THE LONG WAR

          The Long War. by Tim Battersby

PROLOGUE

The Threat Within When Violence Lurks

A viper's nest has taken root in the secluded enclaves of academia, where the eager minds of a nation's youth gather to soak in the lessons that will shape their future. Terrorist cells, fueled by political hatred and rampant violence, infiltrate the very institutions meant to serve as beacons of enlightenment. Their weapons? Ideology and explosives are both equally destructive in their own right. As these nefarious forces burrow deeper into higher learning, an ever-looming threat hangs over the innocent students and faculty treading those hallowed halls.

This story is a tale of courage and conviction that unfolds, offering a stark warning, a blueprint for navigating the treacherous waters of espionage and counterterrorism. As Kieran Murray embarks on his descent into the abyss, his moral compass spinning wildly, he will uncover truths that rewrite the narrative on the lengths one must go to preserve the sanctity of knowledge and the security of a nation. Brace yourself, for a baptism by fire, where the lines between right and wrong blur, and the stakes have never been higher. The die has been cast, and the long war has begun.

Chapter 1

University College, London

The rush hour traffic woke me up at some ungodly hour. I was living in a flat in London and had just been hired by The Midnight Shop, a convenience store located directly below the flat on Brompton Road just 2 blocks south of Harrods in the ultra-posh neighborhood of Knightsbridge. The job and my recent move were by design.

A year earlier I’d been in my last year of high school, a private boarding school in rural Sussex with 420 other male students. When I graduated, I decided to take a gap year. It didn’t last too long. Quite by accident, I joined MI5.

My name is Kieran Murray, and I’m 18 years old. I moved to the UK when I was 7 years old. Both of my parents are solicitors and work in London. I have a pronounced Irish accent of which I’m very proud.

The Security Service, also known as MI5 (Military Intelligence Section 5), is the United Kingdom's domestic security and counterintelligence agency and is part of its intelligence machinery alongside the Intelligence Service (MI6), Government communication Headquarters, and Defense Intelligence (DI). MI5 is directed by the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC), and the service is bound by the Security Act. The service is directed to protect British democracy and economic interests and to counter terrorism and espionage within the United Kingdom. My father had worked for the War Office (MI6) since the end of World War II. He never talked about his work but as I began to learn more, I realized what a fascinating and complex man he was. I discovered for instance that he worked in the same office as Kim Philby, Guy Burgess, and Donald Maclean, the 3 men who committed treason by selling state secrets to the USSR and then defected there amidst a massive scandal in the UK in the 1960s.

Dad approached me privately one weekend when I was visiting my parents. I’d always wanted to be a journalist, so his comment intrigued me because I’d never shared that information with him or any of my close family. “I’ve arranged an interview for you my boy with The Guardian newspaper for this Wednesday. Is that something that might interest you?” I looked at him for a moment with a look of astonishment, and gratefully nodded my head and told him, thanks, and yes, I’d be most interested. “Excellent, old man. I’ll let them know right away.” And he beetled off to make the phone call. I could see that he was pleased, and that made me feel good about accepting the interview. Thinking back, however, it was totally out of character for him to have done that and I concluded he must have had an ulterior motive. How right I turned out to be.

I’m a Londoner born and bred and know every square inch of my beautiful city. One year I took a job as a delivery driver for a butcher in Fulham. Curnicks the butcher had a great reputation as I delivered meat to homes from Hampstead to Putney, Chelsea to St. John’s Wood, and Knightsbridge to Buckingham Palace. One of their regular clients was Dame Maggie Smith, who would answer the door herself and was always smiling and charming. I was in my last year at high school and took a job in the school holidays to make some extra money and was so grateful to get a crash course in “Learning London 101.”

The day of my interview with the Guardian arrived, and the weather was downright gloomy. Nothing, however, was going to break my stride. I was excited to be given a chance to become a journalist. I arrived a few minutes early and sat in the lobby of their London office. It was smaller than I’d imagined but I put that down to the fact that it was just a satellite office, as the HQ was in Manchester. About 10 minutes after I arrived, I heard my name being called and I approached the reception desk and introduced myself and was taken to an office where 3 middle-aged men were huddled together deep in conversation. As I entered the room, they all looked up. The room became silent until 1 man stood up and gave me a welcoming smile and said, “Mr. Murray, it’s very nice to meet you. Thank you so much for meeting us on such short notice. Please take a seat and let me introduce you to everyone.” After the obligatory introductions, the team of 3 got down to business. What they told me changed my life for the next 30 years.

