had to get back to the airport. I told her I enjoyed catching up with her and that once the project picked up, we would figure out how and where we could work together. Naturally, a sexual encounter with Celia entered my mind, several times, very frequently, but somehow my traditional British upbringing reigned supreme, as watching her dip a croissant into her coffee and then succulently eat it, elevated my internal rumbling sensation from my loins to my stomach.

A harsh reality had descended on me like a big psychic blanket that doused all cerebral fires. Celia was fun to be with, a pleasure to look at, a trophy to be seen with, but I would most certainly stick with Daphne. If I ever wanted to take it to another level, which maybe I was foolish to assume I could, I would find out then but for now, the no touch, talk, laugh and listen suited me just fine. Ironically, I was probably scoring a ton of points with her by not pursuing anything romantic. I mean, what straight, sane, breathing humanoid (male or female) wouldn’t. As it turns out, you’re looking at him. And oddly, it was good, even perfect. I was that much more content when I considered that my alternative for the last few hours was initially supposed to be more Costa Coffee and the disinfectant smell of duty free. Eventually, we parted with, I believe, a closer personal relationship, and an air of mutual anticipation. In all practicality, the new venture would need repositioning and maybe she would actually do a good job. And Tom Cook needed to record some casual call on his cell phone, especially ones that can corroborate the persona. Regardless, I am certain she would, at the very least, add some color and form to middle management.

The flight to London was uneventful. This time, however, I actively looked for John instead if avoiding him. He was nowhere to be found. I was fully expecting him to rip into me for taking the liberty of making an unplanned pit stop at Café de la Paix. I mean who else knew I went there, right? But the flight back in the Queen’s country was very short as it is and walking through arrivals at the terminal, I was wondering what Daphne had planned for us. It would be oh so marvelously ironic if I were to be heading out for a vacation in just a few hours from this very same terminal. Waiting in line for port control, I glanced one more time at my port, practiced my answers to their three questions and recalled what an idiot I was during my scarecrow encounter. Line cleared and it was my turn. I handed the scarecrow my port and smiled lightly. I almost replied 'Business' even before I was politely asked the first of the three, “Sir, is your visit here business or pleasure.” I held back and responded to the proper cues. “Where are you arriving from Sir?” “From Paris.” I replied. “And what were you doing in Paris Sir?” “Business. I had a few meetings there.” “How long were you in Paris Sir?” “From the beginning of the week, save for a slight detour.” I assumed there was little chance he would notice the stamp from Dubai but better to mention the “detour”, just to be on the safe

side. “And where were you before that Sir?” “I was here in London. I am sure you can see that on your screen.” “Yes Sir. Just ing Sir.”

He then begun a series of typing, hitting keys, buzzing and looking. At the screen, at me, then back and forth again. I believe at one point he even tried looking at both me and the screen at the same time. That did not work out too well. After a minute or two I asked, “Is there some sort of problem?” My voice was possibly too aggressive but by that time even if I were holding Simon Smith's port I think I would have been agitated. “Sir, I’m just doing my job here.” “Sorry, it has just been a lot of travelling.” “Sir, I thought you had only come from Paris now and had been there since the beginning of the week?” “Yes, I meant not the immediate now. All week. I just want to get a good night's sleep. I need a vacation.” I thought I was being friendly, but he pressed a button and shut his booth. Holding my port, he said “Please follow me Sir.” Following him, I fumbled through my mind trying to determine if and how I screwed up. I concluded that I was on home ground so whatever it was, John would fix it. Hey, wait a minute, this was home ground! Jim with his warped sense of humor, knows from my emails that we are perfectly on track and wants to surprise me with an entrance to some celebration of some sort. This must be his idea of a welcome party. OK, I get it, I fumbled this stage at the beginning, so he thinks this is my soft spot. He is probably taping all this on the CCTV to later blow up a few frames of me sweating. That’s not going to work. I am not going to fall for it. I'll have to keep my steady composure.

We reached an immigration back office. My port control scarecrow motioned for me to sit in a waiting area and handed my port to an officer behind a desk. He cited some code or other. I looked around in the waiting area, where there were two Pakistani women who both looked well over sixty, carrying packages, that were more suited for the market in Karachi than Heathrow. There was also a middle aged Somali woman, or she must have been from some similar geographical origin, with a six or seven your old child who seemed to be comprised of nothing at all besides his skeleton and a pair of exceptionally large protruding eyes. Those orbs stared at me blankly, as I did at them. Taking in the scene, I burst out laughing thinking of what this was going to look like from Jim's CCTV viewpoint. There I was, back from Dubai, on the verge of mission success, rounded up with these refugees.

I got up and went to the officer at the counter. “Come on guys, I get the joke. You had me guessing there for a few minutes but the guys in the waiting area gave it away. Good one. I actually fell for it for a while.” The officer did not react at all. He just looked at me, waited patiently until I’d finished and then asked: “Sir, are you done? Now please sit down until we call you.”

I stood there and waited for them to come in laughing. I was still standing but nothing was happening. My smile slowly dissolved.

“Sir, now can you please sit down. I will call for you.” I returned to my dear Pakistani and Somali friends. The kid was still looking at me like I was mad, or did he always look at everyone that way?

Fifteen minutes later the officer came to the Pakistani ladies, handed them their

ports and some form or other and told them to go back to the immigration line. He apologized for the inconvenience and wished them a pleasant visit. He gave me a look which questioned my sanity and returned to the counter. The Somalis were either there for a few days already or were professional “blend in with the furniture” players. They did not move, did not speak and had they not had an ethnic odor and occasional eye movements, I may not have noticed them at all. They apparently did not need any reminders that they were supposed to be second rate, they seemed to know it very well and played their part to perfection. Another fifteen minutes ed and the officer came into the waiting area. He naturally ignored the Somalis, most likely he was used to them too by now, and motioned me to follow him. My port was not in his hand, not an encouraging sign. He led me down a short corridor and into a small bare office. “Please sit here. Another officer will be with you shortly.” With that he closed the door and I was alone in a small room which had grey prefabricated walls, no phone, no pictures and nothing at all aside from two plastic chairs, one on each side of a plain Formica desk. In the course of thirty minutes, I went from a moving line, to a counter with a waiting room, to a one on one desk room. I doubted this was progress.

Another fifteen minutes ed, I was annoyed and needed relieve myself. I left the room and found the officer who was visibly annoyed at seeing me in front of him once again. “I told you to wait in the room for another officer! Sir!” “Yes you did, but I would like to know where the bathroom is.” “Sir, you cannot go to any bathroom, you are to wait for the officer, in, the, room! Sir!” “You may not have noticed but there is no urinal in, the “room’’. Unless you want me to pee all over the floor there, you may want to direct me to the nearest men's room. Officer!” “This is not part of Protocol but since you are so polite then come with me.” I followed the officer to the nearest men's room and relieved myself. When

exiting, I noticed that the officer was waiting by the door for me to return. A little overkill under the circumstances but I took the opportunity, now that we were friends, to casually ask what seems to be the problem. “I don't know Sir, maybe you'll tell me?” “I actually have not the faintest idea.” T he officer showed me back to my bare, poorly designed, even worse decorated office where I continued to wait. Another, seemingly more senior, immigration officer came in and sat down. “Good afternoon Sir. I have a few questions if you please.” “Yes, I have a few questions of my own so please let's proceed and get the show on the road.” “Sir, where are you coming from?” “Paris” “What is the purpose of your visit here?” “Business.” “How long will you be staying in the UK?” “Not yet sure. I expect a week or so. It depends on the progress I make. Officer, I have been through this already. Does there seem to be a problem? I am an EU citizen carrying an EU port. I left London just a few days ago and all was fine and I have traveled to and from the UK numerous times and all was fine. Did I accidently crease my port or something?” “Sir, I will do the questions and you will do the answers, and this will be much more efficient. You are Mr. Tom Cook right?” “Yes I am. Now what is the problem here?” “Sir, where will you be staying in the UK?” “At the Churchill hotel in London.” “Can you show me your reservation?”

“No I can't, because I don’t have one yet.” “Sir, you do not know how long you will be staying and you do not know where. May I ask the nature of your business?” “I did not say I don't know where I will be staying just that I don’t have a reservation. I am a financing consultant dealing with various project financings.” “And what will you be doing in London?” “Looking to raise money, like any other normal business man coming to London. Officer, I do respect your position and the responsibilities you have but I frankly do not know what this is all about. I am a business man, I have various s in all facets of the British business landscape and of the UK governmental communities. I have an EU port which I believe has not expired and if there is any oversight I will surely amend it. I think it only fair and legitimate for you or someone to reveal to me what seems to be the problem? I do need to get back to my schedule and I have already been here more than an hour. Now, I initially thought this was a practical joke and if it is, and Jim or anyone else put you up to this, let's just let it go, because, in all honesty, it is not funny anymore. If there is a problem, let me address it and we can both be on our way.” “Sir, I am afraid it is not as simple as that. Please wait here and I will check with my associates.”

At that moment in time, enough was enough. Although it was against protocol, I had reached the endpoint of how far I was willing to let this go. I have a real life and Daphne is waiting for me. Alone in the office, I pulled out my mobile and dialed John. This was when I realized that I was running into a real problem. No answer would have been a better response than “the number you have called is no longer connected.” I tried Jack and got the same. Sending an SMS was not any help. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a number for Jim on Tom's phone. No one told me what to do when my backup numbers are dead and my living breathing backup has not been seen for at least forty-eight hours. What was going on? The senior immigration officer was back and this time he had a policeman with him. “Sir, did you send any luggage on the flight?”

“No, I only had my carry on with me. I travel business class so they normally allow me a larger load.” “Sir, may I request to look through your luggage?” “No. Not until you tell me what is going on here.” “Sir, I was only being polite. I will look through your luggage and perform a manual body search one way or another. The police constable here will help me if needed.” “No need. Mind my dirty laundry and used condoms. I have an extensive collection of both in there. Will you please tell me what is going on?” They must have taken me seriously as they both put on plastic gloves and went through my carry on and even smelled my toothpaste. They checked me and the contents of my wallet, all of which had been pre-checked three times before to ensure nothing in there would in any way contradict Tom Cook's identity. “OK, now that you are satisfied that I am not Osama Bin Laden, can I be on my way?” “Actually, no Sir. Sir, we are placing you under arrest under the orders of an INTERPOL warrant. You will be taken to a police holding cell pending compliance with the warrant.” “What the fuck!?” I was winded. This could not be real. “Officer, I have no idea what this is about. May I just ask you. Seriously. Is this a practical joke someone is pulling on me?” “Sir, I am sorry to inform you that this is no joking matter. The Police officer here will place handcuffs on you and escort you to the holding cell. I am afraid you will need to pursue this via legal channels.”

I was, for the first time in my life, handcuffed. So many thoughts charged through my mind simultaneously that I was unable to process any of them: Daphne, the kids, Jim, Ellah, my fund, Bader, my country, the military, Oxford, Irish accent. I had no idea what was happening. One thing stood out beyond all others and was absolutely crystal clear through the blizzard roaring in my mind.

Humiliation. Two hours ago, I was the envy of every person in sight, kissing Celia on the cheek. Now I was being dragged in shackles through the terminal in Heathrow. Mothers would be warning children not to look at the way the police dragged away the 'criminal'. I remained, at some level, in shock but managed through the mental buzz to decipher parts of the discussion between the various costumed men escorting me. The holding cells in Heathrow were full so I had to be driven to a small police station known, how ironically, as Langley Police Station.

This was basically a neighborhood police station not accustomed to holding hardened criminals such as myself. The structural design was not very clever either. The holding cell in the station was placed in the back part on the second floor of the small two story building. The clerk on duty could and would have no idea what was going on in the holding cell in the floor above him. Had I been in the business, I don't think breaking out of there by simply hammering through the roof would have been all too much trouble. After being processed, which included finger printing, logging of my personal affects, body search, mug shots etc. I was deposited in the cell, alone and the door locked behind me. Frankly, I was actually looking forward to being left alone to simply calm down and think. The place stank of urine and vomit and the beds had no sheets or pillows. But it was not as small as I would have imagined and it had a window so I could get some fresh air.

If heartlessly and meticulously planned, it could all still have been a sick joke. I tried to console myself with these far-fetched thoughts, but by now, that seemed unlikely.

If I ever needed one, now was the time for General Staff meeting. On the double. First was setting the agenda. Personal comfort issues were pressing to take the lead. Hunger, sleep, hygiene, smell, shower were all in dire need of addressing. Emotions made a strong appeal to be heard and they had a lot to present: anger,

revenge, disappointment, humiliation, regret. The stable of participants all certainly warranted detailed deliberation. Daphne, what a sticky issue. It was like an overhanging thunderstorm looming over everything else, just waiting to blow up any second. Visualization was trying to butt in and take control with images of a distraught Daphne and seemed to put everyone and everything else out of commission. Confidence was absent, nowhere to be found. Not even a forwarding address. Logic was there but exhausted and beaten. Memory was present but not functional. Analytics were present but not focused, besides this was not the time to try and lace together the series of events leading from where I was to where I am. The chairman was losing control. He could not get a grip over all of the commotion. It became a cacophony of vices yelling, crying, screaming and begging, all at the same time. Anarchy was breaking out and each one was pulling in a separate direction. Physically, I was all over the place as well. I began hyperventilating and sweating profusely. I had an uncontrollable need to urinate and almost did not make it to the bucket in the corner of the cell in time. Is this what is commonly known as a nervous breakdown or is this just a run of the mill panic attack? How can I think with all this shit flying all around me? Cut, cut, cut. Time out, cool it. I went to the sink and put my head under the cold running water until my head went quiet inside. The cold had a silencing effect but I needed some more calm. I decided to shut the light off and put my head down for a few minutes, thinking of nothing, restart, and then start over layer after layer. Looking for the light switch to shut off the light and lose myself a little in the dark, proved more challenging than I thought. None was to be found. Apparently, there are three options in a holding cell: beg to have the light shut off, break the light and never have it turned on again and leave the light on, with no objection, forever. Not that the light was such a big deal, just that to me, it symbolized, one of the first manifestations of being robbed of my freedom. That, I quickly realized, was far worse than the military. In the army, someone decided for me when and if I would sleep, eat or shit but it was understood to both the army and the soldiers, that all of those necessities would need to happen at some point and it was in the army's best interests, almost as much as the soldiers’, that all three are ultimately done. Comparatively, in a prison, the penal system has absolutely no interest in the ultimate wellbeing of its customers. Most certainly the vice versa was true.

I wrapped my head in my jacket which I still had on, this was a holding cell not a prison so I still had my own clothes, and lay down to ponder. The Boss suit jacket, which was not designed to double as a pillow, nevertheless kept out the light and insulated me from the smell. Now I could try and piece things together. It took all of my mental strength to listen and feel beyond the voices yelling “shit, fuck, you are screwed big time” all resonating loudly through my head, but I managed. John disappeared somewhere along the line, apparently after he arranged the back office message to Bader’s father. That had to be about twenty hours ago. Jack was not on air. Assuming both of them were not compromised somehow, Jim and Natasha should have been looking out for me. But yet here I am, and I too was officially out of commission. I am not sure yet how or why, but the bottom line was, I was fucked. My only lingering hope was this was England. It was home. Whatever I was out there doing, I was doing it on behalf (and at the expense) of my surrounding idiots. It was for their benefit, the benefit of mom and pop on the street. It was on behalf of all those future victims of the next underground bombings and the next Madrid train explosion, the next UK 9/11, that I found myself in this new hell hole. Even if John and Jack somehow got nabbed somewhere down the line, why was Jim not stepping in?? This was home turf, how can he just let me be shot down by friendly fire?? Logic finally got a grip of the situation and concluded that I was simply caught up in the shuffle. It may take a day, it may take two, but this was all just a shuffle and it will work itself out. No way Jim and Natasha would leave to anywhere while the rest of us were in Dubai and in running the plan. Maybe they were caught up retrieving John or Jack from a car accident taking a cab or something and I am just an oversight. They are military, no way they would abandon me. Logic reached a firm conclusion, even though I may have been paying the price for protecting the system from itself, in the overall scheme of things, it was not that bad. It could have been worse, and it will work itself out. When all was said and done, it may cost them the price of another vacation for Daphne and maybe the kids. I would simply send Jim the expense. I was advised to bite the bullet and Jim will work it out. Once settled, that’s when Confidence began creeping out of his hiding place and I felt a little better. I had resolve.

