Magestic

Copyright © Geoff Wolak. October, 2009.

www.geoffwolak-writing.com

Part 10
Exposure

As my wall calendar changed to October 2009, displaying a nice

picture of a mountain range, I was quietly concerned; Jimmy had
always suggested that 2010 was the first probable year of exposure.
Work was progressing well, all African projects growing
dramatically, but I had a feeling in my gut that took the edge off, and
took the joy out of a lot of what I was doing. And Jimmy, he did not
seem to be in the mood for being stealthy anymore.
At a dinner in the city of London, one Friday night, he made
several off-the-cuff remarks that he was “shorting” Liebermans, that
the banking sector was looking stretched, and that when Liebermans
folded it would take a few with it. It was like a slow moving atom
bomb going off.
The Financial Times ran the story on the Sunday, but at least used
the Queen’s English and a few nice words, a flowery account of the
comments attributed to Jimmy. The British tabloids were not so
concise: banking world coming to an end! The PM was on the
phone, disturbing us on Sunday, and these days I appreciated my
weekends now that I was a nine-to-five office worker. And a
commuter!
On the Monday morning the markets turned red, the banking
stocks losing six percent in an instant, Jimmy having bet the
downside through Switzerland. He may have been a loudmouth, but
he was also a sneaky loudmouth that liked to plan ahead. The FTSE
Index dropped, and the DOW opened lower, banking stocks taking a
hit, especially Liebermans. They couldn’t take legal action against
Jimmy because the comments were made at a social function, beer
in hand. Besides, he was still legally registered at McKinleys to offer
formal advice on the stock markets, tipsy or otherwise.
At noon Jimmy led me to the basement, always a worry, but I
found one of the rooms now set-up as video conferencing centre.
Jimmy checked himself in a full-length mirror, sat at a desk and hit a
few buttons, an earpiece placed in. ‘Can you see and hear me?’
‘Yes, all good,’ crackled back. ‘Two minutes.’
The voice counted down, Jimmy staring at a camera which
displayed a small image in a corner of its lens, that of the news
studio the other end. I put in a second earpiece and sat.
 ‘Mister Silo, the markets have reacted nervously to your
comments regarding Liebermans in America, and the banking sector
in general. Do you stand by your comments?’
‘Yes, I do. Not least because I received an unsolicited copy of
Liebermans trading accounts a while ago. Those accounts confirmed
what I already suspected, which is that they’re heavily leveraged,
and even a small downturn in the property market would hurt them,
probably forcing them to file for bankruptcy. I estimate that just a
three percent downswing in house prices could force them over the
edge, because they’re leveraged thirty times their own size.’
‘Could you explain that for us.’
‘Liebermans, as a business, is worth just about four hundred
million dollars. It has borrowed twelve billion dollars, and invested
that money in the property market, some of it in highly leveraged
positions. They’re badly exposed to the property market, as are
many of the US banks. In the UK, I’d expect Mortons to get into
trouble soon for the same reasons - which are stupidity and greed,
nothing more complicated than that. I was also sent the details of
large scale accounting fraud by many of the British accountancy
firms involved in auditing British and American banks. In particular,
a practice whereby debt is swapped ahead of reporting quarters, and
swapped back afterwards. A great many American bank directors
should be in prison, along with many of the directors of the largest
accountancy firms in the city of London.’
And that was that. Balls had been kicked, cages rattled. Still, we
made a lot of money off the falling market, being just as dishonest as
those that Jimmy had condemned. Later that day, Hardon Chase
ordered a review of banking guidelines, but it was too late for
Liebermans. For them, the ground was rushing up quickly. In a
conversation with Chase, Jimmy suggested that there would be
consequences if the New York Fed bailed out Liebermans. He
wanted an example made of them, followed by a review.
A document was released to the world’s press, anonymously,
detailing leverage rates for individual banks, ranked in order of
exposure. They ranged from one multiple, which meant that the
bank had borrowed what it was worth – something that no sensible
business would ever do – to those in the high twenties; it was name
and shame time. Mortons, in the UK, showed a leverage of eight, the
next highest UK bank leveraged at just four fold.
The run on the banks continued, although some fared better than
others and recovered quickly, those with low multiples. And Mac in
Mawlini, he scratched his head as eighty-seven million pounds
arrived in his account, donated from an S. Mellie Von Flytrap in
Switzerland. And all this occurred just a week before the next “M”
Group meeting, this one due to be held in Berlin. I had to wonder
about the timing.
With the banking sector furore settling, I got back to work.
Jimmy had suggested that I nurture those African businesses that
were already established, making use of our bank’s considerable
investment funds. On my desk rested a magazine about African
industry, produced to coincide with one of the trade shows at Goma
conference centre. The back page held a picture of Mombassa docks,
which set me thinking. I researched the company that ran the port,
and discovered that they also ran some of the trains we used, plus a
fleet of trucks. I called their managing director, a Samuel Obotou.
‘Samuel? Paul Holton from England.’
‘A great honour, Mister Holton. Indeed, a great honour. How may
I be of service?’
‘Do you mind if I ask … do you have finance that you’re paying
off?’
‘All businesses have finance that they are paying off.’
‘Do you mind if I ask about the arrangement you have?’ I
pressed.
‘Six million pounds at twelve percent over twenty-one years.’
‘Could you do with more finance? I mean - if you had more,
could you expand your business and employee more people?
‘Certainly. We are struggling because of the finance, not the lack
of work,’ Samuel stated.
‘Then I’ll offer you twelve million at one percent over twenty
years.’
‘That is most generous. But may I ask … why?’
‘We want to boost jobs in Kenya, nothing more complicated than
that.’ As I said it, I realised that I was starting to sound like Jimmy.
‘Then I will be happy to receive your assistance.’
‘I’ll arrange it within days. Oh, do you know of any other
businesses in your region that could do with some … you know,
finance to grow?’
He gave me a list. All the time and effort I had put into trying to
figure that out, and all I had to do was ask. I offered the main
trucking company in Mombassa ten million at one percent, the
largest rail company six million, and a small Kenyan shipping
company three million towards leasing more ships. And for each
recipient of my donor cash I asked how many new jobs would be
created. My notepad jottings added up to around eight thousand new
employees, not a huge number for Africa. I was happy enough with
what I was doing, my new approach, but still not a hundred percent.
Next came a train company that worked out of Dar es Salaam. It
was state owned, but did its own thing. Kind of. I got through to the
main man via an interpreter. They did not have any loans, but it
could be argued that they owed the government money. Since the
Tanzanian Government owned it, it was all a bit odd.
‘How much money would you need to create a thousand new
jobs?’ I asked.
‘Around a million pounds,’ was the answer they finally came
back with, based on existing figures. These were better numbers.
‘And they would be sustainable, long term jobs?’
‘Yes, we have many more orders than capacity.’
‘OK, I’ll loan you twenty-five million, secured by the Tanzania
Government. Will they do that?’
‘Yes, sir, they own the business.’
‘And how would you spend the money?’ I pressed.
‘More track, more rolling stock and engines, and cargo yards.’
‘Fine, I’ll send someone to you. Thank you.’
I went and found Jimmy. ‘Tanzanian state railway company:
good investment?’
‘Sure. Ask them to help with an improved east coast track. From
South Africa right up to Mogadishu.’
Dave Gardener stepped into the office, and I was surprised by
how ill he looked. ‘Got a moment?’ he asked.
Jimmy and I led him to the diner. Dave had been injected, but
that was almost twenty years ago, and he had been sixty-seven at the
time.
‘Dave, are you well?’ I asked.
‘Struggling on.’
‘Why not have another injection?’ I pressed.
He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Wife went last week –’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Jimmy softly enquired, both of us
shocked.
‘Well, I’ve done better than I should have,’ Dave reflected.
‘Should have left a while back, and I thank you for all you’ve done.’
‘But?’ I nudged.
‘But I don’t want to go on forever. And, from what I understand,
even another injection will not make that much of a difference at my
age.’
‘It’ll stretch your life by another ten or twenty years,’ Jimmy
softly stated. ‘But with some deterioration.’
 ‘So, no, no injection, thanks. And, this is my official goodbye,
I’m … retiring.’
‘You’re welcome here any time,’ Jimmy told him.
‘I know, and I’m glad to have seen what I have, to have
witnessed what I have, and worked alongside a time traveller. And
… I hope you fix it all.’ He took a moment. ‘I’ll be leaving tonight,
but I wanted to see you one last time; so strong, so young looking,
so determined.’
‘Leaving tonight?’ I queried.
Jimmy said to me, ‘We don’t enjoy many freedoms in this life,
choosing the time and place of your own death is one of them.’
‘Christ,’ I let out. ‘Would you … like to see the kids again?’
‘I said goodbye to my own yesterday. Coming here was my last
bit of business to settle. My replacement will introduce himself
soon.’
‘He as polite as an Israeli?’ I asked, making Dave smile.
‘Hopefully, as polite as the British.’
With Dave departed, I took a stroll around the grounds, the
relentless march of time catching up with those around me, but not
with myself. Down by the river I bumped into Rob and his dogs.
‘Out for a walk, boss?’
‘Yeah, needed to … think a bit. How’re the dogs?’
‘And I’m OK too,’ Rob quipped, making me smile.
‘Don’t start, I got enough on my plate.’
Rob settled the two dogs. ‘Karl used to feed them, and I reckon
they know he’s gone.’
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it: time moves on, people go.’
‘And new ones arrive. Can’t dwell on it. I’ve buried six dogs
here. All of the current batch are third generation already.’
‘Really?’
‘The pups make up for the loss of the old dogs,’ he said as he
headed off.
I stared after him, thinking about children. I plodded slowly on,
hands in pockets, trees inspected, squirrels glanced at. Back at the
main house I jumped into my electric car and returned to my office,
finding a few new messages left on my chair.

Berlin
A week later we flew over to Berlin, accompanying the British PM
and his party, and trying not to discuss “M” Group material too
much, although some plotting and scheming went on en route. The
German security was modest, blacked-out coaches used to transport
us to a country hotel just outside the city, a sprinkling of reporters
already camped at the gates.
Our rooms were palatial, and there was no need for extra beds for
the girls, they had school. After unpacking the basics and hanging up
suits, I left Helen to update her laptop and went for a walk through
the hotel. Downstairs, I bumped into Ben Ares and his team coming
in, shaking his hand.
‘You lot comfortable with the venue?’ I whispered.
‘The hotel, or Berlin?’ Ben asked as we walked on together.
‘Berlin,’ I whispered.
‘Would not have been my first choice.’ He gestured towards a
man in his late thirties. ‘Oh, this is David, your new contact.’
‘That’ll keep it simple, another David.’ I shook his hand. ‘Must
admit, I miss the old one.’
‘As do we all,’ the new David commented.
I left them at reception and walked into the grounds, the rain
holding off as President Chase’s motorcade wound its way in. His
car slowed, and his Treasury Secretary stepped down, the convoy
pulling off again. The man strode purposefully towards me.
‘Wilkommen in Deutschland,’ I offered.
‘Got a minute?’
‘Sure.’ I gestured him towards a pond, and we strolled slowly on.
‘We’re thinking of bailing out Liebermans.’
‘That would put you on a collision course with Jimmy.’
‘It’ll be bad for the US banking sector if they fold,’ the man
pointed out.
‘And, it’ll be worse if the warning is not heeded, and many large
banks fold in a few years time. You can deal with the one now - and
no market crash - or many later with a recession. Take your pick.’
‘And if we do bail them out?’ he pressed.
‘I guess we’d keep the spotlight on your banking sector, then ask
the Chinese to make your eyes water.’
‘We don’t need to borrow so much from them, the economy is
buoyant.’
‘Suggesting that you want a fight,’ I noted.
‘Not in an ideal world.’
I stopped. ‘You’ll save the hand and lose the arm later, because
your banks won’t give up the leverage.’
 ‘Is there a half-way measure?’ he asked.
‘That would probably involve capped multiples,’ I suggested.
‘Always assuming that you get accurate and truthful figures from
your banks, a novel approach for them.’
‘We could cap them at twenty,’ he tentatively suggested.
‘I think we’ll publish all multiples anyway in the years ahead, so
the investors can make up their own minds, whether you’re
comfortable with twenty or not. And even if we don’t, people will
look for them.’
‘The markets will adjust,’ he suggested. To what, was not clear.
‘Look, you were supposed to crash last year, but you didn’t.
Now, every year that rolls by sees even more money leveraged. So if
you crash this year, it’ll be worse than last year could have been, and
next year worse again. If you crash in ten years time it’ll be a
hundred times worse. The whole point of Liebermans is a boil-
lancing exercise; a warning to others. And don’t insult my
intelligence by telling me you can reign in the banks worst excesses
- you can’t! If you crash now you could survive it, but do it from
2015 to 2017 and you’ll lose America … and we lose the planet, so
you go figure that out with your slide rule.’
At the first meeting, held around a large rectangular table, I
noticed that the leaders were all the same old faces. We had not
changed a leader for a while.
Jimmy began with, ‘Welcome to Berlin, a peaceful, prosperous
and vibrant city that was once the centre of a great conflict. And
that’s the thing about wars … and the advance of time; wounds heal,
albeit slowly in some areas. Those that were fighting on opposing
sides can come together, and the next generation does not hold the
same grudges. So, welcome world leaders, hard working aides and
former enemies.
‘First order of business.’ Jimmy nodded toward an American
security official. The man stepped up to an Indian aide and lifted a
scanner for a few seconds, nodding towards Jimmy when finished.
To the Indian aide, Jimmy said, ‘Your mobile phone seems to be on
continuous transmit.’
The man apologised and switched it off. ‘I must have nudged it
accidentally.’
‘And yet … the journalist at the other end was not nudged.’
Everyone focused on the man, especially the Indian leader.
Words were exchanged.
 Jimmy said, ‘You can leave now, through the door, or through the
window.’ The man was escorted out as further devices were waved
around the room.
‘I would like to apologise to the group,’ the Indian Prime
Minister offered.
‘I accept your apology,’ Jimmy said. ‘And I’m sure that rest do as
well, and do not hold you responsible for this man. OK, moving on,
the first order of business is … oil. As you will have seen, oil over-
production has lowered prices, making me popular in Saudi Arabia.’
People smiled. ‘That boosts the western economies, but also makes
countries like Russia suffer a little, since they benefit from higher oil
prices. It is not my intention to force prices lower, but to stop them
rocketing higher. Crude is currently $55 a barrel, with a good
supply. By this time it should be $70 plus, spiking above $120 –
which would hurt many oil-dependent nations. I would like to point
out to the Russians that European oil and gas demand will only ever
increase.
‘Now, the electric car technology has been released well ahead of
the planned date, and many of you should reap the benefit of it’s
cost savings - except our Russian friends – who may desire a higher
oil price. What our Russian friends should also consider is that
Russia will benefit from selling its oil, not using it on its own
consumers. The less its own citizens buy, the more foreign currency
is generated.’
Jimmy took a breath. ‘It may be hard to picture the turbulent
future at this peaceful juncture, but without the steps that I’ve taken
in recent years, then the key year of 2015 – and subsequent years –
would have been flavoured by severe economic problems in the
west, leading to political unrest. I hope we can all be grateful that we
have the chance of reaching that point in the future … without either
problem.
‘President Chase. Your oil industry has already attempted to
derail the electric cars. Fine, their implementation is your choice.
You may, if you wish, continue to gas-guzzle whilst the rest of the
world reaps the cost benefit.’
‘We aim to go all electric vehicle in seven years,’ the Germans
put in, albeit heavily accented.
‘We have similar plans,’ the French added with a softer accent.
‘As do we,’ India stated. ‘As you know, we have bought the
technology off the Chinese.’
‘China aims to make good use of the technology,’ Han
announced.
 ‘Unfortunately,’ Jimmy began, ‘we have a problem. Many
countries retain large numbers of dollars to buy oil, and if they end
up buying less oil then their fondness for hanging onto dollars may
wane, something that America should plan for.’
‘How … exactly,’ Chase firmly nudged.
Jimmy explained, ‘As a natural consequence of the electric car
technology, OPEC will focus on the developing countries in the
years ahead. But, the developed countries will still need oil for
lorries, for industry, and the change over to electric cars will never
be total; the developed countries will reduce their oil consumption
by little more than thirty percent over the next ten years. There will
be more dollars on the market, but it won’t be a dramatic change.
Besides, Africa and the other developing nations will … develop.’
‘And the impact of all of this?’ Chase nudged.
‘I’ve affected oil production, the western housing bubble, and
released electric car technology, to avoid a serious economic crisis,’
Jimmy informed him. ‘My strategy moves us away from that danger,
but presents other potential problems that need to be planned for.
You all need to consider the impact of a lower volume of oil
purchases, and the effect on the petrol-dollar. You also have the
super-drug health dividend, and a more stable availability of oil. If
not managed, those factors could lower the value of the dollar. But,
as the US economy benefits from cheaper oil and consumer tax
breaks, a counter-balance could be created. And that’s why we have
such a capable person in the White House.’ Chase cocked an
eyebrow. ‘I’m confident that he can sort it all out, so that one area
counterbalances another.’
‘Will America adopt the electric cars?’ the Chinese asked.
‘Yes, but in small quantities to start with. Oil is now stable, so
why should its gas-guzzling citizens worry? What the nice man in
the White House should consider … is the extra growth seen in
European and developing economies from the costs savings. He
needs to remain competitive. Which brings us nicely around to those
fine gentlemen who run the major US banks. As most of you will
already know, I expressed my feelings about banks such as
Liebermans recently, and the nice man in the White House is
considering bailing them out.’
Jimmy opened a folder and handed out a list of US banks. ‘This is
a list of US banks, ranked in order of risk. Those at the top have a
multiple of more than thirty. That means that they have borrowed,
for themselves, more than thirty times their net worth, and invested
it into the housing markets. So long as the US housing market
remains strong there’s no danger. But, as soon as the music stops,
it’s a case of musical chairs, with just six chairs for twelve banks. I
strongly recommend to all nations, except America of course, that
no fresh investments be made in the top US banks, those with
multiples over ten.’
‘That’s most of our banks!’ Chase complained.
Jimmy held his hands wide. ‘I informed you many years ago what
would happen, and now they’re over-stretched. If - and it’s a big if -
house prices dropped five percent, you’d have to bail them out to the
tune of half a trillion dollars. If you wait three years, and property
prices drop five percent, you’ll bail them out one point three trillion.
After five years, that becomes three point five trillion. You with me
so far, Mister President?’
‘Is there a middle road?’ Chase unhappily asked.
‘Find some honest bank directors?’ I toyed.
Jimmy smiled. ‘That would be one solution, albeit a bit …
improbable.’
‘And if we capped multiples?’ Chase asked.
‘They’d lie to you, and hide the truth, as they’re already doing
with debt swaps.’
Han said, ‘The Chinese Government is most concerned about this
matter, and will be reviewing its investment policy. We will impose
a multiple of twenty to start with, lowering that in subsequent years.’
‘Have you met with the banks?’ I asked Chase.
‘The Treasury Secretary met with them recently,’ Chase replied,
sounding unhappy to be discussing the topic openly.
‘And they reminded you of the money they make for the US, and
of the liquidity benefits that they bring,’ Jimmy posed.
‘Something like that,’ Chase reluctantly admitted.
‘My preferred course of action would be for Liebermans to hit the
wall, followed by a statement from you that no one will get a
bailout. Followed by a tough investigation into accounting
standards.’
‘Again, is there a middle road?’ Chase pushed.
Jimmy took a breath. ‘Have you ever wondered why I developed
the drug in secret, along with the electric car technology? I’ve done
many things by myself, because I don’t have an electorate to worry
about, nor can I be compromised, bribed or bullied. I do these things
for the good of the planet, and I make the choices, knowing that it
would be very hard to get a consensus in a group like this, where
each of the leaders present has a vested interest. And my relationship
with Russia, China and Europe is as much about counter-balancing
the worst excesses of US policy as anything else. You can follow my
guidance, and the consensus here, or you can do your own thing,
Mister Chase. If, next year, your banks need bailing out, you’ll leave
office as the man who caused a severe economic crash, and not as
the great leader we all hoped you’d turn out to be. You need to look
forwards ten years, then look back and ask … how did I handle that
financial crisis? They warned me … but it still happened, and I left
office with a very low approval rating.’
The room fell silent, everyone focused on Chase as he unhappily
stared back at Jimmy. We waited.
Chase lowered his head and heaved a breath. ‘We’ll tighten up
the worst excesses of the bank, and give Liebermans notice to
reduce its multiple to twenty – with a warning that they’ll get no
bailout.’
His Treasury Secretary shot a dirty look at the back of Chase’s
head.
‘We’ll take a one hour break,’ Jimmy ordered. ‘During which
time the Chinese and Americans can discuss … future bond
purchases.’
I led Helen back to our room and ordered food.
‘That going to be a big fight?’ Helen asked.
I shrugged. ‘Jimmy won’t back down, so Chase can co-operate or
lose Jimmy’s help. The patient … doesn’t like the taste of the
medicine.’
At the next session, the mood was a little off, few smiles evident.
I should have brought Shelly.
Jimmy began, ‘The Chinese and the Americans have made some
minor agreements, but not completely to the taste of the nice man in
the White House. Moving on, whilst still on the same basic subject,
the French and Germans should be aware that when Greece applied
to join the Euro, the figures it presented – prepared with the
assistance of certain American banks – were completely fraudulent.’
The French and Germans sat upright.
Jimmy continued, ‘Their debt is three times higher than that
declared, and some members of the American team here knew that
fact all along.’
Looks were exchanged.
Jimmy added, ‘Greece will get into trouble in the years ahead,
speculated upon by those very same American banks that assisted
the fraud. Whilst on the subject, Portugal and Spain – which will
become known as the Club Med countries – will also face great
difficulties. If, and when, the US banking sector falters, Spain will
plunge into a recession that will lead it out of the Euro, a similar fate
for Portugal and Greece. If the banking sector does not falter, the
Club Med countries will falter at a slower rate, but they will still
falter.’
‘They leave the Euro?’ the Germans questioned, aghast at that
suggestion.
‘Their people will see things as having been better before the
advent of the Euro, with a strong desire to fix their tourist trade
through a lower currency. Spain will suffer twenty-five percent
unemployment for years, forty percent amongst its young people.
The voting public will only tolerate that for so long. So you can see
why I wish to avoid an economic crash.’ He faced the Russians.
‘When that crash comes it will take eighty percent off your stock
markets.’
He took a moment. ‘I had always assumed that, at this date, we’d
be in a war of words with America, and by “we” I mean everyone
apart the Americans.’ Chase straightened. ‘So everyone … listen
carefully. Between now and 2015 there will be pressure on the
dollar, downward pressure, and that pressure will be resisted by the
nice man in the White House at almost any cost. During that
economic conflict, America will make use of its banks to its own
benefit. All other nations must be careful in the use of large
American banks, because they have a vested interest in propping up
the dollar, knocking the Euro - and any other currencies in Eurasia.
‘The decline of the dollar is inevitable; it’s overvalued by a long
way, and pegged to the price of oil. So long as there was a shortage
of oil and a steady rise in oil prices the petrol-dollar remained
strong, falsely strong. That cannot go on forever. It will, eventually,
fall back toward its proper value, a painful adjustment for not just
America, but the whole world. What happens in the next five or ten
years is not a question of … can it be fixed, but how can the pain be
eased. That process can either be a negotiated process, through this
group, or it can be a fight – every country for itself. The first step in
that fight, and the start point, is how President Chase deals with his
banks. If he deals with them as I expect, then the war will start soon,
and America will not be invited to further “M” Group meetings.’
‘Not invited?’ Chase challenged.
‘If we begin a conflict, you’ll be on your own,’ Jimmy coldly
stated. ‘You won’t be getting any guidance from me, but those
you’re in conflict with will receive help - because they’re not the
problem.’ He held his gaze on Chase.
‘I said we’d tackle the banks,’ Chase curtly pointed out.
 ‘Mister Chase, I can already see the knives in your back.’
Chase took a moment. ‘There’ll be resistance?’
‘That’s something of an understatement. The people around this
table are not your immediate concern, your own countrymen are.
Even some of your own cabinet will be an issue, and they’ll leak
details of these meetings to undermine you.’
The British Prime Minister put in, ‘You once said, in one of these
meetings, that we should always keep talking – even if we don’t like
each other.’
Jimmy faced him. ‘And you could sit with an American President
when US banks and hedge funds are creating a run on the pound to
benefit the dollar? These meetings are only useful if the participants
don’t lie to each other, about things such as Greek debt.’
‘Why did you not mention that before?’ the Germans asked.
‘Ammunition is not much good unless kept dry … and ready for
use at the right time,’ Jimmy responded. ‘There are many things that
I know, that you don’t.’
‘I’d like a recess … and a private chat,’ Chase curtly demanded.
‘By all means,’ Jimmy said with a false smile. ‘Thirty minute
break, please.’
Jimmy led Chase and myself to a side room and arranged chairs.
‘Just where the hell did all this come from?’ Chase demanded.
‘We warned you many years ago about your banks,’ Jimmy
calmly stated. ‘Now we’re reaching the tipping point, a point
where’ll I’ll have no choice but to expose your banks.’
‘You knew the multiples,’ I put in.
‘There must be a solution,’ Chase insisted.
‘Even if you wanted to control your own banks, your own people
would trip you up,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘And your Treasury Secretary
is more loyal to them than to you. He has an eye on his next job.’
‘And if I was amenable to a solution…?’ Chase nudged.
‘Then I’d say … do what you can, but gently, and I’ll play
hardball. That way, there’ll be fewer knives in your back.’
‘So instead of them coming for me they go for you,’ Chase
questioned. ‘And they may try and expose you!’
‘If they expose me, they’ll strengthen my arm,’ Jimmy pointed
out. ‘No, more likely they’ll try and discredit me, or shoot me.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. At all.
‘Can we keep channels open?’ Chase asked.
‘I would hope so, but I know what will happen with the banks,
and they’ll all need a punch on the nose,’ Jimmy replied. ‘There’s
not much of an alternative. It’ll become a dirty fight and, at the end
of the day, you’re paid to fight their corner, not mine.’
Chase stood and glanced out of the window. ‘One of the first
things you said to me … was to think about the end of my life: how
I’d view myself looking back.’ He turned. ‘I don’t want to be at the
helm during a crash, nor do I want to be undermined by my own
people and discredited. I know what they can do.’
‘If you leave it to me … it’ll hurt,’ Jimmy informed him. ‘But,
you’ll have less of a problem with your own people.’
‘And if they undermine you we lose the planet,’ Chase pointed
out.
‘There is that,’ I lightly stated.
Chase returned and sat. ‘So we do a little a both. I’ll push as
much as I can, you … kick some balls, and I’ll try and deal with the
fallout.’
‘It’ll be messy,’ Jimmy warned.
Back in the meeting, we discussed the electric technology, the
wonder drug, African development and oil quotas before breaking
for the day. Now the serious work would begin, not least the French
and German governments discussing what to do about Greece.
Jimmy met with them and offered to assist the Club Med countries
in the next few years. Following that, he made a call with
ramifications; the CEO of Liebermans would now be under the
spotlight. A copy of their dodgy debt-swaps, ahead of shareholder
meetings, had been handed in to the SEC, the New York Post, the
Washington Times and CNN.
At the group meal that evening, Chase was called out to take a
call. Returning, he unhappily informed us that Liebermans was
under investigation. The first blow had been struck, but one that
Chase could not be blamed for. He issued a short statement to the
waiting press after the meal, condemning any sharp practices in the
banking sector and siding with the poor old investor; Joe Public.
And I had a chore. I went and found Chase’s Treasury Secretary.
‘Got a minute?’ I asked, leading him away. ‘Just wanted to point
out that Jimmy handed a file to Chase, the contents of which would
put you in prison for a long time.’ The man socked upright. ‘Some
of the detail is real, some has been very cleverly manufactured over
the past twenty years.’ I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy the rest
of your evening.’
The second blow had been delivered. I went and found Ben Ares.
‘Got a minute?’
He gestured me to a seat. ‘Problem?’
 ‘Of a sort.’ I took a breath. ‘Jimmy knows that various Jewish
investment managers will perpetrate some major frauds in the years
ahead, which will harm the reputation of Jewish investment
managers. He’s going to deal with them as he has done with
Liebermans – very public, and very loud. Of course, if they were
dealt with quietly first…’ I held my hands wide and gave a big Dave
Gardener shrug, and left it at that.
In London, the Serious Fraud Office took receipt of a bundle of
documents regarding a British accountancy firm. In the morning, the
British PM was not a happy bunny, voices raised in a private
meeting with Jimmy. The PM had been warned years earlier, so I
had no sympathy for him. I sighed, another frosty “M” Group
meeting on the cards.
Jimmy began the next session with, ‘OK, as some of you are
aware, there have been a few developments overnight. Documents
outlining illegal practices at Liebermans have been handed to the
SEC in New York, and the Fraud Office in London have taken
receipt of documents relating to an accountancy firm. There will be
fallout. All you need keep in mind is that the people elected you, and
that you work for those people.’ He focused on the American team.
‘It may have been wise for you to consider that I’ve had moles
inside your banks for some twenty years.’
‘I’m going to get tough with them, where I can,’ Chase
reluctantly offered, a statement meant for the other nations
assembled about the tables.
Russia stated, ‘We will be … cautious about investing in certain
American banks.’
China and India echoed those words, France and Germany stating
that there would be a far reaching review. I guessed that they meant
Greece, as much as their own countrymen investing in the
nominated US banks.
‘Israel will also be conducting a review,’ Ben Ares stated,
causing Chase to focus on him.
‘Moving on,’ Jimmy called. ‘And to recap. The next ten years
will be dominated by the slide in the dollar, and the steps taken to
prevent that slide. There is no easy way of dealing with it. In a
worst-case scenario, a future US president will go to war to prop-up
the dollar. At best, there will be economic war of some degree. The
path will not be smooth, and there’s very little that I can do to assist;
there is no magic formula to apply.
‘Our American friends at this table are aware of the problem, and
everyone else is aware of both the consequences, and the possible
actions that may be taken. For each American action, they have a
reaction planned – I’ve made sure of that. My role, in the years
ahead, will be to try and lessen the damage to both sides. One
solution, a definitive solution, would be for the US to lower its
currency whilst reducing health costs and implementing new
technologies to remove the dependence on oil. That … is unlikely to
happen till its absolutely necessary, a little late in the day.
‘What Mister Chase needs to be aware of is that the health and
energy savings available to America’s competitors are huge. Their
economies will benefit, as yours could. It’s up to you.
‘Now, if OPEC dropped the dollar around 2017, the effect would
be a lowering of the value of the dollar, causing America’s imports
to double overnight. If the health and energy benefits are in place,
then the pain of those rises would be greatly lessened. US citizens
need not worry about the rise in oil prices … when they drive
electric cars. And the rise in food imports can be offset by tax
breaks, caused by the health budget savings.’
He faced Chase. ‘You may have assumed that was my reasoning
all along, to help deal with your two largest cost centres; oil and
healthcare. You can wait till 2017, or you can take small steps
towards that date, using the savings to adjust the dollar’s position in
the world. This is the best opportunity you’ll ever get – but I’d bet
my life you don’t take it.’
Jimmy pointed at the Treasury Secretary. ‘I’d like you to arrange
a meeting of the top banks for next week. I’ll see if I can’t make
them see sense. OK, moving on to the next generation of nuclear
power stations. They will cost less to build, less to run, and will
produce a greater output. And as for their waste products, our friends
in Somali are happy to accept as much waste as you have. I’m
preparing a facility there, and the fees will be low.
‘OK, the Swine Flu pandemic will run its course – no pun
intended, but will not be as severe as various pharmaceutical
companies would like it to be. Those people injected with the super-
drug will be ninety-percent resistant, but all countries here should
divert a large portion of their medical research toward flu variants.
In the future, they will kill a great many people, even some of those
with the super drug.’
We got into small detail, and the mood lifted a little, sensible
questions asked and answers given. We even managed to finish with
a few jokes. Landing back at Cardiff airport, we found the girls in
the coach, full of news of hamsters and mice and rabbits. After my
heart had started again, they explained that the animals were in a
large shed near the rose garden, and not running around our house.
Helen and I sighed with relief.
Back in my office, I accepted a mug of tea and listened to updates
for an hour before Jimmy stepped in. He waved people down when
they attempted to stand, and eased down onto a sofa.
‘So, this where all the proper work happens, eh?’ he said with a
smile.
‘Deep thinking and doughnuts,’ I said.
‘I figured we’d finally float Pineapple, sell some stock to make a
few quid.’
I pointed at the Pineapple liaison. ‘That doesn’t mean that you’re
fired. Don’t worry.’
‘Quite correct,’ Jimmy confirmed. ‘Good people are hard to find.
But your work may alter a bit.’ He faced me. ‘I fancied more shares
in the media group, Blake Carrington’s.’
‘Blake Carrington?’ they queried.
Jimmy stood. Thumbing towards me, he explained, ‘That’s what
he calls the guy. And yes, he does look like Blake Carrington.’
‘Timescale?’ I asked Jimmy as he headed towards the door.
‘Best do it before the news leaks,’ he said as he waved goodbye.
I raised my iPhone and selected the picture of our accountant.
‘Neil, float Pineapple as fast as you can, sell some of our shares,
raise some dough. Thanks.’
I pointed at my Pineapple liaison. ‘In addition to Pineapple, you
just became our liaison to the media group. The guy’s name is Ted
Schapp-something, and our accountants should have some info on
them.’
‘Media One Inc,’ the man stated.
‘That’s them, they own the African Times.’
Later that evening I asked Jimmy how many of our shares we
would offload.
‘All of them, but quietly,’ Jimmy responded.
‘And the reasoning…?’ I nudged.
‘If … exposed, then people would see it as unfair that we pick
future hit singers, and may see a lot of what we do as being unfair.
The media group could not be said to make use of any unfair
advantage. Besides, I’ll need the media group to beat up a few
banks.’
‘Coming back to exposure…?’ I nudged.
‘The American banks will want to fight back,’ he said with a
shrug.
 That weekend, eight new security staff appeared. Extra cameras
were fitted, more sensors, and a small hut was built on the main
house, on its purposeful flat roof. Positioned up there would be four
new men, ex-soldiers and mates of Big Paul. They would be
furnished with binoculars, night sights, and rifles licensed by the
government. I was asked not to mention it to Helen yet. When I
asked Jimmy if he expected the US banks to get dirty, he
enigmatically said, ‘Amongst others.’
Four new Range Rovers appeared, all of them identical, and a
second coach, this one fitted with bulletproof glass. These vehicles
would now drive around at random, just to see who was following. It
wasn’t a very relaxing weekend, not least because Liebermans
dominated the news. Late on Sunday night Jimmy came over to my
house after the girls had gone up to bed. We cracked open cans and
sat with Helen, the sound on the TV turned down.
‘Need to kick an idea around,’ Jimmy began. ‘This meeting I’ve
asked for with the bank chiefs, it was not supposed to happen, not
this way. It’s an … unknown. My first instinct would be to try and
strong-arm them. Well, my first instinct would be to try and talk
nicely, but they’d never respect that. And who the hell am I to ask
them to behave?’
‘Do you have dirt on any of them?’ I asked.
‘On all of them, or at least elements of their businesses.’
‘The room will probably be bugged,’ Helen suggested.
‘Definitely,’ Jimmy agreed with an odd smirk. ‘Some of them
have already researched me, and think they know a thing or two.’
‘They’ll try and expose you?’ I asked.
‘No, because then we’d tell people to avoid them, and the public
would probably listen,’ Jimmy explained.
‘You think they’ll try and bribe you?’ Helen asked.
‘Same difference, it wouldn’t work. Besides, some of them are
honest – to a degree. It’s just the risks that they’re taking that’s the
problem.’
‘So you can’t threaten them with anything,’ Helen thought out
loud.
‘Could bust up one or two as an example,’ I put in.
‘They’re unlikely to respond to that. Besides, they don’t work as
a group; it’s a cutthroat business – they’d be happy to see each other
suffer.’
‘So what motivates them?’ Helen posed.
‘Keeping their jobs and making money,’ I responded.
 ‘Can’t risk offering them bribes,’ Helen noted. ‘You’d end up in
trouble then.’
‘Correct, since they may report the fact.’ He wagged a finger.
‘But, when faced with a bribery charge, the authorities would ask
what I’d make out if it. The banks could hardly say that I bribed
them to stop breaking the law.’
‘That would be an odd day in court!’ I quipped.
‘I can’t bribe them … directly,’ Jimmy said, staring at the carpet.
He looked up and grinned. ‘But I am licensed to offer stock market
advice.’

