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INTRODUCTION
A.D. 1947
A CHALET IN SWITZERLAND
The ‘Thermes campaign’
The banker was a careful man. All his life his father had taught him to be careful.
“Especially when it comes to money...and even more so when it comes to other people’s
money!” he recalled his father saying on more than one occasion.
If only he was alive he would be able to tell him what to do.
He imagined he could hear his father saying to him“There's no room for a conscience in our
business. The balance sheet is all that matters”.
The problem was that the plan the banker had heard sounded dangerous for mankind.
Catastrophic even.
In the end the deciding factor for the banker was all the money to be made. After all, the
banker liked having lots of money. He’d had lots of money all his life and he wanted his
children and grandchildren to share the same thing. Lots of money. Going ahead with the
miners plan would assure his descendants lots of money.
Nobody liked being poor.
Everyone knew that.
As he did after all his secret meetings, the banker wrote down in his secret diary all that he
could remember of the meeting from earlier that day.
He thought back to the meeting they had had in the dining room of his holiday chalet high up
in the Swiss Alps. In the interests of security, the windows had been closed and the curtains
drawn after they had finished lunch. The air had been thick with the cigarettes that were being
chain smoked by all except the banker.
There had been five of them present. Apart from himself, there was the South African head of
a family owned mining corporation, an Arab oil Sheik and two representatives from the
Intelligence Agencies 'Special Operations Executive’…
“Due to another very successful world war and at the current rate of consumption, in the next
hundred years the world will run out of minerals” the head of the family owned multinational
mining corporation said.
“So what are we going to do? Go mining on the moon?” the Swiss banker joked. He was
thinking that a hundred years was far from now.
“Big fucking joke isn’t it!” the South African miner shouted at the banker with unexpected
violence.
“Remember this you fat fuck, when the mining and the development stops, banks stop. No
more interest coming in from development, no more reason for banks. I’m sure as fuck not
going to leave my money with you when that happens”
The Swiss banker fell silent. He knew this to be true.
“But no need to worry,” the miner continued in a calm voice “I’ve found the solution to keep
us rich for the next few generations, but we’re going to have to start working on it now”.
“What is your solution?” the Arab Sheikh asked calmly taking a sip of tea.
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“Antarctica” the miner replied.
“Place is just about as inhospitable as the moon” the miner said giving the banker a dirty
look, “It’s at the bottom of the world for a start, with zero infrastructure and thousands of
miles of sea to the nearest port and supplies. These are minor problems though that we can
easily overcome with enough money. The main problem is the ice. In places it’s a couple of
miles thick. Been speaking to my boys and they reckon there’s no way you can mine through
that much ice. Not safely anyhow. You’re going to lose a lot of men and machines down there.
Not that that’s a problem, but it is going to be expensive. Damn widows and orphans are
always expensive.”
The miner paused to light a cigarette.
After slowly taking a drag on his cigarette and menacingly blowing the smoke towards the
banker, he continued, “Breaking the ice up and removing it is only one of the problems.
There’s a list as long as my arm of technical problems associated with mining through ice
like machines freezing up in the winter, ice melt in the summer flooding the site and machines
getting stuck in slush. Then there are crevasses hundreds of metres deep.
Lots of problems with mining through ice, especially in a place at the bottom of the world
where the difference in seasons is extreme”.
“So what are you suggesting” the Sheikh asked taking another sip of tea.
“Rather simple really. We melt the ice. Mining in a desert is much easier than mining in a
place that has a lot of ice or rainfall” the miner replied.
“And how do we melt the ice?” the Sheikh asked.
“We turn up the heat of the world. You see the world is like a greenhouse. If we turn up the
heat then the ice covering Antarctica will melt in a hundred or so years and our children and
grandchildren can go in and mine and make lots and lots of money. We must just make damn
sure that anyone who would be opposed to us is in our pocket by then. In the meantime we
can make lots and lots of money from heating up the earth. A win win situation for us and our
kids” the miner said.
“How do we turn up the heat?” the Sheikh asked.
“We’re working on that” the miner replied.
“Care to elaborate?” the Sheikh asked raising an eyebrow.
“It would be a multi-faceted plan. Some of my people have found a substance that destroys
ozone. Destroying ozone will allow more of the sun’s rays to come in and help us to heat up
the earth. If we can destroy enough ozone and let enough sunlight in, it shouldn’t take more
than a hundred years to melt the ice covering Antarctica. We’ll need some other help too but
destroying the ozone would be the main thing. Problem is getting enough of this CFC into the
atmosphere. To produce it and release it ourselves in sufficient quantities, would bankrupt
us”
“So what are we to do?” the Sheikh asked.
“If we can get enough people to buy products that contain CFCs like fridges and other
pressurised containers containing things like perfume, then we can earn money while melting
the ice and kill two birds with one stone. One of my subsidiaries has been having a lot of
success through marketing diamonds in Japan. Advertising costs a lot of money, but you can
make a lot of money from it too. Seems the average person the world over is quite susceptible
to adverts and the like. Of course if we can sell more cars and get more people using oil, then
our esteemed friend the Sheikh here can earn himself even more money while melting more of
the ice as the fumes from oil are also good at warming the earth up”
“What do you need from us?” the Sheikh asked.