Sadly, Confidence's appearance was short lived. If Jim was dealing with an emergency with John or something of the sort, that would explain why they were not pulling me out, but why was I in here in the first place? What went wrong? I

could no longer keep the thoughts of Daphne out of my mind. She had to be sitting and waiting for me to come home so we could go on our vacation. She must be all packed, set up the kids and I was off the planet. What must she be thinking? What would she do? Simple, she knew to call Natasha. That's it. She'll call Natasha. Natasha will look for me and that is where and how the vicious circle will break. Hold on. But, what if Natasha's number went to the same hell hole John and Jack's did? Then I am right back to being fucked again. Not only am I fucked but Daphne goes off the deep end! She does not deserve this and however ill equipped I am to deal with this, she is even less equipped than I. What have I done to her? Me and my stupidity. This was my punishment for playing games with Celia. But punish me not Daphne. Punish Tom, not Simon Smith. Who the hell is in here now anyhow, Tom Cook or Simon Smith?? I was losing it again. Cool it.

The last time I had eaten anything was at the Café de la Paix. It wasn’t really an issue until Celia plunged her croissant in her coffee and caused my stomach to rumble. But now, when my mind settled, I was hungry. I tried calling a guard or the clerk but either no one heard me or no one was listening. It appeared that not a soul in the world knew where Tom Cook was. For that matter, I was beginning to wonder if anyone even cared. I was absolutely certain no one knew where Simon Smith was. It was pretty evident by my surroundings that the guards at the police station had no idea either. I tossed and turned all night but I maintained my predetermined resolve to give everything forty-eight hours to work itself out. If things were not cleared up by then, screw Jim and his missions. I had a life and a responsibility to my family. I did not volunteer to be a punching bag for any side, especially not for the good guys. If the deadline fell, then I would enact operation “No Holds Barred.” Spill the full story to whoever necessary and let Jim deal with the security breach and possible compromise of the mission. It was his job to cover my ass and if he didn’t get his part done, then he could only blame himself. I did my job to the fullest extent. I brought home the goods. The least he could do was take care of his side of things. I mean he was the so-called expert.

It was not until about 11:00 am the next day that anyone either ed,

woke up to or somehow figured out I was in the cell. Heathrow told no one that I was moved to Langley and once here, the check-in clerk changed shifts an hour after I got locked in the can. He promptly neglected to mention it to his shift replacement. Someone must have heard me pounding the wall or floor. The shift clerk or whatever came upstairs and was surprised to find a lost soul in the lockup. He got the key, opened the cell door and greeted me with a flat out “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in there?” “I have been asking myself the same questions all night. I have not eaten anything for about a day. Any chance I could ask for something to eat. I am starving and would be grateful for pretty much anything.” “I don't think I have anything here. I will look for something downstairs. What is your name and how long have you been here?” “I am Tom Cook and I have been here since yesterday evening at some time.” “I'll see what I can do.” He came back five minutes later with a banana and an apple. “Have this until we get something delivered. It’s from my lunchbox. I have no paperwork on you downstairs. A little confusing, because you don't look like a thief or drunk driver. What did you do, smack the wife around a little?” “No. Nothing so crass. This may sound awfully dimwitted but I have no idea why I am here. I got off a plane in Heathrow and they shipped me here. Aren't they supposed to tell me why I’m being detained and arrested?” Theoretically, I should have known these things as I did complete a law degree but after a night here and not knowing which one of me did what or when, I had no idea. “Not really. But either you will be interrogated, a statement will be taken and you get to leave afterwards, in which case you will know what the story is, or you will be brought before a judge, in which case you will certainly know what the accusations are. You really have no idea?” “Not a clue.” “Most people who end up here are usually guilty of multiple things and the big question for them to worry about is only what we actually picked them up for. It

is way less common for people to be in here and be clueless. Let me go down and let someone know you are here altogether, and I will try and see about real food.” “Could I ask for a phone call too? Would that be OK?” “Since I have no paperwork here I have to make sure you are not IRA or something. Assuming not, I'll probably be able to get you to a phone this afternoon, once I have more people in the station. In the meantime, feel free to enjoy breakfast at our fine restaurant.” He was actually trying to be nice. He must have attended a different training class than the guys at immigration.

The next time the lock opened, it was not lunch and not my call. I was whisked away to a Magistrate court. No one took the effort of actually talking to me or addressing me in any way. At the court, I was placed in a wooden fenced box within the court with ten or so drunks, and the police prosecutor just called us up one by one.

When my file came up, my name was called and like those before me, I stood up to face the magistrate. The prosecutor ignored me completely and only addressed the Magistrate. It was eerily reminiscent of as if I were the Somalis at Heathrow. The Magistrate did not talk much to me either. “Ah Mr. Cook. Not drunken driving as well?” But it was the prosecutor who replied.

“No your Honor. This one is something of a different nature. Mr. Cook was apprehended upon entering the country yesterday. We have received an Interpol arrest warrant and are in the process of ing Brussels to find out what it is all about. Unfortunately, I have no other details. If it pleases the Court, I wish to present the warrant and to request that Mr. Cook be apprehended for seven days, pending additional information.”

“Mr. Cook is of which nationality?” “Let me see. It says here that he is an Irish citizen.” They could have simply asked me, I was in the room but that did not seem to even be an option. “And have the Irish been notified that we have a citizen of theirs in our custody?” “No your Honor, not yet. This only happened yesterday, your Honor. Under protocol, the Foreign Office is to the Irish Embassy.” “My my, Mr. Cook. Why would you have Interpol after you?” asked the Magistrate, looking not at me but at the paper presented to him. I assumed, correctly, that this was a rhetorical question. “Is there anything you wish to say Mr. Cook before I approve the request?” For the first time, the Magistrate actually looked at me. “May I point out Mr. Cook that I have little to no latitude in this matter. If we want Interpol to cooperate with our law enforcement, we must reciprocate, so I have very little to go on.” It seemed that it was a lost cause. My best bet was to just go for points. “If it pleases the court…” “I see you are a quick learner Mr. Cook.” “Yes your Honor, as you may be aware, we Irish are known for that. If it pleases the court, I understand the Court’s position but would like to point out that with today's technology, a week to obtain information from within Europe is highly excessive. Considering I have absolutely no idea what this is all about and in all probability this whole thing is nothing but a clerical mistake, a two-minute email or a telephone call should suffice. Indeed, if I am in essence a notorious criminal, all and any material against me should be readily available. As a matter of fact, as this is such an unusual occurrence before this court, as stated by the prosecutor, I would have expected the police or the prosecutor to at least give someone in Interpol a call to see what this was about prior to this hearing. But it appears even this has not been done. Under the circumstances, would it not be more appropriate if I was released on bail until it is established if I am in fact truly a danger to anyone?” “Bail may be pushing too much, as the United Kingdom cannot risk noncompliance. However, Mr. Cook may not be completely wrong on this point” said the Magistrate looking at the police prosecutor.

“In addition your Honor, as relates to the of my detention, since I have been detained, until this very moment, I have not been told why I have been detained. I have not been given a meal. I have not been allowed a phone call. I certainly have not been informed of my rights and I have not been given the chance to seek any legal advice. I have no knowledge of criminal procedure in England but I am sure I have certain basic human rights, none of which have been afforded to me.”

“No need to respond. Please note for the record that the Court has taken to its attention the points raised by Mr. Cook and as such, the Police are ordered to obtain the file upon which the arrest warrant was issued within 5 days and Mr. Cook shall remain in custody until such time. If the Police receives information warranting further custody, it shall present it to the court for consideration. Furthermore, the police are ordered to afford Mr. Cook all rights to which he is eligible. The court would be greatly displeased to learn in future proceedings that such rights have not been afforded. Off the record, may I suggest that Mr. Cook be moved to a more appropriate facility, if, for the lack of nothing else, to be a little more hospitable to our foreign guest, unless he is found to be more dangerous. Thank you Gentlemen. Next up.” And that, as they say, was that.

*******************************

“M'Lord, this is Hunt speaking.” “Good afternoon Mr. Hunt. How are we today?” “Fine M'Lord, just fine. I came across a certain piece of news which I believe is of interest to you that you may want to consider publishing in one form or other.” “I am all ears.”

“It has come to my attention that a certain Irish citizen was apprehended yesterday upon entering Heathrow airport. Apparently, there was an arrest warrant issued by Interpol relating to this individual. He was subsequently, earlier today, brought before a Magistrate who ordered that he be kept in jail for the next few days until the full Interpol file is produced and it can be determined what is to be done with him.” “I hope that there is more to this story because so far it is as expected and uninspiring.” “Indeed it is. No less interesting is the fact that I have a strong suspicion, well more than that actually – upon my advice really, that he was placed in Belmarsh prison pending receipt of the Interpol file.” “I apologize but I don't know my local correctional facilities that well. Is that supposed to mean something to me?” “Well first, Belmarsh is known to be the English equivalent to the US Guantanamo Bay. I have extensive experience with the istration over there. I am told he will be placed in a wing that is known for its high profile customers, which basically means a rather dangerous environment. This unfortunate paddy will be ending up a lone white prisoner in a predominantly black and Muslim wing.” “Indeed that has a more interesting twist to it. But please do keep close tabs on it to see how things transpire. I am, of course, curious if such a prisoner can make it through such a place. What do you think Hunt?" "Well M'Lord, it is less a question of what I think. I know the chances are not high and I think I can provide some help if not." "Thank you Hunt, you are my man.”

*******************************

The Judge may have thought he was doing me some great favor by having me placed in a more structured facility. In all practicality he was, if all that were to be considered were the actual physical surroundings. This Belmarsh place had a bathroom, had a kitchen and was basically clean. When it comes to personal safety though, it seemed I got the raw end of the stick. Just coming through the ten-meter-high gate topped with barbed wire quickly sent any trace of Confidence running for cover to his favorite hole again. In its place came a big dose of Fear and a able dose of Survival Instinct. In retrospect, reflecting back on my combat experience in Dhahran, all those years Logic credited Confidence with getting us out of there alive. Now, being once again in a tight spot, and with a little more experience, I recognized that the credit belonged to Survival Instinct. Confidence is out the door at the first sign of trouble and could not be counted on in a time of need. He just wasn’t there. I was less than twelve hours into my forty-eight-hour resolve and I already had nothing to see me through but Survival Instinct.

How ironic. Had I kept my mouth shut with the Magistrate, I would most likely have been brought back to the Langley Police Station watched by a nice clerk who was about to give me the lunch his wife had sent him, before I got whisked away. But now, I found myself with King Kong’s little brother as a cell mate.

Chapter 20: “Be carful of what you wish for”

Belmarsh was a zoo in every respect. It had strong cages, high walls, a lot of barbed wire but most importantly and notably, it contained varied species of very dangerous animals with huge biceps and every kind of makeshift tattoos imaginable. This was no overnight holding cell, I was in a hard core maximum security prison for criminals and terrorists.

Initiation and insertion were fast and efficient. Printing, photographing, etc. This time I was relived of my suit and any personal effects and given, of course, the highly recognized prison uniform. I was also given what, to me, was an overly thorough bodily check, but supposedly by their standards, was apparently lenient, given that I was just under an arrest warrant and not an experienced convict. I was still ordered naked for the bodily search of contraband, but they spared me the search of internal orifices. The guards at Belmarsh were hardened sentries for the worst the British Homeland could catch, and it was plainly evident to each and every one of them that I didn't quite fit in at Belmarsh. I’m not sure that any of them cared or would concede any action but the whole disposition gave the impression that the guards at Belmarsh viewed my story moving forward would be an interesting social sciences experiment.

Belmasrh was just like we see on TV. Gates buzzed and doors slammed as I was walked, holding my blanket, towel and care bag, down one wing or another on my way to my temporary new abode. As I ed along in front of the cells, there was a series of cheering, chanting and cajoling by the inmates. Separating themselves from all of the loud wooing, two chants stood out to me in particular. The first was directed at me saying “Hey white man, wanna die?”. The second was directed more to the rest of the club “Fresh Meat!!!” “Shut it down already” shouted one of the guards, or I was soon found out, they were commonly known locally as screws, “we don't want to make a bad first

impression do we.”

It was obvious to the naked eye that there were closed circuit cameras placed all through the facilities. As we walked through a short alley connecting two of the cell blocks, I was looking up to see where the camera was placed when I felt a sharp pain in my kidney. It was not the pain of impact but far worse than that. I was immediately incapacitated and entered into an unprintable fit. My hands were shaking incontrollable throwing the neatly folded bedding package all over, and my legs simply faltered beneath me sending me to the floor. On the floor I started to convulse, biting my tongue deeply in process. I don’t know how long the episode lasted but when it ended, I was laying face down on the floor drooling part blood and part undistinguishable liquids from my mouth and nose. So this is what it feels like having 10,000 volts shot though one’s body. I could barely get my bearings when a heavy knee came down on my back and a strong arm caught my hair puling my head backwards. "Now listen to me you little shit. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Listen to me carefully now" and then he continued in very slow, punctuated words: " y-o-u a-r-e a d-e-a-d m-a-n. Y-o-u a-r-e n-o-t l-e-a-v-i-n-g h-e-r-e a-l-i-v-e. You are going to kill yourself and I will make sure of it. You are going to take the edges of your blanket, you are going to braid them into a rope and you are going to hang yourself. The earlier you do it, the more pain you will save yourself. Are we clear?" he asked this while pulling my hair back even further, as if I was capable of any response of comprehension in this state. Opposite us, walking down the corridor in our direction, then appeared what seemed though my cloudy vision to be a superior officer. The grip on my hair and on the knee in my back were no lighter. Stepping over us the officer said: "everything OK here Charlie?" without breaking stride. "Yes Sir, newbie here was just giving me a bit of the lip.". "Very well Charlie, do proceed, we have to get the show on the road."

Once he got off me, I struggled to get myself together. Getting myself up was one thing, but trying to get my stuff together was another. The guard then squatted down while I was scrambling on the floor and said, again quietly "don’t make me do it for you. Killing you I mean". He then shuffled me to a cell on the bottom floor of a split level wing, which had two floors of cells placed around the communal 'recreational' area.

“You will be on the bottom floor for now, so we can keep a better eye on little shits like you” he told me quietly as we walked.

He unlocked the corner cell and showed me in. “This is Mohamed. Play nicely guys. You will get to know the routine around here, if you follow it, you'll be OK. Any games and I guarantee you will regret it.”