Witchcraft

The following Tuesday we flew overnight to New York, to a

meeting that the White House had arranged with the bank chiefs,
none of whom were supposed to know about us, about the secret
parts of what we got up to at least. Staying at my apartment
overlooking Central Park, Jimmy handed Helen and myself small
pouches to keep our mobile phones in, to prevent interference.
‘Interference from…?’ I nudged.
‘You’ll see later.’ He gave me a pouch that fitted well into my
jacket pocket, another that slipped into Helen’s handbag. ‘You won’t
have much of a signal when your phones are inside, so just use the
pouches for this meeting. And … don’t react when I do strange
things.’
‘If you start dancing like New Year, then I’m walking out,’ I
threatened, wagging a finger.
‘I think today’s meeting will be a little more … frosty. No
dancing. Be lucky to get a coffee.’
Two hours later, we drove the short distance around to a hotel,
into an underground car park and up to a penthouse suite retained by
one of the banks. It came complete with a mini-boardroom and a
waitress, and left me wondering if secretive meetings went on here,
power deals done.
The first two people I met were pleased to see me, and reacted a
bit like giddy tourists. The rest were a mixture of polite, to
downright sour-faced. And the CEO of Liebermans, he was not in
attendance today. I guess he had his hands full, or his hands cuffed.
The natural leader of this supposed “group of equals” was the CEO
of BNK, Art Ritter, a thickset man in his fifties. He now nudged
people towards the meeting room, where the nice young lady
waitress dispensed coffees. So far, so good.
When everyone had settled, Helen at my side, Art Ritter curtly
began with, ‘You called this meeting, Silo.’ He said side on to the
table, facing the window.
‘Actually, Hardon Chase asked if I could try and work out my
differences with you, since I explained to him my intention of giving
you all a hard time in the years ahead.’
‘And why do you think you need to … try and give us a hard
time?’ Ritter testily asked.
‘Because for some of you, your balls are bigger than your brains,
and when you collapse you’ll take a lot of good people with you.
You can think of me as Robin Hood to your Sheriff of Nottingham.’
‘So you represent the little people,’ Ritter thought aloud. ‘Yet you
use the system as well as anyone to make money, legal or
otherwise!’
‘I’m not investing other people’s money in risky ventures. And if
I went bust, I’d not take down the western economy.’
‘That’s a rather dramatic statement,’ one of the other men put in.
‘Do you think so?’ Jimmy asked. ‘I don’t, and I’m smarter than
all of you. As such, I sent a detailed report to AIG today, along with
copy of documents from several of your banks, so that they know
what they’ve been buying.’
Several of the men glanced at each other, seemingly uneasy.
‘And the leaked Liebermans documents?’ Ritter asked.
‘Yes, that was my doing. As will be the other documents to be
released, depending on how well this meeting goes,’ Jimmy
explained.
‘And you bribed people to get hold of them?’ Ritter risked.
‘Certainly not,’ Jimmy said with a coy smile. ‘They were sent to
me anonymously. And it’s no good trying to trick me into saying
something that I shouldn’t, since all the electronic gizmos you have
on you stopped working when I entered.’
‘What makes you think we’re bugging this meeting?’ Ritter
posed.
‘All electronics give off a signal, and I was born with the odd
ability to detect them, as well as block them.’ I frowned at that.
Jimmy added, ‘Why don’t you check them, and your phones and
watches.’
‘My watch has stopped,’ two men echoed.
 They checked their phones, finding them off, and could not get
them to switch back on. We sipped our coffees as we waited for
them to settle again; to stop cursing, and to settle.
‘Clever trick,’ Ritter acknowledged, his own phone dead as a Do-
Do.
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ Jimmy threatened. ‘So, why don’t
we just cut the crap and see if we can keep you all out of jail, and
prospering.’
‘You’re deluding yourself, Silo,’ Ritter baulked.
‘I have your trading statements, Ritter,’ Jimmy coldly stated.
‘The real ones. They could go to the New York Times.’ Ritter lost
some of his smugness. ‘Just call my bluff, I’ll send them to the
press, and we’ll meet again in a day or so. Then, after each meeting,
I send another file in, and we’ll keep meeting till none of you are left
in charge.’
‘You must have spent a lot of money to get those files,’ Ritter
tried to draw out of Jimmy.
‘I put people in place ten and twenty years ago,’ Jimmy replied.
‘Just for this very occasion.’
‘What the hell is that you want?’ a man asked.
‘Stability - nothing more complicated than that. I want you fine
gentlemen to make money now, and twenty years from now.
Unfortunately, my spies in your organisations suggest that you’re all
heavily overstretched, that you don’t understand the risks that your
bright young traders are taking, and that those very same traders
don’t really understand the risks they’re taking in turn. Some of you
have five traders making ninety-five percent of your profits. And
CDOs are just downright dishonest. So, to answer your question, I
want what you want. I want you to carry on doing well, and not to be
fucked over by stupid young traders given a free hand to bet billions
in markets they don’t fully understand. If not, I’ll keep leaking
documents till you’re all tarnished – as well as all out of a job.’
‘And who the fuck made you God?’ a man asked.
‘I don’t think God cares what you do; he has a policy of non-
interference in the development of mankind. I, on the other hand,
have a policy of direct interference, hence my work in Africa. And,
unlike God, I don’t forgive.’
‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ a man asked.
‘Who and what I am is not the point. It’s what I can do if you
don’t play ball that should be of interest to you.’ He turned his head
to a man on his left. ‘I sent the New York police a file about the
secretary you made pregnant and had killed – as we sat down to this
meeting.’ The man stared back. ‘I found the doctor you used to
remove the foetus from her dead body, thereby removing any DNA
link to yourself. That doctor is willing to … confess all, to ease his
conscience.’
The man’s mouth slowly opened.
‘Bob?’ others called, getting no response. ‘Bob?’
The man got up and rushed out, others standing, and horrified at
this turn of events. When they returned, Jimmy said, ‘Does anyone
here have any doubts about just how ruthless I can be?’ He had
made his point.
The remaining men settled, one standing by the window and
peering down, his hands in his pockets. That man now turned. ‘I did
some bribing of my own. Some … research on you, Silo.’
‘I’d expect nothing less from men as capable as yourselves.’
‘You … have a few skeletons in the closet,’ the same man noted.
‘Skeletons?’ I repeated. ‘He could start his own bone factory!’
‘Why don’t you tell the nice men here what it is that you think
you know,’ Jimmy urged.
The man stepped closer. ‘The CIA think you’re a time traveller,
the White House believes you to be a power clairvoyant. And you
host each “M” Group meeting. You don’t attend those meetings, you
are the meeting.’
‘OK, show of hands please for those people who think he’s
correct?’ Jimmy called.
Only two men raised their hands.
‘That’s the thing about outlandish theories,’ Jimmy noted.
‘They’re … outlandish. It’s the Michael Jackson effect: people like
his music, so who gives a fuck about his habits behind closed doors.
And … I’m popular. Your outlandish claims would probably just
make me more popular. More of a … curiosity.’
The man went back to the window.
‘Can we get off this waste of time, and get back to cases,’ a man
urged. ‘I’m not even sure I want to be in this meeting, some of the
things being discussed here.’
‘What the fuck do you want, Silo?’ Ritter asked again.
‘I would like the following: I’d like you to lower your multiples,
to take fewer risks, to apply proper risk strategies, to be less …
dishonest about quarterly and annual accounts.’
‘That all,’ a man baulked.
Jimmy lifted his face to the man in the window. ‘There’s one
question you’ve not yet asked.’
 The man took a moment, stood with his hands in his pockets.
‘What do we get for being good little boys and playing nice?’
‘Good question,’ Jimmy commended. ‘What would you like?’
‘To know what the markets will do next week…?’ the man
risked.
‘OK.’
The man hesitated. ‘What?’
‘I said … OK, provided we have an … agreement, of course.
There are also oil sales that I can route through you, ore sales. And
you can have shares in certain business that are doing very well, at a
discount.’ He held his hands wide. ‘Why do you need bright young
traders with Phds when you have me?’
‘You saying what I think you’re saying?’ the man queried.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Those that wish to join my exclusive club may
do so. I take no money, I give tips, and you then adjust your
positions and … your greed. At the end of the day, you’re there to
try and make money, something I’m very good at. I just don’t want
you to screw around with risky ventures.’
The same man stood staring down. ‘Got a business card?’
Jimmy handed the man a card. ‘Does anyone else wish a further -
and private - meeting?’ Two men took the cards, stared at by Ritter.
‘The rest of you may measure the success of these three, plus the
pain that you’re about to suffer, and decide to come and talk to me.’
‘You’ll hand us African business?’ another man asked.
‘I’ll hand you oil business in many areas, and my Chinese
colleagues will invest with you.’
A forth man took a card. That was four out of nine, and I was
smiling inwardly; greed was God here. It was all about the dollars.
Jimmy stood. ‘Your phones will work again now.’ He pointed at
the man who first took his card. ‘I’m floating Pineapple music. You
can handle it if you like.’
Several phones chirped into life, startling people. We left them to
check on messages, and to puzzle the witchcraft used.
Back in the apartment I asked, ‘How’d you screw with their
phones?’
‘A type of EMP, but on a very high frequency. It stops electronics
dead whilst it’s active, but then dissipates. I had someone in the
room below with the equipment. The Ebede kids developed it for
me.’
‘Cool. And dangerous,’ I said. ‘Hope they don’t take it on plane.’
‘In years to come it’ll be used to bring down planes,’ Jimmy
informed us. ‘But not till around 2020.’
 That evening, we met with Blake Carrington and talked shop,
Jimmy insisting that his media empire pressure the banks, especially
over multiples. Oliver Standish, current CEO of Pineapple and now
living in Los Angeles, caught wind of the floatation and called me.
‘We were trying to keep it quiet,’ I told him.
‘Shouldn’t I know?’ he complained.
‘When it’s floated you’ll make a shit load of money, so stop
whinging. You got those shares for fuck all, and you’ll place them at
one hundred and fifty million dollars at least.’
‘Well, yes, but then we’ll have a board, who may not wish to
keep me on.’
‘When you get the millions, worry about it then. Or retire to the
Caribbean on a big fucking yacht. Besides, it was inevitable; you
knew that. And don’t forget to remember us at Christmas.’ I hung up
and returned to the polite chitchat with our media mogul.

The weight of the world

Back in the UK, I again tried to find ways of creating more jobs in
Africa. And, after much headache, I figured that mines were the best
way forwards, issuing many concessions, some to American
companies linked to various banks that we were suddenly best
buddies with. New mines were opened in Burundi, Malawi,
Zimbabwe, Sierra Leone, Zambia and our region in the DRC, the
nice people at Caterpillar kept busy. The mines made money and
employed a great many local people, plus skilled workers to operate
the machinery. From the DRC, our fuel tankers travelled out, soon
delivering cheap diesel to many mines, even as far south as Malawi.
Jimmy attended a meeting in London, regarding donor aid to
Africa, and came away with most European countries finally
offering to channel all their donor aid through us, a significant move
that would upset many leaders in Africa. Charities and NGOs would
now have to ask us for money - and prove where it was going, and
poor old Switzerland would have to make do with less stolen cash
being tucked away. The various European governments received
complaints from several African states straight away. Those Africa
nations were told to contact us, but never did.
 After some persuading, Kenya and Tanzania finally joined the
economic cooperation group, and Jimmy formalised the group with
a sitting chairman and a fulltime staff in Goma hub, a staff of some
two hundred. Their job was simple: to boost trade, and to find ways
of cooperating with each other to save money. They started with a
complaint from Somalia that we were pinching banana trade from
them, and we eased back on the free bananas heading for Kenya.
Trade shows would now be held every two months, with major deals
often being signed at the conference centre.
I would sometimes receive innocuous reports from Gotham City
that pleased me, such as the first car wash, a new cinema, a football
league, a private dental practice, a college for evening classes. These
were all things that we in the west took for granted, but had to be
built to spec in Gotham City, population now seventy-five thousand
and growing rapidly.
Without my hand in it, the corporation had created several
business parks offering small units at low rent, complete with free
electricity, and those same units now housed all sorts of new
ventures, including bike repairs, washing machine repairs, a
carpenter or two. Gotham City was attracting those industries that
the people needed, and we were developing a service sector.
West of Forward Base, Big Paul’s fish farm was growing, and
well beyond the limits I had set. A few locals had seen the fish farm
and asked for help setting up their own. Diggers were sent in, the
rest would be down to them.
The mayor of a town on a river had been cheeky and asked for a
small dam, for no reason other than to make the fishing easier. A
simple dam was quickly constructed from concrete, a road across the
top for locals to drive over. It offered an overflow that regulated the
water’s height, and boats that were idle much of the year were now
employed for fishing, many young fish inadvertently added to the
river upstream by our earnest fish farming efforts. They were the
ones that got away.
When the UN lauded the effort to help the local people, I sat back
and gave it some thought. I ordered another twenty stretches of river,
those near villages, to be dammed in the same cheap manner, road
bridges built. The corporation were careful to point out the dangers
of flooding, so dam heights and overflows had all to be carefully
checked. One particular group of villagers lived in an isolated tight
gorge, not far from where the airliner had crashed years before, and
their request for a dam was duly granted, its height worked out.
Since there were no other villages for miles up stream, or chance of
an overflow, a ten metre concrete dam had been constructed in a
deep gorge, a useful new road across the top of the overflow. The
brisk river filled the dam quickly, the water backing up some five
miles and lapping another village. Those villagers rejoiced at the
water level, and the calm water. They jumped into their boats and
headed down stream, soon trading with the other village, two sturdy
boats being furnished by the corporation. Since the previous jungle
trek, village to village, was a three-day event, the locals were happy.
Looking at the next valley across on the map, I ordered a similar
dam, and another jungle highway was soon created, more boats
dropped by Huey. Then the same nice lady from the UN came back
on: could they please have one of those small hydroelectric
generators fitted. I agreed, and soon received a photograph of what
looked like a car engine with a propeller on a long shaft, the
propeller simply lowed into the lively overflow. Lights were now on
in the village. Progress. I instructed the corporation to build as many
dams as it pleased, with the same small generators fitted, and to
extend the project south into Zambia, as well as east into Burundi
and Malawi.