“I’m afraid we’ve brought you here under pretenses,” The team leader began. “The Guardian has been kind enough to let us meet you here for privacy reasons but we’re not employed by the Guardian but actually by the British Security Service.” I sat there silently trying to absorb what they had just told me. I realized quickly that these people worked with my dad, but what did they want? I soon found out. “The IRA has in recent years stepped up their terrorist activities and been sending soldiers with academic qualifications to apply to universities throughout the United Kingdom. Many of these IRA operatives are highly trained with bomb-making and terrorism capabilities and are using academic institutions to infiltrate the UK and blend into student society to meet and plan to wreak havoc on innocent civilians.” “But why would they want to do that?” I inquired. “Because they’re drawing attention to what the IRA refers to as the long war. The IRA’s purpose was to use the armed forces to render British rule in Northern Ireland ineffective and thus to assist in achieving the broader objective of an independent republic, which was pursued at the political level by Sinn Fein, the Irish nationalist party.” Suddenly what these men were telling me made sense completely. What Dad had seen in me was an intelligent and politically curious young man, the right age for a student, to covertly enroll at (in my case) UCL and use my naturally friendly demeanor to gain the trust of students who may or may not be involved in something nefarious. I sat there listening to the men explain, waited for a pause in the one-sided conversation, and then told them what I had gleaned from this meeting.

“We have arranged for you to be enrolled at University College London (UCL) as a freshman. You’ll be reading literature and will receive a BA when you graduate. You will become the Government’s eyes and ears, learning as much as possible about every student at your union. We’ve decided to enroll you under a pseudonym to protect your privacy, and that of your father as well. If at some point you wish to acknowledge your degree, we have planned for you to transfer it legally and legitimately.”

Sitting there alone in that room with total strangers, my mind kept wandering back to my childhood and specifically the summer holidays spent at our cottage in Tarbert on Loch Fyne. Every year I saw a kindness in my dad that disappeared the moment we came home. I only ever saw that side of him for 3 weeks a year. Sadly, that kindness remained invisible for the rest of the year. Don’t get me wrong. My dad was a good man, but his training taught him to love no one. At that moment I feared he had passed that flaw onto his middle son.

“When would you like me to start,” I asked. “We want you to go to Fort Monckton for training which takes about 2 months, and then once you’re trained, you’ll begin your education at UCL.” Fort Monckton is located near Portsmouth and is now the SIS's field operations training center, where both basic and advanced field training is given to SIS personnel, including MI6 candidates. Fort Monckton is known as the number 1 establishment by the British Army and is occupied by the MOD ( Ministry of Defense) and hosts the Intelligence Service Training Section where SIS officers as well as officers from allied services and agents are trained.

In the late 1960s, the IRA imported large quantities of modern weapons and explosives, primarily from supporters in the Republic of Ireland and Irish diaspora communities within the Anglosphere as well as the government of Libya. Leader of the Opposition Harold Wilson in 1971 secretly met with IRA leaders with the help of John O'Connell, angering the Irish government. Garret FitzGerald wrote 30 years later that "the strength of the feelings of our democratic leaders ... was not, however, publicly ventilated at the time" because Wilson was a former and possible future British prime minister.

As the conflict escalated throughout the early 1970s, the numbers recruited by the IRA mushroomed, in response to the nationalist community's anger at events such as the introduction of internment without trial and Bloody Sunday, when the 1st Battalion, Parachute Regiment of the British Army shot dead 14 unarmed civil rights marchers in Derry.

The late 1960s were the most intense period of the Provisional IRA campaign. About half the total of 650 British soldiers to die in the conflict were killed in the years 1971–73. In 1972 alone, the IRA killed 100 British soldiers and wounded 500 more. Around that time the IRA began installing highly educated and trained members into select Universities in the United Kingdom. I realized that was the reason my dad had recommended me for the job.

The interview lasted a few more minutes and then I thanked the men and told them I had some thinking to do and would be in touch with them through my father. I shook them by the hand and took my leave, intrigued by the offer but somewhat disappointed that my father had not told me the truth. I’d always wanted to be a journalist but a ‘spy in training’ job was better than nothing. I’d have to think about it.

That evening, I went home to my parents' house and had it out with my father. How dare he trick me like that I yelled and how dare he get my hopes up on becoming a journalist. Dad listened to my rantings staying silent until I was finished, and then put me firmly in my place by telling me that what I would be doing would be helping my country and potentially saving lives and also, I would be working toward a degree in English that would ultimately qualify me to become a journalist, if that was what I still wanted to be. I’m afraid I couldn’t argue with his logic, and begrudgingly told him I would think about his offer.

Two days later I rang him up and accepted. He told me it’d be the best decision I’d ever made and let me know he’d take care of all the arrangements for my training and so a week later I found myself on a train to Portsmouth to begin basic training. Fort Monckton now remains the only fort in the Portsmouth area owned by the Army, as opposed to the Royal Navy. Located next to the Stokes Bay Golf Course, much of the original fort still exists including the bastions, sea facing casemates, guard room, one of the caponiers, (which is a defensive structure) and the ditch.

The fort retains its original drawbridge and is protected by modern razor wire-security fencing, cameras and high intensity lighting. The site has been heavily modified with modern offices and accommodation added on and around it, and a portion of the artificial lake was filled in during the 1970s.

Now referred to as the No.1 Military Training Center by the British Army, Fort Monckton is the SIS's field operations training center, where both basic and advanced field training is given to SIS personnel and liaison training.