“Your backing. Your support. I can’t do this alone. We will need to work together on this. For
a start the newly formed world banks must be told to invest their money in projects that will
heat up the earth. They will only do this with instructions from the Sheikh and people like
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myself who own all the capital. If the Sheikh can speak to the other oil producers, I will speak
to the other miners and make sure that they insist on their banks investing their money in this
way. In turn their banks can put pressure on the World Banks”
“What ‘other’help will we need?” the Sheikh asked replacing his tea cup on its saucer.
“As I said in the beginning this is a multifaceted plan” the miner replied, stubbing his
cigarette out.
“I’ve got engineers working on chemicals that will speed up the destruction of ozone, but
we’re going to need to tackle this from a variety of angles.
You see Antarctica is a big continent. About 9 000 000 square miles to be precise of which
98% is covered by ice that averages at least a mile in thickness. To put that in perspective
Table Mountain is only 2/3rds of a mile high. To melt it all is going to take a number of
years”
“So what else are you suggesting?” the Sheikh asked.
“It needs to be understood that no one policy will work on its own” the miner replied.
“Go on” the Sheikh said.
“We’re going to need different tactics in developed versus developing countries” the miner
said.
“For a start in developed countries we need to promote urbanisation. Basically concrete
traps heat. The boffins call it urban heat island. More people in cities also means more coal-
fired power plants buying coal from me and generating more heat. We need to get people out
of the countryside and into cities. Because of the War many people are already flocking to the
cities for work. We need to come up with policies which can promote this” the miner said.
“Government policies are the bankers realm. What else can we do?” the Sheikh asked.
“We need people to make regular bushfires in developed countries” the miner replied.
“So far we’ve identified two places with high fuel loads and hot dry conditions conducive to
runaway bush fires, namely California and Australia. Regular fires will generate heat and
alter the structure of the vegetation promoting drier conditions and in turn help with heating
the world up”
“What do you propose for developing countries?” the Sheikh asked
“In developing countries we can take a more heavy-handed approach” the miner replied.
“What exactly does that mean?” the Sheikh asked.
“Desertification” The miner replied.
“Yes?” the Sheikh asked raising an eyebrow.
“We have two policies at present for promoting desertification. Experience in mining the
skeleton coast in southern Africa has shown us that our mining activities there are
accelerating desertification. You see mining firstly destroys existing vegetation. It also alters
the soil structure, making it difficult if not impossible for plants to regrow once we’ve finished
mining. No plants means the land can’t absorb and keep moisture, which in turn reduces
rainfall and dries the land out more”.
“What else do you propose for developing countries?” the Sheikh asked.
“The second policy is slash and burn agricultural practices, which generate heat from the
fires and also promotes desertification. If slash and burn is carried out in areas like South
America and Africa where the soils are nutrient poor the vegetation can never really recover,
reducing rainfall and promoting desertification. The Sahel which borders the Sahara desert is
particularly well suited for this” the miner said.
“What specifically do you need from us now?” the Sheikh asked.
“We need people to clandestinely start bush fires in developed countries like the USA and
Australia and others to promote slash and burn among the local populations in developing
countries in South America, Africa and Asia” the miner replied.
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“Perhaps our friends from the Special Operations Executive can help there?” the Sheikh
said. “I’ve heard that their masters no longer have a need for them now that the War has
ended. They have an extensive network around the world and many operatives who would be
ideally suited for this type of work, especially among their new found comrades among the
criminal underworld. What do you think John?” the Sheikh asked aloud.
John stepped forward. Up until now he had been silently listening to the men’s conversation.
“Yes we can do that. What about funding?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that. As much as you want” the Sheikh replied.
“Then yes it can be done” John said.
The meeting broke up shortly afterwards but the banker stayed up late that night writing in
his diary.
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CHAPTER
1
LONDON
JUNE 2014
“It didn’t happen” the short but thickset brute of a man known as Pete or ‘fat Pete’ behind his
back said in a hushed tone to his little companion. In a reflex action of a lifetime spent
looking over his shoulder, Pete glanced around him as he spoke to check that no one was
interested in them or their conversation.
It was unlikely that anyone would be interested in them as they were standing on a gravel
walkway near a pond in Hyde Park in the quite time before London came fully awake. A light
mist hung in the cold and silent early morning light concealing them from casual observers.
Ideal circumstances for a meeting of this nature.
“What none of it?” his slight companion asked.
“Yup that’s right. Never happened…none of it! You clear on that!” the powerful man said in
his cockney accent while stepping menacingly close to the little man.
An odour of stale tobacco and whisky assaulted the little man’s nose, wrinkling it ever so
slightly in revulsion.
“Whose there to know anyway?” Pete continued, leaning back and giving a contemptuous
laugh.