Divide and conquer

A month after meeting America’s top bankers, two of them came

over to the house, both of them now far more amenable. One was
handling the Pineapple floatation, and both had bought shares in an
oil and mining group. We now allocated them oilfield concessions
off Sierra Leone and Guinea, plus several mines in the DRC. That
deal was sweetened even further with stock market tips. In return,
they displayed and admitted to their multiples, and volumes of
CDOs traded. Jimmy offered comments on their exposure, and
positions were duly adjusted.
Oddly enough, there was no mention of clairvoyants from these
bank chiefs, just an odd acceptance of what we could offer.
Liebermans had hit the sidewalk and been bailed out by the Fed –
but now with Jimmy’s private approval. Another odd occurrence
was Jimmy’s secret purchase of Liebermans shares, after the
company was re-launched with a new management team. I realised
why a week later when the new CEO paid us a weekend visit, the
kind of visit kept out of the press. Jimmy knew the man. Having met
the guy, I smiled for ten minutes after I left them to chat, Helen
enquiring as to the source of my merriment.
Blake Carrington’s media group had run dozens of stories about
over-stretched banks, the word “multiples” on everyone’s lips, and
all of the world’s private investors both understood the term, and
now looked for it when investing; as did many of the institutional
investors, the all important pension funds. Declaring a multiple
above twenty was now suicide for a retail bank, many banks
boasting of their low multiples in their prospectus or in newspaper
ads. But when I asked Jimmy if we had won, he said no. And the
security remained tight.
‘I may have just made things worse,’ Jimmy explained. ‘Because
when you start to feed the tiger its hard to stop. And the next “M”
Group meeting might just see America and Israel sat there, since the
rest are pissed off at what I’m doing. Chase is just about the only
happy one in the group, not the one being expelled.’
‘Bit of a … turnaround?’
‘Yeah,’ Jimmy sighed. ‘But the others are not going to do
anything stupid, so staying close to Chase might be the best policy.
If you want to swap, I’ll do Africa and you can run the “M” Group
for a while.’
‘Is the extra security necessary?’
‘There’s one bank group that has teeth; not them, but their
bedfellows. They may be an issue. Anyway, we have another serious
problem to face, and that’s the Haiti quake in January.’
‘It’s a bad one?’
‘It’ll just about flatten the entire country.’
‘Shit,’ I let out.
‘But that’s not the problem. Once again we’ll have to convince
the people to sleep outside, and the world will be watching this one.’
‘We’ll be exposed,’ I realised.
He nodded. ‘It will be hard to bluff our way through this one.
And, our own people will be suspicious.’
‘How many people are you deploying?’
‘All of them.’
‘All of them? A full deployment?’ I questioned.
‘And others.’
‘Why so many?’
‘Two reasons: first, a dry run for a larger quake, and second –
half a million casualties.’
 ‘Fucking world will be watching. When will you let the boys at
Mapley know?’
‘That … is a good question. The later we leave it, the less chance
of a leak. But … less room to get everyone in place. Given the size
of the deployment, we should have started planning a year ago.’
‘They got it down now,’ I confidently stated.
‘Should hope so after all this time.’
‘So what’ll you do?’
‘Get Christmas out of the way, then sound the alert. The rescuers
deserve their Christmas; we’ve robbed them of a few.’
‘You’ll bring in the reserves?’
‘Yes, and the Rifles to keep the peace. Plus five thousand French
soldiers - because the locals speak French, plus the US Navy.’
‘That’ll leak in five minutes flat,’ I warned. ‘So how long can we
leave it before the call-up?’
‘January 1st. That will give us just eleven days.’
We decided to call a meeting of the household “M” Group in the
lounge.
Jimmy began, ‘There’ll be a quake in Haiti in January, a very bad
quake. Because of the size of this quake – the damage done and the
size of the force I’ll send - publicity will be an issue, as will
exposure. Warn all of your governments that exposure is a
possibility. In addition to that, I’ll be requesting five thousand
French troops for a lengthy deployment, the US military to run the
airport and provide fuel, as well as to provide a hospital ship and
logistics. I’ll need C5 or C17 transports from Britain and America
from January 2nd.’
‘Why such a large deployment?’ Jack puzzled.
‘A million casualties,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Most of the country
will go.’ They were shocked. ‘Besides, this is a dry run for another
quake in the future, a more severe quake. Those of you involved –
please make the requests.’
I faxed the Haitian President and enquired if he would be visiting
Europe or American anytime soon. He’d be in New York, at the UN,
in late November, so we pencilled a meeting. Sitting with his file, I
could see that their RF unit had been created at an old airfield, two
hundred people employed, most of whom were now training in
nearby Cuba. The Rifles were still a fledgling unit, but they gave me
an idea. I increased the intake of trainees and dispatched more
instructors from Africa, French speaking Congolese instructors.
Besides that, there was little I could do to get extra bodies in places
ahead of time. More Cuban medics in Haitian clinics was one idea,
rejected when I considered what might be left of the clinics
afterwards. Now we’d wait, and worry.

Preparations

In early November I firmly nagged Jimmy, telling him that we could

wait no longer before making preparations. He reluctantly agreed,
and we drove over to Mapley, to a meeting with Bob Davies and
Doc Graham.
‘Awake, Bob?’ I asked as we entered, finding his wife with him.
‘No impropriety going on here, I hope?’
‘That was before we got married,’ she quipped on the way out.
Jimmy brought in Doc Graham.
‘Deployment on?’ Doc Graham asked as he sat, notepad ready.
‘In January,’ Jimmy began. ‘And … it’s classified top secret till I
say otherwise. I want you two to delegate whatever tasks you can,
call in whatever help you need, and free yourselves up to plan a job.
Its working title will be Operation Anaconda.’
‘So why’s it a secret?’ Bob puzzled.
Jimmy took a moment. ‘Crusty is predicting a quake in Haiti.’
‘It’s in a quake zone,’ Bob acknowledged.
‘He’s predicting the destruction of just about the whole country,
millions of casualties.’
They both eased up and stared at us for a moment.
‘How many would we send?’ Bob asked.
‘Everyone,’ Jimmy answered. ‘And if it leaked ahead of time…’
‘Panic on the streets,’ Doc Graham finished off. ‘And if he’s
wrong, or the dates are out?’
‘Then we’d move the whole force for nothing,’ I acknowledged.
‘Jesus,’ Bob let out, throwing down his pen and running his
hands through his hair.
‘We did it before,’ I pointed out. ‘In 2004.’
‘We were a tenth of the size back then!’ Bob noted.
‘We’d want thirty Hueys and a hundred jeeps,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘And between now and then I need a plan, but kept secret.’
‘Sending the jeeps by plane would be expensive, as well as that
many Huey’s,’ Doc Graham thought out loud. ‘Could pretend that
they’re off to Cuba for an exercise and send them by boat. Two
weeks sail time.’
 ‘Do it,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘They need to be in Cuba for January 6th.
The Huey’s can fly over to Haiti, the jeeps will go by ferry. I’ll
arrange that.’
‘That just leaves the warm bodies and kit,’ Bob noted. ‘What
specialists would we need?’
‘Full surgical capability and aftercare, basic search and rescue,
plus dogs.’
‘We put a dent in the budget in September,’ Bob cautioned.
‘There’s plenty in the Mawlini account, more coming soon,’
Jimmy responded. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Moving everyone won’t be cheap,’ Bob again cautioned. I was
starting to wonder whose bloody money it was.
‘Good job I have an airline then,’ Jimmy quipped. ‘We’ll use
some of them, especially the 747s. That’s four hundred bodies a go.
I’ll borrow some C17s and C5s as well.’ He heaved a breath. ‘So,
you’ve got an operation to plan. Label it up as an exercise in Cuba
for now.’
On the way back, Jimmy took a call from Sykes. It was not good
news. The former French President had been a bit tipsy at a cocktail
party in the South of France, and had described the “M” Group and
Jimmy in detail, to a reporter who had secretly taped it. It was aired
on primetime French television an hour earlier. My stomach turned.
Now it was a case of getting to January without exposure, let alone
beyond it.
At the house, Jimmy asked if the BBC had been on. Yes, twice!
He told Sharon to call them back and descended to the basement,
straightening his tie. He fired up the video conferencing equipment
and sat in front of the camera.
‘Anyone there? Silo to London. Come in London.’
‘Two minutes,’ came a disembodied voice as I sat off to one side,
wishing I had a time machine of my own.
They counted down.
‘Mister Silo, thank you for joining us at such short notice. Have
you heard the comments from the former French President?’
‘I got the gist of it, yes. And may I say, that since the man in
question has left office he’s been feeling less important, if not
useless. I guess these … pleasantly odd allegations are a way of him
impressing journalists.’
‘You do attend the meetings held by the world leaders.’
‘True, but I don’t attend G8 or G20, or anything with a “g” at the
front, I’m not important enough.’
‘What do you say to allegations of a global conspiracy?’
 ‘I’d say that … if there is a single group of people controlling the
planet, then they’re doing a really bad job of it, especially of fixing
the Eurovision song contest. I mean, how fixed is that? I think the
secret Illuminati are doing a bad job with Eurovision.’
‘What do you say to the claim that you control the “M” Group
meetings?’
‘I’d say that if I did control those countries we’d have peace on
this planet, tattoos would be banned on girls, and there’d be no
adverts between programmes. Do you have any other silly
questions?’
‘Thank you, Mister Silo.’
We were off air. Jimmy faced me as he stood. ‘How did I do?’
‘Is Eurovision fixed?’
‘Who … cares?’
We called an “M” Group meeting in a lounge, Michelle on the
spot. Her fellow housemates were now very formal in their
condemnation of her countryman. Unfortunately, there was little we
could do to the former French leader without arousing suspicions
further. It was a mess. After the meeting, I gave Helen a hug, and we
sat facing each other, watching the kids play with their laptops.
‘This the end?’ she asked.
‘Well, after the big deployment in January, Jimmy thinks it may
be.’
‘We’ll be prisoners then,’ she sighed.
‘The house and grounds were built for us,’ I informed her. ‘A
very pleasant prison.’
‘The press will look into my past,’ she softly suggested.
‘Sykes has been through it,’ I told her, a surprise for my wife.
‘He did?’
I nodded. ‘Jimmy had your past wiped. And that general – your
old boss, he died a while back. His daughter may suspect something,
but I doubt she knows.’
‘Best get some shopping in then,’ Helen wistfully stated.
‘That’s the attitude. You know, in the basement there’s food for
three months. There’s also a new generator in case the lights go out,
fuel for a month, they strengthened the fence and there’re more
bodies around it.’
She focused on the girls. ‘They couldn’t go to school.’
‘No,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Probably not. Anyway, this weekend,
London club, you and me.’
‘Last time?’
 ‘I should hope not. If the worst comes, we’ll blame Jimmy for
everything and plead ignorance.’ We laughed. ‘Besides, Gotham
City is quite nice these days. Then there’s Hong Kong, or the castle
in Scotland.’ I took Helen by the hand, glanced at the girls glued to
their laptops, and led her upstairs, throwing her onto the bed.
‘What’s brought this on?’ she whispered as I lifted her skirt.
‘The face of imminent danger. Always a turn on.’
The entire household “M” Group journeyed to London with us
that Friday night, everyone labelling it as The Last Supper. We
enjoyed a meal in the Chinese restaurant, the mood upbeat, the gang
resigned to the problems ahead. We ate a lot, drank and lot, and
made rude comments to other guests. It was an odd time, and an odd
mood. It was if our bank manager had asked for his money back, and
we all stood in an empty warehouse. That’s how it felt: the end of an
era.
We mingled with celebs in the VIP area, being suitably rude to
anyone who asked about the “M” Group, and Helen and I danced
close, the first time for many years; it was as if we were meeting for
the first time, all over again. A few people asked for a word,
probably about business, but I ignored them. Jimmy joined us on the
dance floor with a model, not Michelle. That either meant that he
would describe his antics to her later, or there’d be a threesome later.
Keely and his new wife took to the dance floor, Han and Jack
chatting in the computer room, Big Paul and the security patrolling
for girls daft enough to date them.
Then the music stopped, and we could hear singing. Our song.
Down in the Red Room, Katie Joe was singing, the song piped
around the club; Jimmy’s doing. I exchanged a look with him. We
were like the last two couples on the Titanic as it went down, defiant
to the end.
Helen and I quit early, making love in the shower of our room.
Bored with just lying in bed, we got dressed and headed back down
for more food. We had worked up an appetite, and giggled like
teenagers as we sat eating. It was odd, but the pressure was off now
that we had this new reality, that of being exposed to the world. We
chatted to Katie Joe and her husband later, surprised that they had
lasted the test of time. Well, at least eight years, but no kids so far.
Jimmy now stood flanked by two models, one on each arm, with no
sign of Michelle.
Helen and I slowly drank ourselves into a stupor and we were
helped to our room, collapsing on the bed clothed and falling a
sleep. Jimmy, on the other hand, had placed the models in separate
spare rooms upstairs, and was trying to set some kind of record. He
attended both in turn before returning to Michelle to tell her about it.
In the morning, we heard about damage to their room; I guess she
had limits after all. When I saw the papers I laughed, not caring too
much at all anymore: Silo beds three in a night! They even had
pictures of the models, so I guessed that Jimmy had planned it. Talk
about going out with a bang.
At 10am we found Jimmy and Michelle in the diner, uniformed
police officers sat in the corner. I wondered if they were keeping the
peace. Michelle looked a bit moody, and Jimmy displayed a bruised
eye.
‘You’d best ring the Prime Minister and apologise,’ Jimmy told
us as we sat.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You were the one having all the fun!’
‘Helen?’ Jimmy called.
‘What?’ she puzzled. ‘What did I do?’
‘Check your mobile log. You called the Prime Minister and, just
for a joke, told him that I was stoned and running down Oxford
Circus naked.’
Helen put a hand to her mouth. ‘My god!’
‘They sent police cars out to find me, apparently.’
I faced Helen. ‘I don’t remember you doing that.’
‘Me neither,’ she replied.
‘You were both very drunk,’ Michelle informed us. ‘Triple
vodkas.’
‘Did that make the papers?’ Helen asked, now concerned.
‘Not yet,’ Jimmy answered. ‘But it will. The officers behind me
asked if I ran down the street naked.’
‘Ah, fuck ‘em all,’ I said. ‘We needed to let off steam.’
‘Feeling better?’ Jimmy asked us.
‘Much better,’ I replied, Helen nodding.
‘What happened to your eye,’ I indiscreetly asked. Deliberately.
‘I hit him,’ Michelle answered.
‘Will England and France be going to war?’ I teased.
‘He said De Gaulle was an idiot,’ Michelle complained.
I stared at her, wide eyed. ‘Well, Jimmy, how … how could
you?’
Helen sniggered, now being stared at by Michelle.
The police officers finished up and stood. Approaching, one said,
‘Can we have a snap? Whilst your still in one piece, boss.’
‘Sure,’ Jimmy said as he stood. They used their phones and took
a few pictures, leaving us to our breakfast.
 At 1pm, cleaned up, we jumped into a coach and headed towards
the rear entrance of No. 10 Downing Street, not actually giving a
shit if the PM was in a mood or not. Jimmy, Helen, Jack and myself
walked through, led to a meeting room, the PM’s residence quiet.
The PM entered, sighed theatrically, and sat. ‘You made the
papers for all the wrong reasons.’
‘Smokescreen,’ Jimmy said. ‘They’re less likely to believe I’m
not just an ordinary Joe.’
‘Ordinary Joe’s don’t bed three stunners in the one evening!’ the
PM pointed out. He took a moment. ‘You think exposure is close?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy answered. ‘And, after the quake, there’ll be
questions. So you’d best prepare yourself for that all important
speech.’
‘I’ve dusted that off a few times over the years,’ the PM admitted.
‘But I’m kind of hoping that you’ll make the speech first.’
‘I’ll try to,’ Jimmy offered. ‘Naked or not.’
The PM focused on Helen. ‘I could believe it from your rude
husband, but not from you!’
‘Sorry, Prime Minister, we’d been drinking,’ Helen offered.
‘I got that from the loud background music. I had a hundred
officers trying to find Jimmy. I even woke-up Jack in his hotel
room.’
‘Well, with things like that in the papers, who’d believe the truth
about me?’ Jimmy posed.
‘Yes, well … no more smokescreens like that, please’.
‘We’ll try and be good, sir,’ I offered, less than sincerely.
‘French and Germans are mad as hell over Greece,’ the PM
informed us. ‘We’re trying to defuse it, but I think they’ll formally
accuse Greece of deception.’
‘That’s what it was,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘But where I can I’ll try
and boost the Greek economy, after the Greeks offer to tighten
things up. They’re still running a high deficit and lying about it, and
they have money in certain American banks still.’
‘Where are you with the US banks?’
‘I’ve got four on board,’ Jimmy stated.
‘When you say ... on board?’ the PM nudged, seeming worried.
‘They receive trading advice - all above board, and oil deals,’
Jimmy explained.
‘On condition…?’ the PM asked.
‘That they behave.’
‘Is four enough?’
 ‘It’s enough to make a comparison, and to show up the others.
Divide and conquer. They’re only strong if they act together, and
AIG is about to rip them a new arsehole as well for miss-selling.’
‘Is that enough?’ the PM asked, adopting a serious tone.
‘It’s a start. And quite good considering that at this point we
should be in an all-out war with the States. So, yeah, things are
better. I’d go so far as to say … things are good.’
‘Except the exposure,’ Jack put in. ‘My wife doesn’t have a clue,
and that’s not a conversation I’m looking forwards to.’
I focused on Jack. ‘You mind if I ask if you were injected?’
‘Both of us were, a few years back,’ he admitted. ‘Half strength.’
I faced Jimmy. ‘Michelle?’ He nodded. ‘Han?’ Again he nodded.
‘Best do Cookie and Sandra, I’d hate to lose them.’
The PM asked Jimmy directly about his parents.
Jimmy took a moment. ‘I buried them more than once, so it’s …
a bit odd. And I don’t want them to see the next decade. It’s … too
much for them to understand.’
‘And our girls?’ I testily put in.
‘They’ve grown up with high fences and guards, they’ll think
nothing of it,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘They’ll adapt better than anyone
else.’
‘Will Haiti be expensive?’ the PM asked.
‘We floated Pineapple, so all the revenue will go there.’
‘It will?’ I queried, snapping my head around.
Jimmy nodded. ‘It will. And more. If not, it becomes a failed
state and turns to crime.’
‘How much will you spend?’ the PM asked.
‘Well over a billion. Probably two.’
‘Expensive pastime,’ the PM noted.
‘A few years down the road, Athens will be hit, and that will cost
Europe two hundred billion. So start saving your pennies.’
‘Athens?’ the PM repeated, looking horrified. ‘A quake?’
Jimmy nodded, suddenly appearing saddened.
‘How bad?’
‘Complete and utter destruction. The city won’t be habitable for
decades afterwards.’
‘My god,’ the PM let out, straightening. ‘The cost to Europe…’
‘As I said, start saving your pennies. And not a word to anyone.
And I mean … anyone.’
EMP

That afternoon, Jimmy held an impromptu “M” Group meeting at

the old apartment, the lounge checked carefully first. I welcomed the
new Israeli representative, now known as New Dave.
Jimmy began, ‘An hour ago, the American Embassy in Kinshasa
was hit with a small EMP weapon.’
‘What?’ Keely queried.
‘An EMP weapon,’ Jimmy carefully mouthed.
‘Who … who’d have the technology?’ Keely asked, horrified.
‘I would, I organised it,’ Jimmy explained with a grin, the group
quietly shocked. ‘It was hit by a low yield device, the size of a
football, and the effects are temporary. And yes, you can tell Chase
that it was me, done as an example, a …wake-up call. OK, the
reason for this meeting is to discuss the future use of such weapons,
and to prepare for them, hence the practical lesson. Six years from
now, many of your embassies will be hit by EMP weapons. British
and American embassies will be the principal targets, but once the
technology is out there others will be hit. You must, all of you,
constantly search for anyone working on EMP technology and stop
it. You must also start to plan for detectors and counter-measures,
which I’ll help you with.
‘The house in Wales is EMP proof - it was designed that way;
lead lining and copper coils help to disperse and disrupt an EMP
wave, as well as EMP high frequency weapons. The US Embassy in
Kinshasa was hit by a high frequency weapon, the device simply
switched on and then off. It was not a pulse, and frequency weapons
are not as destructive. A frequency weapon prevents use of
electronics, but a pulse would fry them.
‘Beyond 2015, students will build EMP weapons in their garages
and use them in places like New York, causing great damage. Such
weapons need time to charge, and give off characteristic energy
waves first, so early warnings can be given. You can run wires down
buildings and embassies, and switch on a high frequency current that
causes a strong magnetic effect when needed, disrupting the pulse. If
not stopped, then in 2015 a group of student activists will wipe out
the New York Stock Exchange and a whole city block. That brings
us … to the dangerous part.’
‘That attack isn’t dangerous?’ Keely loudly questioned.
 ‘No, that can be planned for. In the future, a device the size of
mobile phone could be taken aboard an aircraft and used to fry the
controls in flight.’
‘Jesus,’ I let out.
‘A larger version of that same technology could be fired at an
aircraft in flight from three thousand feet below, frying the controls.
Aircraft can still land, more or less, but most will crash. In the
decades ahead, civil aircraft electronics will need to be built to
military specs, to resist EMPs. I’ll be providing you all with detailed
files. And, if my requests are not heeded, I’ll start frying your
embassies just for fun. That won’t hurt anyone, and landline phones
may still work – although certain handsets will pack up. You’ll just
need to replace all other bits of electronics, and computers.’
Keely asked. ‘Could a foreign power use it for economic
warfare?’
‘Most definitely,’ Jimmy affirmed, nodding. ‘A device could
wipe out a bank. The first detectors will be available within months,
made in China under license. In six months I’ll be running tests on
British embassies in Africa – removing people with pacemakers
first!’
‘Will anyone ever develop a battlefield version?’ Keely asked.
‘Yes, you will. And, in 2025, they may be put to good use to deny
the enemy the use if its communications – a most effective tool.’ He
pointed at New Dave. ‘You, will feel the effects first as Palestinians
realise that it’s an effective weapon. Fired at a jeep, the jeep stops.
Tanks are protected to a degree, but Apache helicopters are
vulnerable. Don’t believe everything the manufacturer says!’
‘Will our banks be attacked?’ New Dave asked.
‘Not really, since it would require a device the size of a car or van
moved into place first, and then wired to the mains electricity. No,
your jeeps and helicopters will be the targets, plus infantry; your
soldier’s radios will stop working. That, and your embassies will be
hit after 2015.’
‘It’s a lot of effort, on the part of the terrorists, for no loss of
life?’ New Dave posed.
‘It’s a weapon that can be used over and over, costing you money
to tow away jeeps and repair them. And the Palestinians will bring
down helicopters, a great victory for their propaganda machine. And
if they did manage to hit the business district in Tel Aviv, a great
cost to you. Hitting your embassies is more of an annoyance, but it
still costs a great deal to replace all the communications equipment.
Since there’s no sound, or evidence left behind, it’s easy enough to
avoid getting caught. I’ll fly a prototype to Israel and fire it at a few
things, see how you cope. If you’re confident, sit in the helicopter
and I’ll fire up at you.’
People smiled at New Dave, who declined to participate in the
live test.
We enjoyed a Saturday night at the club, Jimmy popular with the
kind of men who wished to emulate his wayward lifestyle, and
Helen and I again let our hair down. Travelling back on the coach,
on Sunday afternoon, the mood was positive. Cat handed us back the
girls, who explained what they had done without their controlling
parents around, which included bringing the new hamsters into the
house for a visit. And a rabbit. And a tame owl. Helen and I
exchanged looks. Where the hell did the owl come from? Fearing an
invasion of things furry and smelly, I went straight out later that day
and bought a kitten, the girls delighted by it, but also distracted from
other creatures, crawling walking or flying.