Immediately after I entered, I heard the cell gate slam and lock behind me. As that happened, I must have fallen into some kind of sensory shut off or dull down. My eyes were acclimating to the poor lighting in my new confine and I no longer heard the raving and ranting from the wing. The cell was a small rectangle room of possibly two meters by maybe three and a half meters. Very small. It had one bunk bed, beyond it was a half-height partition behind which was a toilet bowl, without a toilet seat and opposite the toilet was a sink. The distance separating them was such that without an exaggerated effort, one could brush his teeth while sitting on the toilet. Alternately, a well-endowed man could pee in the toilet while sitting on the sink. In addition to the bunk bed, which was screwed into the wall, there was a small writing desk, also screwed into the wall and a small kitchen stool, which was the only real movable piece of furniture. There were two plastic boxes under the lower bed which served as presumably cupboard space of sorts.

Even though the cell and its facilities were so small as to be immediately jarring, I actually barely took notice of them. I was much more occupied with what was staring me straight in the eyes. Before me, occupying a large part of the confine was a hulk of a human body half lying on the lower level of the bunk bed. This beast before me was anywhere between two and two and half meters long and no less than one and a half meters in circumference. The beast was black. Not black like an African American, he was black like a Ghanaian, one that blends in with pitch dark, not chocolate. This beast was young, early twenties at most, had a thick black beard and a shaven head. His fingers where each thicker than a Churchill cigar and to go with them, this mammoth had a unique set of nostrils, just big enough to house his XXL fingers.

Interestingly, my brain freeze did not obscure the fact that this monster of a man was a called Mohamed and he looked at me with his huge eyes, which were most noticeable by the white sclera against the otherwise black background. He was easily aware that he needn’t need do anything at all to intimidate me. I stood there motionless with my issued bedding held out in front of me on both arms, terrified by both the surroundings and the beast. Mohamad slowly sat upright on his bed. I was staring at him. But then again, there was little else to look at with such a huge person in such a small cell. He looked at me and said quietly: “Look here you, this is the place of Mohamed you are entering. Uninvited. These are the rules: This here is my bed, you touch it with your hand, I break your arm. You touch it with your foot, I break your leg. Sit on my bed, I break your head. You only shit when I am not here. When I work out, you keep the hell out of my way. Plus, you clean the can. And last thing, you don't talk unless I tell you to.” This was primal behavior and simply put, he was marking his territory. All this was very much in the same way that dogs pee all over the place. As if there were any room for deliberation, Survival Instinct told me to behave exactly the way I had been taught in the military: JUST SHUT UP!.

Carefully avoiding getting too close to the beast or touching his bed in any way, I placed my stuff on the foot of the top bunk bed and went back to the entrance

to the cell, leant against the wall, and slowly slid down to a sitting position, ending up with my head between my knees. I put my hands over my head and closed my eyes. Oh man, this could not be happening. Had I not been so scared of the beast; I would have cried. It was just absolutely absurd. I had spent years in the army training, arresting and shooting these people, I go on this superduper under cover mission to defend me and my country from these people, only to end up here stuck in a two by four cell with a death sentence called Mohamed. I decided it may be better not to share my full CV with my new roommate.

“You OK there white man? You haven't moved in like an hour.” His accent was not one I could immediately place. A mixture of Cockney and Jamaican. A big red light went on in my head, inmates rat each other out regularly. Right so what the hell was going on with him talking to me? Why? Always keep your guard up, always keep your cover. Every word said, must sit well with the prison, the investigators, the inmates and, in this case, with god as well. This guy, seeing my devastated physical and mental state may try and take advantage of me being in shock, and get me to talking. This place may be wired. On the other hand, I don’t want to piss this guy off either by insulting him.

“Not OK. I am pretty broken up, but I will make it. That guy hit me with a taser on the way in. Do they do that to everyone?” “Uh huh. He no do me. First time in the can?” “Yes. I guess you can tell.” “You don’t look like a regular. What did you do so that they put a white guy like you in a place like this on his first spin. They hit you with a taser. You kill a badge??” “To tell you the truth, I have no idea why I am here.” Things were obviously getting to me and I was not up to snuff. Stumbled into that obvious gave away, the “tell you the truth” pre-text introductory. Not good. I made a point to be more

careful. Calm down, stay on script and know or believe that the cavalry is coming.

“I arrived in Heathrow a day before last and when I got to immigration I was arrested. Something to do with Interpol, of which I have no idea.”

“So you weren’t even convicted?” “No.” “Mr., you must have done some serious shit because you are the first person I have ever heard of that is in here before sentencing. How long are you supposed to be here??” My thought was that this is one of those rare times when it’s really not a good idea to be special. My refreshed, now alert, self then ed not to slip up on this disguised curveball. Just like with my Sergeant in the army, there is no doubt in my mind that here too they have the concept of exit tax. If they know when I am leaving, my time before departure will be made a living hell. “Supposed to be here for fourteen days, unless I somehow, get bailed out of here before then.” “You're not the first here with Interpol shit, but never before trial.” “The problem is, no one knows I am here. They didn't give me a phone call or anything. How do I ask for something here?” “Tell the guard". "After he smacked me, I am not telling him anything" "You can tell him, then there is also a social worker here that comes around every now and then. She was not here this morning so maybe after supper. But you don't say nothing about the taser cause if she asks about it, he'll bust you up

some more”. “You been here long?” “Long enough. And some to go.” “So when is supper here?” “At five o'clock, in half an hour. Listen, comes suppertime, you bring your fruit to me. No one needs to see anything but if anyone says anything, you tell them it is for me. But you make sure you don't sit anywhere next to me, get it? Cuz I sit with the brothers and you are not a brother.” “No problem.”

Supper came, I slipped my tangerine to Mohamed straight out of the food line, as instructed, hoping that having all the goons seeing me addressing Mohamed would somehow grant me immunity from what was no doubt crossing all of their minds. Mohamed pointed me in the direction of the social worker before he went to his brothers. They fed us by rolling in the food wagons to the recreation area and setting up shop along one side. I sat down to dine at an empty screwed to the floor table at the very furthest end. I ate all the odd looking and/or smelling stuff that had been piled on my tray with haste. Surprisingly, it was not as bad as I had expected, under the circumstances. I made sure to finish eating quickly before anyone would tell me I was occupying their space. My next stop was the social worker, as soon as I was finished. She asked me if I was OK, told me that it would take me time to acclimate but that she understood that my situation was somewhat irregular and that there is a good chance that I will be out of there in a few days. In any case, she filled out a form on education and vocation, and asked me what I want to do while in jail. Even though it was clear that all these forms were meaningless in my case, I was so happy to go through them thoroughly, finally talking to someone resembling normal society. I was grateful for the diversion from all the tattooed and engraved animals lurking beyond the social worker’s workspace. She was not aware that I had been tossed around for two days already and did not even get a phone call. She promised to check it out and that, if the situation was as a I described, she would take care of getting me to a phone that evening.

Thankfully, she let me wait for her in the interview allocated space without me having to roam around the common areas and come into too much with the other inmates. Watching the scene from a relatively defended space, I observed that the brotherhood, as it turned out, was not of blacks. The brotherhood Mohamed was referring to was apparently a Muslim Brotherhood of people in various shapes, sizes and ages. All except for whites. There were no Caucasians at the Brotherhood table, which was seemingly OK by me as, presuming an invitation or instruction would otherwise be forthcoming, I did not really want to associate with them anyway. Not that I would have felt any affinity to the group if there were any whites in there, but upon a more expanded observation, there did not seem to be any Caucasians in the entire ward altogether. Were Caucasians all upstanding citizens who do not get assigned to these places or were those that did arrive to this wing just picked off one by one? The various remarks made at me when entering and the gazes made towards me had me leaning in the direction of the latter. The social worker came back and notified me that in fact I had been telling the truth and my description of events checked out. They would be taking me over to have a phone call after lock down at 20:00. In addition, she told me that I would be able to see a public defender the next morning. Unfortunately, even the social worker had no advice or deep insight for me on how to keep alive for the next few days, until her next visit to the wing.

In order to stay out of trouble, I went straight back to my now open cell and crawled up to my bed for the first time. My mission was accomplished on schedule before Mohamed made his return. I made sure to step on the stool, as the last thing in the world I needed now was to piss off my beast of a cell mate just before I am to be locked in here with him for the next ten hours. Besides, I needed to plot out this call well and couldn’t afford any distractions. My fortyeight-hour resolve was by now close to being up and I needed to make a plan of how to get out of this hell hole before the guard would come for me. What the hell does he want from me anyhow??

Who do I call and what do I say?? Without any doubt, the top top top priority was to speak to Jim. He has the power to get me out of here. How do I speak to Jim though? Not only do I not have his phone number, I would have no way of finding it even if they gave me access to the internet to look it up. What I could do, was try Jack and John, again. For that I was going to need them to give me access to my mobile phone which happened to be locked away somewhere. I did not know their numbers off by heart, an unfortunately notable detail my training did not reinforce. Realistically, there was absolutely no way that at eight o’clock at night any screw would give me access to my phone. Frankly, assuming they knew where to pull the phone from and how to get it released to me, it was highly doubtful any of them would even want to. Especially not if my attacker was anywhere near. Then there was the fact that I also needed to speak to Daphne. She had to be worried sick. At least in Daphne’s case, I knew her number off by heart. Theoretically, if I did speak to her, I could tell her to get in touch with Natasha to get me out of this shit hole. Then again, Daphne was no idiot. There was no way she had not yet called Natasha and if she got through to her, Jim would have been here already. Factor in, I didn’t even know what I would tell Daphne, “Hi honey, it’s Simon. Can you pop around to London and help release some guy named Tom Cook from a high security jail? By the way, he happens to be wanted by Interpol for something terror related.” Let us not also forget that she has both a temper and self-respect. If I were to call her, three seconds after she establishes that I am alive and well, she'll hang up on me and not speak to me for a month! There was too much going on around me and I hadn’t been able to fully work things through. Not nearly in the way I thought necessary. Hence, I started over, this time focusing on Jim. As I saw it, there were two options: Either he knows where I am, or he does not know. If he knows where I am, then he must have put two and two together, concluded that the deal with Bader was imminent and that when it was to go through Tom would be eligible for a big fat bonus. Naturally, he tips off Interpol about me and gets Tom Cook nabbed and sent off to some dungeon, never to be seen again. He then collects the bonus of a few million pounds to himself. That miserable son of a bitch. I knew the Versace suits were not government issued. But how does he know I won't talk about it? Solution, he gets me thrown to the Brotherhood in god forsaken Belmarsh and gets the guard to off me. That double

triple son of a bitch. Thusly I concluded that under the option one scenario, Daphne was the only person in the world who could help me but she had no idea how to or who even to help. The other option, option two scenario, Jim doesn’t know where I am. This was just as bad, maybe worse, definitely confusing. He should have known from Daphne by now that I had not returned safely and apparently, for some reason or other, did not have the power to help me. Thus under the option two scenario, once again calling Daphne was my best course of action. It seemed, all roads so far lead to Daphne saving my sorry ass. This, of course, assumed she does not hang up on me.

Racking my brains, I did manage to come up with one other option. I could always call my law chambers partner, good old Rodney. Interesting idea. For one thing, I know his number off by heart. I could tell him to somehow get the message to Daphne that I am OK and he could also, via Jim’s business front and its formal engagement with my firm, get back to Jim somehow that I need him to get me out of here urgently. It all made perfect logic sense but I was disregarding a pivotal factual reality, Rodney was a total dysfunctional drunk. The last thing he ever did right was to hire me and I seriously doubted putting the keepsake of my immediate future solely on him. Seeing as how the lack of confidence in Rodney handling such a basic yet vitally important assignment won the day, I had to make a mental note to terminate our partnership if I ever do get out of this nightmare. What do I need a partner for if I can't trust him with the simple task of saving my life?

Returning to what seemed to be the only viable option of Daphne saving me, I had to consider the practicality of that option. How would this scenario play out? Daphne gets me a lawyer. I tell them the whole Simon Smith / Jim Cook story, including the Lord Ellah secret agent plot stuff. In the process I reveal to my attorney information that Jim and his crew will know I told him. This fact, if poorly received, I have no doubt would land myself on the hot seat for extorting a British Lord, impersonation of a fictional ed European citizen, the inevitability directly linked illegal crossing of national borders and throw a

conspiracy charge of some sort since they always find the conveniently available conspiracy charge to really salt a wound. Thus, after much deliberation, I was brought all the way back to Jim. This was seriously depressing because, as I already deduced, he either did not have the power to help me, in which case Simon Smith was to be left holding the proverbial bag and would probably be left in this same armpit cell to rot to death. Or alternatively, Jim wanted the Lord Ellah bonus for himself and actively preferred me to die in this cell to begin with. All at once I shot straight up in my newfound bed and realized that any way that I looked at it, it made no difference if I was Tom Cook or if I was Simon Smith. I was fucked!

On a less selfish note and probably the more responsible option was to call Daphne so she that she would not continue to worry. The difference this time was that I would not mention anything about getting me out of here. Once again, that would not prove helpful because the primary outcome of that phone call would be getting her so royally pissed off that I might as well stay just in this cell. There would be no point to the whole thing. I would remain here, she would be infuriated and that, of course, would be compounded with evidence ed by whoever runs this place that Tom Cook, the suspected Interpol terrorist, called Daphne Simon. How could that be helpful? Better that she be worried about me than be pissed off at me with a big red flag over her head. Who knows, she could be arrested herself.

I ruled out Daphne or Simon Smith as possible initiators for getting me the hell out. Thus, through process of elimination, that left the only option of somehow finding a way for Tom Cook to be released dependent on action by Tom himself. In that regard, the only strategy I could come up with was to meet with my assigned public defender and determine if there was any hope. The fact still remained that, at the end of the day, I really didn’t have any clue what so ever what the Interpol thing was all about.

From a complete cold and collected perspective, it was obvious that history had a way of repeating itself. Despite a twenty-year interval, I had apparently learned nothing at all about life management and retaining my independence. I was still the same infantryman in Dhahran, stuck in a strange, life threatening place with no one to count on but myself.

When the guard finally came to take me to the offices for my phone call, and yes, it was the same guard, he looked and me and asked if I want to come with him to make my call, while motioning towards his taser, I nonchalantly told him: “Fuck it, I'll call her another time.”

Chapter 21: “If you can't beat them, them!”

With at least ten hours of lock down every night, and two more in the afternoon, the concept of pillow talk took on a whole new meaning. “So what's your name anyhow white guy?” “Cook, Tom Cook.” “You're a strange guy Cook. You bitch about getting yourself a call, and when they finally offer it to you, you tell them to piss off. What, you trying to get them angry?” “No, I think they are already angry enough at me”. “Where did you come from anyhow? You said you arrived the day before yesterday.” “From Dubai”. I thought this may get me some points with the Brotherhood. “No shit, really?” “Yup, the real thing”. “That is where Mohamed lived?” After two full days with Bader, I was an expert on Arabic history and Islamic theology. “The prophet Mohamed actually spent most of his time I think closer to what is now known as Saudi Arabia, but geographically, it is the same desert as Dubai, just closer to the ocean.” “When you were there, you learned Islam?” “yes, you could say that. While in Dubai I learned a lot about Islam.” “So, Cook, you are a Muslim too?” “No, I can't say I am. Not yet anyhow. But I did get to know Islam quite well and I do find it intriguing.” “Did you know that I am called Mohamed, after the great prophet?”