“The peasants? They cant even remember how fucked up they are! Got to write a list when
they go shopping cos they cant fucking remember what they’re supposed to buy. Then they
fucking forget the list at home! Cunts! And they think nothings wrong! More and more of em
don’t know whether they’re Arthur or fucking Marthur and they think that’s normal too… so
who the fuck cares anyway? Let em all get sick and die from cancer, Alzheimers, whatever the
fuck they want…so what if women’s tits fall off or men wear dresses or cant get their peckers
to stand up. I’m alright! I can buy whatever I want including young girls with nice tits, and so
can you you cunt! So fuck em and fuck you if you’re thinking of doing something about it....”
Pete swiftly grabbed the little man by the shirt collar, peering straight into his eyes from only
centimetres away…
“I’ll gut you like the little fucked up piggy you are and strangle you with your own guts...what
we do puts the bread on the table and pays for all your kinky stuff, so don’t get all fucking
sanctimonious with me you cunt, cos I’ll have you…” the brute said clenching his fists tighter
in the little man’s shirt collar while his spit speckled the little man’s face and glasses.
Pete slowly pressed his forehead against the top of the little man’s forehead, and then started
rubbing his forehead to and fro across the little man’s forehead. The little man could feel
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from the pressure on his forehead that he would have a bruise there later. There were always
bruises after such a confrontation. Bruises on him. Never on his master.
If it had been the first time the little man had been grabbed and threatened in this
violent manner, his bladder would have voluntarily opened and left a puddle of urine at his
feet. He was however starting to get used to it, so he could at least control his bladder now.
He had no doubt that one-day his master would kill him. Violently. Slowly and brutally.
It was at times like these that the little man had to remind himself that he did what he did for
the money. The money and the fact that there was no 'retiring' from this line of work. Lately
the little man had been having misgivings about his work which Pete seemed to have picked
up on. After a lifetime doing this kind of thing Pete had developed a sixth sense which was
rarely wrong and that he always acted on. The few times Pete had been wrong he hadn’t lost
any sleep over as he didn’t have a conscience or perception of right and wrong. The world
was just one big grey area to Pete.
Unlike many of the people he worked with in the STATISTICIANS that enjoyed raping,
torturing and murdering men, women and children, the little man had no stomach for ‘wet
work’. While he was very good at killing, the little man didn’t enjoy it and only did it when
absolutely necessary. Preferably with a weapon that would ensure he didn’t get his hands
dirty. Experience had shown the little man that his boss Pete enjoyed killing people and often
ended up covered in his victims blood while making them suffer for as long as possible
before finally 'putting them down' and ending their misery. Anything to hand was a potential
murder weapon for Pete, but Pete didn’t need a weapon to murder someone and could
competently use his bare hands for the job.
Pete took his work seriously and as such was the right man for the job. Pete who was
past his prime was the head or ‘Director’ of the Murder Department of the STATISTICIANS,
a department he had spent a lifetime working for. The STATISTICIANS were an Ultra secret
or 'black project’ created without government sanction shortly after the end of World War II
as once the War ended so too did the purpose of existence of large scale Intelligence
Agencies. Some of those in positions of power within the Intelligence community saw a need
for a 'purpose' to justify their continuation. This 'purpose' began with the STATISTICIANS. A
self-funded autonomous group that was completely self-sufficient, the STATISTICIANS
were formed after a silent coup that saw the elimination of Intelligence Agency leaders
around the world who were seen as ‘soft’ and who would have been opposed to the formation
of the STATISTICIANS.
The mandate of the STATISTICIANS was to ‘maintain statistics’. Doing whatever
was necessary in order to justify the continuation of large-scale Intelligence activities. Crime
was their origin and speciality. Murder. Robbery. Rape. Arson. The members of the
STATISTICIANS were specialists in what they did, specialising in a particular murder
weapon or method of operation they made use of all the traditional weapons from guns,
knives and poison to newer ones including cars, boats and planes, gangsters, terrorists and
even suicide through the careful manipulation of people’s lives combined with the addition of
certain exotic chemical substances that attacked and decayed the nervous system. Complex
chain reactions with inevitable outcomes.
Due to some of their rather unique methods of operation the police often mistakenly called
them 'serial' murderers and 'serial' rapists believing that they were chasing an individual nut
case and not a nut case backed up by a highly structured and efficient organisation. If there is
a statistic for it, the STATISTICIANS have a department of men and women performing
those acts.
With departments and agents operating from every major city in the world, no one is safe
from them. To preserve their identity and existence, targets are generally chosen at random
although there are 'triggers' that set some of these 'serial' offenders off. Triggers that are as
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unique as the agents that respond to them. Triggers that include women wearing short skirts.
Effeminate men. Homosexuals. Asians. Blacks. Whites. Old people. Children. Somebody
walking their dog and not picking up the shit when their dog has a crap.
Anything can trigger them off.
To protect its agents, they are regularly moved to prevent any chance of their being
detected. With set 'quotas' to fulfil, they travel the world often posing as businessmen or
tourists some as couples and others with real families as cover, in order to conduct their trade.
With a large logistical support team they are provided with 'operating expenses' and
everything from weapons and identities to escape routes and hideouts. They are rarely caught.