Having kittens

A few days later, Jimmy popped around to my house in the evening.

Helen handed him a bottle of beer as he sat on the sofa.
‘The Haitian President should be as cooperative as we need, he
has nothing to lose,’ Jimmy began with.
‘But…?’ I posed.
Jimmy sipped his beer. ‘But, population control will be at the
front of his mind; mass panic, looting and crime. People will empty
their bank accounts – those that have them – and piss off abroad.’
‘Which won’t be good for business,’ I noted.
‘It won’t make that much of a difference given what will happen,
but he’ll want it managed well.’
‘How do you manage well a disaster like that?’ Helen scoffed.
‘You don’t, but it’s his country, so we have to gloss it up a bit,’
Jimmy replied, seeming tired for a change.
The kitten ran out, chasing nothing in particular, and inspected
the three of us as we sat there. It decided that Jimmy looked more
comfortable and jumped up, sniffing the newcomer. Jimmy lifted it
onto his lap, the kitten settling almost immediately. Lucy bound in,
looking for it, plonking down next to Jimmy.
 ‘Have you been feeding the owl?’ Jimmy asked our daughter.
‘Yes.’
‘So tell mummy and daddy what you feed it.’
‘Dead mice.’
‘Dead mice?’ I repeated.
‘Rob catches them with the dogs, keeps them for the owl,’ Jimmy
explained. ‘Sometimes rats from the river.’
‘Lucy, darling,’ I loudly called. ‘You wash your hands after
feeding the owl, OK.’
She ignored me and stroked the contented kitten.
Jimmy lowered his head towards her. ‘What do you want to be
when you grow up?’
‘A vet,’ she came back with straight away, Helen and I
exchanging looks. This was news to us.
‘And what is Uncle Jimmy building you at the top end?’ Jimmy
asked.
‘A paddock.’
‘A paddock?’ Helen repeated. ‘You’ve bought them a pony?’
‘No, they’re your kids, you can buy them one,’ Jimmy quipped.
‘Shelly’s friends all ride, and you can’t leave her out.’
‘I could teach them,’ Helen put in.
‘You can?’ I asked.
‘Junior champion,’ she informed me. ‘About time I got back into
the saddle.’
‘Jimmy rides,’ I pointed out.
‘You do?’ Helen asked Jimmy.
‘Have done for years, although not for a while – if that makes
sense. I rode across Canada a lot, slept under the stars. Proper
horsemanship.’
‘Well, when we get back from New York we can go horse
hunting,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Ponies, not horses,’ my wife corrected me.
‘Gwen has a few for sale,’ Jimmy informed us. He handed the
kitten to Lucy and stood. ‘Have a think about a strategy for the
Haitian President.’ He wistfully added, ‘Some cash in his back
pocket might do it.’
We landed in New York two days later, security tight, a private
security firm hired instead of the men that Pineapple used to supply
us with. But Chase had a surprise, and had arranged an FBI escort as
well. I was feeling popular and wanted, not! After an evening in my
apartment, the other now back under the ownership of Pineapple, we
journeyed down to the UN building, to a meeting with the Haitian
President. It was never going to be easy, I considered on the way.
Jimmy already knew the way through the UN building and, once
through security – flashing our own UN Ambassador identity badges
– we found the Haitian delegation. They made us coffee from a tall
plastic urn on a trolley. Well, it was the UN building.
‘How goes the Rescue Force unit?’ they asked through an
interpreter.
‘Fine,’ I said as we sat. ‘Two hundred medics being trained in
Cuba.’
‘And many young soldiers being trained?’ they asked.
I nodded as I stirred my coffee. ‘Yes, that’s progressing well, but
we’re here to discuss a … problem.’
Jimmy offered no comment and let me take the lead.
I took a breath. ‘We have computer software that predicts
earthquakes, and an expert in such matters.’ The interpreter did his
bit, and the Haitians were on the ball. They stopped smiling. ‘We’ve
had great success with earthquake predictions, and we’re now
predicting an earthquake in your country.’
‘When?’ they asked, a logical question.
‘In January, the first or second week,’ I replied.
‘You will send your people?’ they keenly asked, obviously
desiring our assistance.
‘Yes, we would like to. But there is a question of people
panicking.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the President acknowledged. ‘There may be
unrest.’
‘And some may wish to leave, to go abroad,’ I ventured. ‘So
maybe it is best kept quiet for now.’
‘Yes, but we must make plans.’
‘We … are making plans. We will coordinate all UN agencies, all
supplies, and all of the rescuers. We could also offer you soldiers
from Africa, the famous Rifles that you already see training your
men. They could be under your control to … keep the peace.’
‘Yes,’ they agreed. This was going well enough.
‘And afterwards, we would help to pay for reconstruction,’ I
offered. That cheered them.
‘How much?’ they asked, straight to the point.
‘Around two billion dollars,’ I said, and I should not have.
They stared at me as if I had grown a second head, and I realised
that I should not have said it.
 ‘That is a lot of money,’ they noted. ‘What damage do you
expect?’
I glanced at Jimmy. He said, ‘Earthquakes are hard to predict, so
we always allow for the worst, and hope for the best.’
‘Yes, good. So, what damage do you expect?’ They waited.
I said, ‘If the quake is as bad as we think it will be, then much
damage.’
They all shrugged. ‘What is … much damage?’ they pressed.
I glanced at Jimmy again. ‘We don’t know,’ I lied.
‘You must have an idea, or you would not have earmarked two
billion dollars. It is a lot of money for a little damage!’
Jimmy eased forwards. ‘If the quake is as bad as we think, then
not a single building will be left standing afterwards.’
They digested that, eyes widening and mouths opening.
Jimmy added, ‘If our man is correct, then your country will cease
to exist and have to be rebuilt from scratch.’
This was just the approach we had hoped to avoid, and I had to
wonder why our presentation skills were so lacking. Our hosts
glanced at each other, nothing said for many seconds.
‘And if you are wrong?’ the President complained.
‘You still get the two billion dollars from us,’ Jimmy answered
him. That seemed to appease the man, as well as shock him upright.
‘So … what do you wish to do?’ the President finally asked with
a large shrug. ‘We should ask for UN aid to be ready.’
Jimmy said, ‘The UN will not act until after a quake has caused
damage, but we would like to move before the quake strikes. We can
have tents, food and medics in place - away from the cities to avoid
panic, and could make use of them when the quake strikes. We’ll
also supply some money up front to assist with preparations, but we
should try not to panic the people.’
‘They will panic when the buildings collapse!’ they pointed out,
and they were right. They were being more practical than I figured.
‘We could warn them to sleep outdoors, or in the tents for a few
nights,’ I suggested. ‘Fewer people would be hurt.’
They glanced at each other and shrugged their agreements. ‘Yes,
maybe.’
‘How many people would you send?’ the President asked.
I countered with, ‘How many would you like? I mean, the more
people, the quicker we can repair buildings.’ I was happy with the
question after I asked it.
‘Send as many as you can,’ the President suggested.
 ‘We’ll group our people in Cuba, at the training base,’ I
suggested. ‘Then fly over or come by boat when ready.’
‘Oh, OK,’ they acknowledged.
‘We would land our people around the 3rd of January onwards,’ I
told them. ‘We expect the quake around the 12th, give or take a few
days. Before then, we should try and keep it quiet.’
‘But you will be making plans?’
‘Yes, we’re busy making plans now,’ I confirmed.
‘And you can move many people in a week?’ they asked.
‘Yes, we can move many people,’ I confidently stated, putting on
my diplomatic smile. ‘We would send people to help at the airport,
to help with logistics. Everything will be ready and in place.’
‘And what assistance will you give us after the quake?’ they just
about demanded.
Cheeky buggers, was what I wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘We will
provide long term care and reconstruction assistance. Many years of
assistance.’
That seemed to appease them, and I had to wonder why the fuck
we were even talking to them. I handed them a document that
expanded upon the standard Rescue Force Charter and allowed us to
land as many people as we thought suitable. They signed and handed
it back, and I handed over a banker’s draft for fifty million dollars,
although my hand didn’t want to let go of it. We left after forced
diplomatic smiles were exchanged, and promised to keep them
informed of developments.
On the way out, I said, ‘Did we just try and persuade them, and
bribe them, so that we can help them for years to come?’
‘We did.’
‘I’m sure there’s something wrong with that, somehow.’
‘It’s an imperfect universe. Still, if he’s a problem he’ll disappear
the night of the quake.’
‘How many Rifles will you land?’
‘Enough to take the whole of the Caribbean. And by time he
figures that out, he’ll have a rifle up his nose and the world’s press
watching him.’
‘You know, you’re becoming more of a diplomat in your old
age.’
‘Next comes a TV interview, after a hospital visit,’ Jimmy
explained.
‘Hospital?’ I queried.
‘Publicity time comes ahead of exposure time; we need the
people to like us. So make like an electioneering politician.’
 ‘Should have brought the girls,’ I grumbled.
An hour later we entered a public hospital, TV crews tipped off,
and headed towards a pre-arranged visit to a cancer ward. The chief
physician met us with his assistant and we fell into step as they led
us on.
‘Haven’t put you out of a job, have we?’ I asked as we walked
down a corridor.
‘Not yet, but the workload is lessening. Events of the past six
months have been extraordinary. Now, Chemotherapy seems
outdated and barbaric, but that’s medicine. We used to bleed people
and use leeches.’
‘Still do in the UK, mate,’ I quipped.
He led us to a ward, but these American wards were not like the
UK; here, everyone had a room. In the UK and Europe, twenty
same-sex patients would be attended in the one long room. This
place reminded me of the UK’s private hospitals, and I’d only ever
been in them briefly during the birth of the girls. Our guide now led
us to a forty-year-old man that appeared too well to be in the bed he
occupied, the TV crew trailing behind.
‘How you doing, mate?’ I asked.
‘I go home in an hour,’ he said with a smile.
‘What was wrong with you?’ I asked.
‘Pancreatic cancer. I was diagnosed two months ago.’
‘Two months in bed?’ I puzzled.
‘No, I had a bank of tests first, went through the motions, then
insisted that they try your drug. I was injected last week.’
‘So what’s the prognosis?’
‘No signs left, none at all,’ the man keenly informed us. ‘Wife
picks me up in a while.’ He let his legs down and stood next to us,
the four of us now facing the camera, and making like electioneering
politicians.
‘You do realise,’ I whispered, talking out of the side of my
mouth. ‘That your wife won’t be here in an hour. She collected the
insurance on you and left with a nice young doctor!’
The man laughed. ‘She only collects if I’m dead.’ He opened a
cabinet, pulling out a large photograph of what he used to look like.
‘That was you?’ I asked, holding the picture.
‘I put on twenty pounds in a week.’
‘That’s not a good thing!’ I warned.
‘They’re throwing a “welcome back” party if you guys are
available.’
I faced Jimmy.
 ‘What kind of food?’ he asked the patient.
‘Italian!’
‘Then we could eat,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘We’ll be back in a bit.’
The doctor led us out of the room, and to another waiting patient,
a man in his thirties that also looked very well. This guy, however,
had his wife and kids at his bedside. I focused on the younger
daughter, about the same age as Shelly, and not dissimilar in
appearance. I lost my smile, and had to look away from her.
‘So, what were you diagnosed with?’ I flatly asked.
‘Prostate cancer, but aggressive. I … was terminal.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I could run around the park with the girls,’ he joked, and I
was not enjoying this; his family looked too much like my own. And
the look on the girl’s faces hit me right in the heart. I wasn’t afraid
of death, but I was terrified of leaving my girls without their father,
an odd skew on my mortality.
Jimmy asked the girls what they wanted to be when they grew up.
One wanted to be a doctor, a good answer for the camera, and the
other wanted to be a lawyer. That kind of balanced things out. We
made small talk, posing for both the TV crew, and a growing army
of hospital staff with cameras. In the corridor, I asked the doctor if
we were making medics redundant.
‘Take a look at that family. Who’d put their job ahead of that.’
I glanced over my shoulder as we moved off. Most of the time I
was insulated from the real world; that happened on the TV news.
This was all a bit too real, and awkward. I didn’t quite know why I
felt so out of place, I should have been happy with what we had
achieved. We met additional patients, stopping to talk with the staff
as we progressed, finally ending up in a room with the latest Silo
Stiffy, two doctors stood ready beside it.
I closed in and touched a scar on the make-believe skin. ‘It had its
appendix out?’
‘Dozens of times.’
‘Does it degrade?’
‘No, we have a man that repairs it good as new,’ they explained,
laughing. ‘That guy could take out an appendix better than us!’
‘What do you use it for?’ I asked.
‘Junior doctors, and nurses’ annual tests. This is not a teaching
hospital – not really, so everyone should be competent enough in
their various fields. But it all helps. Even some of the senior staff
come down and use it for fun; they give each other scenarios, a few
dollars or a beer on the result.’
 ‘So what does this one do?’ I asked.
‘This model handles a punctured lung better - very realistic. And
the temperature control is better. This thing is warmer than my
wife!’ We laughed.
I pointed at it. ‘If it gets any more realistic, they sell them in sex
shops.’
‘That’s no joke. A doctor was fired for being … too friendly with
one,’ they explained.
I faced Jimmy. ‘Maybe we should modify it.’
‘Can’t do that without removing the Obstetric benefits,’ Jimmy
explained. ‘There’s a version that delivers a baby.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ one of the doctors put in. ‘It has a foetal heartbeat.
Surgeons can practise a “C” Section.’
‘Yeah, well listen guys - we’re not trying to do you out of a job,’
I tried to explain.
‘You won’t, because someone will always have to inject the old
ladies with the super-drug,’ they joked. ‘Down in Florida its a
thousand dollars or more a shot.’
I shook my head.
‘Rumour has it there’s a stronger version, and a much stronger
version,’ they nudged, closing in.
‘It has side effects,’ Jimmy told them. ‘Including insatiable
appetite, chronic weight gain, and insomnia. So forget it for now.’
Glad to be away from the dummy, I followed Jimmy back to the
first patient we had met, the man now dressed and ready. He handed
us the relevant address, and we arranged to meet at the restaurant -
complete with our sizeable security detail. We hopped into our vans.
Fortunately, the establishment in question was big enough for us
all, many people already in attendance. Jimmy placed our security
detail on a table by the door, a few men posted outside. And then we
became family, Italian family, hugs and kisses aplenty, thanks from
everyone – filmed all the while by the stalking TV crew. Jimmy
lifted a young girl up, closing in on her parents, as I was handed a
beer by a group of well-built men.
‘What do you lot do for a living?’
‘Fireman, next door.’
‘Next door? That’s handy. You come here for food after shift?’
They nodded. ‘Rick is one of ours.’ They pointed at the man who
had invited us.
‘What’s his job?’
‘Driver mostly, but we train to do all the jobs.’
‘Over here, ambulances are run by the firemen - yes?’ I queried.
 ‘In most places, yeah, but not always in the big cities.’
‘In England, ambulance drivers and firemen are quite different
jobs,’ I explained as background music started. ‘We have people
who are drivers and basic medics, or paramedic trained.’
‘When are you opening Rescue Force here? We keep asking
around.’
‘Difficult over here: the law, the cost - and getting sued. In
Africa, we have top quality western doctors working for thirty
thousand dollars a year, and no chance of suing us.’ I shrugged a
shoulder. ‘It’s a calling, not a job.’
‘Do they get their food and accommodation thrown in?’
I nodded. ‘Good accommodation, and travel tickets for holidays.
Plus they can go on safari when they want, or visit the beach hotels.
And our medics … we teach them to fly Hueys. After a year in the
job they don’t want to leave; we have a very low turnover rate.’
‘They all very fit?’
I lifted my eyebrows and nodded. ‘Long walks in the desert heat,
jungle survival training, the works. And we put them across assault
courses.’
‘What about the ladies?’ they keenly asked.
‘There are more women than men at the bases, free beer, disco on
a Friday and Saturday. If you’re interested, apply online. In England,
firemen can do a year with us on their old wages, their jobs held
open for them.’
‘Shit…’
I was led to a table, starters placed down, soon surrounded by
eight people all trying to talk at once, a little bewildered by it all. At
least the food was good, and the beer plentiful. An hour later, the
firemen were keen to show off their ladder, which I later figured out
was their station, and not just a really nice ladder for climbing up
things. They led Jimmy and myself next door to meet the night crew,
the cancer patient being greeted warmly by his colleagues. I guessed
he’d be back in work soon.
We wound them up about having to work, and told them how
good the beers next door were, soon drifting back towards the open
doors of the station. But that was when fate took over, and time
started to slow down. I remember the smiling faces, the TV crew on
the street, our security guys stood on the pavement. Jimmy was
stood two steps ahead of me, and chatting to the cancer patient. On
the pavement, a shout was issued by one of our security staff.
I was still smiling, my senses deadened by the beer.
 Turning my head to the right, I saw a man with a gun, and a
sudden movement in front of me. What happened next caused me to
reach out with a hand, a subconscious reaction.
Jimmy took the cancer patient by the shoulders and pulled him in,
and to Jimmy’s left, Jimmy turning his back to the gunmen – and
putting his big frame in the way.
Three flashes, three modest cracks, and three rounds hit Jimmy in
the back. The security men fired back, the attacker falling
backwards. People, and time, seemed to freeze. Jimmy turned his
head towards me, and I remember the look. He looked … at peace.
He looked me in the eye, and his eyes said: it’s OK. Then he smiled,
dropping to his knees a second later.
I started forwards, soon grabbed by three of the security men and
pushed firmly back into the station as screams went up. Shouts. It
was a blur for a while. And all I could see was the girl’s face, the
girl in the hospital wondering if she’d have her father around.
They led me inside, the fireman now helping me as if I was a
victim. And I wondered if Jimmy was gone. I wondered … was it
just me now, and I felt desperately alone. He said this day may
come, and now it was here. I was now point man for the entire
fucking planet, but I just wanted to be sick.
A few minutes later I could hear sirens, lots of sirens, and now I
was more annoyed than afraid. ‘I need to go with him!’ I shouted at
the wall of men protecting me. I moved through the firemen and
found the security detail, the men now blanketing me as they led me
toward a van. I had wanted to ride in the ambulance, but they said
no. Now in a van, we followed the ambulance. I lifted my phone and
dialled home, getting Ricky, on duty in the basement camera room.
‘Ricky, Jimmy’s been shot, let everyone know.’ I redialled, and
woke Helen. ‘I’m OK, don’t panic - but Jimmy’s been shot.’
‘Shot? Badly wounded?’
‘I don’t know, he may be dead. I’ll call you when I can.’
The trip to the hospital, the waiting room, the fussing doctors - it
was all a blur. Then the entire New York police department turned
up, surrounding the hospital and putting men in each corner inside
the hospital. I had never seen so many uniforms.
Reports came out to me: Silo in surgical prep’, Silo on his way to
surgery, Silo in surgery. It was a full hour, and numerous dreadful
coffees, before the head surgeon came out to see me. And now a
police chief, New York FBI director, and a few other faces were
present.
The man in blue operating robes said, ‘He was built to last.’
 ‘What?’ I puzzled.
‘Three rounds hit him in the back, severed two arteries, punctured
both lungs. He should be dead, but his body seems to have … well,
closed up the holes. His ruptured arteries closed, saving blood loss.’
‘We’ll need to move him to a military hospital,’ the FBI guy said,
the doctor puzzling that.
‘I’ll decide where the fuck he goes!’ I barked at the man. Facing
the doctor, I asked, ‘How long till he’s well enough to be moved?’
‘A week or two! He was shot three times.’ He walked off.
The New York FBI director obviously knew the security risks of
Jimmy being here. ‘We could bring in a doctor that’s in the loop,’ he
offered.
I gave it some thought, and nodded; Jimmy’s physiology would
cause questions. And as I stood there, I considered that there were
probably things about his physiology that even I didn’t know about.
My phone went, Hardon Chase. Looking at the phone, I could see
a dozen missed calls, but didn’t remember the phone ringing.
‘Mister President.’
‘Paul, are you OK?’
‘Not hurt, if that’s what you mean. And Jimmy is making the
medics scratch their heads.’
‘How is he?’
‘Healing far too quickly. Your FBI guy is fetching one of your
doctors.’
‘That’s probably a good idea. Any word on the shooter?’
‘You tell me, I’ve no idea.’
‘I’ll call you back when I have a report. Are you staying there?’
‘Yes.’
He hung up, and I asked for the senior hospital administrator.
When the man came out, I said, ‘I realise that this is not a hotel, but I
want to be in Jimmy’s room, or next door.’
‘For you, no problem.’ That was a nice reaction for a change. He
led me through the corridors, two of my security men sticking close
by. They were hardly needed, there was a police officer positioned
every five yards. I waited in a room upstairs for twenty minutes,
finally seeing Jimmy wheeled past. He had no tubes down his throat,
which I considered was a good sign, just a drip in his arm. I
followed. They pushed the wheeled surgical stretcher he was on
against a bed, lifting him over – six of them struggling with the
weight, and wired him to a dozen machines.
A doctor was worried. ‘His breathing is still low, so too his
pulse.’
 ‘That’s normal,’ I quickly put in. ‘He’s always been like that.
Born like it.’ That earned me odd looks.
They spent five minutes checking everything before leaving a
nurse in a chair. I took the second chair. When the administrator
appeared, I explained that the chair was enough, and that a private
doctor would arrive. He wasn’t sure if he liked that, but sloped off as
I settled to the reassuring rhythmical sounds of the monitors.
Going back through the missed calls, I called back each person in
turn, giving an update. At midnight, Jimmy opened his eyes and
turned his head. To the nurse he said, ‘Could I trouble you for a
drink?’
She jumped up, startled, and fetched a doctor. The young doctor
stepped back in, soon joined by an FBI doctor, a grey haired and
stony faced individual straight out of the X-Files. I would not have
left my girls alone with him. The FBI medic was in his late fifties,
and left the young doctor in no doubt as to who was in charge. He
dismissed the young doctor and closed the door behind him. We
now both closed in on Jimmy, a drink poured.
The doctor said to Jimmy, ‘You probably know more about your
own physiology than I do. Anything you need?’
Jimmy sipped the water. ‘Blender, milk, tinned ham, tuna.’
‘How quickly will you recover?’ the man probed.
‘Quick enough … to cause a few questions.’
‘We’ll move you tomorrow,’ the doctor suggested, standing back.
‘That was a daft thing to do,’ I told Jimmy.
‘Was it?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Do we measure a life in a moment, or by
a lifetime of moments averaged out?’
‘Huh?’ I exchanged a look with the doctor. Facing Jimmy, I
asked, ‘Did you recognise the shooter?’
‘No.’
‘Any clues?’
‘Again … no.’
‘Well, half the fucking New York cops are downstairs,’ I told
him. ‘And I see a problem.’
‘Just the one?’ Jimmy toyed.
‘Your scars will go, but people will know that you were shot. So
next time you’re on the beach with a model, people will notice the
lack of scaring.’ Only now did I realise that they had cracked open
his chest, a large white pad fixed down his chest and partly covered
by a blue blanket.
‘It’s a good point,’ the doctor agreed from across the room.
‘You’ll have to stick to Michelle,’ I risked.
 Jimmy gave me a look, an eyebrow cocked. ‘I’ll keep my t-shirt
on. Besides, January will be … interesting enough by itself.’
The doctor turned to me for an explanation.
‘There’ll be major quake in Haiti. We’re going to have their
entire population outdoors on the night in question.’
The man lifted his eyebrows. ‘That could arouse suspicion
alright.’ After a moment, he said, ‘You know we’ve started to inject
all Special Forces soldiers with the blood product?’
I gave it some thought. ‘We can hide the truth behind the super-
drug.’
‘That is turning out to be a good smokescreen,’ the man agreed.
‘So, tell me,’ I asked, folding my arms. ‘There really an X-Files?’
He gave me a look. ‘I’ll go work a blender. If I can find one!’
With the medic gone, I faced Jimmy. ‘Containment will be hard.’
‘Maybe not. I’ll tell the waiting press that I heal well because of a
concentrate of the super-drug.’
‘Every fucker will want it then!’
‘Those that can afford it. We’ll sell it, starting at five million a
pop, all donated to Rescue Force. That way, we make some money
from the smokescreen.’
‘Will that risk the blood getting out there?’ I cautioned.
‘The rich recipients are not about to inject other people, and
they’d not think to do it. Besides, five years from now it’ll be out
there.’
‘That Arab prince will be pissed!’
‘I never promised him an exclusive deal, and he offered the sum
– I didn’t set the price. So fuck him.’
‘How long till you’re up and about?’
‘I could walk now, but I’ll be a good boy for a day or so. Besides,
there may be a few nice nurses to give me a bed bath.’
I took a moment. ‘I thought I lost you back there. Thought for a
while it would be me running things.’
‘If I’m killed you’ll receive detailed files after thirty days. After
that … who knows what you do.’
‘It’s not something I’m looking forward to,’ I admitted.
‘I have confidence in you.’
The doctor returned later, with the horrendous milkshake, and
Jimmy downed most of it before trying to catch some sleep. At
dawn, I woke in the chair, finding Jimmy stood dressed, the FBI
medic asleep in the other chair. Jimmy had his jacket on with no
shirt underneath – white pads visible, his shirt obviously
bloodstained and ruined. He eased off his jacket as I stood, and
poked his fingers through the three holes.
‘Waste of a good jacket,’ he commented.
The FBI guy stirred, and eased up. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
‘When you’re ready, arrange the move. I’ll play nice and sit in a
wheelchair. But instead of skulking around, I’ll make a statement
downstairs. And see if you can’t get me a shirt.’
The FBI director, the same man from the night before, knocked
and stepped in, surprised to see Jimmy stood. ‘Should you be up and
about?’
‘I’m fine. Any word on the shooter?’
‘Claude De Bouche, Belgian, former French Foreign legion. He
was in a hotel room, suitcase full of cash. We’re tracing back his
calls now, which were mostly to Belgium.’
Jimmy faced me, a look exchanged. ‘Thank you. Let me know
what you come up with.’
With the FBI gone, I asked, ‘You know who was behind it?’
‘Kind of glad they made this attempt. Well, glad they failed. It
confirms who was behind the lady at our nuclear plant in Somalia.
But … let’s not discuss it here.’ He held a finger to his lips.
Half an hour later, and feeling hungry enough even to try that god
awful milkshake, I pushed Jimmy out of his room in a wheelchair,
the attending physicians on the ward surprised to say the least. The
police fell into step and we took the lift down, the main reception
busy, the ambulance bay packed with TV crews. A snowstorm of
camera flashes began, a thousand questions asked at the same time
once the sliding doors had opened. Cold fresh air enveloped us.
Jimmy waited a few seconds. ‘If you quieten down I’ll make a
statement.’ He waited. ‘Last night, we were invited to a meal by a
fireman recovering from cancer. He had been treated with our super-
drug, and wished to express his thanks. On the pavement outside of
the restaurant, a Belgian man shot me three times, and it was me he
was aiming at – not the fireman or anyone else.
‘Now, some of you may be wondering why I’m looking as well
as I do, given that I was shot three times and underwent major
surgery. The answer is simple: there exists a concentrated form of
the super-drug, which not only has amazing powers of recuperation,
it also halts the ageing process. I, and others, have been injected with
that drug, and it appears to be perfectly safe. But, at the moment, it’s
expensive to produce. Having said that, we will be offering a trial of
it in the New Year for those that can afford it. They would be
injected at their own risk, and all proceeds would go to Rescue
Force. Now, I have some healing to do, but I will be making a
further statement in two day’s time.’
I pushed him towards the funnel of blue uniforms as the questions
started up again, soon in a convoy of vans and heading out of New
York and to the nominated military hospital. I wasn’t sure if the
security here would be any better, given our track record with the
CIA. They allocated Jimmy a nice room, offering me one next-door,
en suite shower to boot. We ordered up enough food for four hungry
patients, and sat eating as several military medics asked questions of
the recovery process. They took pulse and blood pressure readings,
and examined rapidly healing scars, front and back. Digesting the
huge meal, I lay on my bed and closed my eyes for two hours.
I found Jimmy asleep when I checked in on him later, so watched
the TV or answered calls. The news was still full of it, but they
seemed more interested in the super-super-drug than the shooting.
At this point I figured we should give it a name, and made a note to
ask Jimmy when he woke. ‘Super-super-drug’ sounded naff.
‘Manson,’ he replied when awake.
‘The Manson drug,’ I thought out loud. ‘That was the place in
Canada…’
‘That’s where they developed it, experimenting on people in a
very unethical manner. But, after World War Three, no one gave a
shit.’
‘That’s another paradox,’ I realised. ‘Because people are now
getting the benefit, but no war.’
‘Yep. Any nice nurses?’
‘Not so far.’
Jimmy eased up, took off his shirt and pulled off the white pads
affixed to his skin. ‘How’d they look?’
‘Red and blotchy, but healed up. Will the marks go?’
He nodded. ‘Might just be a ridge or two.’
Our allotted doctor knocked and stepped in, closing in quickly to
view Jimmy’s chest. ‘Jesus.’ He ran his hand over the long vertical
scar. ‘And the internal damage?’
‘The bones heal quickly, but end up thicker by about ten percent.
Rest of the flesh will be fine. And the reason that I’m still alive is
that my arteries were altered to be more elastic. For most people that
would be a problem, but I also have a greater concentration of red
blood cells and my blood carries additional nutrients to compensate.
When my arteries are cut they close.’
‘I’m on the research team looking at your blood, and we’re still
puzzling the damn stuff that’s in there.’
 ‘You’ll get there,’ Jimmy encouraged.
‘We just found what appears to be a protein compound common
to algae.’
‘Must be a mistake,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘Anything you need?’ the doctor asked.
‘I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow. After that, a little physiotherapy,
some nice lady masseurs, and it’ll be fine.’
‘You’ve been shot before,’ the doctor stated.
‘Many times,’ Jimmy answered, putting his shirt back on.
‘May I ask, why you grabbed that fireman?’ the doctor delicately
broached.
‘The truth? Because I don’t value my own life that much,’ Jimmy
replied as he buttoned up.
The doctor glanced at me. ‘Given what’s at stake, is such an
attitude … wise?’
I closed in on the man. ‘Given that your own fucking CIA try and
kill us on a regular basis … is that fucking wise!’
‘Don’t tarnish us all with that brush,’ the doctor insisted.
Jimmy told him, ‘There’s a story, a long story, that you don’t
know yet. You’d need to know it all to understand my … attitude,
and maybe someday that story will be out there. Now, if you have a
few sick people that may benefit from my cheery disposition, then
why don’t you introduce me.’
We made like electioneering politicians, and did the rounds with
the doctor, stopping to chat to many servicemen, most suffering
from more regular diseases than the trauma of warfare, or day to day
military training. In one room we found an admiral with advanced
cancer.
‘You had the super-drug?’ I asked the man.
‘It’s too late,’ the doctor replied.
‘Get a needle,’ Jimmy told the doctor, easing off his jacket.
‘I’d need authorisation,’ the doctor stumbled with.
‘The prognosis is not good, so fuck the authorisation,’ Jimmy
insisted.
The doctor closed the door after checking the corridor, and
fetched a needle and syringe from a drawer.
‘Three of those,’ Jimmy suggested, pointing at the small volume
the syringe offered. A rubber tourniquet was wrapped around his
bicep, the admiral now staring up at us and looking bewildered.
When done, Jimmy told the admiral, ‘If it’s not too late, then you’ll
be up and about after five days. Eat a lot of protein.’
 Out of the room, we continued our rounds, four additional
terminal patients injected. Hell, what did they have to lose? Back in
Jimmy’s room I fielded a dozen calls from various world leaders
before we sat down and watched the news together, flicking the
channels.
The following morning they brought us fresh shirts, our old shirts
binned. A group of doctors stood and marvelled at the scars on
Jimmy’s chest, or lack of them. We thanked them and signed out,
vans taking us back around to the apartment. It was as we left it, and
we packed our bags, fresh flights booked. In the First Class nose
section of the 747, for the flight back to London, we were an oddity
as normal, finding a few of our singers and a scattering of celebs.
Helen and the girls met us in the coach, it was a Saturday, and we
caught up on what the girls had been up to.
Driving past Mapley on the M4 motorway, Jimmy lifted his
phone. ‘Bob, Jimmy.’
‘You OK?’
‘Fine, stop fussing. Listen, cancel all training exercises for
January and February, cancel all leave, but give extra holidays over
Christmas. May as well cancel all exercises from now on, that way
we’ll have no injured people for January. How’s Anaconda?’
‘Coming along, I think we got the logistics covered. Be a hell of
an operation, though. And with these changes to normal operations
you want … people will be suspicious.’
‘Don’t care, I want everyone available for January.’ He hung up.
Five minutes later Rudd called me from Nairobi. ‘Paul, how’s
Jimmy?’
‘Fine, we’re heading home now. What’s up?’
‘There have been thousands of small donations to Rescue Force,
totalling some thirty million dollars, and two large donations of a
hundred million dollars each – anonymous.’
‘Put it all in the general Rescue Force fund ready for January.’
‘January?’
‘There’ll be an earthquake, but keep it quiet.’ I hung up and faced
Jimmy. ‘Have you put some money in Rudd’s account?’
‘I sold some old shares.’
‘Individual donations are up.’
‘Good. Have to get shot more often.’
Back at my house, I noticed that the kitten had changed colour. I
stood with my hands in my pockets, staring at it. Then I pointed.
‘Did you dye the kitten?’
 ‘They have one each now,’ Helen explained. ‘Save fighting over
just the one.’
‘Oh.’
‘And Shelly mixed up the hamsters in their cages. Four have
become eight.’
‘You can give her the birds and bees talk, that’s your area.’ I
poured myself a beer.
The fall-out from the Manson drug, which it was now officially
named, was huge; it completely sidelined the shooting, people
desperate to get hold of it. But it also re-opened the debate about
Jimmy being a time traveller, or even from another planet, a few of
the tabloids running silly stories. For the most part, people didn’t
care, and the rich and famous all desperately wanted the new drug.