“Well, I assumed so. Most people called Mohamed are named after the prophet.” “Tell me! Tell me about the prophet I am named after.” “Well, you know where he was born, right?” “No” “He was born in the Arabian Desert but was brought up by his uncle, if I am not mistaken, in a city called Mecca. He was very intelligent and at an early age was a successful trader and led trade fares all over the desert, trading almost anything. As a matter of fact, he was so successful that he caught the eye of a very wealthy widow named Hadija who took him on as her foreman and later they married. Seeing as Mohamed had traveled across the whole Arabian desert multiple times since childhood, he knew the languages and the leaders of most if not all of the leading tribes. They too all appreciated his wisdom and shrewd intellect but, most of all, they relished his honesty.”

Sensing that my presently docile cell mate, though overgrown physically, was less blessed in other facets, I told him stories which I myself could recall from kindergarten and Sunday school with the minor difference being I replaced the Jesus character with that of Mohamed, and the nativity scene with a desert backdrop. The rest of the fluff was laced with stuff I knew from commonly mentioned general knowledge and some of the crap that Bader had fed me. Thank god- whichever god that may be- I paid attention to Bader's preaching. The overall effect must have been good as it kept King Kong pacified until I finally heard heavy snoring. Only then did I feel comfortable enough to gently make my way to the toilet bowl with the hope that he would not wake up while I was there. I had been there for 4-5 hours by then and each of those hours felt like a ton of bricks. Four very long more days to go, within which I needed to think my way out of there. Four days during which I needed to survive the wretched sadist guard and keep out of the way of the locked up animals. It was later, much later when I finally fell asleep, not the least of which was as result of my painfully swollen tongue, which I must have cut when the guard demonstrated his tasing skills on me.

Mornings in prison are much very regimented. Wake up at 6:00 a.m., roll call at 6:20, random cell searches for contraband until around 6:45, next, breakfast and then at 7:45, the various inmates get sent to their various vocations. For some it was laundry, for others, more than you would imagine, it was learning how to read. For me, nothing. Just wait for the public defender to call for me. In the period of time between wake up until work detail, I had managed to make quite a reputation for myself. It was none of my doing of course, as I was still scared shitless to open my mouth to anyone. It was my cell mate that sold me off as a learned man, one who had traveled all the way to the Arabian Desert to study the inner intricacies of Islam. Before I knew it, the Brotherhood had arranged a study group for me to provide them with insight into the Koran and Muslim theology. In pure concept, this was a perfect arrangement for me. If I could keep up the charade, my chances of survival in this hell hole, where I was the smallest person in sight, would be greatly enhanced. In practice, it would prove to be a little more challenging considering the fact that I knew nothing about the Koran, had never read even one sentence from it, had no idea how long it was and I was not certain what language it was written in altogether. Basically, it all hinged on the makeup of the rest of the Brotherhood. If they were all as brainless as Mohamed, I would probably be OK. If, on the other hand, they were more knowledgeable, I would have to find a respectful way to fall back into the woodwork, in a non-literal form.

At some point during the morning, which was technically undefined since I no longer had my watch, I was called from my cell to a consultation room. It was not with the public defender though, it was with of the police force, who finally, on the third day since my landing, had found the time to meet the prisoner they had skillfully managed to detain. They were a team of three, two men and a lady, none of whom were in uniform. They had yellow legal pads, water bottles, pens, yellow highlight markers and even a manila file with the name Tom Cook written on it. Seeing these three in front of me, I felt the historic lump in the back of my throat grow and grow. I think I was cracking. I so wanted to talk straight to someone, on the level, stop with the hiding, stop thinking and double thinking about every sentence. I was exhausted. I was scared and I

wanted to go home. It was all about to fall apart. My stoic resolve and my ceaseless logical processing were melting at the growing pain in the back of my throat. A surge of confidence returned when I noticed that with all the paper and paraphernalia, on the table, it was still highly evident that the file with my name on it was remarkably thin. It seemed to look pretty much empty from my angle. That meant they have nothing on Tom Cook. The lump thing just got that much smaller. We did the introductions and we started, one again, from scratch. Fire off the chain of questions. Where are you coming from, and before then, where were you supposed to be staying. The lump was smaller but it did not completely disappear. After a little while I began to fear that there was no chance I had the concentration power needed to go through hours of discussions in which it was plainly clear I was going to have to defend my cover story. I needed to change the paradigm.

“Gentlemen, I do not mean to be rude, considering you made your way all the way here just to see me, but I must say that I feel very uncomfortable with this discussion. There are three of you and just one of me. I have no idea why I was arrested and I am not even a British subject. I would feel much more comfortable if we had this discussion with two additional people present.” “And who would those people be Mr. Cook?” “For one, an attorney representing my interests. And also, a member of the Irish consular department.” “Mr. Cook, I am afraid you have been watching too much television. Those things do not happen in real life.” “Is that so? In that case, why is it that when I appeared in court the judge instructed the police to inform the Irish embassy of my arrest? Am I to understand that the police did not carry out the instructions of the court?” “Mr. Cook, I am holding before me the transcript of the hearing and there is no such order. Besides, the Irish embassy has been notified of your detention and they have stated that they are impartial to your arrest.” “I was in court and heard it with my own ears so don’t try and sell me short. And

if your position in this matter is so blatantly inaccurate, why should I believe what you say about the Irish Embassy?? I can't imagine a situation whereby my own country would betray me that way.” They noted a slight smirk curling at the edges of my lips but they had no way of knowing why, or how ironic the statement actually was.

“Mr. Cook, you are going in the wrong direction. To the best of my knowledge, you have not committed any crime in the United Kingdom. I have no interest whatsoever in being the collection agency for Interpol and the UK government has no interest in providing you room and board at their expense. I am asking you to provide me with enough ammunition to tell Interpol to go to hell, since both you and we, have better things to do with our lives.” I so wanted to believe him. It almost seemed sincere. “You seem skeptical. This is for real. Let me tell you what things look like from my end and then make your decision. I know you have travelled from here to Paris a number of times in the past 3 months, I know you have been to Athens, Cannes and Dubai. I know you have no criminal record in any of the above places, and not in Ireland either. I have been unable to find anything meaningful about you on the internet, primarily because of the similarity of your name and that of a major UK tour operator and I know you had lunch with a ravishing young lady in Paris this week and offered her a position in advertising. I have no reason to believe there is any wrongdoing here so please help me out.” “All of this is of course true, and yet, your court has somehow decided to place me, with my pristine record, in a maximum security prison. The logical conclusion is that either you people have your wires crossed, in which case I have no interest in cooperating with you because it will not help me, or you are tossing me around, in which case I also have no interest in cooperating with you. I may not have got this all completely right but I am sure I did not get it completely wrong. If I may suggest that we speak again once I consult with a lawyer?” “Mr. Cook, this should be an open and closed case, why would you want to make a whole inquest out of it.”

“Because there is a breakdown of trust here, between us.” “Your approach is actually leading me to think otherwise. This attitude is more reminiscent of the behavior of someone who has something to hide. What are you concealing Mr. Cook? Is it someone, something, drugs, laundering? If I could get a reasonable explanation for all this weaving in and out of the country from you, something tangible about who you are and what you do, I would accept it. I have Interpol telling me to look into you and, in opposition, since you are playing games with me, I will have no choice but to look. Before you try to twist me around with your answers, I will tell you everyone hides something. All I am saying is don't make me look so hard and I will not find what is of no interest to me. I really don't care at this point if you pay your taxes in Ireland but, if you play with me, I may choose to bring it to someone's attention.” “If I had anything to hide, I would probably accept your proposition. I am afraid I am being framed. I would like an attorney and an Irish consular representative.” “When you come to us, we will not be as forthcoming. And it will happen.” “If you are a man of your word we will be open to discussion then, just as we are now.” “Fine by me. So I guess it is back to the loving arms of the Brotherhood for you.” “You would be surprised; we get along famously.” I was shown out. Little did I know but my show of confidence actually triggered more suspicion. I may have bought myself out of the discomfort of recounting my cover story and ing layer upon layer of lies and creativity but they took it as I was possibly hiding a much bigger story. Getting along with the brotherhood did not give me points either. In turn, the prison guards were instructed to keep an eye on which circles I traveled in within the prison.

I had barely returned to my cell when I was called right back to the same exact meeting or interrogation room. This time I was permitted to meet with the public defender. I for some reason, had a fantasy that I would walk into the room and meet an old classmate of mine from Oxford. We would fall on each other’s

shoulders, smile, reminisce and catch up on our present day lives. I actually practiced the way I would confidently and smugly tell them that given my military background, there were certain issues that I was not at liberty to explain. Although no need to fear, I was still the same good old guy I was. I had just done away with the funny eyebrows. The practical reality though was that my classmates were thoroughbred liberals, they essentially lived to do the right thing by their standards and and bend over backwards to assist the under privileged. But those high principals would somehow never be reduced to practice in a hell hole like Belmarsh. They preferred to practice their beliefs and enforcing equality at county club event. Shockingly, and ripe with immense disappointment my fantastical resolution of this mess is not what came to be. When I walked into that memory laden room, I found someone who looked to be a teenager. A full on mini adult youth with a face still riddled with acne. I later found out that my supposed White Knight's greatest professional achievement, to date, was ing the BPTC tests and that he was known to all, including the Magistrates, as Pizzaface. I frankly enjoyed my initial meeting with Pizzaface immensely, not because it instilled any hope of salvation, or that it instilled additional confidence that my freedom would be achieved via an intricately effective legal maneuver, but rather because he brought me a cup of coffee. It wasn’t even a latte or anything fancy, it was just a simple cup of off the shelf instant coffee. The smell of the warmish brown liquid resonated the association of leave time when I was in the military. The first cup of coffee after a significant empty stretch always did it for me. Pizzaface, of course, had no idea what the protocols were for Interpol cases. He had never dealt with an extradition, international exchange of information or any prisoner delivery issues. The guy had less of a clue than I. None the less, I had to hand it to him, he was very eager to learn. He graciously complimented my logical associations and thinking, and even went so far as to say I should consider a legal career when I was to get out. I didn’t know if he was referring to starting classes next fall or at the annex for the retirement home in fifteen to twenty. As an exercise, I tried to visualize the career change, teaming up once I was out and even possibly sharing office space or something. All kidding and sarcasm aside, I had but one simple but immensely important mission for him first. There was absolutely no way he could ever track down Jim. I don’t think he could have found anyone that would have been capable of settling my legal

quagmire. The next best thing I could come up with was to dig up and pull for me the full set of rules and procedures, under English law, of an Interpol issued arrest warrants. We would diffuse the situation with our efforts and hopefully, combined intellect, or mostly mine. There was no doubt in my mind that an operative warrant could not just be a one-page document with a simple name and stamp on it but rather that it had to have details that provided justification for action and authority to do so. Therefore, some form of probable cause, some witnessed affidavit executed by someone of some authority had to be available and my guess was that it probably also needed to be approved locally by a designated Home Office authority of sufficient hierarchy level. Otherwise foreign governments would be running local law enforcement personnel ragged day and night picking up their bad guys for them. All those effectively publicized foreign national celebrities or infamous personalities who notoriously stash their money in UK property. We parted as new acquaintances, I dare say friends. He, hustling off to his local pub, to brag about his amazing new Interpol case, and me to my Koran class.

As I entered the prison wing, Mohamed immediately came to greet me and ushered me to the Brotherhood corner hangout. Mohamad was incredibly bigger in full motion than he had even seemed in the cell. Destiny was truly cruel to him. He was, without any doubt, mentally challenged but that was not his only obstacle. I’m not sure if you’ve ever encountered anyone such as this but he had extensively long arms, seemingly over stretched, which coupled with a richly pitch black skin color made him seem far closer to the ape family than human. Even in light of those hindrances, he could have still been a super star had he born in the right place. In the US, for example, there is no shortage of stupid mutants who play professional sports, American football and basketball especially, who end up extremely financially and socially successful. Mohamad here, on a basketball court, would have had a decisive advantage. He wouldn’t have needed to jump for rebounds but rather look up and snort the basketball right out of the air as it came off the rim. Unfortunately for him, the cookie crumbled with him tucked away for a very long in the bowels of a British prison, with me as his latest recreation partner. In the Brotherhood corner there were twelve or so “brothers” assembled. It seemed they were there, in that area, more from habit than to hear the guest lecturer. Mohamed made the intro while I tried to smell the audience for anyone capable of calling my bluff.

“Guys, this is the new guy. Like I said, he came straight from the Holy land and the pigs got him for that. He went there to learn Islam and they punished him for it. He knows all about it. He was telling me last night. You need to hear this guy out.” Most of those present seemed to be in Mohamed's general league. I could identify three or four in the group who likely were true Middle Easterners and seemed to be a cut or two above the rest. “Mohamed, what are you bringing this shit here to our place.” “Yeh, what the fuck do he know about Islam anyhow.” “white boy, you even Muslim altogether at all?” It was oh so eerily familiar. It felt just like with guys back in the army. “No, I am not Muslim yet.” “Why is that? What, you working with the pigs?” “I'll tell you why. Because I wanted to recite the Shahada in a special place. I wanted to do it at the Al-Aqsa mosque in the holy city. Any of you know why I want to do it there? It’s because that was the first real international mosque. All the mosques before it were local mosques or places of idol worshiping that were converted to Islam. Al-Aqsa was holy from the start and designed especially for people like me. For people to Islam from other places. For that matter, the word Muslim actually means “someone who submits to the will of god”, so, even though I did not yet say my Shahada, you could consider me a Muslim too.”

Not that I knew what Shahada meant, just that Badder said at some point that it is all I need to become a Muslim. “But really, I did not come here to teach or preach to you anything. I was in Dubai and learned about Islam and then found myself here. Mohamed told me to come and you so maybe I can learn something from you guys. I am certainly

not fit to teach anything. I don't even know how to pray. I don't even know what it means yet.” One of the guys there confirmed that I was spewing the truth. He had spoken to one of the guards and learned that I was picked up on my way back from Dubai. Something to do with Interpol. “What, you into terrorists and shit?” “No way. I'm telling you, I am new at this. I don’t want any trouble or violence, I just want truth, just wanted to learn a bit more about Islam. I don't know what they want from me here altogether. I didn't think that learning a bit about Islam was such a crime in this country” “What do you know about Islam?” asked another. “Well I can tell you what caught my interest and it is certainly not all that violence stuff that they make out Islam to be. I know that Mohamed was actually a man of peace. I know that Mohamed was a man of giving. I know that Mohamed had a bunch of wives and that he married each of them not for sex and not for his own good but to help them.” “But I thought you said he married a rich widow?”. Of all people in that audience, it was Mohamed that was the one with questions. “Yes, that was his first wife. And notice that she was a widow, when he could have married anyone, as he was a successful trader who knew many people and many languages. Later he married more wives, each of which he helped in a different way. Sometimes it was a poor girl who he cared for as if she was a wife, another time he acted to aid and protect a woman who had been raped that no one else wanted, so he made her a respectable woman by marrying her. Sometimes he married women to prove to people his commitment to peace and non-violence. He would marry the daughter of a village priest to show he would not harm them.” “Man you don't know shit. Mohamed was a man of war. He was a leader. Fuck your shit!” “Hold on now. you are not wrong, Mohamed did go to war and he was a leader. But do you know who he went to war with?” I let the question linger a bit in the

air to see if I had their attention, or if I should back down and hope not to get stabbed in the back. There was a certain quiet. A sort of suspense. That’s when I knew I had them and would be able to bullshit my way out of this. I used a trick I picked up in the army when dealing with buffoons. I pulled up a chair close to them so that they would not get the feeling I was aloof or talking down to them. Which translated to less reason to check my statements or my truths even if they could. “Mohamed entered into several wars with the enemies of god, not his personal enemies. That is exactly the difference between a man of god and a dictator. Mohamed fought the war of god, not his war. He did not spill blood for money, for women, or for honor. Mohamed only spilt blood in what was to him Holy wars.” I was unrealistically hoping that my validation of Mohamed’s d violence would somehow give them a better image, symbol or aspiration with which they could identify. It was supposed to be an opportunity for them to unite their attraction and fascination with violence under a contrived a sense of honor that they could then bestow upon themselves.