Those who are caught can either 'do their time' or have a fatal accident. There are few people
who would mourn the loss of a serial rapist or murderer.
Due to the ‘need to know’ principle even the people working for the Intelligence
Agencies that come in contact with Pete and STATISTICIANS, aren’t aware of the existence
of the STATISTICIANS or exactly what they do.
The STATISTICIANS and Pete like to keep it that way. No bleeding heart liberals will stop
them doing what they do best.
“Get some of the local lads to do it” Pete continued.
“Put Bill onto the bitch...Make it look like a robbery...And give the new lad a run out. Lets see
what he can do. Bloodthirsty cunt he is. This bitch has been stirring up all sorts of trouble
with that damned book she’s written on how we’ve been melting the ice covering Antarctica.
Last time somebody started stirring trouble we ended up with a fuckin 90-year treaty
protecting the place. Newspapers obviously wont touch her story cos we told em not to.
Government wont neither for the same reason. The greenies been told to leave it alone for
now, but if she keeps pushing it someone’s going to hear her. She might even put it on the
Internet if we leave her alone too much longer. Saying that there’s so much bloody
information on the Internet people don’t know what to believe. Either way she’s becoming a
nuisance. Best if she disappears. She just might stir up the rabble, which we really don’t want
as that will upset our nice little apple cart. Tell Bill I want it done soon. Tonight would be
good. Get a fuckin move on” Pete said.
The little man walked off to arrange with Bill to kill Jennifer.
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CHAPTER 2
Jennifer’s pulse raced as she scrambled out the door.
As she fled down the street, the younger of her two attackers shouted after her “Don’t worry
honey…you can run but you can’t hide…we’re the police remember!”
The realisation of what he said struck her physically sending a shiver down her cold and
clammy body.
As the adrenalin wore off, the shock of what had just happened started to sink in. Tears
flooded her eyes and she had to shake her head to clear her vision, stumbling and nearly
falling as she did.
While she ran the memory of her attackers first words crashed into her overwhelmed and
numbed brain...
“I’ve been ordered to kill you honey…but first I’m going to have me some fun”.
The memory of the lecherous look in his eyes leering over her body from breasts to thighs
sent her heart beating faster and legs pushing harder.
Another dose of adrenalin raced through her body to assist her in her flight from danger.
“I must get away” was all her numbed brain could think.
She got to the end of the street and turned left bumping into and knocking the middle aged
and slightly overweight Italian café owner and herself over in her haste to escape.
“Crazy girl!” he shouted after her as she quickly picked herself up off the pavement and kept
running in one fluid motion.
“I must get away!” was all she could think and do.
Nothing else mattered except putting distance between herself and those two evil men.
The Italian picked himself up while shaking his head and muttering to himself. When he was
on his feet, he wiped his hands on his apron and started dusting himself off while looking
after her and saying, ‘Crazy girl. She is crazy! So very beautiful, but so very crazy…Boh!!’
finally throwing his hands in the air in disgust and shrugging his shoulders as if to the gods,
expecting them to understand.
Jennifer had run into his back so he hadn’t seen the look of terror on her face. If he had, he
probably would have grabbed her to find out what was wrong. He was a good man and while
she knew he would have done his best to help her, she also knew that Francesco was no
match for the two ruthless assassins.
They had simply made a mistake with her who they had underestimated being a petite
woman. Either they hadn’t been told or hadn’t taken notice of the fact that her nose was
flattened. A consequence of kick-boxing, a sport which she’d done for a number of years as a
girl and later into her early womanhood.
As Jennifer was a fighter, she had started sizing her attackers up when they first made
their intentions known to her in her apartment earlier that evening.
There had been two of them. An oldish guy. Late forties early fifties. And a young nervous
looking one in his early twenties. They were both dressed in black and had shown her police
ID so she had had no choice but to let them into her flat.
She had immediately been intimidated by the look of the older guy as she’d met him at the
door. His business like bearing told her there was no messing with him. She remembered
thinking to herself at the time that he had the look of a predator that had just come within
striking distance of its prey. The young guy was jumpy and clearly less experienced in
everything he did.
“Can I help you?” Jennifer remembered asking the two men at her door.
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“Police maam” the young man replied showing her a Police badge and ID.
“Need to speak with you”
“What’s it about?” Jennifer asked.
“Best if we come inside and explain maam” the older cop said putting his badge away.
Jennifer had stood back and opened the door to allow the two policemen inside. As she closed
the door, the old guy had moved away from her and the young cop as he started looking at the
knick-knacks she had on shelves on the other side of the room.
“What’s this about?” Jennifer repeated turning to the young cop who had just closed the door
and was standing near her blocking the front door.
His face and manner had transformed between her first meeting him and his closing the door.
Now there was a lecherous look in his face and a glint in his eyes. The hairs on the back of
Jennifer's neck and forearms instantly stood on end as her senses picked up the tension in the
air. Something was happening. She wasn’t sure yet what.
He calmly said to her “I’ve been ordered to kill you honey…but first I’m going to have me
some fun”.