Christmas

After consulting with the PM, we decided against selling the

Manson injections in the UK. Sykes put together a team and flew
them to Goma with fresh vials – Jimmy having given blood, the sale
of the drug now widely advertised. Flights were booked solid,
despite the price tag of five million dollars for an injection. I bet that
the Saudi Prince was kicking himself.
In the weeks that followed we sold most of the vials, and replaced
them with a new batch. And I never knew that there were so many
millionaires in the world. We had raised two hundred million dollars
and sent it on to Rudd, who was just not getting used to large
numbers.
Pineapple was floated in London and New York, but we had sold
our shares to one of the friendly US banks, who would sell it on for
whatever they could make. The initial listing was oversubscribed
three fold, so they’d have no problem. One point five billion dollars
winged its way to Rudd, who needed more fingers and toes to count
the zeros. Two point four billion dollars now sat in the account, a
statement sent to Mac in Mawlini, who called.
‘Paul, there’s a gazillion dollars in the account!’
‘How many zeroes is that? I toyed.
‘More zeros than I could count!’
 ‘There’ll be a big exercise in January, the money will go towards
it.’
‘An exercise! We couldn’t spend that money in ten fucking
years!’
‘See what happens. And relax for fucks sake.’
In the days that followed our senior staff called us, all concerned;
they could see the build up. I told them to wait, not being very
helpful. Jimmy was back to making use of the gym, and making
good use of a new masseuse, although I didn’t ask just how good she
was. The news of the Manson drug had spread around the world, and
the world’s elite were now flying down to Goma hub, many staying
for a holiday, and all surprised at how advanced Gotham City now
was. Ageing TV stars of yesteryear were being enlivened and
rejuvenated, singing the praises of the drug, which caused even more
health tourism.
Jimmy and I figured that January may bring exposure, so we
concentrated on making money to cover Haiti, and stopped caring
about what the world thought about us. I hit the trading screens and
made money from a few takeovers that Jimmy had listed for me.
Bob and Doc Graham came over to the house a few days a week and
we opened a room in the basement, files spread out. We had booked
a dozen 747s, in addition to our own, and the RAF dropped in with
details of what aircraft they had available. Boats and ferries were
secured for the water crossing from Cuba to Haiti, and the US Navy
made ready for an “exercise” at their base in Cuba, Guantanamo
Bay. Jimmy said that is was poignant that the US base was being
used to launch medical ships, but did not explain why.
Christmas was spent at home, time with family and friends. We
had considered inviting the usual people, but we knew that there
would be lots of questions. Instead, we sent money to the senior RF
staff and flew some of them to the Seychelles for a week, those that
didn’t have family gatherings planned.
On Christmas day, two ponies arrived for the girls, both animals
suitably small in stature. Helen had bought the girls suitable riding
gear and helmets, and we watched our girls canter around in the rain.
The place was becoming a menagerie.
Fed up with a damp Christmas, we headed for the club for New
Year, tickets expensive for those who had booked ahead. Many of
the household “M” Group joined us, and I felt quite relaxed, secure
enough within the club walls. A police officer delivered me a yellow
telegram before midnight, a note from the Queen herself: good luck
in January.
 I showed Helen. ‘Next week everything changes, and I don’t
care.’
She wasn’t quite as stoically defiant, but was now resigned to a
few changes. We ate too much, and drank too much, a bit wobbly as
the New Year was rung in, not getting to bed till 3am, and then just
collapsing. In the morning, in the diner downstairs, Jimmy said that
we’d drive to Mapley in an hour. It was time.
Helen and I finished our breakfast without saying much, packed
up and boarded the coach as if condemned prisoners heading for our
own execution, pulling into Mapley at 1pm and finding it
surprisingly busy. And when people saw us they stopped; they knew
something big was up. In Bob’s office, Jimmy asked him to use the
tanoy and to gather all of the staff outside. When the troops had
assembled, Jimmy carried a chair outside and stood on it, waving
everyone closer. I looked out over almost two thousand people.
Thankfully, it was a fine day.
Jimmy loudly began, ‘It has taken us twenty years to get to this
point, twenty years of hard work, training, and planning. Rescue
Force began its life in Kenya, as a small unit to backup the mine
clearance teams. Since then it has grown a little.’ Faces in the crowd
smiled. ‘I have never failed to be proud of the work you’ve done, or
the way in which you’ve done it. Apart from maybe the drinking in
Mawlini.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Now we have a major deployment to attend, and one that will
stretch us. Our earthquake software is predicting a major quake,
larger than anything seen so far. Many of you will not return here for
two months.’
Looks were exchanged.
‘What we go to do now … is what must be done to save life. Our
family … of forty-three nations … will work together, as they have
always done. For those of you here that are deploying for the first
time - don’t worry, just follow your team leaders and do as you’re
asked; you’ll make us proud. And, if you’re lucky, you can fly in a
Huey with Dunnow.’
They laughed.
‘I hope you all had a good Christmas, because it’s now back-to-
work time.’ Jimmy turned, and lifted his gaze to the windows of
Bob’s office.
The tanoy came to life. ‘All Rescue Force staff: full kit check,
you have twenty-four hours. Dismiss to your duties.’
 People headed off in their groups as we stepped back inside,
climbing the stairs to Bob’s office, the communications officer sat
waiting.
‘Communications officer,’ Jimmy called. ‘Sound full kit check
worldwide, followed immediately by full recall worldwide,
including all reserves and affiliates.’
The message was sent, pagers knocked off. Jimmy made a few
calls, and the RAF turned up, plus a dozen police cars. I turned on
the news as I sat having lunch with Helen, the recall already known.
‘The single largest call-up of rescue personnel the world has ever
seen,’ they reported.
‘So much for a quiet deployment,’ I quipped. I went up to the
roof after lunch, and stared down at thousands of people coming and
going, numerous lorries unloading kit, others being loaded up ready.
I remembered the first time we stood on the air traffic control
tower roof with Rolf the architect. When we told him there was a
twenty million pound budget he almost fainted. Now I took in the
airfield, little resemblance to that first image. And our lease still
stated that we would have to return the airfield to how it was if we
left.
We were not planning on giving a briefing to the press till the
following morning, but I noticed a few cameras, the embedded
crews; some of these guys were making a career out of following us
around. Back downstairs, I took off my jacket and double-checked
movement logistics, calling Gatwick airport to check on a few
things. Jeeps were on their way by ship, two-dozen Hueys also on
the high seas. The remainder of the Huey’s would go via Il76
transport or C5 galaxy, rotors removed.
I rang Ngomo. ‘All set, my friend?’
‘We are ready. The men move to Goma in three days, there to
Haiti.’
‘Good luck.’
I rang Mac. ‘How’s the weather?’
‘Not so warm, but a lot of people working up a wee sweat today.’
‘Busy there?’ I toyed.
‘Aye, you could say that,’ he quipped. ‘Staff back from Darfur
and checking their supplies. Rifles going as well?’
‘Peacekeepers, to stop looting and rioting. They’re just like the
peacekeepers already there. Only not so peaceful.’
‘God help the fucking looters! When do we deploy?’
‘Day or so. Those from afar are heading to you to group, like the
Indonesians. Australians, New Zealanders, and the rest are heading
to Hawaii to form up, and the Chinese will fly direct in their 747s.
Their jeeps went by boat a week ago, so they’ll be going through the
Panama Canal by now. Anyway, you best get back to it.’
‘Be at it all night,’ Mac grumbled. ‘There’re flights coming in
from all over. Zimbabwe teams just landed, some from Burundi, all
over the fucking place.’
‘You can practice your diplomatic skills.’
‘Aye, bollocks.’
Stood on the ground floor of the HQ building, and chatting to
national representatives, I welcomed a team of French army officers,
eventually finding them desk space; there was little left. Michelle
sorted out their communications, as well as some food from the
canteen.
We chose not to stay that evening, giving up the HQ building
apartments to a few of the visitors, and opened our own mini-
command centre in the basement, a handful of people monitoring the
situation for us and producing reports. All nations reported their kit
check status and the total numbers of rescuers available for the
deployment – less people off sick or injured, and itemised equipment
that was unserviceable. But at this stage we wished only to check kit
availability and numbers of warm bodies, grouping some of them
together to cut travel costs. The teams from the smaller nations had
flown to their regional training centres and extra kit had been issued
where necessary. But the busiest groups by far were the logistics
people; they had more pallet-tonnes to move than all previous
deployments put together.
Food and water was my assigned area, and I was using that well
practised technique known as “overkill”. I had previously ordered a
million three-litre water bottles made, before shipping them to the
Dominican Republic, where they were now being filled with spring
water and loaded onto pallets. Also in the Dominican Republic, my
teams from the DRC corporation were buying up biscuits and tinned
food by the tonne, moving the provisions west to the border with
Haiti. From the US, I had bought a ship full of wheat, the cargo now
being offloaded at Port Au Prince docks and being transported to a
central storage area near the main airport, an area that one of our
friendly NGOs had set up.
The first of the Rifles had landed, three hundred of them, and
were now busy erecting a tented city near the grain stores, as well as
clearing land ready for imminent expansion. Fences were being torn
down, tracks laid ready, connecting to the airport. At dawn, I read a
report that confirmed the advance RF party had landed, Doc Graham
and his team; they would set-up a tented area to the east of the main
airport perimeter. Problem was, the camp would be a bit bigger than
the Haitian President may have anticipated – but only by a factor of
ten or so. Maybe twenty. Thirty at a push.
In my office, I called my team together and discussed the Haitian
deployment, since most of my team were involved in some form or
other. Our airline had cancelled a number of domestic flights around
Africa, and our aircraft now ferried African rescuers up to Mawlini.
At Mawlini, the Alpha teams and command staff were preparing to
fly over to Goma hub for an onwards flight in one of our 747s.
My corporation guy was organising plastic bottle supplies for the
next few months, and my new liaison to Media One Inc - formerly
my liaison to Pineapple – was busy monitoring all Caribbean news
outlets for comments on the deployment. So far, there were few
column-inches dedicated to the subject. Finally, my liaison to the
nightclubs was busy organising fundraisers for a quake that had not
yet struck. The first would be advertised on the 13th, a series of
charity galas.
With that done, I boarded the coach, finding most of the “M”
Group representatives already on board and waiting my arrival with
a slow handclap and rude comments. They would be helping their
own nationals as usual.
At Mapley, we received a quick update from Bob, that of
logistical movements overnight, plus news of the arrival of the first
few British reservists here. Those reservists continued to trickle
through the gate all day long, kit checked and issued, the first group
of a hundred put onto a coach for Gatwick airport that evening. The
UK Alpha and Bravo teams had already set-off for the airport, and
should be on their way to Cuba by now, our jeeps due to be docking
there tomorrow, the ships containing the Hueys due there tonight.
Hal and his team of mechanics should be landing today, I
remembered, and seeing what the ocean journey had done to our old
ladies. We had allowed several days for their testing – just in case.
By the end of the second day we had landed ten aircraft full of
tents at Port-au-Prince airport, with another three hundred Rifles to
erect them. Meanwhile, the Haitian President had gone on national
TV and announced that we were predicting a quake, and that his
government were taking civil defence precautions just in case. Our
people on the ground reported no reaction from the population, who
had more immediate problems to worry about – that of their daily
struggle to survive in the slums.
 On the third day we landed sixteen aircraft and another three
hundred Rifles at Port-au-Prince airport, the tented city growing
rapidly, the airport workers scratching their heads as to why so many
tents were being erected in the distance. Barbed wire arrived by
truck from the Dominican Republic and was duly strung around the
massive new camp, a camp that already offered tents for ten
thousand people, yet held only a thousand.
On the forth day, RF teams started to arrive in Cuba. After their
long flight, some travelling for twenty-four hours, our rescuers were
all shown to tented accommodation and allowed two days to adjust
and to acclimatise. The British Alpha team, having re-grouped in
Cuba, flew over to join Doc Graham and to create the main
headquarter tents, signs erected: HQ tent, canteen, stores, and toilets.
One signed displayed “Mawlini’s rooftop bar: four thousand miles
that way”. The field cookery unit arrived in Haiti shortly after them
and set-up, soon servicing the thousand people already there with
warm meals.
With that box on the list ticked, Doc Graham began Operation
Dispersal. Trucks loaded with tents, followed by trucks loaded with
barbed wire, followed closely by trucks loaded with Rifles, ventured
out to the three pre-arranged sites and began creating tented cities,
fencing them off, all the while curiously observed by the locals. The
standing blue-helmeted UN contingent also scratched their heads.
We had our first tent stolen that evening, plus grain stolen from a
store.
An initial batch of ten jeeps were readied and tested in Cuba, put
on a ferry with their drivers and dispatched to Port-au-Prince, aiming
to dock at night and to drive inland unseen. Meanwhile, more wheat
was offloaded and moved toward the airport storage areas, along
with the first deliveries of my food and water. Some of that would
go towards the hungry mouths already in country, most towards the
indigenous population.
Day five registered a spark of press interest in the Caribbean, plus
a spark of annoyance in the UK, as we continued to ignore them. We
knew that if the British press asked certain questions we’d regret
giving certain answers, so we delayed the interviews as far as we
could.
The residents of Port-au-Prince were now curious about all the
aircraft landing at their normally quiet airport, the daily tally now
topping twenty, tents and food stocks being moved out to eight
dispersal sites and stored ready. Thirty miles south west of Port-au-
Prince a camp had been created, a field suitably large enough to
accommodate the Hueys, helicopter landing zones marked into the
grass. A fence was thrown up, a hundred tents pitched, the locals
scratching their heads at the strange activity.
Day six saw three hundred rescuers land at the airport and take up
residence in the tents, Doc Graham’s team allocating them tasks.
Many rescuers were immediately dispatched to the dispersal areas,
the first batch of white jeeps now to be glimpsed driving around the
capital. The airport authorities took delivery of several refuelling
trucks, a compound created for them well away from anything else,
ten trucks sat idle and waiting a useful function. In Cuba, at the main
RF base, some six thousand rescuers were now in the varying stages
of arrival, kit check, rest, or being made ready to fly over to Haiti.
Hal and the pilots had been busy, and white Hueys were now
buzzing about the island and being thoroughly tested. Happy with
his old ladies after their ocean cruise, Hal sent six to the US base at
Guantanamo to be refuelled, the pilots flying on at night to Haiti and
landing south west of the capital.
Day seven saw the Hueys being made use of, the population now
glimpsing them overhead moving stores to the dispersal sites, the
curiosity amongst the locals growing. That day, Jimmy decided that
we couldn’t put off the British press any further and agreed an
interview in the communications centre. Three TV crews were
patiently waiting, plus a handful of old hacks with notepads. We sat
behind a desk and indicated that we would make a statement before
fielding questions – so long as the questions were related to Rescue
Force.
Jimmy began, ‘As you’re already aware, Rescue Force is making
ready for a major deployment to the Caribbean island of Haiti,
where we’re predicting an earthquake to occur in a few day’s time.
As is typical with Rescue Force, we’ve moved our people into place
ahead of the expected earthquake so that we’re ready on the ground
to help immediately. As we speak, we’re creating camps and
building up supplies. That process will continue over the next few
days, till all of our people are in place and sat waiting ready. OK,
questions.’
‘How many people are you sending?’
This is a full deployment.’
‘How many people is that?’
‘In this case, some thirty thousand staff.’
The press collectively paused. ‘Thirty thousand?’
‘Yes.’
‘What … kind of quake are you expecting?’
 ‘We’re expecting a substantive quake to strike Haiti.’
‘What Richter scale?’
‘I couldn’t relate it into that scale.’
‘But you’re expecting a large quake?’
‘Yes, we’re expecting a large quake.’
‘How many casualties do you expect?’
‘Up to half a million.’
‘Is this the largest ever Rescue Force deployment?’ they asked.
‘This is the largest deployment to date.’
‘Larger than the Boxing Day tsunami?’
‘Yes, more than five times bigger than that.’
‘What sort of damage do you expect?’
‘We expect the damage to be extensive. Beyond that, it’s hard to
quantify.’
‘Who else will be involved with this? Will the British
Government be sending people?’
‘The RAF will be assisting, the French Army are sending five
thousand soldiers, and the US Navy will be heavily involved.’
‘What if the quake doesn’t happen?’
‘Then I’ll have spent a lot of money for nothing.’
‘How much is this costing?’
‘Two point two billion dollars.’
They blinked. ‘Two billion dollars?’
‘Plus whatever the various governments will donate.’
‘The two billion, that’s your money?’
‘Yes.’ Jimmy stood. ‘Now, we’re busy, so we’ll organise another
press conference tomorrow or the next day.’
The cat was out if the bag, off and running. That evening, reports
came in of people in Haiti packing up and leaving; they were finally
taking notice. And as they were packing up, three thousand Rifles
landed, occupying the tents made ready for them. All were armed
with pistols and rifles. Jimmy commented, ‘From this point on, I run
Haiti.’
Day eight saw the US Navy arrive in force, their grey ships
visible offshore, their hospital ship’s big red cross visible through
the early morning haze as dock workers observed the unusual scene.
Jimmy gave the order, ‘Move in.’
The French contingent landed, soon directed to their tents. As that
was happening, two hundred Rifles took up station around the
Presidential palace, tents erected on the lawn, whether the President
liked it or not. Further Rifles moved out to secure the dispersal sites,
all armed. From Cuba, rescuers flew in all day long, and the
remaining Hueys made the sea crossing, the second squadron of ten
helicopters now grouping at the airport. Doc Graham dispersed the
food and water as it arrived, out to the campsites, smiling when a
batch of parachute bottles arrived.
These we had developed years earlier, packs of food and water
that could be dropped from a Huey, a small parachute deploying to
break the fall. They were now made in Goma, at a plastics factory,
and we now delivered hundreds of tonnes of them to Haiti.
The Haitian President called that night, concerned about a great
many things, not least the ring of soldiers around his palace. Helen
took the call and interpreted, Jimmy telling our gracious host to look
at the small print of the document he signed, that everything was as
described, going to plan and OK. We cut the President short, and
hung up.
With the revelations that we had made to the press being
digested, a small army of TV crews and old hacks jumped onto
planes to the Dominican Republic, hoping to be on the ground when
the quake struck. They were beaten to it by the RF Chasers, the mad
bunch who loved to be in a disaster as it unfolded. In Cuba,
meanwhile, many of the European reservists that had been called up
were finishing a few days of intensive training.
On day nine, all remaining rescuers were ordered across to Haiti,
flights landing at Port-au-Prince every twelve minutes. The tented
city, once devoid of suitable occupants, was now bursting at the
seams, teams allocated dispersal areas and sent off in hired local
buses. The US Army landed at the airport, mobile air traffic control
equipment made ready, their own tents now erected. Another two
thousand Rifles touched down, dispersed straight away, the
remainder of our RF jeeps landing by ferry. In total, thirty-five
Hueys were now available, plus a hundred and fifty jeeps.
The surgical teams had also landed that day, large tents now
being erected at the dispersal sites. Their set-up time was typically
the longest, beds needing to be erected and screwed together, lights
fitted, equipment checked and laid out ready. A full surgical team
needed two days at least to make ready. At the airport, British,
French, Chinese, Cuban and American military surgical units
landed, each moving to an existing hospital and setting up in the
grounds. The inconvenienced hospital administrators were placated
with cold hard cash. That and a look at the Kenyan Rifles stood
guard.
Day ten saw the world’s press reporting from a busy Port-au-
Prince, as well as from Mapley, the communications room now
packed out, Helen and Trish kept busy. I helped out with canned
drinks and chocolate for the press, but kept away from questions of
super-drugs and “M” Group meetings. I even had one persistent
hack thrown out.
Day eleven saw a full turn out command meeting in the aptly
named Command Room. Jimmy began, ‘Are all teams on the
island?’
The last were due to land in an hour, the Cuban base now quiet.
And the Cubans reported six of their own field hospitals set-up and
ready, they had even delivered a handful of babies. The British
military medics had treated people from a house fire and a bus crash,
and the French had also delivered a few babies.
Jimmy threw his hands into the air. ‘You’re not supposed to start
till I say go!’
Everyone laughed, most looking very tired now, especially poor
old Bob Davies.
Jimmy continued, ‘OK. Tomorrow is the first day that Crusty
thinks may be a quake day, so tonight I want you all to get eight
hour’s rest, and plenty of food. That’s an order. In the morning,
continue to move supplies into place, but have the teams rested.
From tomorrow afternoon, I want jeeps going around the city,
advising people to work and sleep outdoors; offer them free food
and drink as an incentive.
‘The President of Haiti will make an address in a few hours - he’s
going to close schools, and a few hospitals. The patients will move
to our tents at the hospitals – just in case. Besides, the care they’ll
get in our tents is a lot better than the fucking hospitals! OK,
anything outside of the plan that we need to consider.’
Bob said, ‘The Canadian Army wish to send a medical team, as
do the Germans, Israelis, Australian Army and a few others.’
‘Fine, but tell them to get a move on. Ask Doc Graham to arrange
dispersal sites for them.’
Bob added, ‘Americans have landed twenty helicopters at the
airport. We weren’t expecting them.’
‘More the better,’ Jimmy said with a shrug. ‘What’s the tally of
bodies?’
‘Thirty-two thousand,’ Bob reported. ‘Plus ten thousand US
Marines on standby.’
‘Then I guess we’ve done everything we could.’
Bob added, ‘We have vials of the super-drug out there, to treat
the wounded.’
 Jimmy nodded. ‘Good.’ He faced the group. ‘We wait on the
morrow, good people. Get some rest!’
We collected the “M” Group representatives and headed back,
Cookie preparing a special meal, and we made use of the dining
room for a change.
‘No exposure problems so far,’ Jack ventured as we sat down to
eat.
‘Tomorrow, our jeeps will go around Port-au-Prince, especially at
dusk - just as the quake strikes,’ Jimmy explained. ‘And, three
weeks from now I’ll move many rescuers to Chile, where a nasty
quake will strike, and the level of suspicion will rise.’
‘My wife still doesn’t know anything,’ Jack put in.
‘Get her some dirty videos,’ I dryly suggested, getting a look.
‘My parents do not know what I do,’ Michelle admitted.
‘And I’ve lied to my new wife,’ Keely unhappily reported.
‘My parents will fuss,’ I admitted.
‘Does Shelly ask difficult questions?’ Han asked me. ‘She asked
me about various websites that detail our activities.’
‘I’ve explained that the sites are not true,’ I replied, and she’s
probably too young to be worried by it all. She’s on Bebo under a
false name; Helen Keely.’
‘Why my name?’ Keely mock protested.
‘She thinks you’re a spy,’ Helen said.
‘Look who’s talking!’ Keely retorted.
‘You do come across as shifty,’ Helen told Keely, a glint in her
eye.
‘Thanks, Marta Hari,’ Keely carefully mouthed.
‘Oooo,’ I let out.
‘Play nice, children,’ Jimmy encouraged. ‘Or there’s no desert.’
‘Might I ask, what does the future hold for this group?’ Han put
in.
‘More of the same, but more security, and fewer trips to local
restaurants,’ Jimmy informed us. ‘This estate was built with a
purpose in mind.’
‘A very nice prison,’ Helen quipped.
‘That, and a suitable abode for a group such as this,’ Han noted.
‘The Germans wish to send a representative, as do the Indians.’
‘No, it will always be just you lot; the damn house is busy enough
as it is,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘Besides, after exposure they’ll all want a
representative here.’
‘Will it cause problems, with this lot being favoured?’ I asked.
 ‘Yes,’ Jimmy replied. ‘But I had expected to lose Keely before
now.’
‘Lose me … how?’ Keely asked, looking worried.
‘Through disagreements with the White House.’
‘So things are … better than planned?’ Han nudged.
‘There’s no point in knowing the future, just to repeat it,’ Jimmy
pointed out.
‘You caused a stir at that military hospital in New York,’ Keely
commented. ‘Brought back half a dozen off the terminal list. You’re
popular in that place at least.’
‘And the assassin?’ Han risked, a topic that had been avoided so
far.
Jimmy faced him. ‘I’m dealing with it. In fact -’ He checked his
watch. ‘- there should be three hundred Pathfinders landing on
distant shores right about now.’
‘What!’ people gasped. ‘Where?’
‘Colombia.’
‘The Colombians wanted you dead?’ Jack puzzled.
‘No, Venezuela … wanted me dead.’
‘Why?’ they asked.
‘Oil!’ Keely stated.
‘Yes, oil. And the lowering of its price,’ Jimmy explained. ‘That,
plus their ruler’s connection to a certain group of Belgian mining
corporations that lost out to me – and are still a bit pissed at me.
They’ve been whispering in his ear.’
‘So why are the Rifles in Colombia?’ Keely asked.
‘They’re going to clean out the FARC rebels once and for all.’
‘That’ll put them on the Venezuelan border,’ Keely noted.
‘Yes, and if any Venezuelan soldiers should approach the border,
they’d tangle.’
‘I thought we were trying to avoid conflict in the area,’ Jack
queried.
‘We’re trying to avoid American conflict in that area. No one said
anything about the Rifles. And the Pathfinders are acting as a private
mercenary army, hired for cash from the Kenyans after lengthy
negotiations with the Colombian Government – who could always
argue that the Rifles went too far.’
‘A proper proxy war,’ I put in.
‘I’ll need to update Washington on that,’ Keely cautioned.
‘You may all do so, now that they’ve landed – and cannot be
stopped.’
‘And the timing?’ I asked with a grin.
 ‘Timing? My lad, timing is everything,’ Jimmy smugly stated.
‘The world will be watching Haiti,’ Helen realised.
‘Crafty bastard,’ I commented.
‘If Chase knows who tried to kill you…’ Keely warned.
‘He won’t invade,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘And right now, the FARC
have no idea what terror lurks in the jungle. And I mean … terror!’