I was slowly getting a feel for these guys. To a large extent, this motley crew was pretty much the same as your regular grouping of hooligan football (English) fans. All they wanted was a sense of comradeship, belonging to a cause bigger than themselves and a good justification for violence. Actually, I would not have been surprised if these idiots were Muslims for six days a week and took off Sundays to be manic football vandals. On the other hand, they seemed perhaps a little more disciplined than the standard crazed face painters. Besides, what was the point of being a football hooligan if you couldn’t drink beer. “I can also tell you what Jihad, the Holy war is, as it was explained to me.” A few of them, including my mate Mohamed, actually drew closer as if I was going to let them in on an inspiring big secret. “The Jihad, as explained to me, is a war against idol worship. Idol worship is the root of all evil. Do you know that when Mohamed was born, everyone used to worship idols? Yes, they would bow down to stupid objects and they would give them sacrifices of meat and wine. Only when Mohamed grow older and was

touched by God, did he spread that word that God is one, that all the idols were meaningless and worthless. You all know better than me that Mohamed was banished from Mecca and that they wanted to murder him for his sacrilege against the idols. Then years later, when Mohamed came back from the Hagara and his exile, he overpowered the pagans of Mecca. Do you know what he did when he raided Mecca and came to power after a war that lasted months? He went and destroyed every single one of the idols that were there. Did he kill all those men in Mecca as was customary in the day for every conqueror to do? No, he let them all live. He did not rape and he did not pillage. He burned and ground down to a thin dust all the idols of the city. That is Jihad, that is the Holy War! Ok, now, another thing I learnt is that idols are not necessarily just wooden shapes or simple marble statues. Money is just as much an idol as one made of stone. Material things are idols, the internet is an idol, cars are an idol. People spend their whole life worshiping these things. People who worship money, assets or the Internet are not Muslims. That is not the way of Islam. That my friends is what I know about Islam and I am sure you can teach me much much more.” By then, it was not just the Brotherhood huddled in the corner listening, I had the attention of almost all of the people in wing. Supper was announced and that trumped even my makeshift theological lecture on Islam.

I am not sure if I found god that afternoon in Belmarsh prison or if he finally found me. But what I do know is that on that afternoon, I was given the gift of life itself. My odds of getting raped in the shower dropped substantially and my odds of getting out of Belmarsh alive grew exponentially. These were two highly pressing issues which were consistently on my mind and about which I was highly concerned. Don’t kid yourself, I was far from being itted to the Brotherhood, nor did I try to push myself in. I was satisfied with the outcome that, in many of the eyes within that fortress, I had become a Man of God and during supper and thereafter, the inmates, not only the Brothers, began approaching me with all sorts of belief issues. I became so efficient at circling the spiritual merry-go-round that I actually considered the plausibility of becoming a preacher or an evangelist after I got out of there. I am sure the similarities between Christianity and Islam are greater than their differences and with enough mumbo jumbo philosophical spirituality talk and requisite bullshit,

I think I could ace it. I had already resolved to drop the Law Offices of Billington & Co., so I would have some time on my hands to feel it out. Nevertheless, as pleasurable as it was to fantasize on life of being needed, adored with no requirement to actually be correct, I had to concentrate on getting out of my present predicament, more than on my next career move.

That night pillow talk with Mohamed was getting a little heavy for me. Now that I had peace of mind, I did not have the patience to listen to how he was coaxed into doing muscle work for local gangs and how he would have wanted to understand Islam more than enforce it. But lip service had to be paid to my protective detail.

The following day, my crowd of listeners, after vocation grew. Unfortunately, I was quickly running out of material. It struck me that the best way of side stepping a thought drought and repeated idea rehash was a trick that very often worked with children in early schools and sometimes community reach out groups. The idea was get your audience involved too ala “let us learn the roads to Islam together.” I had them pull the translated copies of the Koran from the library and we read through them together. Reading the translated script without any explanation turned out to be a fairly difficult challenge. I figured that either, one had to be truly learned to understand it or it was a complete Do-It -Yourself. Many ages were extremely opaque, often seemed to be out of context and, at times, even contradictory. It didn’t really matter. We tried to make sense of what we could together, without much success mind you, but it certainly took the performance burden off of me.

I was counting the hours. Five days is one hundred and twenty hours. I was now into my fourth day. The problem I had was I was not exactly sure when this socalled count began. I knew it couldn’t have been from my initial capture because I certainly would have been free by now. Was it a hundred and twenty hours from the moment the order was executed by the judge or did it begin from 00:01

am of the day it was executed? That could be a whole twelve-hour difference for me. For many that could be a lifetime or the difference between a continued lifetime or not. When one is acting out a charade, the time in character is basically a full lifetime which ends when the charade can be dropped or the accidental slip up blows the game. I was summoned for another meeting with the detectives. This time, Pizzaface was allowed to attend as well. “Mr. Cook, we meet again. As per our last meeting, you requested that we hold our discussions with counsel present. We have nothing to hide and therefore have agreed that your representation be present. We therefore wish to proceed and have you provide a full picture of what is going on here.” This time, they had no file on the table. “Thank you Sir. You may recall, I also asked for a representative from the Irish Embassy to be present as well. As I said, I would not want to proceed without them.” “Indeed you did Mr. Cook. We ed the Irish Embassy and, as stated to us previously, they said they are impartial to this discussion and therefore have chosen to not be present.” I looked at Pizzaface, who just shrugged his shoulders. The thought of why do I pay my taxes crossed my mind, but then again, I never did pay Ireland any taxes.

“Mr. Cook, tomorrow we will face the court once more. To the extent that between today and tomorrow we do not have your full cooperation and your full of all events, we will be requesting fourteen more days of incarceration to complete our independent investigation of who you are and what you are up to. As much as you may enjoy the amenities here, I can assume that someone who is accustomed to traveling business class would prefer and seek out more suitable accommodations while visiting London. If we complete our discussion and feel comfortable that you are not a threat, we may be inclined to get your statement, send it off to Brussels and you can be on your way. The sooner we start the sooner it is over.” This was all very tempting. Extremely tempting. Sit here going through my cover story for a few hours and free and off tomorrow. Not much worse, maybe even better, than playing pastor to the thug community and running the risk of being undone at any time. I thought about it.

“May I confer with my counsel?” “I don't see what there is to deliberate much about but by all means, please do, we'll give you ten minutes.” As soon as they were out of the room I asked Pizzaface if he had the material on the Interpol arrest prerequisites. “Mr. Cook I must confess that this is the most interesting case I have been assigned so far and I have actually put in a lot of time and effort on it.” “And?” “And my research so far, and I must stress, not yet completed, has found out that there is no such thing as an Interpol arrest warrant.” “What!? Are you kidding me? So why the hell am I here?” “Not so fast. There is such a thing as an Interpol Red Notice which is not an international arrest warrant but a means of cooperation between Interpol member countries on the arrest and extradition of fugitives and offenders. A Red Notice is essentially a shared notification that an arrest warrant exists in the country that is seeking the apprehension of the fugitive. If a member state is seeking a person for trial or to serve a sentence, that State, based on its internal arrest warrant, can request that Interpol issue a Red Notice, which is then circulated to Interpol member countries. If the wanted person comes to the attention of the police in another State, they inform Interpol, who in turn informs the requesting State, which can then request a provisional arrest or file a request for extradition. A Red Notice is different from an arrest under the European Arrest Warrant Scheme, which is an actual arrest warrant. Basically, a Red Notice is nothing but a notice and does not obligate the local police or courts, as opposed to a European Arrest Warrant which does.” “And is there European Arrest Warrant out for me from any Country?” “I have no idea.” “If there were, would you know about it?” “I am not quite sure. Police do not have to share any evidence or findings with defendants before they are charged, but then again, an arrest warrant is not evidence is it. Not sure. Sorry.”

“No, you have been great. One more question, which may sound particularly dumb. But any idea where the hell Interpol is situated, main office location?” “No idea. But I can check on my phone. Why?” “Because they keep on talking about an Interpol arrest warrant and mentioning Brussels. I would assume a European Arrest Warrant may be from Brussels but my guess is that Interpol is probably not. Besides, if there was an arrest warrant out for me from some European organization, I don't suppose the Irish government would be so indifferent, that is assuming anyone notified them altogether. Can I ask you to run and look it up right now?” Pizzaface went to retrieve his phone which he had deposited before he entered. The detectives took that opportunity to come back in. “Well Mr. Cook can we proceed?” “Before we do, may I ask if you have been in touch with Brussels to make sure that this is not just some stupid clerical mistake? Maybe there is just a mistake in the name or the nationality or something because I really have no clue what this is all about.”

“We have Mr. Cook, several times, and I believe we will be receiving a file from them by the end of the day so that we can present it in court tomorrow.”

Pizzaface was back in the room and he did not even need to say anything. He smiled and shook his head slightly as he took his seat. I put my head down and needed to think fast. It was clear as any cloudless day that they were full of it. They had no real warrant, which of course was not surprising, as I hadn’t done anything wrong. Tom Cook hadn’t existed long enough to make any real trouble for any state to be chasing him, never mind file international warrants. On the other hand, what would have been so bad in giving them what they wanted, a few answers to a few questions. It was hard to concede to that strategy simply in light of the fact that there I was, detained in a maximum security prison. These

guys were not playing straight. If I said anything, I would be taking the risk of them twisting and turning whatever I gave them into arguments for who knows what. If I give them a story and something does not check out, that in and of itself may give them reason to continue to detain me, never mind keeping digging. No. Best option was to take my chances with the court tomorrow. If that fell through, I could always pick up with these guys once again even if it was from a less advantageous position. “Gentlemen, this has been a tough decision for me. I have never been investigated before and I don't think now is a good time to begin. I would like to appear in court tomorrow and tell the Magistrate I am a good and clean man. If there is a file of any wrongdoing, I will relate to whatever it is, not entertain some fishing expedition you may have.” “Do you realize the consequences of your decision? We will tell the Magistrate that you are non-cooperative, which in itself is grounds for further arrest.” “I am willing to take that risk.” They handed me a notepad. “Then Mr. Cook, please write here that you refuse to answer our questions and sign your name.” I looked at Pizzaface. “You are not obligated to sign that.” “So I will not.” The investigator looked at Pizzaface. “May the best man win tomorrow in court.”

Chapter 22 : “The Second Coming.”

“M'Lord, you will be surprised to learn that the survival of an outsider at a maximum-security prison in London is at times not that bad.” “And how is that Hunt?” “Well, apparently, certain people have a gift at befriending radical Muslims.” “In my personal experience, certain people tend to piss off Muslims, not befriend them. But then again, I am not what can be regarded as radical. Hunt, what the hell is going on here? Did you not have clear instructions?? Your job is to take care of security. This is not doing your job!" "M'Lord, the instructions were for some people not to be in circulation, anything beyond that was supposed to be a bonus". "Hunt, don't play with me. He was supposed to be out of circulation, at least until the deal closes and you took upon yourself to make sure that it would be well beyond that. In the meantime, I have not been delivered the bare minimum. Do Your Job. We both know I can get this done in other ways but I am giving you a chance to get this right. Plus, there was nothing in there whatsoever of any bonus. Hunt, do we understand each other?” “Yes Sir. Loud and clear. This time, I will follow this up personally. Thank you M'Lord.” “Have a good day Hunt and please make mine a good day as well.”

******************** The next morning at roll call, I was set aside with a few other Belmarsh guests,

who were scheduled for a tour of London in handcuffs, in the back of an ill ventilated transfer truck. Although such infrequent an experience, I was far too tense to enjoy the process of the bodily searches and processing before exit. The whole procedure took about two hours, with the paperwork and all, and there were six of us waiting to be loaded. Our limousine service was slowly reversing with its obligatory reverse beeping mechanism, when I smiled, as I was reflecting back on Bader's car service. I had been in Bader’s luxury transport less than a week ago although it seemed like light years away. I didn’t suppose the personalized air conditioning setting would be as nice in this ride. As we stood up to be marched into the van, a guard motioned me into another room, off the waiting area: “You wait here.” He chained me to a desk there and left me in the waiting room alone. I was already quite tense as it was and now had even less of a clue what to expect. Did Belmarsh have its own form of exit tax? My nerves got even more shaken when I heard the London convict sightseeing truck leave without me. I was also very much afraid that a taser would appear from some blind spot and smack lightning through me again. I was getting desperate and, as would any normal human, had once again the acute uncontrollable urge to urinate. “Hey guys, I really need to pee. Can anyone let me go for a second?” I was too focused on my bladder to fathom the actual personal humiliation of the situation. A few seconds later a new guard walked in. “Cook, it is your lucky day today. You are not going to court today. We have orders to take you back to where you came from. We are handing you back to Heathrow police.” What a huge surprise, which was followed by the revelation that I didn't actually need to pee anymore. “Are you serious?? What does that mean??” “Says here, we are to hand you over to them and they are to hand you back to immigration. Hot potato sort of thing. Let's go and get your stuff.” “Allah Akbar!” I said out loud looking up. The Lord is great. "Each and every one of them!"

My suit, my underwear, my carry on, my wallet. My phone! I was Reborn. The joy and relief washed over me endlessly. I didn’t know if it was something Pizzaface did, Jim, maybe Daphne, maybe all of them in concert. What did it matter? I will line them up and kiss each one on his own or all of them together. A Belmarsh experience had a jarring effect. It could be either an experience to be ed on an hourly basis which permitted one to reflect as a backdrop from which life can be celebrated, or it could be locked away and an effort made at deleting it from one's internal hard drive. There were two instances there - the taser hit and the terror upon entry into the call with Mohamed - the common denominator of which are a total loss of control, that were just too painful to relive, even in retrospect. I therefore chose to adopt the delete option and pretend neither ever happened. I could not get out of there fast enough. No tearful farewells to the Brotherhood suited me just fine.

Funny thing about life is even when you are on a roll, nothing is ever that simple. It took them half a day to get me to Heathrow police station and then another two and half hours to get me up to immigration. Still, I didn’t care, the relief was overwhelming. From the moment I reached Heathrow police, my handcuffs were released and I looked and felt like a member of the human race once again. Sadly, I didn't have a chance to thank Pizzaface for his help. He may not have cracked the case in a large way but he certainly gave me the information I needed which directed my decisions and actions and led me to where I was. I had to make a mental note of thanking him some day. I guess I could offer him a position as a church boy in the evangelical parish I was going to open someday with my newly developed evangelical skillsets.

We finally reached the arrivals hall within Heathrow and I was handed back my port. Right back to where the whole nightmare all began. The first thing I wanted to do was have a latte, like the old times, when coming back from army assignment. I found a coffee cart and ordered my long awaited elixir. The good

news was that no one tampered with my wallet. I had twenty-five pounds sterling and fifteen Euro. The bad thing was I only had twenty-five pounds sterling and fifteen Euro. I just ed that my credit card was dead. I paid for my latte which put me back almost ten percent of my British currency. It didn’t matter. It was worth it. My brain and senses returned to everyday life activities, even though my tongue was still swollen. Surprisingly, I couldn’t help myself from thinking about Mohamed, the brainless oaf. Similar to my interactions with the lunkheads in the army, for me, now in retrospect, rooming with Mohamed was nevertheless an experience. A tough one, but an experience. For Mohamed though, he was there for the rest of his life. The unfortunate reality seemed to be that even if he did get out there at some point in the future, he was likely destined to end up right back there again and would, one way or another, with high probability, end up dying there.