The young cop’s eyes devoured Jennifer’s body as he licked his lips. Beads of sweat broke
out on his forehead and top lip. Clearly he had something particular in mind for her. Her flesh
crawled at the thought and fear, along with a surge of adrenalin, pumped to the tips of her
toes and fingers.
While she had trained herself to control the release of adrenalin in a fight, she knew that she
would need it in this fight, so she calmly let it flood through her body comforting and
preparing her.
She slowly shifted her weight onto her back foot. Getting ready to fight. Whatever happened,
she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
“This guys way too relaxed and casual” she thought to herself, “especially considering he
would only have been in one weight group above me in kick-boxing”.
While kick-boxing had flattened her nose, she hadn’t just sparred with girls. The boys and
later men she sparred with knew her to be tough and didn’t like fighting with her. She was a
born fighter. Clearly the young cop didn’t perceive her as a threat.
It was fortunate for her that it was the young cop who was doing the killing as she didn’t
think she would have stood much of a chance against the old guy. There wouldn’t have been
any messing about with him as he would know that the sudden attack without any
provocation or warning is the hardest to defend against. She would have been dead and that
would have been that. No talk. No false bravado. No time to prepare a defence. Just a broken
neck.
The young guy’s inexperience and intent on ‘having some fun’ gave her that extra bit of time
she needed to think and prepare herself.
‘The door is unlocked. If I can put this young un down quickly, I might be able to bolt for the
door… Are they armed? At least they weren’t brandishing anything so I have a chance.
What’s the old guy doing? Sounds like he’s picked something up off the shelf’ she thought to
herself.
The young guy put out his hands to grab her, stepping nearer as he did.
A waft of alcohol tickled her nose.
‘Was the booze for Dutch courage or was this kid just a loud mouth piss head?’ she
wondered. The older cop was feigning indifference apparently in order to give the rookie free
reign with his victim. It seemed to her that her murder was some sort of initiation and test for
the kid, with the old guy being there as a sort of ‘observer’.
A swift well-aimed kick to the crotch removed the passion from the young guys eyes.
As his hands flew to nurse his damaged crotch, Jennifer took half a step backwards to gain
her balance, clenching her hand into a fist as she did.
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From behind her, she could hear a crash as the older guy dropped something of hers he had
been examining to the floor. His heavy footfalls started thundering towards her.
Deafening in the silence.
She forced herself to put him out of her mind as she swung her shoulders and punched the
young guy as hard as she could where his nose joined his sweat lined upper lip determined to
put him on the ground. She relished in the familiar ‘smack’ of her knuckles connecting with
the cartilage in his nose.
“Ah fuck, bitch!!” the young cop screamed, falling backwards next to the door as one of his
hands flew up from his damaged crotch to stop his nose from bleeding.
“This guy wasn’t a fighter” she thought “Just a bully. Good thing for me”.
Her second attacker was nearly on her as she turned and moved slightly so that he had
to come around the sofa to get at her. This gave her a bit of an angle on his kneecap, which
wasn’t facing directly towards her but rather slightly away. Just as he was stretching out to
grab her, she kicked viciously at his right knee. They all heard the loud ‘plop’ as his kneecap
was popped out of joint. He silently fell to the floor clutching his leg.
Jennifer didn’t wait to see what happened after that but turned and bolted for the door
jumping over the young cop who was too surprised and hurt to attempt to stop her.
---
“Get the Hunter onto this bitch” Pete said to the little man later that evening once news had
filtered through that Jennifer had escaped.
“Tell him no fucking about. Tell him the lads fucked up and she knows we’re onto her. Don’t
give a fuck if he’s on another job. This one’s top priority as she just might bring the whole
fucking house down, so tell him he’d better get a fucking move on. I can smell shit in the air
with this one.”
Due to the nature of their work, Pete and the little man always had to be careful. They
had to keep their activities as secretive as possible. This meant no conversations over
computers or telephones. Any telephones. Meetings and instructions were always given in the
first person direct or in the little man's case, second person direct to his contacts, all of whom
he had to go and see personally. No phone call or anything in writing meant no proof. No
trace. In their line of work it was not a good idea to leave any sort of evidence behind.
If needs must, proof or no proof, they knew they would be used as scapegoats or
‘patsy’, in order to protect their masters. They were only pawns or goats to their masters, and
they knew it. While the assistant knew nothing of his bosses’ masters he had heard the
occasional piece of information regarding them. Enough to know they wouldn’t sacrifice
what they had as long as there was someone else to take the fall.
“Put word out among the gangs all round London when you get back from the Hunter to be
on the lookout for our Jennifer. There’ll be ten grand for whoever finds her” Pete said before
turning and rapidly walking away from the little man.
The little man walked back to the street and hailed a black cab that was cruising past.
When he was inside the cab with the door shut, he leant forward and told the driver to take
him to the airport “As quickly as you can!” pushing a 50 pound note through the window
separating him from the driver to persuade the driver to carry out his command.
“There’s more where that came from if you hurry” the little man said to the driver sitting back
in his seat.