I was young and fit and had been told horror stories about basic training but found it enjoyable. The only problem was that our day began at 5.00 am. A distinction I should point out was that my dad told me I would be working for MI5 but actually my basic training was designed for MI6 candidates. He explained it to me later by telling me that MI5 recruits (which I was) had to “officially” have a bachelor's degree to qualify, but as I didn’t yet have that, Dad had arranged for me to become an MI6 recruit to circumvent that stipulation. Or…. He had a more nefarious idea up his sleeve and wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a card-carrying member of MI6.

In the months I was at Fort Monckton I became a man. When I was in high school, I was required to run 5 miles at least 3 times a week. I was used to early morning 5-mile runs in freezing rain, but my training took it to the next level. We would be driven out into the middle of nowhere, given no food and no water, and one compass to guide us back to camp. Then our sergeant major would cut us loose and tell us we had to be back at base by a certain hour. The fail rate was high, but I was determined to succeed. One day, towards the end of my training at Fort Monckton, I received a surprise visit from my father. He looked at me with pride in his eyes, a rare sight that filled me with a mix of emotions. He commended me on my progress and dedication, expressing his belief that I was destined for great things within the intelligence community.

He told me that he had arranged for me to have a special assignment after my training at Fort Monckton was completed. It involved going undercover at a prestigious university in London to gather intelligence on a suspected IRA sympathizer who was believed to be recruiting students for extremist activities. My father assured me that this mission was crucial and that my success would be a significant contribution to national security.

I was both nervous and excited about the prospect of going undercover. The idea of infiltrating a group with dangerous intentions was daunting, but I knew that it was my duty to do whatever was necessary to protect innocent lives. As I bid farewell to Fort Monckton and made my way back to London, I felt a sense of determination wash over me.

Arriving at the university, I assumed a new identity and immersed myself in student life. I attended lectures, participated in student activities, and made connections with fellow students. It wasn't long before I caught wind of the suspected IRA sympathizer operating within the campus.

I began my investigation discreetly, keeping a low profile while gathering information on the individual in question. His name was Declan O'Rourke, a charismatic and well-spoken student known for his fervent nationalist beliefs. I observed him closely, noting the subtle ways in which he rallied support for his cause among the student body.

As I delved deeper into his activities, I uncovered a network of like-minded individuals who shared his extremist views. They held clandestine meetings in secluded locations on campus, discussing plans for potential acts of violence against the government. It became clear to me that they posed a serious threat that needed to be neutralized.

I reported my findings to my superiors, who instructed me to continue gathering evidence before they considered taking any action. I spent weeks ingratiating myself further into Declan's circle, gaining his trust and access to more sensitive information. The more I learned, the more I realized the gravity of the situation.

Finally, the day came when I had gathered enough evidence. I received a message from my superiors, signaling that the time for action had arrived. I knew what needed to be done. With a sense of urgency, I discreetly made my way to the designated meeting spot where Declan and his associates were planning their next move.

As I covertly listened in on their conversation, my heart raced with adrenaline. They spoke of a planned bombing at a government building in the heart of London, an act that would undoubtedly result in catastrophic loss of life. I knew I couldn't let this happen.

With precision and calculated decisiveness, I signaled for backup as the team confronted Declan and his group. Shock and disbelief registered on their faces as they realized they had possibly been betrayed from within.

In a swift and coordinated operation, law enforcement officers moved in to apprehend the suspects and secure any potential explosives. The tension in the air was palpable as the situation unfolded with precision.

As Declan was led away in handcuffs, he never knew who had betrayed him. It was a moment that would forever be etched in my memory— the weight of the consequences of his actions crashing down on him like a tidal wave. I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the role I had played in bringing him to justice, but it was overshadowed by a deep sense of duty and the knowledge that innocent lives had been saved.

In the aftermath of the operation, I debriefed with my superiors, detailing every aspect of the mission and the pivotal role I had played in dismantling the extremist plot. They commended me for my bravery and quick thinking, emphasizing the importance of my actions in preventing a potential tragedy. I was hailed as a hero within the intelligence community, a title that felt both surreal and humbling.

However, as the adrenaline of the operation ebbed away and I found myself alone in a quiet room, I couldn't shake the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. I knew that what I had done was necessary, that lives had been saved because of my actions. But as I sat in solitude, the weight of the mission pressed down on me. I couldn't help but replay the moment when Declan's eyes bore into mine, filled with suspicion. It was a haunting image that lingered in my mind, a stark reminder of the human cost of espionage. Despite the accolades and praise from my superiors, I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at me. I had infiltrated Declan's world under false pretenses, gained his trust only to betray him in the end. Was it truly justice that I had served, or had I simply played a part in a never-ending cycle of deception and manipulation?

As the days passed and life at Fort Monckton seemed like a distant memory, I grappled with the moral complexities of my chosen path. The line between right and wrong blurred in the shadowy realm of espionage, and I found myself questioning the true nature of my actions. Was I a hero for thwarting a terrorist plot, or was I a pawn in a larger game where the ends justified the means?

My father's words echoed in my mind, his pride in my accomplishments mingling with the weight of his expectations. He had groomed me for this life, instilling in me a sense of duty and loyalty to my queen and country. But as I reflected on the choices I had made and the lives I had altered, I couldn't help but wonder if there was another way.