Settling in to my new liberty, I had to work through my priority list. I was alive and now completely free. Next up on the list was what to do about that shit-head Jim. I pulled out my phone and switched it on. It was frighteningly clear that my phone had been tampered with. Frightening in the sense that the authorities would so blatantly invade an innocent, although suspected, person’s privacy and also that for me, as simple a person as I was, I could tell that something had been done to my device. I saw the settings were tampered with and then recalled that they even said in the police interrogation that they had played with it. That must have been how they knew about my meeting with Celia and her details. I also saw a roaming icon on the toolbar. John had told me to steer away from roaming services. I started playing with the menus but could not find an alternate service, so I just gave up and decided to call anyway. It was finally time: my call to John to get me the hell out here and out of Tom Cook. I hit the number and waited for the tone. The response I received was the same, “the number you have dialed is not in service.” It was the same response for all of the stored number’s I had in the phone. It was naive of me to think that anything would have changed but I did, or at least I hoped it would have. A part of me was telling me to fuck it all, I was burned with Daphne anyhow, so just buy a ticket to Paris, go to Celia, collect my packaging fee from the deal and build a good life moving forward, never to step foot on UK soil again. Though that was all just complete fantasy, because I very simply didn’t have enough money for a ticket to Paris.

Finally, at some point, my mind shifted from self-preservation concerns, to others I had not thought about in a while, like the status of the deal. I flicked open my email on the phone. There were over a hundred and seventy messages in my inbox. It seemed like the deal was moving forward perfectly fine without me. I didn’t bother trying to catch up by reading any of the emails, of course, but I did want to see if any of them happened to be sent by me. Or more accurately, if any of them were sent by Jack in my name, while I was preoccupied in my Islamic phase. I hit the sent items icon and nothing. Tom Cook disappeared the same way he came and everything was progressing without him. So Jack really was out of commission!? What is going on here? Maybe they were all held in the can just like me? But, I was out now so where were they? I closed my phone, stretched my arms and gazed around indiscriminately as I let my mind deliberate on what to do. It was late afternoon at Heathrow and incoming foot traffic was thinning out a bit. The arrivals terminal is a strange place. In the departure terminal, people roam around aimlessly ing time, as did I, many a time. In contrast, the arrivals terminal was bustling. Everyone, understandably, wanted to get to their destination as soon as possible. Everyone but two. One was myself, sipping my latte, because I did not know what the hell to do, where I was going nor how to get there. The other, was a younger man across the terminal, reading a newspaper.

Who sits and reads a newspaper in an arrivals terminal?? I also thought I caught a glimpse of him glancing at me. Is it possible, after all the crap I have been through, that I was being followed?? Well there was an easy way to find out. I finished my coffee in a cool and calm fashion and made sure not to look back. I put my phone away and began looking for an Air desk. I was enacting a manner of supposedly buying a ticket back to Paris. Terminals being terminals, the process of finding the area for continued travel entailed quite a bit of walking until I found the transfer / airline counters. Only once I was standing in line did I ever so slowly and nonchalantly scan the wide hall in different directions. Ninety degrees to a hundred and eighty degrees to and fro. On the third twister, I saw someone with a similar build and lazy purposelessness. This time without a

newspaper. I recalled back in Jack's undercover makeover course, I was taught to concentrate on shoes. Trackers can switch covers swiftly, pull on and off various types of props, hats, glasses, reversible jackets etc., while still maintaining effective surveillance. Shoes are bulky, need to be carried, can't be changed on the move and are not one size fits all. The guy was wearing Dockers, another hint he was on the job. People on surveillance detail spend a lot of time on the move and have to be nimble. They would not be wearing cowboy boots or Bally dress shoes. I was exhausted, physically and mentally, and tried to convince myself that none of this was what it seemed. I couldn’t let the feeling go so I decided I test out my paranoia once again. The line wasn’t moving, I had to go somewhere to see if I was being followed and, as evidence of how exhausted I was, I forgot and then ed I couldn’t go anywhere anyway as I couldn’t afford it. So I dropped the line, changed my direction and headed for immigration this time.

After what I had just been through, mustering up the courage to face the scarecrow once again was no easy task. For an ordinarily benign procedure, I seemed to be collecting some major inhibitions associated with the process. Unfortunately, I had no alternative, if I ever wanted to get out of there. I had some comfort in the reasoning that there was probably little chance I would be arrested again simply because they had just released me. Plus, if indeed they were following me, they probably wanted to see where I was headed and who I would meet, so there was no point in harassing me at immigration. I doubled down on that thought process and proceeded into that daunting line, one more time.

My pulse was probably up around a hundred and eighty and I was visibly perspiring as I shuffled through the wait for the counter. When I got up there, I handed over my port but the smile did not come out right. The scarecrow scanned my Irish document that had been the subject of so much inquiry over the last week, started typing and continued typing. Here it was again, rerunning the whole sequence of events through my mind one more time. Finally, he looked at me, looked at the port again and then picked up the phone. At least I had my old flock to look forward to in Koran class. Mohamed would surely welcome me

back. Scarecrow placed the phone down and flicked through my port again.

“You are being itted to the UK but I am marking that you are permitted to stay in the UK for no more than 7 days. Is that understood?”

“Yes, understood.” I promise you, it will take much less than that for me to find the Jim guy and string him up by the balls. He finally hit the stupid booklet with his wooden stamp and handed it to me. He held it out to me through the crack in the class cubicle, behind which he hid. He did not immediately release my id to me until he seized his opportunity to give me his two second stare. I learned that it’s not much fun being on the other side of the two second stare, especially when your heart is racing, you are trying to contain a heat wave from drenching your armpits, and there is a guy with Dockers lurking around hunting for you somewhere. My relief was surely visible as I could not get away from the cubicle fast enough. Coulrophobia is the scientific term for fear of clowns and I sometimes wonder if the definition also includes fear of scarecrows. Assuming it does, I now had another item I could add on my resume for my next job interview: a coulrophobe.

I basically floated across the baggage collection terminal, or at least that’s what it felt like. It took a moment or two before I began to regain my senses. I was free. No longer did I hear my pulse banging away in my head, my lungs expanded to a normal circumference and the overhead ventilation was already felt around my body, cooling it down. Personal liberty restored, the old problems were now up front and center, relevant and needing to be addressed. Where do I go from here? That depended in a large way upon whether or not I was being followed. Jim, Jack and the other J guys had proven to be essentially absent and

all I wanted was to go home. Simon Smith’s home that is. If I was being followed and I went home, I would be opening all kinds of vulnerabilities including Daphne, the kids and everything in my well-earned life. Therefore, my game plan had to be to first find out if I was or was not being followed. That led to how and, as always, money was an issue. I barely had any. An issue which I thought I could overcome. First step, convert the Euros that I was carrying to pound sterling. I could continue my stakeout tricks while in line and get some local currency for my efforts. The essence of the plan did not work because by the time I was through doing the to and fro with my gaze a few times, I had it in my mind that most of the people in the terminal were faces I had seen before. The Dockers were there too. He wasn’t far off, standing in front of a cash machine, probably monitoring me through the glass reflection of the screen. He likely did not notice I had marked him. What should I do now? Jumping him was an option. We were more or less similar in size. I was certainly more physically drained due to my recent ordeals but with the element of surprise I could probably knock him out cold and get off unseen, blend back into the background and sleek the hell out of here. I wasn’t all in on that plan. Airports are notoriously highly observed and if it didn’t go perfectly well, I was back in the slammer. Alternatively, I could simply walk up to him and politely ask him to get lost. Then I run the risk that he arrests me for any of a myriad of fictional reasons including spite or embarrassment. Result, I am back in jail, without ing Go and without collecting two hundred dollars. No, my escape had to be a neat and quiet disappearance.

Time came and I was next in line. I put down all my Euros which converted to less than ten-pounds sterling. Somewhere down the line I had forgotten that there is an exorbitant minimum fee which they charge in airports for converting currency. Cash was now an even more pressing issue. I simply did not have enough for any meaningful maneuvers. In the absence of a plan, I simply slumped down into the first chair I found. My idea was to give Dockers a bit of a challenge. See who blinks first. No plan came to mind so I just tuned off for a few minutes looking around watching the foot traffic. It was then I came across another distinctly familiar pair of shoes. They were black leather New Balance sneakers on the feet of a middle-aged man who was wearing slacks and a plain blue blazer. Most people would not choose to wear trainers when they had a blazer on. It is a fashion no-no. Plus I had seen them before somewhere. Can

Tom Cook be that important that they put a full 'box' detail on me? Airports can be tricky places so boxes may be pulled in a bit, but two people within sight is a little too tight. Neither of the two seemed to have an infusion like pipe running around their ear or any other visible communication device, so maybe it was coincidence or happenstance or maybe I wasn’t that high a priority. Sitting there observing everything, still no plan came to mind. I had to consider that if these guys were taking me that seriously then I had to be prudent and take precautions. I meant something to somebody and with my group completely awol, this could not be a good thing. The roaming icon on my phone came to mind. I didn't know if that could function as some sort of tracking mechanism but I wasn’t about to take any risks, regardless of how unlikely the threat may have been. Then there was my carryon bag. They could have tampered with that as well while I was locked down. Clearly, I had little choice in how to proceed and made my way to the men's room. In the privacy of my own stall, I took apart my phone, retrieved the sim card and battery and pocketed them separately. The carry on was more of a challenge. It had a frame, wheels, compartments, all of which could house any sort of tracking device. I decided the bag was not worth the risk or the trouble, it only had clothes and over the counter replaceable stuff anyhow. Besides, I could move much quicker without it, so I decided to simply dump it in the trash. Some lucky homeless person was going to get a new change of branded clothes and a bottle of Boss aftershave. I loaded what I needed into my pockets and headed in the direction of the subway.

With no plastic and barely any cash, you begin to understand the meaning of the high cost of living. The underground, which was not cheap, had long walkways which hopefully would present a challenge for my tracker or trackers. If I knew the exact arrival times of the different trains, I could pace my walking to arrive at the platform at just the precise time to hop on and possibly shake them. I’d seen that done in the movies and tv perhaps a thousand times. I think it worked half the time. It really depended on how badass the villain was.

As I approached, there was a gust of stale wind and an approaching rumble. I figured that had to mean an incoming arrival so it was time to get close. I picked up my pace and got closer to the platform. As the train arrived, I slowed down

and made a motion towards the opposite platform only to turn back and jump onto the train seconds before the doors shut. The idea may have been good but seeing as it was the last stop, the opposite platform was not in use altogether so the exercise was one hundred percent futile. Pedestrians had only one option from that platform, get on the train. Once on the train, I looked back and saw no one jump on behind me in the final seconds.

However, I then saw that they were still with me. In stereo. One in the car before me and one in the car after. At least they were good at their jobs.

In transit on the train, the classic strategy would have been to go to Oxford street, go into Harrods through a side entrance, muck around inside there between the food hall and the men's department, then, at once, dash out through the main entrance and jump into a cab to anywhere. Unfortunately, the hour was too late for Harrods. My cash reserves were insufficient for a hotel or a cab which left me with only one remaining make shift plan. I would defeat them and lose my tail by walking. I would get off on the outskirts of London and simply walk all night. For me, I had walked all through the night plenty of times before in the army. Not fun, but it was nothing to be afraid of. For them, I doubt they were expecting that kind of diversion. Who knows how determined they were or if their operating budget could one or two active agents on duty for extended overtime shifts. Was my surveillance really worth it to them? I was going to put it to the test to find out. There was also always the chance that circumstances could arrive and I could simply give them the slip.

At Hatton Cross, the first stop out of Heathrow, me and my mates were the only ones getting off. I did not look at them so as not to make it obvious that I may be on to something. Occasionally, I did sneak a peek while making way to the station exit and there seemed to be a strange phenomenon whereby they were not quite coordinated between themselves. I would say it seemed as if they were checking each other out in addition to staying on me. The hour was definitely

getting quite late and the streets were emptying out. This meant that my trackers had to hold further back of me, and apparently, from each other as well. Most people lack the leadership, charisma or individual importance to be followed by anyone at all. Could I somehow be the focus of and thus be followed by two separate organizations?? Emerging from the underground tube always required an adjustment period to get your bearings of exactly where you are. It took me a moment to get mine. Once I confirmed in my mind where I was, I began heading North East with the aim of hitting Paddington station by the morning. The plan was I would somehow lose my human tale and find my way via train to Brighton, home sweet home. My path took me east into Hounslow, a little known black hole of South London. Black was seemingly appropriate in all respects of that town.

The evening was cool, a full moon and uncharacteristically clear sky. One of the conundrums about London is that the only time you can count on good weather is when it’s unwanted. A stormy night would have served my purposes so much better. I knew what my plans were for the night, but Tom and Dick back there had no clue where they were going or what their feet were in for. It seemed practical at that point to stop, get some food and rest while some shops were still open and hopefully, giving the guys waiting outside a chance get better acquainted with each other. A corner fish and chips place was still open, an ideal spot for both a view of the surroundings and reenergizing within a range my budget could . My newly found mates indeed remained outside each in a separate corner street. Could they each still think I was not yet on to them? It crossed my mind that with all two foot soldiers escorting me there was no machinery brought in. No cars no visible radio devices. That may indicate they were from low budget organizations, incapable of establishing comprehensive surveillance. Local police or MI5 would be my first bet to follow someone Red Noticed by Interpol. That would explain one partygoer but who the hell is the other? If he was MI5, why the low budget? If he was the Police, why isn't he interested in his competition? In any case, I almost felt sorry for what I had planned for them tonight. Whoever they were maybe they didn’t deserve to have to follow a thin overconfident, ex-army civilian who really had no operational value at all. For all it's worth, I could and should have been asking the same

questions but from my perspective. Why did I deserve this? I picked up my food, the good old traditional English fish and chips and it was an absolute delicacy compared to the grey and greasy stuff I had dinned on in the nick. I finished eating and hung around the place for a moment before the proprietor of the t subtly enough kicked me out and sending me on my way. It was time to go.

******************

"Hey, it is me, and don’t even think of saying my name on this. Hounslow highroad, heading North. Grey suit, dress shoes. Can't miss him. It will need to be quick as there is company. Nothing serious, one guy, but you never know. So it needs to be swift. 2-3 minutes, not more. He is on foot so it may take a little time to get there. Just say yes if you understand me. Let me know when you have . Then throw away the piece."

*****************

My gut full and my feet slightly rested, I hit the streets and the procession began again. The streets got darker and darker and the whole environment became eerily reminiscent, both in the sights and in the smells, of the backstreets in Dubai. Aside from the weather, the two places were strikingly similar. The store fronts had Arabic writing and even the neon advertising were all in Arabic. Hounslow was not famous or well known for anything really, certainly not to me, but I was also not aware that this was an Arabian Peninsula. After 45 minutes of walking, I was starting to develop what had to be a blister from my inappropriate shoes and soiled unchanged socks. Up ahead down the road, there seemed to be a little life, dim lights, a few cars and people. Drawing closer at my

brisk pace, the center of attention took the form of a narghile parlor, similar to the one I went to with Bader. The thought of a nice snooze in a warm smoky room was very appealing. How would the boys down the street react to my disappearance in that type of venue? They certainly would have had a hard time keeping tabs on what was going on inside not to mention the extreme difficulty of finding appropriate cover to inconspicuously try to look in from the outside. They would be guessing, panicking and trying to crack whatever was the plot they thought I was in to. Why not give them some feed for the fodder.