As soon as Pete left him the little man had started working out his route to contact the Hunter,
a man whose services had only occasionally been used by the little man. Calling on him
meant that Pete was worried. If Pete was worried, he knew that he should be very worried as
shit always travels downhill.
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The little man would go to the airport first and charter a private helicopter. He only worked
with a private company that always had a pilot on standby. Day and night. Once he was
airborne, the helicopter would fly him to Kent where he would meet with a committee
member on the Hunters 'Hunt club'.
He had never met the Hunter and had no idea what he looked like or where he lived. For all
he knew he could pass the Hunter in the street and not even know it. It was especially done in
this way to provide a layer of anonymity and protection to the Hunter. It was not done for the
little man’s protection as he was quite expendable. If he were a pawn, Pete and the Hunter
were rooks.
…
Jennifer had run as hard as she could. Her chest was burning and her legs felt like rubber. She
had run until she eventually collapsed onto the ground when she could physically run no
more.
She had ended up in a park where she collapsed among some bushes. Well away from the
path and any prying eyes. While shadows could hide assailants, she also knew that they could
be her friend, hiding and protecting her until she could figure out what to do.
Her body had pushed itself as hard as it could. She lay there gasping for air for a few minutes
feeling like she would vomit. She rolled over and tried to vomit, but the only thing that came
up was a bit of bile, air and saliva.
After a few minutes, she felt the first touch of cold night air as her sweat soaked dress
clung to her body. She sat up and spat a string of saliva out of her mouth before rubbing her
bare arms and shoulders to try and get warm. Her chest continued to burn from the exertion
of breathing. Another bout of dry vomiting racked her body. When it eventually stopped she
wiped the bile and saliva away from her mouth.
‘What the hell is going on? Were they really police? Why are they trying to kill me? Who are
they? He said he was ‘ordered’ to kill me. Who ordered him? Surely not the police? Why do
they want me dead?’ were the first thoughts that started racing around her head as her body
started to recover after her fight then flight.
‘What will I do right now?’ sprang to mind, bringing her mind back to her immediate
circumstances. The evening had turned to night and it was getting cold.
The cool night air combined with the shock that was setting in and trying to comfort her
body, made her start trembling uncontrollably.
As she sat there shivering, she remembered the homeless people who she often took time out
to greet and chat with. When she could, she would always ‘slip them some silver’ or try and
use them for odd jobs to try and make them feel productive and useful again, even though she
knew most of the money went towards booze.
‘The poor, who were a burden to everyone, including themselves might be my saviour tonight’
she thought, remembering that they sometimes covered themselves with newspaper to keep
warm.
She was far too frightened to want to leave the sanctuary of the dark, which she knew at least
protected her from her attacker’s eyes. As she had slept outdoors many times before on
camping trips the experience of sleeping outside wasn’t particularly frightening or disturbing
to her. Of more concern to her were the people trying to kill her.
‘They’d never think to look for me in here’ was a thought that comforted her.
‘There might be a paper in one of the rubbish bins over there’ she thought to herself.
14. 14
14
Slowly and awkwardly Jennifer got to her knees with the intention of moving out of the
undergrowth, when her heart froze, missing a beat in terror.
She could hear someone moving slowly and purposefully through the undergrowth nearby.
They were coming closer and she could just make out a shape in the darkness.
There was no moon and the only light came from the stars and street lights in the distance.
Her heart was in her mouth. She didn’t think she had the energy left in her to fight again.
…
Once the Hunter had been informed of his assignment by his hunt club, he summoned his
huntsman. The huntsman was the Hunters second in command and a crack sniper who had
spent a lifetime in ‘Her Majesties Armed Forces’. The huntsman was responsible for leading
the hunt and would assemble the Chief Whip and whips who would go and look for Jennifer.
Depending on how the hunt went, the Hunter might not have to leave his lair. He was always
careful when hunting on home soil. Too much could go wrong. Too much to lose being
careless. After all why should the King go into battle when his pawns and knights could do
the job just as well?
“Send the whips to London” the Hunter said to his huntsman giving him Jennifer's address.
The Hunter had been attending a party on a neighbouring estate when the hunt club contacted
him and called him away. He wasn’t pleased as he had been just about to slip away with the
wife of his neighbour, Lord Johnson.
The Hunter was still dressed in a tuxedo when the huntsman had appeared in his study.
“You’ve got the address. Send the bikes” he told his huntsman.
The Hunter was fond of putting his whips on motorbikes as they could swiftly move through
cities even in heavy traffic. The response time on a motorbike at top speed was far better than
that of any other vehicle, even with flashing lights and sirens.
“Get the houndsman out of his kennel. Tell him to take the beagles and the pit bulls. They
should be ready by now. Her scent will be fresh and there’s been no rain tonight”
“And send a cleaning team to her address as well. It seems our fugitive has a bit of fight in
her. Tell the whips not to underestimate her. Have them bag some of her clothes for scenting
the dogs. Dismissed” the Hunter said dismissing the huntsman.
After the huntsman had left, the hunter poured himself a whisky and sat down. As he did at
the beginning of every hunt he wondered what this hunt would bring. Secretly he was pleased
that his prey had fight in her. The last prey he had hunted had given up meekly without any
fight. Something that always infuriated the Hunter.