In the quiet moments of introspection, a seed of doubt took root within me. I yearned for a sense of purpose beyond clandestine missions and shadowy dealings. The faces of those I had deceived haunted my dreams, their expressions of shock and betrayal etched into my consciousness.

Despite the accolades and recognition within the intelligence community, I felt a profound sense of emptiness gnawing at the core of my being. The thrill of the chase and the adrenaline of high-stakes operations no longer held the same allure they once did. I found myself craving a different kind of fulfillment, one that didn't come at the cost of sacrificing pieces of my own morality.

Later, one rainy night in London, as I walked the dimly lit streets with thoughts swirling in my mind, I stumbled upon a small bookstore tucked away in a quiet corner. The flickering glow of the neon sign above the door beckoned me inside, and as I pushed open the creaking wooden door, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

The shelves were lined with books of every genre imaginable, their spines worn with age and wisdom. The scent of old paper and ink filled the air, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over the cracked leather bindings and faded covers.

As I reached out to pluck a book from the shelf, a voice from behind startled me. "Ah, I see you're drawn to that one. It's a timeless classic," said the elderly bookseller with a warm smile. His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as he handed me the book, its pages yellowed with time.

I thanked him and settled into a cozy armchair by the window, the rain tapping gently against the glass panes. As I delved into the story within the weathered pages, a sense of peace washed over me. The weight of my past mission and the moral quandary that plagued me seemed to fade away, if only for a moment.

I found solace in the words of authors long gone, their tales weaving a tapestry of worlds far removed from the shadows where I had dwelled. Each page turned was a step further away from the life of espionage and deception, a respite from the constant turmoil that had defined my existence.

Hours slipped by unnoticed as I lost myself in the world of literature, finding refuge in the stories that transported me to distant lands and fantastical realms. The hours turned into days, and before I knew it, I had become a regular visitor to the quaint bookstore, seeking solace in its shelves whenever the weight of my past threatened to overwhelm me.

The bookseller, whose name I learned was Mr. Hawthorne, became a confidante of sorts, sharing his wisdom and insight on the power of storytelling. He spoke of how stories could shape our perceptions of the world, offering us a glimpse into the vast tapestry of human experience.

As I immersed myself in the world of literature, I felt a sense of clarity slowly unfurling within me. The moral ambiguity that had clouded my judgment began to dissipate, replaced by a newfound understanding of the complexities of right and wrong. Through the lens of fiction, I explored themes of redemption, sacrifice, and the enduring power of hope.

I found myself drawn to a particular series of novels that centered around a retired spy who had turned his back on his former life of espionage to pursue a simpler existence. The character's internal struggles and quest for redemption resonated deeply with me, mirroring my inner turmoil and desire for a fresh start.

One rainy afternoon, as I sat in my usual spot by the window in the bookstore, Mr. Hawthorne approached me with a knowing look in his eyes. "I believe this one might interest you," he said, handing me a worn paperback with a knowing smile. The title read “Shadows of the Past,” and as I flipped through the pages, I felt a sense of kinship with the protagonist's journey.

Lost in the world of the novel, I found myself grappling with profound questions about identity, purpose, and the nature of forgiveness. The words on the page seemed to speak directly to my soul, unraveling the tangled web of emotions that had plagued me since my encounter with Declan. As the story unfolded before me, I couldn't help but draw parallels between the protagonist's struggles and my internal conflict. The weight of my past decisions bore down on me with each turn of the page, forcing me to confront the true motivations behind my actions.

Amid my introspection, a realization dawned on me like a beacon of light in the darkness. I had been so consumed by the thrill of espionage and the pursuit of justice that I had lost sight of my moral compass. The world of shadows and deception had clouded my judgment, blurring the lines between right and wrong until they seemed indistinguishable.

With newfound clarity, I made a decision that would alter the course of my life forever. I knew that I could no longer continue down the path of secrecy and manipulation, that I needed to break free from the cycle of betrayal and guilt that had plagued me for so long. It was time to forge a new path, one guided by honesty and integrity.  It took me a further 2 years to carry out my plan, but carry it out I did, even though it meant that I would have to leave the country I loved and rebuild my life in the United States. In the meantime Declan O’Rourke was tried, convicted found guilty and sentenced to 15 years in prison. I had no regrets.

CHAPTER 2

The Bomber from Belfast.

My time at UCL was a hectic and dangerous stanza in my life. On the one hand, because I had assumed another man’s identity the fear that I might run into someone I had known at high school, or during my earlier life was always a worrisome possibility. London was my home turf, so I might be recognized by any number of friends from my past who I may run into on the street, but I reasoned the chances of recognition were slim considering more than 9 million people lived within the city boundaries. However, I went to great pains to protect myself if I was recognized, conjuring up “what if” scenarios for just that occasion. For instance, one time I was walking with some fellow students near UCL’s campus in Bloomsbury when a chap I knew from high school walked toward me from the opposite direction. He was pleased to see me and hailed me by name. “Hey Kieran, how are you doing?” Being a seasoned chameleon by now I smiled and returned his greeting. After we parted my fellow students inquired why he had greeted me using the wrong name. I dodged and darted explaining that he had always got my name wrong ever since he’d first met me. They all laughed, and my answer appeared to satisfy them, and so we carried on. My answer was pathetic and weak but thank God my student buddies weren’t IRA terrorists. I was lucky that time, but it taught me to be more careful.