Day twelve

We didn’t drive over to Mapley as I thought we might. Instead, we

caught up on other things, the businesses and Africa. But by
mistake, I received a report form Yuri on the progress of the coffee
shops in Russia. I was staggered to see that there were now nine
thousand of them, spread right across Russia, many in small towns.
The farmland we ran produced the milk for some of the shops, plus
meat and cereal crops that they used. Several regional warehouses
had been set-up to receive the raw products necessary to supply the
shops, distributing thereafter the finished buns and cakes.
And the coffee, it came from Cuba by boat in large quantities and
cost very little. That meant our bottom line was looking very
healthy, profits in the millions. We were even selling advertising
space on the walls of the coffee shops. It gave me an idea. I found an
expert, and asked about coffee and cotton growing in the Congo.
The answer was ‘yes’ - in some areas. Since the DRC was such a
large area, it offered many types of soil and terrain, spread across
varying altitudes, some with their own microclimates. I got the
corporation on it: I wanted coffee and cotton grown locally. A
cheeky email came back asking about slaves, and ships to the new
colonies in the Americas!
That afternoon, the weather was pleasant for January, and I went
for a walk, but well wrapped up. It was the calm before the storm,
and the thing that annoyed me the most about the idea exposure was
the thought of not being able to influence Africa anymore. Then I
stopped and consider – why not? Even if they know about us, would
that alter things? Kimballa wouldn’t withdraw his support, he’d
probably think it cool. I walked all the way down to the house,
considering that I could carry on as before.
 At the house I found Abdi and his team visiting, as well as
Ngomo. That meant a war council. After a tea in the diner, Jimmy
led us down to the basement, a large map of Colombia stretched out
and weighted down. Turns out that thirty Somali Pathfinders were
involved, hence Adbi’s interest, and Jimmy detailed their current
position. So far, they had killed anyone who spotted them, including
a few civilians, and no mention of them had been made in either
Colombia or Venezuela. They had landed near Paramo, northeast of
Bogotá, split into five groups, and were busy searching jungle
valleys for FARC guerrillas as they moved northeast towards the
Venezuelan border, a very long hike. Re-supply was by scheduled
parachute drop, and only a few in the Colombian Government knew
about it.
There was also the small matter of the mission creep. The
Colombians were under the impression that a hundred and twenty
Rifles had landed, not three hundred, and that they would act as eyes
and ears only, an intelligence gathering force. Jimmy had stretched
the mission a little. And this little campaign was about to make
military history with the first ever use of small EMP weapons in the
field, plus outlawed laser rifles that blinded enemy soldiers. I
wondered just how many laws and conventions we were breaking.
With our African visitors gone, we sat and watched the TV news,
awaiting the quake. It would strike around 10pm GMT, so we’d
have a long wait. But, given the size of the deployment, there was
little else that we could concentrate on. “M” Group representatives
could be seen walking the grounds
Later that night, Jimmy called me at the house. ‘It’s started. Get
some rest, we’ll drive over in the morning.’
Ten minutes later, the news was full of the quake, live pictures
being fed back. At midnight, Helen and I were still glued to the TV,
our white jeeps seen attending injured people. We glimpsed the
Rifles helping out, as well as manning street corners, interviews
given by Doc Graham and others. We’d put twenty years into
Rescue Force, so if they didn’t have it right by now they’d never
have it, I considered as I went to bed. In the morning, the news was
of total devastation, not a building left undamaged, and mass
casualties. The footage showed our rescuers crawling into collapsed
buildings, others handing out food and drink.
‘My bottles,’ I pointed out, no joy in my voice.
Hueys could be seen over the city, parachute packs drifting down,
kids grabbing the packs as they landed. French soldiers were now on
the streets, the Presidential Palace badly damaged, images relayed of
surgical tents, patients being attended on camp beds outdoors.
At 7.30am we sent the girls off to school, and joined Jimmy in
the office. ‘It all going OK?’ I asked.
‘As expected,’ he flatly answered. ‘And on the other matter, the
Pathfinders were busy. They stumbled across a camp of some two
hundred FARC. They used the EMP to knock out radios, blinded the
sentries with lasers and knifed them, then earnestly killed every last
rebel, liberating twelve hostages. I think they struck gold first time
out and got the FARC leadership – or part of it. They’ve injected the
hostages with the drug, given them food and weapons and arranged
a pick-up.’
‘Won’t they talk about the Rifles?’
‘Not if the government gets to them first; they’ll claim the credit.
And now the Pathfinders are moving northeast. But after this success
I doubt they’ll find many more rebels till they hit the Venezuelan
border.’
‘Why not pull them out?’ I ventured.
‘They were never there for the FARC,’ Jimmy coldly stated.
The coach awaited, Big Paul riding shotgun today, and we headed
out of the top gate, taking a different route just in case. Meanwhile,
the Colombian Government had received a signal about where to
find the hostages. They flew in by helicopter and “rescued” the men,
claiming a great victory over the FARC, still no mention of the
Rifles.
At Mapley, the press were now out in force, the base just about
empty except for the snappers and scribblers, and the attending
police. Ignoring the press for now, we entered the HQ building and
found a tired Bob Davies, an oddly quiet Bob Davies. We sat
opposite him.
‘Someday,’ Bob began, throwing down his pen, ‘you’ll have to
tell me how you do it, since I doubt Crusty could find the key to his
own front door without help, let alone predict quakes with this level
of accuracy. I get a hundred letters a week from eminent scientists
that dispute the technology, some of them have been friends for
years through the UN.’
‘How do you think we do it?’ Jimmy toyed.
‘I don’t know, and that’s a worry. And I don’t know how you
make electric cars that don’t stop, or drugs that cure everything. And
let’s not forget the small issue of being shot three times at close
range, and some miracle fucking drug that heals gunshot wounds
overnight!’
 ‘Yeah, but besides all that, how are things with you?’ I lightly
asked.
He eased back. ‘I’ve never figured you two out - the money you
have - and you spend it on us. And two billion for a deployment? I
lose a lot of quality sleep trying to make sense out of you pair.’
‘Best give up then,’ I suggested. ‘You’ll give your dear lady wife
a more restful night.’
Jimmy had been brushing fluff off his trousers. Now he lifted his
gaze and asked, ‘Bob, do these things affect your desire to continue
to sit in that chair?’
‘A little; I hate what I don’t understand.’
‘As do most intelligent people,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘You know, I was
considering bringing you into the inner circle some years ago,
because we need you in that chair – and have no desire to lose you.’
‘Inner circle?’ Bob queried.
‘“M” Group,’ Jimmy stated.
‘So it is some sort of secret group,’ Bob considered.
Jimmy glanced at Helen and me. ‘You’re not stupid, Bob. How
do you think I predict quakes, the stock markets, wars, and other
events?’
‘You’re psychic?’ Bob toyed.
‘No, and I don’t believe in such crap,’ Jimmy informed him. We
waited.
Bob took in our faces. ‘Any of the claims on those websites
true?’
‘Some, yes.’
Bob held his hands wide, a plea for assistance.
Jimmy said, ‘There’s only one logical way to know that an event
will occur, and that’s if you witnessed it previously.’
‘Witnessed … something that hasn’t happened yet?’
‘Hasn’t happened for us yet,’ Helen put in.
‘He’s well over a hundred years old,’ I told Bob. ‘He’s immune
to all diseases known to man, he heals very quickly, and he knew
you’d be in that chair a very long time ago.’
‘OK, now you’re worrying me. A hundred years old?’
‘And then some,’ Jimmy added.
‘And if you shot holes in him, he’d just get right back up,’ I
added, enjoying Bob’s expression.
Helen added, ‘The reason that many of the world’s leaders listen
to him … is because he knows exactly what the future holds.’
‘How can you know?’ Bob asked Jimmy.
‘Because he’s been there,’ I toyed.
 Jimmy nodded. ‘How else would I know exactly when a quake
would strike?’
Bob stared back at us.
Helen said, ‘It’s not complicated, Bob. He’s a time traveller.’
‘A … time traveller,’ Bob repeated, staring back wide eyed. He
swallowed. ‘So what was on that website was true.’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy acknowledged. ‘So now you need to join the dots
to get the big picture, hidden in the detail: time traveller, world
leaders, Rescue Force designed to respond to bad quakes. Why
would the world go to so much effort as to build a time machine, and
send me back.’
Bob considered his response. ‘A … future quake, a big one?’
‘Several,’ I put in. ‘The kinds that would change the course of
history.’
‘You … can’t stop them?’ Bob puzzled with a frown.
‘No,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘I can’t stop them. But, with a track record
of accurately predicting quakes, I might just convince enough people
to evacuate certain cities in time. Cities with millions of inhabitants.’
‘Jesus,’ Bob let out. ‘When?’
‘That’s classified, and if you were to accidentally disclose what
you know then the world’s intelligence agencies might just want to
shoot you full of holes,’ Jimmy explained. ‘And you don’t heal as
well as little old me.’
Bob took a moment. ‘A lot of people have taken shots at you over
the years. Why, if you’re so useful?’
‘Because they wish to use the knowledge I have of the future for
their own simple economic gains,’ Jimmy lied.
‘As well as political gains,’ I added. ‘World politics: best not get
involved.’
‘And now that I know, am I in danger?’
‘It’s due to come out within a few years, or less,’ Jimmy
explained. ‘Maybe a lot less. So you’re only in danger if you talk
about it between now and then.’
‘Will you … be talking?’ Helen asked Bob directly.
‘Like fuck. I have a family.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Helen quipped. ‘I do too.’
‘How long?’ Bob asked. ‘Till the big one?’
‘Five years to the first one, eight to the second,’ Jimmy answered.
‘And both will cause extreme economic problems. One will hit
Europe, one America. Followed by a series of pandemics that will
kill hundreds of millions.’
‘The drug!’ Bob realised.
 ‘He’s not stupid,’ I quipped, facing Jimmy.
‘I hired him for his keen intellect,’ Jimmy told me with an
assertive nod. Facing Bob, Jimmy added, ‘Do you think we can
move on, and fix Haiti, Mister Davies, before we fix the world?’
Bob responded, ‘We were right there in the streets when the
quake hit, giving first aid inside of five minutes. Given what
happened, they’re getting the best care, but there’s not a building left
undamaged. Rebuilding will take a decade at least.’
‘That’s a UN problem more than ours, although I will be heavily
involved there for a long time. We need to save as many lives as we
can this week, get the tented cities going, then start with the
bulldozers. Nothing more complicated than that.’
‘I can handle it,’ Bob said defensively.
‘I know,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I saw you do it before.’
That was a revelation, Helen and I exchanging looks; Jimmy had
done this all before. We always figured as much, but had never
discussed it openly, Helen’s pet theory being that Jimmy could jump
back and forth. I knew that was wrong because he got messages; if
he could jump he wouldn’t need messages. My theory was that he
was stuck here, a one-way trip. I didn’t ask him, because I knew
what he would say - the same as with the Russian coffee shops: no!
We left Bob to worry about things temporal and supernatural, and
attended the baying hordes of the press corp. Helen diligently issued
facts and figures, whilst Jimmy and I split up. I took CNN, he took
the BBC, and we sat in quiet side rooms, ties adjusted.
‘Paul,’ the lady began with. ‘How is the rescue deployment
progressing?’
‘It’s still early days as far as building searching goes, but many
people heeded the warnings and remained outside of their homes.
Unfortunately, the damage was extensive, and across a third of the
country, with almost every building being damaged. The dead and
wounded figures will still be high, but not as high as they may have
been.’
‘And what of the infrastructure?’
‘There’s no water or electricity, no phones working for the local
people or the government, but we figured on that and have food and
water stockpiled ready, more arriving each day from stores we built
up in the Dominican Republic. We’ve allowed for enough supplies
to feed all those in the affected regions, and distribution has already
begun.’
‘How many rescuers are there on the ground?’
‘About thirty thousand, plus soldiers.’
 ‘And the American military?’
‘Your Navy is offshore with a hospital ship, helicopters, and your
Marines are there in force. And your Army technicians are running
air traffic control at the main airport.’
‘What has this operation cost to mount so far?’
‘We sold our shares in Pineapple Music and other companies and
diverted just over two billion dollars to the fund.’
‘That’s your own money you’re using?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a polite smile. ‘It does no good to just sit in a
bank somewhere.’
‘What’s the next step in the reconstruction process?’
‘A long haul … of demolishing and rebuilding almost every
structure.’
‘And how’s Jimmy?’ It was an odd question.
‘Just as big and ugly as ever,’ I said as I stood, terminating the
interview. I found Sky News and repeated much of the detail before
allocating time to Al Jazeera and Russia Today, Euronews and
France24. Jimmy gave the Chinese national network twenty
minutes, lots of praise for the Chinese rescuers, who made up the
largest single national contributor of warm bodies. In the command
centre, I found a room full of buzzing people, sixty conversations
going on at once.
‘A Huey has crashed,’ I was informed; one dead, several injured.
I scanned the names, finding that Ratchet had been piloting, but was
still alive. Well, with that many helicopters running that many
sorties this was always a possibility.
Our reconstruction ship had arrived, a ship with many large
cranes, and a crew of hairy-arsed builders that were now tasked with
clearing the docks and repairing the wharfs. I grabbed an NGO
manager that I recognised, and asked about work details. His people
were hiring unemployed Haitians, which was just about all of them
at the moment, issuing coloured hats and t-shirts, then paying the
new recruits to clear streets and load rubble into trucks. It kept the
local people gainfully employed, gave them money for food, and
cleaned the place up. His target was to hire twenty thousand locals.
Sat having lunch with Helen, we watched the images coming out
of Port-au-Prince, recognising a few of the people being
interviewed. We even glimpsed Hal and Hacker, Anton and Cassie
taking a TV crew around the main hospital. The various world
leaders pledged aid money, and the UN Secretary General landed.
He did, however, drop the hint that UN aid would be channelled
through Rescue Force.
 The next day we caught images of our builders at the port, their
cranes lifting debris out of the water, men with jackhammers
breaking up damaged roads and concrete jetties. It was all
proceeding in a very orderly and planned fashion. Repairmen were
filmed hanging off telegraph poles, locals employed to assist, and a
convoy of trucks were filmed arriving from the Dominican
Republic, enough concrete and breezeblocks to rebuild thousands of
buildings. Po had ships waiting offshore, stuffed full of those plastic
buckets that were a housewives delight – millions of them. Also
queued up offshore were ships from West Africa full of cut timber,
another ship loaded with cement, a third loaded with plastic sheeting
from the DRC. Jimmy had been busy in the planning stages and
everything needed was at hand, just as soon as the port was cleared.
On the third day I caught a TV talk show from the States that
questioned how we knew about the quake, and the advance
preparations, some guy making claims about clairvoyants. Shit, if
this was the best they could come up with, I thought. I had spent so
long worrying about exposure that this was something of an anti-
climax. News then reached me that the British Magestic, an actor
come tarot reader that gave predictions to the tabloids, was claiming
credit for the earthquake predictions. A journalist then asked if we’d
be suing him. No, was my answer, and I refused to be drawn it,
walking off with a hidden grin. Some elements of the press grabbed
the idea, the idea that we would not take legal action, and that it may
mean that Magestic was the source of the predictions.
I had hardly relayed the story to Helen and Jimmy when we
received a call from Sykes: a senior French politician was claiming
that French presidents, past and present, had taken advice from
Jimmy and a power clairvoyant named Magestic.
‘Always plant a big lie behind a small one,’ I quipped. ‘It was a
good idea, to create the myth of Magestic,’ I told Jimmy.
‘Why thank you, young man.’
Later, when the press asked about these latest revelations, I
denied any knowledge of Magestic, but did so with a smile. The
story ran in the tabloid comics, not least because the British
Magestic was one of their own, with a premium rate line that you
could call to get your horoscope. Jimmy then set in motion
something that would light a fire under the tabloid Magestic. He
rang the man and told him to predict a major quake in Chile in a
month, a cool twenty-five thousand pounds handed over.
In the days that followed, I adopted a cynical attitude to the press,
and in some ways I hoped to be exposed, to have it over and done
with. When they asked about Magestic I made jokes, but never
refuted the claims of others. I enjoyed teasing the press, the worst
elements of which were using their imagination to come up with all
sorts of weird stuff. The only unhappy people were our lawyers,
chomping at the bit to sue someone, but being held back. That
Friday, we cheekily held a Magestic Night at the club, the Red
Room stuffed full of gadget manufacturers and computer suppliers,
all displaying their futuristic technology. We even had a few clever
robots offering drinks.
When Jimmy was asked by a well-known lady presenter, a forty-
year-old frump, what he was predicting, he replied, ‘I’m seeing you
and me in a hot tub, followed by night of dirty sex in elevators and
in stairwells, leaving smudging fingerprints wherever we go.’
She stumbled so much she couldn’t continue the interview. And
the French politician, he was now being laughed at.
Unfortunately, the detail of the Colombian Army’s rescue of their
hostages was leaked, questions asked at to why many of the rebels
seemed to have had their throats slit, several being mutilated,
testicles cut off. Several bodies had also been found with hands cut
off. The Pathfinders, meanwhile, were hiking northeast, killing
anyone holding a weapon, and removing the ranks of the FARC.
Since bodies were hidden, the Colombian press were none the wiser;
they could hardly report the sudden disappearance of secretive rebels
that hid in the jungle as a matter of chosen career lifestyle. As the
world concentrated on Haiti, the Pathfinders approached the
Venezuelan border, and I grew worried.
The weekend after Haiti hit the news, we locked ourselves away
in the house and tried not to concern ourselves with the outside
world. I spent time with girls, playing computer games that they beat
me at easily enough. Then a piano suddenly appeared in a room in
the basement, Shelly now having lessons. Helen played, but it had
been a while, and so practised when Shelly was not around. Then we
discovered that Jimmy played, and played well.
He explained, ‘I was once stuck in a hotel for two months or so.
They had a piano, and the lady I was seeing was a music teacher.’
He shrugged. ‘There was little else to do.’
On the Monday morning, a Pathfinder officer turned up with a
secure satellite communications set. A dish was placed on the roof,
wires run down to the basement, where Jimmy and I now studied a
map of the Colombian/Venezuelan border.
Jimmy tapped the map, the Colombian side of the border.
‘They’re finding many small pockets of FARC here – groups of no
more than twenty, and well worn trails. When the rebels fail to
report, their colleagues across the border should come looking for
them. Hopefully.’
‘Are there many of them?’ I asked.
‘A few thousand, but spread around Colombia, most holding
down regular jobs and donning the combats at the weekend. A few
bombs had gone off as reprisals for the loss of their leadership.’
‘And the plan?’
‘To remove as many of the FARC as possible, then cross the
border to annoy the nice man running Venezuela.’
‘Annoy him … how much?’ I asked, glancing at the Pathfinder
officer.
‘A great deal, hopefully,’ Jimmy replied.
Quietly concerned, I returned to my office, and to my real work,
that of building up African GDP. Studying reports, I could see that
the corporation had taken some of my words literally, and had
constructed thirty-six small dams across streams and rivers, aerial
photographs attached. Fishing was becoming something of an
industry. They even had teams at the fish farms releasing fry into the
dammed river sections to boost stocks. On the larger rivers, those
typically used as transport highways, nets were being used to catch
fish stocks and dump them upstream in the dammed sections.
Cotton was now being planted in certain hillside locations, coffee
plants imported and seeded, and the sugarcane acreage was
increasing rapidly with grants from the corporation. East of Gotham
City, a new suburb had been created from five thousand self-
assembly homes, roads improved and free buses provided. Gotham
City was witnessing its first traffic jams.
Gotham City’s zoo was now an attraction in itself and drawing in
a thousand visitors a day, many local schools sending their kids
along on a regular basis. Tourists staying at the lodges, and seeing
animals in the wild, could now view them close up, their children
playing with the young from most every species.
In the north of our region, close to the principle oil fields, a
number of small dams had been constructed many years earlier for
hydroelectric projects. I now insisted that the lakes behind the dams
be populated with fish fry and the locals given access. If the water
was just sat there, we’d make use of it.
The water bottling stats were now staggering, my plastic bottles
filled with spring water and transported all around the arid regions
north of the DRC and Uganda. One report I read seemed a bit
cynical, but made me smile anyway.
 An existing NGO had been encouraging displaced peoples in the
northeast of Uganda to build their own homes, a lengthy process
tackled a few hours a day – when the people were not busy tilling
the fields. Our people had simply driven in hundreds of self-
assembly homes, wood and plastic, and set them up in a day. The
finished homes were handed over, food and water left inside for
their new occupiers. I was sure that the aim was not to show anyone
up, but the NGO in question was not happy. That and the fact that
their government level financial support now came through us.
Our plastic factories now made seats that looked like garden
furniture, shelving units, even tables. Mosquito nets were now being
fashioned from synthetics and handed out around Africa by their
millions. The downside was that they burnt well, and quickly, so
smoking in bed was an issue for the unwary. We now made our own
plastic buckets, and they could be seen everywhere, along with
three-litre containers of banana and tomato concentrate.
In cities of Nairobi, Kigali, Harare, Kinshasa, Dar es Salaam and
Mogadishu, subsidised electric buses could be seen on most routes,
including cross-country routes. America had Greyhound, Britain had
National Express, and Africa now had Central African Buses, our
comfortable electric buses covering journeys of hundreds of miles.
With the 2010 football World Cup in South Africa nearing, we
offered them fifty electric buses and they jumped at the chance,
planning on running the buses free for spectators.
When I mentioned the buses to Jimmy, he said, ‘If a man in a
village can get to a town – and cheaply – then he can work and
support his family.’
Inspired by the oracle, I went straight back to my office and
budgeted an additional sixty million pounds for the smaller versions
of the buses, each costing us thirty thousand pounds new from
China. Our region would see buses reaching the villages, all of them.
And Jimmy’s brother, Steffan, was proving to be a practical man. As
soon as a short section of new track was completed he would order
passenger trains to run back and forth along it, tickets subsidised.
Small stations were created at every town, and I had images of him
creating meticulously detailed models first. When I sent him a joke
email about it, he sent me back an attachment, a photo of a huge
room with a map of central Africa laid out, the train track visible, the
hills and valleys modelled to scale, the mines and roads labelled –
and in great detail by the look of it. I laughed; he had made a scale
model first.
 That week, when I received a copy of the corporation’s income
and reserves, I could see that they were running out of things to
spend money on. We were making so much from the mines and the
oil we couldn’t spend it fast enough. I sat with Jimmy, and we
agreed to boost neighbouring countries. Companies from Uganda,
Rwanda, Burundi, Malawi and Zambia were tasked with more roads
and new rail track, contracts totalling three billion dollars issued.
And they were in US dollars; everything these days was in dollars
around central Africa.
I then tried an idea on Jimmy that I thought was a bit outlandish.
‘How about more people in the economic cooperation group, like a
mini-parliament?’
‘That idea … is about ten years ahead of time. But, since we’ve
moved forwards so many things, we may as well move on it. Create
a large building in Gotham City, a thousand offices, and make a
start.’
That evening, sat on the sofa at home, I doodled designs for the
new building. Shelly sat and peeked at my scribbling, then went off
to draw a picture of her own. Just before her bedtime she showed it
to me on, her drawing covering an A3 sheet of paper, the detail as
amazing as the rest of her drawings. Her design looked a bit like a
cross between the Pentagon building, and Po’s hotel in Hong Kong.
Basically, a sloping Pentagon building with balconies and hanging
gardens.
She pointed. ‘Each room has a window, and the rooms inside all
have balconies for people to sit and have lunch, or to meet outdoors
– because its very warm in Africa. And in the centre is a garden and
fountain for people to walk around. And up on the roof is more
garden and people can walk all the way around.’
I showed Helen, both of us impressed. With Shelly in bed, I
walked over to the house and showed Jimmy the drawing.
‘It’s not far away from the one I would have suggested. Fine, do
it.’
Returning to my house, I opened Shelly’s door and sat on the bed.
‘Jimmy likes your picture, so we’ll make the building in your
design. Well done.’ My daughter was delighted.
The next day I welcomed Rolf into my office, an office that he
had built, and I showed him the picture. ‘You design it, but our
people in the region will build it.’
‘Great detail, but do they actually have kangaroos in Africa,
Paul?’ he asked with a cheeky grin.
 I examined the picture. ‘Ah, well, that was Shelly. And no
penguins either, please.’
With Rolf gone, after a tea and catch-up, I grabbed my
corporation guy and pored over maps of Gotham City and the
surrounding area. We decided to keep the new building away from
tall apartment blocks, since they would dominate it. Given that the
people working in the building would be the more affluent residents
of the city, we decided to position it north of the golf course and not
too far away from Spiral One. There was a natural low in the terrain,
so some of the building would be hidden from the golf course. We
pencilled in new roads, a new park, a lake, a new up-market housing
estate, and a plush new external gym with a car park. We were
happy with the plans and sent them by courier down to Goma.
But then Jimmy cautioned me, ‘Use European administrators,
Germans and Swiss, not too many Africans - or the corruption will
be endemic. Put offices in there for the European Union, for the
Americans, the Chinese and others. Then, when we’re ready,
advertise the top jobs, but allow the nations to vote on them. You’ll
need a transport minister – roads and rail, agriculture minister,
defence, police, refugees. But start with making it all about business
and trade, and expand from there.’
I deliberately hinted to Keely what we were planning, Hardon
Chase on the phone the next day.
‘Paul, are you creating a pan-African parliament?’
Resisting a smile, I said, ‘That’s a long-term goal, and a wish.
First we need to get them cooperating.’
‘But the senior positions at this new building will be pan-
African?’
‘Yes; Transport Minister, Defence Minister, etc.’
‘A common Defence Minister? You … think that’s possible?’
‘Yeah, just a matter of time.’
‘And an economic tie-up?’ Chase risked.
‘That’s a way down the road. We’ll get them co-operating on the
easy stuff first, like a Tourism Minister.’
‘Can I … put a mission in this building?’
‘Sure, more help the better. And I see you’ve moved into the
airfield we set-up for you.’
‘Air transport command have set-up home there,’ Chase
explained. ‘Apparently, the fuel is cheap!’
‘I’ll let you know when the new building is ready,’ I offered.
Jungle war drums