…
As Jennifer lay there frozen with fear, she heard a whispered ‘Jen, is that you?’
Jennifer could have fainted with relief. It was the old bag lady Jennifer regularly passed on
the streets. The bag lady had been a ‘beneficiary’ of Jennifer’s in the past.
‘Jen’ she heard whispered again, this time a little closer. Jennifer wondered how the bag lady
had found her. The thought also occurred to her, that if the bag lady could find her, then so
too could her attackers.
“I’m here” she whispered back to the bag lady.
Jennifer realised that she didn’t even know the bag lady’s name and yet she had always had a
word with her in passing. The bag lady despite her poverty, had it seemed remembered
Jennifer’s name. A pang of guilt stabbed through Jennifer at this thought, humbling her and
making her feel even more vulnerable.
15. 15
15
‘My Jim, said he saw you. I told him he was drunk’the bag lady burst out in reply at what
seemed the top of her voice. The suspense was over as far as the bag lady was concerned.
“He's always drunk mind you!” was followed with another peal of laughter.
“Shhh” Jennifer quickly spat at her.
“What’s wrong Jen?” the bag lady whispered back, sensing Jennifer’s fear.
“Some men j-j-just tried to kill me…I…I… I don’t know what to do” Jennifer eventually
sobbed out.
“You’re frozen girl” the bag lady said taking more notice of Jennifer after touching her arm.
“Here take me jacket”the old bag lady said to Jennifer, taking her jacket off and wrapping it
around Jennifer’s bare shoulders.
“I’m plenty warm” the bag lady continued.
“It might look shabby, but don’t fear it’s clean. Washed it in t' pond meself just t' other day.
Think I’se got some socks for you too. And a hat” the bag lady said in a cheerful voice.
Jennifer burst into tears. She had managed to fight back the first few tears, but the humility
she felt as a result of the bag lady giving Jennifer her jacket on this cold evening, on top of
everything else, was just too much for her.
“Come along now” the bag lady said putting her arm around Jennifer’s shoulders and gently
easing her to her feet.
“You’ll be safe with me and my Jim for the night. You’re clearly too upset to talk. All I can do
is offer you somewhere to sleep. You’ve always been good to me in t' past. Now its my turn to
repay you and I’m glad for it.” she said in a soothing voice, leading Jennifer out of the bushes
where she had taken refuge, towards another clump of bushes nearby.
“Jim wake yerself you bum!” the bag lady said lashing out at a shape on the ground with her
foot.
“Here take a drop of this to warm yourself” she said passing Jennifer a small bottle.
“It wont make you blind, don’t worry deary...” she cackled.
She seemed to find this thought immensely funny as she broke into a fit of laughter, clutching
herself as she shook with laughter. She tried to say something further but couldn’t get the
words out.
Eventually with tears streaming down her face she gasped “that stuffs in me other pocket!”
and roared with laughter again.
“What t' fucks goin on Annie?” Jim said sitting up from his pile of blankets and giving his
armpit and crotch a good scratch before clearing his throat and spitting into the bushes
nearby. A loud rumbling fart finished his routine off.
Jennifer grabbed the bag lady by the arm. “Pull yourself together” she whispered to her.
“My killers may still be looking for me!”
This seemed to have the desired effect. The bag lady reached into her other pocket and took
out the other bottle. She took a good long pull from it before passing it onto Jim.
“Ere. Get some of this in you” she said to him.
“Our Jens in trouble Jim. Some fellas tried t' kill her”
“Eh, you what?” said Jim, a look of confusion on his grimy face.
“Dear Lord, what has u got yersself involved in girl?’ the bag lady said under her breath
…
The whips roared through the quiet countryside on their powerful bikes, fast converging on
Jennifer’s apartment from their own separate residences. The first whip arrived at Jennifer’s
apartment on his Ducati superbike dressed in racing leathers within an hour of receiving his
orders from the Huntsman. When he arrived, the STATISTICIANS 'cleaning' team were
finishing off cleaning Jennifer’s apartment of any trace of the attack of earlier that evening.
16. 16
16
The cleaning team was composed of current and ex-forensic scientists and were professionals
who left nothing behind.
On his arrival at Jennifer’s apartment a sealed bag containing a sample of Jennifer’s under
clothes was silently handed to the whip by one of the cleaners after which the whip promptly
left the scene. This securing of a scent sample was done as a precaution in case the police
should arrive while the cleaners were busy cleaning the apartment.
While waiting for the rest of the hunting team the whip began debriefing Bill and the young
un a couple of streets away from the incident. The final role in that evenings hunt for the
whip would be to kill the young un and dispose of his body before returning to the Hunter
with his sample of Jennifer's clothes for future reference.
Another sample of Jennifer's clothes would be handed to the houndsman on his arrival at the
scene by another of the whips who would also collect a sample from the cleaners. The
houndsman’s arrival would take a bit longer as he was driving a pick-up with a trailer that
carried some of his highly trained scent and sight hunting hounds. While hurrying to get there
as fast as possible, the houndsman wouldn’t take any chances with himself or his dogs. By
the time the houndsman arrived outside Jennifer’s apartment, the cleaning team would
already be back in their beds.