There was a college pub frequented by students that was a great place to meet other like-minded students. The IRA had recruited several highly intelligent young men and trained them in the art of bomb making. They were planning to integrate these recruits into universities throughout the UK with a vision to killing innocent civilians to draw attention to the warfare the British government had imposed on Northern Ireland during the Long War. These recruits believed steadfastly that their mission was ordained by God and had no qualms on carrying out their orders.

The first time I met Liam O’Connor was at that pub. He was amongst a group of students who were partying and having a good time. They were all drunk that night and so I didn’t have much of a chance to get to know him because by the time I arrived he was incoherent. However, the following day when I showed up for one of my literature lectures, he was sitting in the back row looking slightly the worse for wear. He had a serious hangover. I sat next to him and at the end of the lecture I told him I would let him use my notes, as he’d sat there during the lecture head in hands looking sorry for himself. He smiled, and thanked me and when I saw him next, I gave him the copy which I’d promised. By the time I saw him he’d recovered enough and with a pleasant smile introduced himself to me and asked if he could buy me a cup of coffee. I accepted his offer. As we sipped our coffee in a cozy corner of a nearby café, Liam began to open up about his struggles with balancing his studies and his personal life. He confided in me about the pressures he felt, to excel academically while also trying to make ends meet with a part-time job. I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, a weariness that mirrored my inner turmoil. He told me that he had a job at a Knightsbridge convenience store called The Midnight Shop. I made a mental note to myself to look into getting hired there as well.

Despite our different backgrounds and motivations, I found myself drawn to Liam's vulnerability and authenticity. In a place where everyone seemed to be wearing masks, he stood out as someone unafraid to show his true self. He surprised me by his honesty.

As the weeks went by, our impromptu coffee meetings turned into late-night study sessions and long walks through the city streets. I was subsequently hired by the Midnight Shop as well and on our walks back to school we shared stories of our pasts, dreams for the future, and fears that kept us awake at night. In Liam, I found a kindred spirit who understood the weight of carrying secrets and the burden of living a double life.

By this time, I was 99% certain that Liam was harboring a secret that went far beyond the struggles of academia and part-time work. One evening, after a particularly intense study session, Liam hesitated before opening up to me. He fidgeted with his coffee cup, his usually confident demeanor faltering for the first time since we met.

"I have something to tell you," Liam finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. I could see the conflict in his eyes, a battle raging within him as he debated whether to reveal his truth.

I reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his arm, silently urging him to continue. After a moment of tense silence, Liam took a deep breath and began to speak.

"I'm not who you think I am," he confessed, his gaze fixed on the table between us. "There's more to me than meets the eye."

As his story unraveled, I listened in shock at what he had to tell me. Liam O'Connor was not just a struggling student trying to make ends meet—but as I already suspected was a member of the IRA, tasked with carrying out a series of bombings in London to protest British involvement in Northern Ireland. What took me by surprise was that he chose to reveal to me the dangerous game he was playing, clearly caught between his loyalty to the cause and his growing friendship to me.

I struggled to process the gravity of his confession, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air between us. Liam's eyes searched mine for a reaction, a hint of understanding or condemnation. But all I felt was a whirlwind of emotions - fear, anger, and the knowledge I would have to turn him in soon enough to the powers that be/the authorities. Mixed with that was a sliver of compassion for the man sitting across from me, torn between two opposing worlds.

As the reality of Liam's double life sunk in, I realized my own secrets and past deceptions paled by comparison to the dangerous game he was involved in. The stakes were higher now, the consequences more dire than ever before.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence thick with unspoken words and uncharted territory. Then, with a heavy heart and a cloud of uncertainty hanging over us, I knew that a decision had to be made. The weight of Liam's truth pressed down on me, each moment of silence stretching into eternity as we both grappled with the impossible choice before us.

Finally, I found my voice, thick with emotion as I spoke softly, "Liam, I don't know what to say. This changes everything."

He nodded solemnly, understanding the magnitude of his revelation. "I know," he replied, his eyes reflecting a mixture of resignation and defiance. "I never meant to drag you into this, but now that you know... I’d like to know where you stand."

My mind raced with a whirlwind of thoughts, torn between loyalty to my newfound friend and the fear of being caught in the crossfire of his dangerous world. But as I looked into Liam's eyes, I saw a flicker of vulnerability beneath the hardened exterior—a plea for acceptance in a world that had forged him into a reluctant soldier. In that moment, I made a choice that given the circumstances was inevitable. With a resolve born of empathy and a desire to do what I knew had to be done, I extended my hand towards Liam, a silent pledge of false solidarity in the face of uncertainty and danger.