Haiti was winding down, and teams were being withdrawn, although
we’d have a large permanent presence in the country. Crusty
belatedly predicted the quake in Chile, and Rescue Force
collectively said, “What the fuck?” Teams were tasked with a brief
rest in Cuba, re-supply, and a move down to Chile. And many
British teams were now keenly reading their Magestic horoscopes in
the tabloids.
Meanwhile, things on the Colombia border were about to turn
nasty. The Pathfinders had killed many rebels and cleared a large
area of mountainous jungle. As expected, a trickle of fighters had
crossed the border from Venezuela in search of missing comrades,
and duly been ambushed. The Venezuela authorities then accused
the Colombians of being aggressive on the border, whatever the hell
that meant. The Colombians confirmed that they had no soldiers in
the area, and no reports of even so much as a shot being fired. The
bodies of the FARC guerrillas were all being hidden, the evidence
removed, and journalists moving into the area found it all quiet, not
least because the pathfinders had slipped across the border.
When I studied their new position on the map I was concerned;
the international ramifications were huge. Jimmy was as confident
as ever, and hinted at a plan, and not to worry. I went off and
worried about his plans.
Inside the Venezuelan border, the Pathfinders descended towards
an isolated mine, some twenty miles from the nearest town. And this
mine, it was run by a certain Belgian group.
Just before dawn, two days later, an EMP device was made ready,
aimed at the mine buildings and fired. It made no sound, and unless
you saw its coloured lights diminish you wouldn’t even know that it
had fired. As per Jimmy’s instructions, it was smashed up and buried
in the jungle, each device a once-only shot.
In the mine buildings, hungry workers were wondering why the
kettle no longer worked. With all the of the mine’s workers and staff
conveniently grouped, some still in bed, the Pathfinders moved
forwards, secure in the knowledge that a distress call would not be
issued.
Dorms were opened with boots, grenades tossed, 7.62mm rounds
sprayed. Inside of six minutes no workers or managers were left
alive, their attackers dragging off bodies. The mine offered a nice
deep pit at its centre, the bodies now tossed into it. When done, the
Pathfinders grabbed bulldozers from the bowels of the quarry – the
machines still functioning, and covered over the bodies with
hundreds of tonnes of rubble. Those same bulldozers were then
employed to destroy everything of value at the mine. Finally, a
bulldozer dug a hole into the access road, some five hundred yards
from the mine’s main, and only, entrance.
The commander on the ground hid some of his men near that
access road, the rest allowed to shower – warm water available, to
eat the plentiful supplies and get some rest in a bed for a change,
blood stains ignored. That first day of occupation, no visitors came
down the road, and the soldiers were all allowed a good six hours
sleep in rotation, warm beds keenly occupied as other soldiers
returned to duty.
The next morning, a supply truck trundled along the dirt road,
halting at the hole. The driver and his mate jumped down and
inspected the obstacle to their progress, cut down a second later.
With the bodies hidden, the soldiers drove the truck around the hole
as best they could, and keenly re-supplied themselves.
Two hours later, with the day warming up and the morning haze
lifting, a local official drove his jeep towards the mine, checking on
the loss of contact. He and his companion also drew up at the
obstacle and inspected it, cut down and dragged toward shallow
graves. Their jeep was navigated around the hole and into the mine,
gainfully employed to patrol the outer perimeter of the large facility.
As dusk fell over the jungle, signalled by an increase in animal
calls, a two-vehicle police patrol approached. This time, as they
stepped down, two of the officers were isolated and hit with laser
weapons, taking a few seconds to lose their vision. The police
puzzled their colleague’s behaviour, helped them back into the jeeps
and drove away.
Stood listening to the Pathfinder officer relay the detail to us in
the basement, I puzzled the actions as well, Jimmy not being very
forthcoming.
The following morning, as dawn rose over the damp jungle, the
moisture steaming off the vegetation, three police jeeps approached.
But this time they had a man dressed in a chemical suit and
respirator. The local police, for reasons known only to themselves,
suspected a chemical leak as the cause of the blindness – and
whatever fate had befallen the workers at the mine. They halted at
the hole in the road, checked the man’s suit, and watched as he
plodded forwards down the track. Strangely enough, the man failed
to return to them. The police waited for an hour, frustrated, a second
man donning a mask and walking forwards, radio in hand. He also
failed to return, the provincial town police stood scratching their
heads as to what to do next.
Now they had a half-decent idea, and called for an aeroplane
from the nearby strip. The Cessna flew over the mine and reported
no sign of anyone, but a lot of damage; there were no bodies and no
movement. It was all very odd. But not as odd as the Cessna now
corkscrewing down to earth, impacting the jungle nearby and
bursting into flames.
EMP one point, Cessna 172 no points.
Three officers risked the mud of the jungle and fought their way
towards the smoke. The men remaining at the jeeps lost radio
contact, and after an hour decided that retreat was the better course
of action. They turned around and drove off to report the facts.
The following morning, a convoy of the local soldiers approached
the mine, three jeeps and a truck loudly announcing their approach.
The hole in the road had, quiet naturally, filled with water overnight.
The lead jeep assumed that it was a puddle and did not slow down,
soon sinking and hitting the far edge of the hole, its driver and
passenger propelled through the windscreen. The jeep behind hit its
breaks, skidded, and nudged the prone vehicle in front. Men jumped
out, weapons ready, defensive positions taken up, much shouting
disturbing the creatures of the jungle.
Ten minutes later, the officers realised that it was not a trap, and
dragged the jeep out of the water, their men attended for serious
head injuries. Those men were driven out, around the truck. With
thirty armed soldiers to hand, the commander led a patrol forwards.
At the entrance to the mine, the Pathfinders employed the lasers and
blinded six men in alternating positions along the line of the
approaching platoon. And then just waited.
Men screamed, begged for help, and the commander withdrew
his men, now convinced that there was a deadly chemical in the air;
a deadly chemical that was not killing people, just making them
blind somehow. The vehicles turned around and drove off to report
the strange happenings at the mine. The Rifles returned to the huts,
food downed, showers taken, sleep grabbed.
At dawn the next day the distant drone of a heavy helicopter
could be heard through the mist covered jungle canopy, the Rifles
hidden in either the huts or the nearby jungle. Glimpsing an Mi8
helicopter approaching, the EMP was not used. The Mi8 was good
old-fashioned Russian technology, military technology, and
controlled by wires rather than electric servers. It over-flew the
mine, circling many times before finally landing. Soldiers in gas
masks stepped down, waving detectors about for five minutes. They
cautiously stepped forwards and checked the nearby empty offices,
returning to the helicopter.
At this point, the pilot made a mistake; he opened his side
window and peered out through his gas mask. Seeing the
opportunity, a Kenyan sniper fired twice in quick succession, killing
pilot and co-pilot. At the sound of gunfire, the Rifles opened up, the
Venezuelans now caught on the ground or sat in the helicopter’s
doorway being cut down, Kenyans rushing forwards to shoot the
remaining men sheltering inside the helicopter. With the rotors still
whirring, the Pathfinder commander called over two officers
familiar with the Mi8. The Venezuelan bodies were loaded into the
back of the helicopter, pilots and all, the Kenyan officers taking the
blood-spattered controls. Four additional Pathfinders were
positioned in the rear of the helicopter before it lifted off.
Ten minutes later, the residents of the local town peered up
toward a grey sky, to see the Venezuelan Army Mi8 approaching at
around a thousand feet, a common enough sight. But once over the
town, the helicopter started to rain down bodies, the skydivers
slamming into cars, crashing through roofs, or just splattering onto
the tarmac roads. Local residents were now being startled by
uninvited Venezuelan soldiers bursting headfirst through their roofs
and landing on their dining room tables. Panic broke out. Returning
to pass again, the helicopter now at rooftop height, the men in the
back fired down at the streets below, killing and wounding many.
The panic widened.
Two miles short of the mine, the Mi8 put down at a widening of a
crossroads, and was abandoned intact. The soldiers ran back to the
mine as the reports of this incident reached the press in Caracas, and
the country’s President; blindness, rumoured chemicals, the
disappearance of the workers and the police, and now the Army
shooting up a town and dropping bodies from a great height. It was
all very odd, so reinforcements were dispatched, an elite army unit
of some three thousand men.
A team of Pathfinders were now dispatched toward the town with
an EMP. At dusk they stepped off the access road and moved across
country, approaching the town from a high ridgeline. As dawn threw
a grey light over their target they hid themselves in dense
undergrowth and waited, binoculars used to scan the town below,
their satellite phones used for communications. They soon observed
a convoy of green Venezuelan Army trucks pulling up in the main
square, some thirty vehicles in total. The Pathfinders readied the
EMP, hid their own phones behind the ridge, and fired at the town
centre. The device was duly smashed up and buried as activity in the
town below was keenly observed. Venezuelan Soldiers could now
be seen stood around fiddling with radios, or attending trucks that
had stopped, others that would not start. Wheels were being kicked.
For the worried townsfolk, there was the additional strange
occurrence of all TV’s shutting down, radios not working, and the
landline phones were out.
Stood in the basement, Jimmy said to me, ‘No army can move
without communications, not even a mile. Never forget that lesson.’
Back in Venezuela, down in the town, old ladies were observed
crossing themselves and praying; the Bermuda Triangle had
descended on their provincial mining town. The Kenyans on the
ridge packed up and jogged back to the mine through heavy rain. As
they approached their own positions they stopped and lifted green
torches, three green flashes issued, three red flashes returned. They
entered the mine, in need of warm food and dry clothes after giving
their verbal report.
In Caracas, the authorities worried over the loss of contact with
their men. A plane was dispatched from a nearby base, which flew
low over the town and reported the soldiers occupying it as ordered,
just not being very sociable and returning calls to HQ. The
commander on the ground found a motorbike that still worked,
jumped on it and rode through the rain to the next town. Caracas
now got its update, its incredible update. Four Star generals
scratched their heads and shrugged a lot. An advanced EMP weapon
was just about the last thing they may have suspected, even if they
knew what one was. More trucks were dispatched, along with
armoured personnel carriers. By accident, they had made a smart
move, because those personnel carriers were old Russian stock, Cold
War era and designed to be EMP proof. That, and they contained no
delicate circuit boards.
As Rescue Force made ready for the Chilean deployment, ten
armoured personnel carriers belched smoke and trundled into the
mining town. The officers of the elite army unit, and a hundred
soldiers, mounted up and set off towards the mine, the rain clearing
as they progressed.
Laser weapons were created for a specific purpose: blind your
attacker head on, but leave him alive so that several of his colleagues
would carry him off the battlefield. Hit one soldier, but occupy the
time of four soldiers – plus the attending medics. It was like a sniper
shooting an enemy soldier in the leg - it tied up the enemy’s
resources. Now, the lead vehicle noticed the large puddle just as the
driver was robbed of his vision. He hit the brakes and halted, the
convoy behind easing up as he declared his loss of sight over the
radio. The drivers of the other vehicles were also now occupying a
darkened world. Thoughts returned to the rumoured chemical agent,
panic gripping the men.
Brave soldiers jumped out and replaced the drivers. The first
soldier drove forwards, straight into the hole, and got stuck just as he
also lost his sight. Then nothing. No shooting, no further loss of
sight. The carriers were awkwardly turned around, revving and
belching smoke, and headed back the way they came. But now the
puddle in the road ahead of them contained an anti-tank mine. The
first carrier set it off, blown onto its side, a large hole in its belly.
The convoy halted, their path ahead blocked.
The senior officer ordered the men out and to disperse into the
dense green jungle. The men adopted defensive positions, and
waited. The officer scoured the lush green vegetation for any sign of
movement, but found it all quiet apart from tree frogs and distant
animal calls, cursing his unseen enemy. Then he noticed that the
man in front of him seemed slumped. ‘Corporal?’ he whispered. He
advanced and nudged the corporal, getting no response. Turning the
corporal over, he noticed blood from one eye, and no pulse when
tested.
‘I can’t see!’ a man screamed, followed a second later by the
pitiful cry of a second man.
A soldier in front slumped, lifeless. The officer had seen enough.
He got up and ran down the road, a few soldiers following. At the
point at which the officer had set off running he had twenty men on
his heels. As he reached the first bend, puffing and sweating, he
counted just three remaining.
His men had just been experimented upon by the Rifles, the
Kenyans now employing a type of miniature rail-gun, a three inch
long subsonic projectile being accelerated by a tubular magnet. It
was completely silent, very accurate within thirty yards, and had
now been tested with good effect.
The Pathfinders removed the bodies as it started to rain again,
checking the personnel carriers. Each carrier was allocated a driver
and, as the cover of a damp night descended, they were driven to the
Mi8, all neatly parked in row. And left intact.
 In the basement command centre I said, ‘You’re seriously
fucking with their heads.’
‘Warfare is many things, the last resort of the badly organised
being to use brute force. The aim is not to be loud, with puffs of
smoke. The aim … is to achieve your objectives. And right now, no
one will be going near that mine for a while.’
‘For a decade or two!’ I quipped. ‘So what now?’
‘Now we raise our game, and take the gloves off.’
I didn’t like the sound of that.
At the mine, the Pathfinders grabbed a final hot meal and packed
up, moving out towards the nearby town. With the rain offering
them good cover, they made it to the ridge above the town at dawn.
Noticing a group of soldiers at the edge of the urbanisation, stood
near a garage, a team was dispatched. Two out of four Venezuelan
soldiers lost their sight, the others panicking; whatever was at the
mine was now in the town, the news spreading quickly. People
packed up and drove off as the day warmed up.
By dusk, hardly anyone remained in the town, just a few stubborn
individuals who had locked themselves inside their homes. The
Pathfinders slid quietly down into the town. In the main square,
handbrakes were released on abandoned trucks, soldiers now
pushing the trucks down a natural gradient and toward the outskirts.
A mile out of town they halted in a neat line, alternators removed
from backpacks, the truck’s alternators replaced. Twelve out of
fifteen trucks came back to life, the soldiers mounting up. With the
weather acting as a suitable deterrent to nosy observers, they set off
north in a line, headlights blazing.
Before dawn the next day, the convoy turned off the main road
and halted. An innocent lumber crew were in the wrong place at the
wrong time, all shot, their bodies hidden. As night came on, the
weather cooperated with a nasty storm, the trucks again moving
north in convoy.
The Pathfinders commander held up the map of Venezuela and
showed it to his adjutant with a torch. ‘The map of this country, it
looks like a map of Africa. It is a good omen I think.’
They reached their objective before dawn, a sizeable oil refinery
serviced by a rail marshalling yard to the north of it. On an isolated
side road in the next valley they disembarked, the drivers remaining
with their vehicles. The Pathfinders formed up, then split into three
groups. The main force now moved onto the heavily wooded
hillside, the other side of which lay their next objective. That
objective was soon illustrated by the morning’s bright sun, the
Pathfinders peering down a valley at a huge oil refinery, seemingly
millions of silver pipes going in all directions. They opened tins of
meat and settled, sleeping alternately through the day. That day
turned out to be warm and rain free, the men well rested for their
night’s work.
At 11pm they crept quietly forwards, covering a distance of half a
mile, and arrived at a dilapidated old fence that offered little
challenge. They simply pulled down large sections of it and stepped
into the refinery, finding tall silver towers brightly lit with yellow
neon lights, the air full of the clanking sounds of unseen machinery
and distant working trains. One group approach the refineries heart,
its control room and offices, an EMP destined to make its presence
silently felt. Two hundred yards short of a tall office block that
housed the brains of the refinery operation, the EMP was silently
made ready. Men checked their watches. Where possible, the
soldiers ducked behind metal objects, just in case. The EMP
operator aimed, and fired his invisible projectile. The lights went
out, the background clanking ceasing.
An unusual peace gripped the blacked-out refinery, many puzzled
workers wondering why not even their torches were working, let
alone their radios. From the shadows, death stalked closer and
closer. Train drivers suddenly wondered why they couldn’t see,
desperate calls let out to colleagues. Pistols with silencers, covered
in cloth, found their targets at close range, the ring around the
refinery tightening and moving inwards.
Security guards at the main gate fell silently to the ground, their
bodies dragged off, the gates they once manned now locked closed.
In the control room, dozens of managers and technicians bumped
into each other, some using lighters and matches and trying to restart
the huge sleeping monster. Doors opened and dark figures moved,
death delivered after quiet coughs from pistols. Within an hour,
three hundred workers lay dead, even the ladies serving in the
canteen - there would be no witnesses. A withdrawal was signalled
with a flare fired up into the dark night, the red arcing glow
indicating that it was clocking-off time for the Pathfinders. The
withdrawal was made in haste, not least because taps had been
opened on oil storage tanks, fuel now flooding out. Train tanker
carriages had been attended in turn, taps opened.
Fifteen minutes later, stood on the ridge and panting a little, the
commander raised a radio detonator and flicked the switch. The
flash lit the surrounding valley and the low clouds, visible for miles
around. The bang registered a good three seconds later, the refinery
utterly destroyed, the storage tanks ablaze, their angry flames
reaching hundreds of feet into the air. With some urgency, the Rifles
reclaimed their trucks and set off north along main roads without a
care. After all, they appeared to be Venezuelan Army.
The next day Hardon Chase called Jimmy. ‘We’re getting some
strange reports from Venezuela. The people you have hunting down
the FARC –’
‘I may not have mentioned this before, but the President of
Venezuela was behind the attack on me in New York.’
‘He was? Directly?’
‘Yes. So … payback is what, I think, you Yanks call it.’
‘That oil refinery?’
‘May have been visited by the Kenyan Rifles.’
‘Jesus. And they’re claiming a chemical agent was used further
south?’
‘No, but advanced technology was employed.’
‘How … advanced?’ Chase asked.
‘Ten or twenty years ahead of what your boys have to play with.
But don’t worry, I’ll brief your guys on it after this … advanced
field test.’
‘And if the soldiers are caught?’
‘There would be a bloodbath. But they won’t, hopefully. Keep
your eye on Puerto Cabello tomorrow night.’
In Venezuela, the Pathfinders brazenly drove north along main
roads, plenty of fuel found aboard their trucks when they had been
pinched. As night fell the heavens cooperated, opening with a
torrential downpour. They pulled into an isolated petrol station. The
garage’s bored night staff were surprised to see black soldiers
walking in, even more surprised when pistols were levelled at them.
The trucks refuelled in turn, the contents of the garage shop pilfered
and handed out. The last soldier, waited on by the last truck, placed
a charge on the lid of the underground petrol reservoir - and ran like
hell. The trucks pulled away to the bright incendiary flash of what
was left in the reservoir.
Driving all day, the convoy approached the industrial outskirts of
Puerto Cabello as an amber sun disappeared behind the western
horizon. The commander checked his watch. ‘If they’re on time, we
have five minutes. Slow down.’
Outside of the port, a ship manoeuvred slowly towards the outer
breakwater, the harbour pilot that had been put aboard it now quite