As soon as the chief whip arrived on his Harley Davison motorbike wearing denims and a
piss pot helmet, he immediately started positioning his whips. Those who hadn’t arrived he
ordered to remain mounted and mobile in the immediate vicinity while the rest of the whips
who had arrived he ordered to leave their bikes outside a local pub to conceal their presence
and activities as much as possible. To further conceal themselves, all the whips routinely
dressed differently and were mounted on different bikes to attract as little attention as
possible. After positioning his whips the chief whip rendezvoused with the first whip on
scene to debrief him. Based on that short discussion the chief whip again repositioned his
whips for hunting Jennifer.
The whips systematically started searching the neighbourhood for any signs of Jennifer. It
was the chief whip who picked up the next indication of Jennifer’s flight after showing the
Italian restaurant owner falsified police identification. With his military bearing, the chief
whip quickly convinced the Italian that Jennifer was in danger and he was one of the good
guys trying to find her so he could protect her. The Italian quickly told the chief whip what he
saw thinking that he was helping Jennifer. Little did he know.
As the chief whip was repositioning his whips to search in this new direction, he could hear
the sound of baying dogs coming his way. His flesh crawled at the thought of the overweight
and sweating man approaching him with dogs. The houndsman was a repulsive looking man
with a greasy complexion and the constant thought of sex written on his face and in his eyes
which both drooped towards the ground. Nobody on the hunt team liked him. Then again
nobody had to like him.
He got results, which was all the Hunter was interested in.
In order to maintain the security of the team the chief whip would ignore the houndsman on
passing as he had been talking with a civilian. The chief whip would discretely join up with
the houndsman when they were out of sight of the Italian. Only when he was with the
houndsman and could confirm that the houndsman was onto Jennifer’s scent would the chief
whip reposition his whips. Thereafter the chief whip would constantly reposition his whips in
a loose moving cordon around their position in the hope of making contact with Jennifer and
to provide the chief whip with constantly updated situation reports of what they could see and
hear. In escaping from police in foreign lands this moving cordon around a nucleus had saved
them on many an occasion.
…
17. 17
17
“I can’t stay here” Jennifer said to the bag lady and Jim.
They were all silent for a while.
“There’s an abandoned factory on Southbank which we use at times” Jim said looking to the
bag lady.
“Aye that’s right” the bag lady replied.
“There r' sum clathes an blankets there. You should be safe there for t' night”
“I don’t have much money, but I can help you with a tenner towards taxi fair” the bag lady
said handing Jennifer a ten pound note.
“Here give us that old coat back. Picked up a new un in t' rubbish t'day which would suit you
better” the bag lady said scratching through her trolley and producing a new looking jacket as
well as a floppy hat which she handed to Jennifer. The bag lady put her old jacket back on
and Jennifer put on the new jacket and hat. The hat was far too big for Jennifer and sat low on
her head so that she had to keep pushing it back so that she could see. Despite the fit it kept
her head warm and partly disguised her features.
Jennifer accepted the proffered money from the bag lady with a feeling of the utmost
humility. She knew that the ten-pound note represented a large portion of the bag ladies
money and how hard it had been for her to come by but she had no choice but to accept it.
A shiver ran down Jennifer’s spine as she heard the sound of barking dogs in the distance.
She briefly hugged the bag lady and squeezed Jim’s hand before setting off to find a taxi.
As Jennifer left the park, the sound of the barking dogs seemed to be getting closer, leaving
her frightened for some unknown reason. She shrugged it off as nerves, thinking she would
be able to sort everything out tomorrow. Little did she know that tomorrow her life would
change forever.
…
The bag ladies life was also to change forever. Much sooner than Jennifer’s and in a more
permanent way.
When the houndsman entered the Park and based on prior experience of distance covered
verse the weight, age and sex of his prey, the houndsman thought that his fugitive might be
close by. Possibly even concealed somewhere in the bushes or up a tree.
On an impulse the houndsman let the dogs off their leads as they got more excited suggesting
that their prey was close by. That evening he was running with his standard 3 beagle pack of
scent hounds with two pit bulls in training as sight hounds. While the scent hounds were
trained only to follow the scent of the prey, the sight hounds were trained only to bring that
prey down.
The dogs leaped forward as one as their restraints were undone, barking madly. They quickly
ran down Jennifer’s scent leading them to the bushes which concealed the bag lady and Jim.
Lending Jennifer her jacket was going to prove costly for the bag lady as the scent of
Jennifer’s sweat and fear were soaked into the jacket soon to be mingled with the bag lady’s
own fear.
As trained the beagles started baying when they found the bag-lady, but the two pit bulls went
in for the attack, biting and mauling the bag lady. As she lay on the ground trying to fend off
the attack, one of the pit bulls went for her throat as it had been trained. By the time the
houndsman arrived and managed to restrain the dogs, the bag lady was dead and Jim had fled.