"I stand with you, Liam," I lied, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my heart. "We're in this together now."

A flicker of relief crossed Liam's face; his guard lowered for a moment as he clasped my hand in a firm grip. The weight of his truth hung heavy in the air between us, but in that brief moment of connection, we forged a bond stronger than any deception or danger could break.

As we sat there, two souls bound by secrets and shadows, I knew that our journey was just beginning. The path ahead was shrouded in darkness and uncertainty, I knew that Liam had to be stopped, but I wondered why he had confided in me. Was it some ruse I wondered. Did he know. I would have to navigate these treacherous waters carefully and bring my A game until I could arrest this fanatic. But for now I had to assume he trusted me.

Days turned into weeks, and I made certain our bond deepened as we delved further into Liam's clandestine world. He introduced me to his comrades, young men and women who shared his convictions and his commitment to the cause. They greeted me with cautious eyes, unsure of where my loyalties lay, but with Liam's support, they welcomed me into their fold.

As I spent more time with Liam and his fellow IRA members, I began to understand the complexities of their struggle. The injustices they felt they had endured, the losses they had suffered, and the fierce loyalty that bound them together in a fight for freedom. But beneath the bravado and the rhetoric, I saw the toll that living a double life took on each of them—the constant fear of exposure, the shadow of death looming over every decision, and the weight of betrayal that gnawed at their souls.

One chilly evening, as we gathered in a dimly lit safe house on the outskirts of the city, Liam turned to me with a grave expression, his eyes reflecting an unspoken turmoil.

"There's a mission that we must carry out soon," he began, his voice tinged with a mix of determination and apprehension. "It's a critical operation for our cause, but it's also one of the riskiest we've ever undertaken."

The room fell silent as Liam outlined the details of the mission; each word heavy with the knowledge of what was at stake. I saw the tension in his comrades' faces, the gravity of the situation weighing down on them like a suffocating shroud.

As they debated strategies and contingencies, I felt a sense of unease settle in the pit of my stomach. The reality of their world, filled with violence crashed over me like a relentless wave.

I was investigating Liam, pretending to support him in his fight for justice, independence, and freedom, but as the details of the mission unfolded, I grappled with the harsh truth of what it truly meant to be part of the IRA. It was then I contacted my supervisors at MI5, updating them as to the status of the mission, and requesting their advice.

After a night at the pub, Liam invited me back to his flat for a nightcap. I now knew without a doubt he was the bomber from Belfast, but something had changed in him. Something I could not put my finger on.  I still needed physical evidence before I could arrest him. As we entered Liam's dimly lit flat, the tension in the air was palpable. I tried to maintain my composure, not letting on that I knew his secret. He poured us each a drink and handed me a glass, his eyes never leaving mine. I took a sip, my mind racing with thoughts of how to gather the evidence I needed without blowing my cover. Liam leaned in closer, a sinister smile playing on his lips as he whispered, "You know, I've been waiting for this moment for a long time." My heart pounded in my chest as I realized the danger of the situation I had willingly walked into. But catching a criminal was never easy, and I was willing to take the risk to bring him to justice. 

I tensed, ready for whatever Liam had in store. His smile widened as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small detonator. My blood ran cold as I realized the magnitude of the threat in front of me. "You see, Mr. Government man. I know who you are. You work for MI5" Liam murmured, his voice low and menacing, "I don't take kindly to snoops poking around where they don't belong." The weight of his words hung heavy in the air as he toyed with the detonator in his hand. I knew I had to act fast before things spiraled out of control. Quick as a flash, I grabbed his hand knocking the detonator to the floor. We both leaped to try and retrieve it and luckily, I succeeded, grabbing it and flinging it through an open window fully expecting it to detonate. But nothing. Liam, a look of fury on his face lunged toward me just as I delivered a blow that hit him directly on his chin and knocked him out cold. I sat there for a moment feeling sorry for my “friend,” and then placed him in handcuffs as he came to. As he struggled against the restraints, a sense of relief washed over me. I knew the danger wasn't entirely over, but at least now I had him contained. I radioed for backup, making sure to keep an eye on Liam as I did so. His eyes burned with fury as he glared at me, realizing his plan had been foiled. "You think you're so clever," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "But you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into." Despite his threats, I remained steadfast, knowing that I had a job to do no matter how dangerous it might be. Minutes later, I heard the sound of boots echoing down the hallway as my fellow agents arrived to take Liam into custody. As they led him away, he shot me one last malevolent look, promising retribution with his eyes alone. But I couldn't afford to dwell on that now; there were still loose ends to tie up and a city to keep safe. As I watched Liam disappear around the corner, a wave of relief and exhaustion washed over me. I knew that my success in apprehending him was only the beginning of a long and complicated process. I would need to interrogate him to gather more evidence, ensure that he was correctly processed and held by the authorities, and monitor any potential threats he might have set in motion before his capture.

But for now, I was content to sit in the dimly lit flat, my mind still racing with adrenaline and the weight of the responsibility I had taken on. I finished my drink and set it down on the table, my hand shaking slightly from the intensity of the encounter. That evening enough explosives were found in his flat to blow up half of London. I was extremely lucky.