Standing in a semi huddle in the storefront was a group of seven seemingly middle eastern men all seemingly in their early to mid-twenties. Each of them was wearing the same standard uniform of jeans, thin bazar leather jackets and wool hats of various colors and sizes. As I drew closer, as would be expected, all eyes on the scene were directed at me and the body language from the group outside was plain as day, even though it was night, not very inviting. My experiences over the last week from running around Dubai to sojourning in Belmarsh led me to believe, perhaps fancifully, that I was capable of navigating the situation and getting along with any of these people. I thought I knew what to say and do. I was concerned they were displaying too much attention to the oddball stranger and that maybe my quick walking pace had put them on edge, so I slowed down as I approached. It was a valid thought but noticeably incorrect, as the closer I got, the less active they appeared. Their discussion stopped and each of them was checking out the stranger. “Salam Alekum” I offered to them, voicing a large part of the Arabic I commanded. They were not particularly impressed with it as the response from the group was “ey, who va fuck are you?” and “what you doing here, you a nark or somefing?”

I stood in front of them, put my hands in my pockets displaying the least threatening posture I could put forward and tried to communicate,

“I thought I would try out some narghile, is that OK?” “It is not for you white man, get out of here.” “I was actually hoping for a little Islamic hospitality.” “You come here, to our place, looking for hospitality with your five thousand quid watch and your smart suit?” “Yeah shithead, give me the watch and I'll show you hospitality.”

I’ve often laughed, as have many, at the cartoon image of the lightbulb going off symbolizing the capture of an idea. Well, that is what just happened to me. An idea and light bulb went off in my brain! “You want the watch?” I asked, pulling my hand out of my pocket and looking at it exaggeratedly. “ I'll make a deal with you. There are two mates of mine that bet I would not dare to come in here and have a smoke at this hour. They are just behind me and if you think I have anything to offer, they are absolutely loaded. I'll sit inside and have a smoke. You guys go to my mates there, just get them to shit in their pants a bit and I'll give you my watch. How does that sound?” They were not impressed. “What do you think we are, stupid? What do you think, I am a dog and you are going to play fetch with me? You shithead!” He stepped up very close to me. “I have a better deal for you. You are going to give me your watch and your wallet and your phone and you will kiss my ass for it.” Another of the group looking on made an observation: “Hey, there is someone looking at us back there.” The leader took a step back,

looked over for a moment and said “what is this, an amusement park? People come to an amusement park they gotta pay, no? Let's take this guy around the corner and stuff him in the box, we'll see about the other shitheads.” The following was the direct result of what happens when you have a cartoon lightbulb go off in your head. Two guys grabbed me from behind, lifted me off my feet and took me around the corner where there was a good old red BT telephone booth. Any effort to resist would have been futile and most likely counter- productive. I did like the idea of them dealing with my mates, it was the “take this guy” part that did not resonate so well with me. One of the pack pulled aside the folding door at the entrance and the others literally threw me into the phone booth head first, smashing my head into the bulky, antiquated metal phone. The impact was painful, I was stunned and began to bleed profusely from above my right eyebrow. Instinctively, I fell to a fetal position on the floor of the grimy booth. I was a little blurry but aware enough to pull my jacket sleeve over my hand and press it tightly against the gushing rip in my forehead.

One of the delinquents who threw me in, went back to his crew while the other stayed next to the booth to ensure I did not escape. With my state of affairs and in my position, he did not need to do much. Within a few short minutes, the blood slowed down and the gushing became more of a trickle. My mind cleared enough to think so I pushed myself up to a sitting position, my feet against the booth door and my back leaning against the wall. There was no point in waiting for the rest of the pack to return because one on one was always better odds than dealing with a pack. . The better plan was to somehow overcome the one sentinel and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Standing up turned out to be much more challenging than I expected. In the process, my eyesight went fuzzy and my body felt faint. The Arab, seeing me rise, slammed the folding doors inwards, the full impact hitting my knee and sending me once again back to the floor of the booth. I kicked the door hard outwards to ward off any more blows. The accordion door slammed shut again. It gave me a few seconds of protection but I desperately needed a plan. The crew would soon be on their way over, pumped with adrenalin from an apparent victory.

Beyond the closed doors I could hear someone saying “Now back to you Mr. Hospitality. You never said your mate there were from the fuzz. And, on top of that, your mates’ donations were nowhere close to what you said they would be. See, now you got us mixed up with the fuzz over nil. You owe us big!” I pushed the hinge of the in-folding door as hard as I could with my foot but they were pressing it even harder from their side. The pressure was mounting and I couldn’t hold it. They began banging on the sides of the booth as well until eventually one of them found a broom stick and smashed it through one of the glass panes. Once the breach happened it was all over. The broomstick guy poked my calves and thighs with his weapon until my legs finally gave way to the outside pressure. The hinge slammed once again into my knees and a flurry of blows were pounded on every part of me. They dragged me out of the phone booth, surrounded me like a crazed pack of wolves. stood there kicking me repeatedly. I curled up into a ball which helped to protect my face, genitals and stomach but the sheer force of the kicking pounded me brutally all over my back, kidneys, neck and legs. They finally let off enough steam to think about other opportunities. “Roll him over, let's get his stuff.” I was barely breathing and in absolutely no position to resist. They rolled me over on my back, took off my watch, took out my wallet and took my phone. They flipped though my port, which just a few hours ago was the focus of so much attention, “ a fucking Irishman. Yup, this is the one” and threw it back at me. "So do we off him" "No you idiot, with the fuzz watching him, we aren’t offing anyone and I don’t care who is paying. We take his stuff, take him out of action and muck up his face."

“so you like crossing Muslims do you??” With that, they proceeded to kick me some more. To top it off, one of the crew started laughing and gave me a salute of urinating all over me. The burning of the urine on all my multiple lacerations kept my mind occupied so that the evident humiliation didn’t sink in immediately. “you’re a dead man you” one of them yelled at me, to the roar of laughter from the rest. As they finally turned to leave, I was dealt one last memorable final blow. One of them kicked me straight in my unprotected face, with a heavy boot,

shattering at least two of my upper teeth and causing a deep cut in my upper lip. I was, of course, out like a light.

When I regained consciousness, through a thick wall of opaqueness, there was an older man standing over me and talking down to me. Pain was shooting at me from so many directions. I tried moving my limbs which only served to intensify the pain. My eyesight was blurry and I was incapable of concentrating on what the voice was saying, even though I could hear it clearly. Slowly, my eyes began to adjust to the swell. I was on that same street and the night was being chased away by the faint light of dawn. The older man talking to me was a local, I guessed of Indian or Pakistani descent. It seemed he was relieved I was alive. Apparently, he owned the shop opposite the area of humiliation and my eventual landing ground and mumbled something to the effect of being relieved that at least now there would be no need for the police to block off his store for the whole day as they investigate a death or homicide. He went into a rave and rant about the younger generation with all the drinking and fighting and violence. It turns out, he was actually mad at me. “Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted? What's wrong with watching television? Young people these days.” Even if I could cobble together an appropriate response or defense, I was incapable of answering. I coughed up blood and took inventory of what bodily functions were still operational. Which limbs I could still move, regardless of the associated pain and which senses were still functioning. The tone of the old man changed a little, softened, when he saw the extent of the pain I was in. The street was still completely empty aside from the two of us. The man helped me into a sitting position. “Sir, do you need an ambulance Sir?” “Not quite yet, let me see if I can get myself together on my own.” The man left me, headed to his shop, unlocked and rolled up the metal grating protecting his storefront. He proceeded to unlock the shop door, turned on the electricity, then came back to check on me.

“Sir, you look like you really did yourself in rather well Sir. Sir, I will not call the Police to make a commotion, but I can call an ambulance if you need one Sir.” Every breath I took was an event all of its own. My torn lip burned fiercely and I felt the cold air grating against my broken teeth. Beyond the sheer acute pain in and around my mouth, it was difficult to determine what else was going to be a problem. The pain seemed to mask everything else. I had a painful bruise all along my throat and also an inability to inhale properly; that had to be a broken rib or two. It felt like a knife was being driven into my upper back whenever my lungs expanded. I was no pansy. I was a former soldier and had undertaken a covert operation for my Queen and country. But I was yet in no position to call for any help. I also had no real ID, a fake port identifying me as a Red Noticed potential terrorist with no cash or cards. “No, I think I can handle it. ” I tried to get up but only with the help of the old man, was I successful. “Now my knees and legs woke up, called for attention and ed the all agony party. To be detailed and efficient about this, I had a finger or two that felt broken or maybe dislocated as well. As much as I wanted to get by the misery, I most certainly could not avoid the appearance of complete devastation. “Sir, you do not look well Sir. You may want to sit down Sir. Please sit Sir, I will get you a wet towel to clean yourself Sir.” The old man’s store carried pots and pans for sale or more like a bazar than a proper store. It wasn’t the type of place that seemed to require its proprietor to be there before dawn, but in my position, I didn’t ask, all I could do was be thankful he was an early to work guy. He produced the towel and though and behold it brought yet more pain. With time and settling in, eventually I somehow felt marginally better. I cleaned the blood off my head and face and doused my open wounds. The broader picture was coming back to me. My assailants were not to be seen. The narghile shop was locked up and my two intimate mates were, I guess, long gone. How ironic that the authorities, whoever they may be, thought to follow me, to watch me change money and eat, but where were they when I actually needed them? But on the other hand, had I not been followed, the pack of Arabs may have finished the job off on me.

“Sir, you look very, very bad Sir. Look at all the blood and your face. Sir, let me take you to a doctor. Sir, I can't leave you this way Sir.”

He found and handed me my port which reminded me that regardless of my most recent mess I was still in a bunch of trouble as it is. “That would be so kind of you. Would you do that for me?” “Customers will not be here for a while yet. I will have my tea later today, Sir.”

He locked his store front and brought his car around. It was a Cavalier, at least twenty years old. I really didn’t care as long as it moved. My approach ducking and sliding as I tried to get into the car was a slow and once again extremely painful process.

I think this was where I finally reached my breaking point, unable to enter a plain old car without causing a dozen or so pain sensors to explode. I, plain and simple, could not take any more punishment. Screw Jim, screw my mates left somewhere out there, screw everyone and screw everything. Even simple speech required an extraordinary effort but I managed to get the syllables together. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your kindness. May I make a request though? Instead of taking me to the hospital, can I ask you to drive me to Hampstead in North London? There is someone who can take care of me there. All my money has been stolen but I promise I will repay you when I can.”

“Sir, I see you are hurt. I can take you, Sir. Sometime in life you will also do something good for someone else, Sir. “

“I promise, someday, I will do just that.” It was a forty-minute drive even at that early hour. The Poor old man not only had to take me where I needed to go, he would have to drive back in London traffic.

“I absolutely will repay you. I know where your shop is. After I get back together. You and a few others I will need to repay.” We drove on in complete silence occasionally broken by my wheezing breathing or an inadvertent moan whenever we stopped and started at every red light and, of course, bounced due to pot holes. It was a new type of torture for me.

When we got to Daphne's parents road, I then got nervous. They were the closest friendly confine location but what would I tell them? How did this happen? How will they react to my disappearance over the last few days? Surely, they are aware that I was missing. They were supposed to take care of the kids while I was supposed to be on vacation. There was also the possibility that I was still being followed.

Even though I couldn’t maintain any mental processing, my training kicked in and I asked my charitable friend to let me off at the corner. I told him I didn’t want to wake up everyone at home and make any kind of a commotion. He refused my gratitude and I honestly felt I was cheating him by not inviting him in and paying him immediately at least for the trip over. But I simply couldn’t. Showing up at Daphne's parents’ house looking like this was bad enough. I didn’t need an audience and a complete stranger at that.

The neighborhood was still sleeping with me being the only one limping down

the road. No suspicious vehicles were parked on the streets and I didn’t notice any unexpected movements in the trees along Hampstead Heath. The next few hours were not going to be fun. I would have preferred virtually any alternative to approaching that house, in the condition I was in, and under those circumstances. Perhaps even an extended stay at Belmarsh seemed like a preferable prospect. Maybe not. Regardless, under my current circumstances, in my injury ridden condition, my broken mental state, completely broke, there was no other option. Absolutely certain that I would be paying for my most recent choices for the rest of my life, I made the final decent down the driveway to the mansion. The sun was reaching out its first rays of the day, painting the tree tops with a beautiful shade of light green, illuminating the whole road. It was quite marvelous. The perfect setting for a hero’s farewell and fading away. My descent was slow, due to all the pain and hesitation, due to the inevitable expected humiliation. This was a low point for me if there ever was one. As one would expect, it just got worse; Daphne's car was parked out front, down the long driveway. Just wonderful. How could I let her see me this way? How could I have the children see me this way? It would devastate both me and them. I mean therapy and years of it. I was an authority figure; stern dad walking in looking like a beaten haggard mugging victim. In a million years I would never have imagined having to face a situation like this. This obtuse reality could teach Kafka a lesson or two. This was all too much so I made the snap decision not to ring the bell. Instead, I headed around the side, to the back of the mansion. I was going to rest a bit in the pool chairs, maybe clean myself up a bit before the unavoidable impact of reality. I thought I would look around and maybe find some clothes that were not drenched in blood and urine. As I turned the corner and came around to the back, unbelievable as it may seem, Daphne's father was sitting outside on a deck chair. He was enjoying the daybreak, playing with his pipe, and I guess reflecting upon life. As if there were just one more element necessary to break me, at once the old, but all too familiar balloon, in the back of my throat, blew up. There was no time, energy or thought of hiding. Daphne's father saw me staggering towards him. He instinctively stood upright, dropped his pipe and watched me in total shock. I staggered closer and closer. His eyes were huge, taking stock of each and every one of my injuries. He opened his arms as I drew closer and I fell onto his shoulder in what felt like slow motion. The tears were uncontrollable. I wept and wept, big wet salty tears flowing down my eyes and drenching his shoulder. I was crying and gasping, a deep and loud cry, as I had never ever, in my life, experienced before. A cry of pain. A cry of disappointment. A cry of relief. A cry

of defeat. A cry of degradation. I was a broken man, physically, emotionally and mentally.

Incapable of speech, Daphne's father took the lead. Holding me tightly to him, he tried to console me. “SSSHHHH. Simon, Simon. SSHHH. It’s OK, everything is OK. It is all over. Simon, we are here for you. SSSHHH it’s all OK. You are back now; it is all over. Whatever happened, happened, it is all over now. God only knows what you have been through. Simon, Simon, I am so sorry. But you are back now and you’re OK. That is what counts. It is all over.”

I let loose completely. Through my sobbing I gulped to him: “I don't know anything anymore. I don't know who I am. I don't know who is good and who is bad. I don't know what is true and what is false. All I know is that I miss Daphne.” “I know Simon, I know. Daphne is OK. The kids are OK. I've taken care of them. I had full faith in you, all the way.” He gently pulled me back. “Come, let me get you cleaned up a bit.” I held on to his shoulder a little longer, my eyes were still watering heavily. “Come Simon, come. Before everyone wakes up. Let's get rid of the port.”

port?? The port?? Wait, what? Hold on? Snake bitten, I pulled back violently. I held his arms firmly with my hands and looked deep into his eyes. I enlisted the mother of all three second looks.