dead and hidden below. At the mouth of the harbour, and facing an
horizon of twinkling lights, the ship came to a halt and began to
slowly reverse. Below decks, special generators built up a charge. At
the ship’s bow, three powerful EMP weapons sat ready, each
looking like a stubby cannon. Lead screens were now hastily erected
behind them to protect the ship’s own delicate systems. The crew
stepped back when ready.
With the EMP’s charged to maximum capacity, the ship’s captain
shut down all of his own electronics, circuit breakers pulled. That
left just one live switch, which he now threw. Nothing happened for
a second or two, nothing visible, no sound. But then he could see the
lights fading on the shore, the dark night claiming the town, tall
buildings turning from beacons of light to dark shadows on the
horizon.
The pathfinders commander lowered his watch and observed the
fading of the flickering lights on the horizon, those houses nearby
unaffected. ‘Could have been a long walk. OK, speed up.’
In the port, the ship manoeuvred itself very slowly to the berth it
desired; the Pathfinders had just twenty minutes before it left.
Aboard the trucks, the soldiers made ready for the final phase.
Charges were made ready, C4 and plastique, timers attached. As
they entered the darkened city they turned west, aiming to avoid the
city centre, not least because of the gridlock that now blocked its
streets.
Passing a petrol station, the commander lifted his radio. ‘Last
truck, hit the petrol station.’
Driving on, the trucks bright headlights were just about the only
illumination on the dark streets, perplexed motorists now stood next
to their vehicles, or giving up and walking home. The incendiary
light from the burning petrol station illuminated that walk home, but
did nothing to reassure nervous pedestrians. With the road junction
ahead blocked, the lead lorry slowed, nudged a car and floored it,
pushing the car aside and continuing without collecting the other
driver’s insurance details. Further vehicles had to be nudged aside as
the convoy approached the port gates.
The commander lifted his radio. ‘Port gates ahead, get ready.’
The men in the back cut holes into the tarpaulin sides, weapons
made ready. At the gates, two police officers stood on duty, brightly
illuminated by the truck’s headlights, but then distracted by a distant
explosion. They jumped clear of the trucks, which were not slowing,
shot dead a second later by the soldiers in the back, their glass
control room showered with rounds. Up ahead, the lead vehicle
could see a ship at berth, three green lights displayed on its bridge. It
wasn’t so much that it displayed the right code, in so much as it was
the only ship with any lights working at all. The trucks halted, the
soldiers jumping down and rushing for the gangplank, welcomed
aboard by Kenyan Rifles posing as sailors.
With the gangplank raised, the ship pulled away unopposed, not
so much as a rubber boat in the harbour with an engine that worked,
no phones and no radios functioning. In almost total darkness, they
set sail for nearby Haiti, where they would blend into the rest of the
Rifles. At the harbour mouth their trucks blew, illuminating the
dockside.
In Caracas, meanwhile, a truck trundled along and halted on a hill
overlooking the small and congested city. Its driver jumped out and
checked what his rear was pointed towards, making a face and
shrugging; how the hell was he supposed to aim this damn thing? A
second lorry pulled in ahead of him, halting some ten yards in front.
The driver mounted up, glanced at his colleague, then threw a
switch. Nothing happened, so he threw it again. They leaned out of
the windows and craned their necks around, finding the city now in
darkness. In the Palace, the President cursed, wondering why he was
sat in the dark, his desk phone not working. He soon found that his
lighter was the most advanced piece of technology to hand that still
worked. The second lorry ran a chain to the first, that vehicle’s own
electronics now quiet dead, and towed it away.
In Puerto Cabello the CIA observation team dispatched by the
White House sat in the dark, candles now lit. ‘Was that an EMP
weapon?’
‘Houses on the hills have lights on,’ a man at a window reported.
‘And there’s a ship leaving port with its lights on.’
‘My phone is dead, the landline’s dead, and my fucking watch
has stopped!’
‘It was. Fuck me, that was an EMP blast.’
‘Yeah, well any fucker with a pacemaker will have bought it.’
‘How do we report it?’
The senior man stood. ‘We start walking, looking for a few
horses. That mode of transport is not affected by EMPs!’
In Caracas, the US Embassy would have reported the blackout –
if it could. Not a damn thing worked, the staff sat in the dark.
Chase was on the phone an hour later, the middle of the night in
the UK. ‘Jimmy, you blacked out that port! And the whole of
fucking Caracas! We can’t raise our embassy.’
‘Pay careful attention, Mister President, because you’ve got less
than five years before a bunch of college kids do that to New York.’
 ‘Tomorrow morning I’m kicking some butt. We should be more
prepared for an attack like this on us.’
‘I have detectors and defensive systems, I’ll send them to you
soon.’
‘Jimmy, the cost to the Caracas?’
‘I’m in a war, Mister Chase, a fight to the finish. Keep that in
mind, because I have no problem with cutting off a hand to save an
arm. Numbers on a page, detail in a column. And when you consider
how many will die in the years ahead, then it’s better I’m here, than
dead at the hands of a tin pot dictator. Goodnight.’
When Jimmy told me what he had done I was staggered. ‘You hit
a city … with an EMP blast?’
‘Two cities,’ he corrected me. ‘And the death toll in Venezuela is
around a thousand. But no one will be investigating the deaths
anytime soon, they have … other things to worry about.’
‘Like no communications, no phones, no computers working!’
‘You know why I used the EMPs?’ he posed.
‘Mass panic, but no casualties?’
‘No, because the damage done will be assessed by the world, who
will then wish to be EMP proof in the future. That could have been a
long hard process. I mean, how do you persuade people that EMPs
are dangerous?’
‘Two birds with one stone. But … shit!’
‘Indeed.’
‘So how long before the electronics come back to life?’ I asked.
‘Landline phones and basic household electricity return after a
day, mobiles and computers are shot permanently.’
‘There were probably a million mobiles in Caracas,’ I thought out
loud. ‘They’ll need to buy some more.’
‘And desk calculators, wall clocks, car radios, fridge regulators,
oven timers, a light aircraft or two. The main airport is outside the
city, unaffected, and I tampered with hospital electricity so that
they’d switch to generator before the EMP hit. I’m not all bad.’
The next day I was up early to check the news, finding just a
throwaway line about Caracas suffering power outages. And that
was it. Haiti still dominated the news, and now the Chilean
deployment was attracting attention, not least from the residents of
the target area. They were moving out in their thousands, the news
now split between Haiti and Chile, our rescuers filmed landing.
I scoured Reuters, finding little, then Googled the story. I guessed
the lack of a story was the lack of working computers in the Caracas.
But a day later the story was posted on a few blogs on the web
versions of various American news agencies, including our own,
citing the strange power outage in two cities at the same time. One
theory was an atmospheric disturbance.
‘Atmospheric disturbance?’ I repeated. ‘What the fuck are you
on, people?’
I Googled “Venezuela refinery fire” and found a story in English,
eventually, reports now of a terror attack by guerrillas, since the
bodies had gunshot wounds. It also ran the story of the strange
happenings at the mine in the southwest, suggesting a biological
agent had been used. So far, no one had a clue what had really
happened and this story was not making it to the mainstream TV
minutes.
Jimmy then volunteered a few details that had a bearing. The
Pathfinders had killed the FARC on their way to Venezuela, even
carrying several severed hands across the border with them. FARC
paperwork, radios and rifles, had all been transported, and dropped
were they’d be found; the only available clues to the police would
point towards the FARC. I should have figured that. Two birds with
one stone? This was more like four.
The Chilean quake struck, and the world’s media turned that way,
Jimmy quite crafty in his timing of the attack on Venezuela. But one
story did catch my attention, that of the Venezuelan President
blaming Colombian soldiers and their imperial ally the Americans
for the refinery attack. Guess they had not found the evidence, or
simply didn’t believe it.
Two days later, a few western commentators put two and two
together and concluded that an EMP weapon had been used.
Problem was, none of the world’s armies had one, not even the
Americans. The story did not make it to the main news, but it
grabbed a few column inches in various papers, the Venezuelans
now threatening war with Colombia and moving soldiers towards
the border, whilst suggesting that the Colombians had paid their own
archenemies, the FARC, to attack Venezuela. I had to wonder about
the their ability to join the dots.
Sykes popped in whilst Jimmy was out, a file in hand offering a
damage assessment of Venezuela, his people costing the damage to
the two cities at a billion dollars a piece and rising. The economic
hardships were causing unrest in Caracas – not so much as a fridge
working, and it turned out that the government and local councils
there did not make as many backups of their computer systems as
they probably should have. The law courts lost all cases, the police
lost its national database, and the new Citizen’s Security Database
was wiped. Some elements of the police were now suggesting that
an organised criminal gang was behind it. All in all, life in Caracas
would be seriously hampered for an estimated ten years, the streets
still blocked with cars that would not start.
‘The powers are in a flap,’ Sykes told me. ‘If this technology was
used here … it’d be a disaster. We have bank backups in secure and
protected facilities, but the fact is … we’re not ready.’
‘That was one of the reasons behind the demonstration. You’ve
got five years, so be happy.’
‘Those three hundred soldiers went through Venezuela like
ghosts - a frightening capability. And some of the weapons they
used … our boffins are struggling to come to terms with them.’
‘Jimmy suggested that - unless changed - an EMP would knock
out Frankfurt in ten years.’
‘His hand held devices seem to have a range of about five
hundred yards, so I don’t know what use they are on the battlefield.’
‘You need to sneak up and hit a building with them, so they’re
only for specialist use. According to Jimmy, you can’t mount them
on a plane, or use them at sea during a war. Their main use is against
small countries. He thinks the Americans may strike Iran in the
future, so he’ll use the EMPs to blind the Iranians first.’
‘In the hands of terrorists, they’d be a great threat. So we’re
making plans … and flapping a lot. The Israelis were utterly terrified
when they saw what they could do.’
‘If we give the Israelis one they’ll test it on Gaza. Be no TV that
night!’
Jimmy arrived back, just as a convoy pulled in, a collection of
American Generals and Admirals.
I exchanged a look with Sykes as our unhappy visitors
approached. To the visitors I said, ‘Did the nice man in the White
house send you here with his toe up your arse?’
‘Something like that,’ the first man grumbled.
Jimmy led us all to a lounge, drinks organised, an operational
post mortem started. Fortunately, he handed over early on the A-Z of
EMP defensive systems.
The Admiral asked, ‘If that ship had sailed up to New York, what
would have happened?’
‘The good thing about New York, is tall skyscrapers made of
steel. That helps. Buildings also block the pulse, sheltering the ones
behind. So you’d have seen damage on one side of the island and not
the other. And, like London, your banks have basement storage, for
fire and theft as much as anything. So records would not have been
lost as badly as in Caracas. But most mobile phones would have
stopped, watches, basically anything with a circuit board in it.’
‘Is there a defence?’ they asked.
‘Not one that would be a hundred percent effective. You can help
to protect a building, like this house – which is EMP proof, and set-
up early warning systems, but that early warning is just a few
seconds. It’s all in the file.’
‘And the other advanced weapons used?’ they nudged.
‘Blinding laser weapon and miniature rail-guns.’
‘Blinding laser weapons are outlawed,’ they pointed out.
‘I don’t think the world’s terrorists got that memo,’ Jimmy
countered.
‘And the rail-gun?’
‘A miniature; a subsonic projectile designed for Special Forces -
as silent as you can get. I’ll have a few of each delivered to you.’
‘And you developed the technology … where?’ a general probed.
‘Can’t say,’ Jimmy said with a cold smile. ‘But I’ll give you a
clue: in the same place as much of the other advanced technology
and weapons that I’m developing – that you don’t yet know about.’
They glanced at each other. The same man said, ‘In the wrong
hands, EMPs could take out New York, or a major US city.’
‘It’s not in the wrong hands, it’s in my hands.’
‘And the Russians and Chinese?’
‘Will have the very same file as you on defensive measures. And,
the first use of it will be in New York in five years, when a bunch of
college kids bring down the Stock Exchange.’
‘And the other weapons that you’re working on?’ they nudged.
‘You’ll be made aware of them at the right time. And before then
I won’t be putting them in your arsenal, just in case I don’t get along
with the next incumbent. But I will give you a clue. Future
problems, terrorist and military, look more like EMPs than dropping
conventional bombs. You need to think outside of the box,
gentlemen. And whilst you’re doing that, I’ll develop the defences
and countermeasures ready … for when you’ve stopped thinking.
‘And, thinking on, you and I will cooperate on using EMPs
against small countries in the years ahead. A kind of … humane way
to fuck-over a country. I’ve even shipped one to Afghanistan, and as
we speak the electronics in Kandahar are dying, denying them their
communications. You see, gentlemen, there are more ways to stop
someone in their tracks than bombing the hell out of them.’
‘Could an EMP pulse device be fitted to a plane?’
‘Only if you don’t like the pilot and crew,’ Jimmy quipped.
 ‘Could one be dropped like a bomb?’
Jimmy smiled widely and pointed at the man. ‘In large numbers,
in 2025, denying the terrorists their communications.’
They glanced at each other, and made notes.
‘And the battlefield application?’
‘Against an enemy that’s prepared … modest at best. You could
fire at a valley ahead of you, knocking out their comms over a
distance of a mile or two, then advance your soldiers. Best dropped
from a plane and fired-off at five thousand feet, hitting an area a
mile or two wide. Remember, they work best through air, not
through buildings or trees, something that your predecessors knew
all about at the height of the cold war. Problem is, you’ve hardened
your tanks against EMPs, but not your New York skyscrapers –
which will be the target.’
‘How’s your embassy in Kinshasa?’ I asked them.
‘Everything went off for half an hour, then came back,’ a general
informed me. He faced Jimmy, ‘Why can’t that technology put on a
plane?’
‘You could only use it if your own troops were not close by, so it
would be no good where the fighting was concentrated. And you
would not use a pulse weapon from an aircraft platform, you would
use an alternating frequency device. And you’re missing something.
Aircraft … EMP devices to jam … other electronics?’
‘Jam another aircraft?’
Jimmy made a face. ‘You’d have to be close enough to see it, so
you would have loosed off a missile well before that time. Come on,
thinking caps on.’ He waited. ‘Countermeasures?’
‘Jam an incoming missile?’
‘You win a cookie. The technology jams anything with a circuit
board, including a missile, which would then fly off course.’
They keenly made notes.
‘So, if an F14 is sending that signal out its rear, no missile could
hit,’ an Air Force general speculated.
‘Correct, but his wingman might have something to say about it.
Think … terrorist.’
‘Placed on a commercial airliner?’ the same man puzzled.
‘Yes. If the airliner is locked on, then the EMP frequency device
switches on for five seconds. Then, not locked on. And, with a
limited range, it won’t screw up nearby air traffic control or other
aircraft.’
‘But the next generation of jets could EMP toward a missile?’
 ‘Until such time as those making the missiles make them EMP
proof. You’ll then develop a stronger pulse, and they’ll have to go
back to the drawing board. At the end of it, the jet’s
countermeasures are stronger than the missile’s EMP shield could
ever be. Such EMP countermeasures will remove flares and chaff on
fighters, but you’ll remain vulnerable to ground controlled missiles,
or those fired front on. Anyway, in a few weeks we’ll all pop over to
Israel and test fire a few devices. Fix a date for after the parades.’
‘Parades?’ they asked.
‘Returning Rescue Force heroes,’ Jimmy proudly explained.
An hour later we waved goodbye to our guests, a long way to
come for a short visit.
‘I like Chase,’ Jimmy oddly stated as we turned back in.
‘Why?’
‘Because he sent that lot over, and next week he’ll have EMP
defences set-up. Can’t argue with that. Problem will be the Israelis.’
‘They’ll use the technology.’
‘A minute after I ask them not to,’ Jimmy said with a sigh.
‘So where we holding the parades?’
‘I thought Rome for the Euro teams, Hong Kong for the Far East
teams, Gotham City for the Africans, Cuba for the Americas.’
‘Together or split?’ I asked.
‘We’ll attend them all together; Rome, Goma, Hong Kong then
Cuba.’
Michelle appeared in the office doorway. ‘Moment,’ she asked
and we followed her to the corridor. ‘Six Belgian mine managers
have been arrested in Africa, on bribery and corruption charges.’
Jimmy told me, ‘They work for the company behind the attempt
on me.’
Michelle added, ‘Also, three men arrested on terrorists charges in
France. They have made confessions, admitting the attempt to kill
you, and that Venezuela and Belgium were involved. It will make
the news in hours.’ She walked off.
‘Good job I bet the downside of their stock,’ Jimmy commented.
‘That an end to it?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘That spider has many legs.’
‘Will the Venezuelans figure out the attack?’
‘They will if I tell them,’ Jimmy said before he walked back into
the office.
A week later, a Russian delegation visited Venezuela and offered
a much-needed loan, and signed a joint venture oil deal at the same
time. They also expressed their concern at the evidence of
Venezuelan involvement in the attempt on Jimmy, gently suggesting
that it may have an affect on future relations. The Venezuelan
President had received a gentle slap on the wrist by the Russians, but
a loud message from Jimmy, the Russians hinting that he was behind
the attack.
I found that foolish of Jimmy, since I figured the Venezuelans
wouldn’t learn any lesson, and would probably attack us further. I
was being naïve again; that was exactly what Jimmy wanted, and
had planned for.
We packed our bags and flew to Rome a week later, the weather
good for a parade as most European leaders gathered, a drive-by and
fly-by arranged, all European teams partaking. It was good to be
popular for a change, and everywhere we went we were applauded
and thanked.
After three days in Rome we flew down to Goma hub, meeting
all of the African leaders, most of whom were booked into the golf
hotel and enjoying the course. And here we couldn’t have been more
popular. Some three thousand African rescuers paraded down the
main avenue, watched and waved at by deep crowds, a meeting of
African leaders held later in the conference centre.
One of our own 747s flew our party directly to Hong Kong –
which included Doc Graham and Bob Davies, another parade and
another reception. But we did, at least, get a few relaxing days at
Po’s hotel. We ferried a few of the Hawaiian team home, refuelling
in Honolulu before flying direct to Havana, our hotel booking
having been made before we left for Rome. The Cubans had planned
on a large parade, and Jimmy had planned on the Venezuelan
intelligence services making an attempt on us. As our plane touched
down, a boutique hotel – the one we were booked into, exploded,
three senior Venezuelan agents killed by their own bomb.
Jimmy had just put Caracas on a collision course with the Cuban
authorities, a dozen Cubans killed at the hotel, including police
officers. And somehow, Jimmy had caused the Venezuelan’s timer
to go off as soon as the bomb was being made live.
For the benefit of the parade, the Cubans hid the incident, moving
us to another hotel. The parade went off without a hitch, and we flew
over to Haiti a day later, a scheduled meet with the Haitian President
and his team. Unfortunately for the man, Jimmy wanted him and his
corrupt cronies gone; they were already stealing aid money. Two
Venezuelan agents, back-up to the Havana bombing, had been
picked up by PACT agents in a boat off Cuba. Drugged, the men
now sat in a car in Port-au-Prince. As the President’s vehicle passed
nearby, a second car blew, killing the President, a second device
roasting the two Venezuelan agents, but not their ID cards.
The news was not good for Caracas, Havana now livid, the US
and UN investigating. And the media got all the facts, the details of
the attack in Havana leaked. Ignoring the bombing, we toured many
of the tented cities, and met the rescuers stationed in Haiti for the
long term, before flying off towards London.
Jimmy said, ‘The wedge between Caracas and Cuba was
necessary. It wasn’t quite planned that way, I had to adjust a few
things, but … I’m a few years ahead of schedule.’
‘A tick in the box?’ I asked.
Jimmy nodded. ‘One more off a long list.’

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