With a deep breath, I stepped back out into the night, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead in the pursuit of justice. I smiled to myself as I remembered the “interview,” Dad had set up for me, telling me that I was interviewing for a job as a journalist. That seemed like it had been a lifetime ago, but I was glad I had decided to join “the firm.”

The cold night air hit me like a slap in the face as I made my way back to the station. The events of the evening replayed in my mind; each moment seared into my memory. I knew that Liam's capture was a significant victory, but it was only the tip of the iceberg. The tangled web of his criminal activities stretched far and wide, and it was up to me to unravel it all.

Back at the station, I was met with a mix of relief and apprehension from my colleagues. They knew the risks involved in taking down someone like Liam, and the fact that I had done so without anyone getting hurt was seen as a small miracle. But there was no time to revel in success; we had work to do.

The interrogation of Liam was grueling, each question carefully calculated to extract the information we needed. He remained defiant, his eyes burning with hatred towards me. But beneath his bravado, I sensed a flicker of fear. He knew our resources were vast and that it was only a matter of time before we uncovered every last detail of his operation.

As the night wore on, I began to piece together the scope of Liam's criminal enterprise. He was not just a bomber, but a mastermind who had orchestrated attacks across the UK for a long time, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. I knew that this was just the beginning; we would need to work tirelessly to dismantle his network and bring his accomplices to justice.

In the days that followed, I put in long hours at the station, sifting through the evidence we had gathered from Liam's flat and organizing it into a coherent case against him and his associates. My colleagues and I worked side by side, each contributing their unique skills and expertise to the task at hand.

As we built our case, we received word that Liam was making moves to escape from custody. It seemed that his defiance and hatred towards me had only grown stronger in the interrogation room. We knew we had to be one step ahead of him at all times.

I stayed on the case, determined to see it through to the end. The danger and the tension were constant, but so was my commitment to justice. I knew that Liam's passion working for the IRA had to be dismantled, and I was the one who had to make sure it was done.

As the days turned into weeks, the case against Liam grew stronger. We pieced together all the evidence we could find, working tirelessly to build a case that would stand up in court.

Finally, the day arrived when we felt ready to present our case to the judge. The courtroom was packed with reporters and onlookers, eager to see the conclusion of this high-profile case.

Liam stood in the dock, defiant as ever, his eyes locked on mine. He knew that his time was up, and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

As the trial progressed, our solicitor presented our case, laying out the evidence we had gathered from Liam's flat and the testimonies of witnesses affected by his crimes. My colleagues took the stand, adding their expertise and insight to the case.

It was a long and grueling process, but we never wavered in our determination to see justice served. Finally, after days of testimony and argument, the judge delivered his verdict.

Liam was found guilty on all counts, and he was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. He was led away in handcuffs, his defiance finally broken.

Back at the station, we celebrated our victory with a round of drinks, relieved and exhausted but proud of our work. We knew that our efforts had made a difference and that the citizens of our city were safer because of it.

But the job was far from over. There were still loose ends to tie up, other agents to apprehend, and a system to protect from future threats. We took a moment to savor our victory, but then we returned to work, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead in pursuing justice.

Shortly after the verdict was announced I visited Mum and Dad for the weekend. Dad was busy tending his roses, so I waved him hello and went inside to chat with Mum. The arrangement I had made had been with Dad, and it was important to him to keep her out of any discussion. I respected his request and chose not to involve her.

 Later while Mum was cooking dinner, Dad ear holed me. He asked me if I was doing anything urgent at the moment, and I shook my head. I want you to fly to the US and go to Washington DC and meet Shabby, then fly on to Boston where I would like you to meet a friend of mine. First of all, I want you to visit the British Embassy in Washington and look up the Ambassador, your godfather, Sir Clive Shabilla. I’ve told him you’re coming, and he'll know what to give you. Sir Clive had been an old school chum of dads at Marlborough. His nickname at school had been Shabby, because his last name Shabilla was hard to pronounce, and so he got the nickname, which I’d always used since I’d been a tiny boy.

I’ve arranged for you to stay at the Four Seasons on Connecticut Avenue. Take a taxi from the airport straight to the hotel, and then rest up. You will be meeting with Shabby at 9:30 on Wednesday. After the meeting an Embassy car will take you to National airport where you’ll fly to Logan. Take a taxi to the Marriott, Copley Place, where I’ve reserved a room for you for 3 weeks. Shabby will fill you in on the mission when you meet him in Washington. “Do you have any questions my boy?” I paused, taking in the gravity of Dad’s voice and replied. “When will I leave?” “On Monday morning from Heathrow. Your plane leaves at 12:45 and will fly you into Dulles Airport. Here are all your travel documents.” And my dad reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced everything I would need, except an explanation of why. I knew Dad so well. “Shabby will explain everything son, after you get to the Embassy in Washington.”