“You know?” “Of course I know.” “What? Since when have you known? How do you know?” “Simon, haven't you figured it out yet?? Doesn’t matter. It’s not important now. Suffice to say that Jim is an old acquaintance of mine and he is in just as much trouble now as you are. And don't worry about Daphne, I told her you are taking care of things for me, things she is better off not knowing about. Let's get you to a doctor before anyone gets up.”

Chapter 23 : “Nine Months Later” “Have time for coffee hon?” “Nah, but I’ll appreciate it if you make me one for the road. I am gruesomely late as it is.” By now, our lives had settled down after some significant changes. For one, we installed an integrated Italian coffee machine which we now used at home regularly. It was one of those latest contraptions that would even grind fresh the coffee beans. Daphne had gone back to her job at City Hall and was ordinarily quite meticulous about her schedule and responsibilities. Occasionally we took in a late morning together in bed, resuming our lounging after the kids were distributed to their respective educational activities. Everyone was surprised when I added a conservatory off the kitchen and placed a pool table in it. It was, I’ll it, a selfish act as I was the only one in the house that could play snooker. The kids should learn. One never knows when a good cue demeanor can be of use. I did follow up on my personal promise and I tossed the office. I now only handled my fund which enjoyed a decent though moderate level of success.

I was enjoying proceeding through my fairly standard morning rituals and flicked on the kitchen television to the Bloomberg news station while making the coffee. Normally, I would mute it instantaneously because the chatter drove Daphne crazy and I would just follow, when I could grab a glance, the various ticker headlines that ran across on the bottom of the screen from time to time. But this morning there was a screen with Breaking News flashing on it so I waited a moment before actually hitting mute.

“.. Last night Islamic militants attacked the American diplomatic mission at Benghazi, in Libya, with automatic fire arms and rocket propelled grenades, killing a number of U.S. personnel. Unconfirmed rumors claim that among the casualties may even be the US Ambassador J. Christopher Stevens. Several

hours later, a second assault targeted a nearby CIA annex in a different compound about one mile away, also killing a number of CIA operatives. These fatal attacks in Benghazi appear to be part of an ongoing coordinated attack on US diplomatic missions in the Middle East, including attacks on the US Embassy in Cairo, Egypt, an attack on the US consulate in Sana'a, Yemen, and an attack on the US Embassy in Tunis, Tunisia. There are reports of tens of casualties in these attacks as well, but it is unclear, at his point, exactly how many casualties there are in these additional attacks, and the victim identities. Initial reports are it appears that the Ambassadors in these embassies were not among the those injured. The United States has increased security worldwide at all diplomatic and military facilities and began investigating the attacks. Initially, it was claimed that the Benghazi attack was a spontaneous protest, triggered by an anti-Muslim video, Innocence of Muslims. Subsequent investigations determined that there was no such protest and that the attacks were premeditated. One of the suspected leaders of the attack, Ahmed Abu Khattala has been described by Libyan and U.S. officials as the Benghazi leader of Ansar alSharia, which has been flagged by the U.S. Department of State as a revolutionary Sunni Muslim terror organization and an off shoot of Al-Qaeda.”

Daphne entered the kitchen with her pump shoes in one hand and a cardigan in the other. “What's that all about?” “Apparently the US embassy in Benghazi was stormed by militants. A whole bunch of Americans, including the US Ambassador, were lynched. They are talking about some sort of cover up or something.” “Pardon my crudeness but why exactly is this of interest to you on this lovely morning?” she asked as she kissed me gently on my scared lip. “Actually, it isn't” and I shut it off. Daphne took the coffee and the plastic cover, and headed for work.

My morning routine was now very much simplified. I would go over my emails at home with my coffee and leave for the Fund’s main office at around ten. Generally, things were quiet until I hit my commercial den. On this particular morning the phone rang in the house before I left. It was a notably exceptional phenomenon because no one who ever wanted or needed to speak to me rang me anywhere but my mobile and anyone who might ring the house knew that, at that time of day, other than me, no one was home. After several rings, I finally found the cordless and picked up.

“Hello” “This is your friendly voice from the past.” It took me less than a split second to recognize the voice. “Hey there.” I spoke calmly. “If it isn’t the back stabbing son-of- a- bitch that I promised myself to behead on first sight.” “So I take it you are still sore.” “That would be accurate, in more respects than one. To what do I owe this unexpected, and yet questionable, honor after you abandoned me?” “I guess you can call it closure” “Maybe you should try for an apology?” “Maybe, though I am sure you followed the news. I got my balls handed to me on a silver platter. In the absence of the culprit for the London Underground Bombings, I was fed to the mob. As you may know by now, while you were going through you’re your shit, I too was under arrest. I did you a favor by abandoning you, or more accurately, by severing any ties from me to you. No one knows about you or what you did and no one ever will know, so at least you have a future and no tarnished past. In my books, I did you a favor; saved you from guilt by association. If there is anything I need to apologize for it is for getting you involved in this to begin with. I guess I can now safely assume you already know it was not my

idea. It was your beloved father-in-law who spoke so highly of you and nominated you for the position. Besides, I truly believed I had the power to defend you, and what's more, after getting to know you, I knew you had what it takes to get yourself out of any jam.” “Drop it Jim. I am just ventilating a bit. I was pissed off at you for a while, naturally, but I overcame it. When I got into this to begin with, I didn’t do it for money nor was I expecting a medal. I did it because it needed to be done. Or so I believed. I guess you believed it too, so I can't complain. Anyhow, it could have ended up much, much worse. It almost did” “I appreciate being let off the hook but that is not the reason I am calling.” “Of course not. That would be too human of you. What is it now?” “As I said, closure. I don't know if you have been following the news but there is a shit storm going on in Benghazi, as well as in other US embassies in the Middle East, Cairo, Bagdad etc.” “So, what does that have to do with me?” “So, I just wanted you to know that it is not by coincidence that UK embassies are not being stormed and that UK officials and servicemen are not being killed. It is also not by coincidence that there have not been any substantial terrorist attacks in the UK for the past months. Simon, you and I may be out, but the operation was and still is, a smashing success.” Ok, now he had my attention. This was shaping up to be an interesting and unexpected morning. I sat down and took a large drag on my coffee, “How exactly is that?” “I guess you know that Ellah completed the deal.” “Yes, that much I know. I saw it on Bloomberg. Any infinitesimal sense of accomplishment at being part of the transaction, was overshadowed by the thought that the terrorist and money launderer Ellah made away with such a good deal. What was even more bittersweet is that he closed it on even better than I brought to him. I enabled him to secure even more resources to screw us Brits. That may be a smashing success in someone’s books, but not for

our side. “ “Simon, your military background has given you tunnel vision as to how to deal with enemies. Infantry is for simple minded people, if you see the enemy blast them away. There are other options out there. Hidden, in the shadows, unexpected, unknown and not thought of as options. In the bigger scheme of things, what you do when you see the enemy is you monitor them, understand what they are doing and intervene for your objective only when it really counts. Well, as it turns out, when Blair was axed, and given Blair's relationships in Saudi Arabia after the Gulf war, Ellah offered him a position as Chairman of the newly acquired company. That, to the layman, is what is termed tit for tat but it also made sense for Ellah’s organization for financing purposes. Once appointed, and even though it appears that he himself may have ordered me to the dogs, I cornered Blair a few months back, explained our operation and convinced him to go the last mile for our mission. Blair actually had no qualms about undermining Ella, and almost as soon as he took his position, we immediately came in line of intel of the highest quality which, so I am told, has been rolling in ever since. As we told you at the outset, the real enemy to the Western World, us included, are the radical Sunni's. And so, it is not by coincidence that the UK has been able to preempt events such yesterdays against the US.” “So it wasn't all for nothing??” “Not at all. We both paid a hefty price. I paid with my career, you with some cuts, bruises and scars but it appears we did buy ourselves a prime spot in the intelligence community hall of fame.” “Jim, you never cease to surprise me. I must it, that does provide some positive closure. If the last year has taught me anything, I’ve realized that, at this point in my life, all I want is some peace and quiet. Although, I doubt I will ever attain that and enjoy proper closure until I have one final piece of information. What is your real name?” “That’s the missing ingredient that will make you happy?” “Yes it is and will.” “James. James Korbin. How does that fit?”

“Well, at least it starts with a J, so I guess it is OK. Listen, closure is one thing but I think I want more.” “C’mon Smith, what more would you want?” “If I were to have one last wish regarding our former project, and believe me this is not simply something on the fly, I have spent plenty of frustrating nights considering this, I need to screw Ellah somehow." "Well, that would be fun maybe, but it would undermine the accomplishments on this so drop it. Did things patch up OK with Daphne?” “Better than ever. Luckily, her dad took care of that for me. I still don't know what went down between the two of you. All he told me was that certain things are best left unknown. I think I agree. How are things with you and, Natasha?” “We are here together.” “Here being?” “Gibraltar. You know, I would really be happy for you to visit here some time. Maybe we can do something together, perhaps a business, a start-up or something.” “Sorry Jim, or James, or whoever the hell you are, that is not going to happen. At least not in the near future. It will be a long time yet before I have the courage to step through border control.” “Yes, Simon, or Tom, or whoever the hell you are, it will be a long time before I step foot in England once again.” “I guess we both still need some more healing.”

Chapter 24 : “12 Months Later”

Life has a course of its own and for most people, has a special gift in the form of the ability to forget. Yes, I could have been stuck as a victim, could have relived the trauma I went though, day in day out, and even more so during the night. I could easily have built a case for PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) which often times occurs in instances identical to mine, where regardless of the physical injuries, the mind is scarred by the stress, fear and mostly, the feeling of sudden incapacitation and inability to control your own fate.

But I chose otherwise and was rewarded with the gift of forgetting. My physical state was pretty much mended, and I even have a brand-new pair of front teeth to show for it. I got my edge back, my confidence, my ability to take decisions, my ability to invest.

It was one of my new investments that had forced me to engage once again in travel. I would have opted for a train, but Munich was a little too far for that, so I resolved to break the ice and get back to flying, as I would soon be back in the market for skiing anyhow, or so I hoped. Even though the flight was short, I still reserved business class, in an effort to eliminate as many discomforts as possible, under the circumstances. I put on an imaginary coat of arms, put on an imaginary set of tunnel vision glasses and just went through the processes in compete disregard for anything but getting to the other side. And to my surprise, it all worked out effortlessly well. Maybe it was the comfort of traveling with my very own Simon Smith port. It seemed that I truly had my life back. Once on board the plane, I settled in for the short flight, with the help of a gin and tonic, and a twist of Lemon. Memories of the flight with Ellah were unavoidable. The flight got on its way quickly and soon thereafter the boredom started setting in. Too short to pull out my laptop, but yet too long to do

absolutely nothing, I accepted a copy of the Herald Tribune from the stewardess.

I have no idea who still reads news from paper and the thought that what I am reading now was already stale news 12 hours ago, before it was printed, it was demeaning. But knowing that I still had over an hour of the flight to go, I tried to read every article printed, on every page. The pages were flipping fast but the time much less so. So I took it down a notch and started gazing even at the ments. My fingers were already getting a cramp from holding the newspaper oddly, as I turned to the last page before I reach the finale of the sports page. That was when my heart lost its beat.

All of the sudden I could not read fast enough. My eyes were running over the words, faster than my brain could fully comprehend what was written. In front of me, black on faded pink, was a quarter page add which under any other circumstances I would not even notice, let alone read. In the ‘’Legal Notices’’ section there was a Notice with a bold black border around it saying:

"Notice is hereby given to one Thomas Cook of an action brought against him by Mobile Telecommunications Company, Saudi Arabia Ltd., also known as Zain KSA, before the Riyadh District Court at 8698 King Faisal Road, Riyadh 12632 12631, Saudi Arabia, in connection with the petition by Zain KSA to annul an agreement between them dated………:"

There was nothing much more there but the Notice, but I read it again and again as if by reading it a fourth time I would somehow discover more details. Mentally, I had closed the Tom Cook chapter and come to that he is a fictitious character, someone else, but in any case, not me. Or so I thought. But no one had updated my body or my emotion of that. It was like a long-lost love affair was at once rekindled, with excitement, vibrance and even yearning. I

started gasping and fumbling as if the newspaper was scared, as if it were a love letter. But as my mind kicked in, I needed to read the full petition and instinctively reached out for my phone to look it up over the internet. To my dismay, there was no signal. Of course not, if there were I would not have been reading the newspaper to begin with. All excited with anticipation, but with no way to fulfil my thirst for additional information, I read the Notice another three times, during which I tried to figure out what this was. He is kicking me out for good. The son of a bitch Ella is hammering the final nail in the Tom Cook coffin. What about Blair, is he in on it as well? It could very well be that Blair was requested to do this by his s in the community so as to make sure that the last remnant of the operation is removed. But that is less likely, as a legal proceeding and a notice in the newspaper are not the best tactic at keeping things quiet.

Thinking through all the options and angles I noticed the skies clearing and rich green fields down below. Surely there must be a signal already. I refreshed the phone again and again, turned the wifi button on and off and tried time and time again to manually search the menus to try and log on to a local operator. If only the French had decent base stations in their network. Finally, as the airplane descended a little more, I got a glimpse of the SFR network on my screen. It was only a single reception bar, but I could not control myself and started to search hysterically. This was more frustrating than anything else as by the time I could finally find the site for the Riyad courts, the signal was lost and I had to refresh time and time again. I could not reach, and certainly not the court documents but, searching the internet in what seemed like Morse code, for anything about Zain KSA, I was beginning to get the picture, or at lease was forming an interesting theory of what was happening with their court case.

By then, we were almost touching down on the landing strip. My signal was still not great, but improving. I couldn’t wait one more second. Like waking up on Christmas morning, I had to speak to Jim. Now. I was no longer searching for Zain KSA, on my phone Morse internet, I was

searching for Jim, James Korbin or any Korbin in Gibraltar. For a man trying to fade away he was rather easy to find. I found his number and called him there and then even before the plane finished taxing. "Asshole, it's me." "What? Who is it? The reception is not very good". "Shut up and just listen. Zain are suing Tom Cook. They are trying to kick him out." I was very much conscious of the fact that I was still on a plane and that I was the only one on the phone. Everyone there could hear me, but still, I could not contain myself. "I just saw an ad in the newspaper. Are you hearing me??"

The plane reached its docking station and the doors finally opened.

"No, don’t you dare hang up, I am getting off a plane and the connection will be better." I pushed and shoved off the plane just like your typical obnoxious bulldozing enger who can’t wait to get off the metal bird, as if I was in a rush for something, and yelled into the rectangular object in my hand: "Are you listening to me Jim?? They are going for an IPO and they need to clean up their holding structure. I am telling you that is the story, they need to for the 4% holding that must have been entered into the books by the investment bank. Now they want to clean it out by way of a court order in a comfortable jurisdiction. Don’t you get it?" "Simon, you are way ahead of me." "Jim, wake up: this is leverage. They need to clean up the books and we have the

power to stop it. Jim this is payback time. I, you, both of us got fucked royally. This is our chance to get back. Didn't you say that you insulated me from everything, that no one knows who Tom Cook is? This is it man, this is where we wipe the floor with them. Ella the shithead and the whole system."

"Simon, why are you opening this us up now?

"Why?? Because I am Simon Smith and you were the one who taught me that it is not over until it’s over. Plus, I can think of around 25,000,000 reasons to open this up. By the time I am finished with them, it will be irrelevant if you count them USD or GBP.

Jim, I am doing this with or without you. Are you in??"

----------The End ---------

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The names, places and characters presented are all fictitious. Any similarity to persons and characters are purely coincidental. Having said that, this story was inspired by very real events. ©