I had a splendid weekend relaxing with mum and dad and going for a long walk with them on Saturday afternoon. On Sunday I drove back to London and packed for my trip to the US on Monday. I arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and checked in to BA who checked my luggage and stamped my business class ticket. I then sat around reading my book until we were ushered onto the plane about 35 minutes before takeoff. As I sat in my seat on the gleaming British Airways jet, I began remembering back to when dad told me about the last escapade, he and Shabby had carried out. They had been dropped in France and were due to meet up with resistance fighters. Unfortunately, before they jumped the plane was hit by machine gunfire from a Messerschmitt 109 fighter plane and the pilot was killed instantly. Shabby had been an amateur pilot before the war, and realizing the extreme danger they were in, pushed the pilot aside and did his best to steady the plane. Steadily losing altitude and with the German ME109 in hot pursuit Shabby managed to land the Lysander in a bumpy field full of cows. Luckily, he didn’t hit any angry bovines, but smashed the plane up pretty badly. Dad and Shabby managed to extricate themselves from the wreckage just moments before it caught fire and exploded. They ran and hid in a grove of trees just long enough to get their breath and then tried to figure out where they had landed, which was impossible because it was pitch black and wouldn’t be light for another 2 hours. They knew they’d have to put some distance between the crashed plane and themselves as fast as possible as patrols were everywhere and would arrive to search for survivors very soon. There was no time to lose. They had dressed in French street clothes before they left and so they walked out onto the dirt road and trudged as far away from the wreckage as they could. A few moments later a lorry carrying German soldiers drove by them. They had heard the lorry approaching so took cover in a ditch. Both of them spoke German fluently and while they were hiding, they heard one SS officer explain to his subordinate that it was crucial to capture and kill anyone who had survived the plane crash because if they found out about the local facility that was making chemical agents it could change the course of the war. Both Dad and Shabby when they heard the man talk realized the terrifying implications and knew what had to be done.

An hour later trudging across fields they found a deserted barn, where they took shelter, and tried to figure out how far they were from the actual drop zone. Finally using rough coordinates, they figured they had crashed about 20 miles from where they were meeting their resistance counterparts. They decided to hike the 20 miles and meet up with the French resistance, then contact intelligence and let them know what they intended to do. It took them 2 days to walk the distance and after they met up with Jean-Claude, their contact at the resistance, they radioed London to alert them about the chemical laboratory they had found.

The information that Dad and Shabby discovered was handled at the most highly classified level and the lab was raided by a superb team of operatives and the chemical agents disposed of in a secure facility. Thanks to the plane that crashed just a mile from the facility it might have had a very different outcome.

CHAPTER 3

A Shadow from the Past

I had been deep in my memory as we flew comfortably across the ocean, and I was suddenly jolted back to reality when the stewardess came on the intercom and announced that we would be landing at Dulles airport in approximately 27 minutes. We disembarked, went through customs and then I grabbed a taxi to the hotel that dad had booked for me where I grabbed a quick drink and a meal and then slept like the dead until 7.00 am. My meeting with Shabby at the British Embassy was scheduled for 10.00 am. I’ve known Shabby forever. He’s my godfather and used to spend Christmas with us every year since I can remember. A very down to earth man he in many ways is more like a father to me than my dad. I arrived at the British Embassy a tad before 10 and was whisked in to see him. He was standing beside his desk smoking his obligatory pipe. I had always loved the smell of his tobacco, and it took me right back to when I was 7 years old and home for the holidays. It was a very comforting smell. He was pleased to see me, and as I walked toward him, he beamed at me. “Good to see you old man, good to see you.” And he clasped my hand like there was no tomorrow. “I’m delighted you decided to join the firm. Let’s see if we can catch these bastards, shall we?” He chuckled as he walked across to the cabinet and poured us both a large whisky, even though it was hovering around 10.00 am. “Now my boy let me tell you about this mission. Do you remember the story I told you when your dad and I were dropped into France during the war, and an ME109 shot us down? Well, if you remember the pilot was killed and so I had to fly the Lysander as best I could. I managed to land it in a field and then run for cover to hide from any German patrols that had been alerted. While we were hiding in a ditch, we heard a German officer bark orders that the survivors must be found and killed so they wouldn’t detect the lab that was tasked by Hitler himself to create biological weapons capable of killing hundreds of thousands of innocent victims by mixing the chemical agent into a water source. The director of the lab was Gerhardt von Braun. After the war he somehow escaped justice and managed to slip into the United States and is now living in Boston. The IRA has been in contact with Herr von Braun and has asked him to set up a laboratory, somewhere in the UK. For obvious reasons von Braun can’t travel to England and so we would like you to act as an emissary for the IRA, gain his confidence and then when you have it, kidnap him and return him to the UK to face justice. If you can pull this off, you’ll be saving countless lives. It will be extremely dangerous and will require you to be at the top of your game, but the reports I’ve been hearing about you my boy have been top notch. I have no doubt that you will succeed, and your country will be most grateful to you if they ever knew what you’d done, which of course they won’t.” Shabby laughed loudly as he finished his whisky in one large gulp. “Right my boy. Any questions?” “Just the address will be all I need.” I answered. “Yes of course. Oh, and by the way he now goes by the name William Siegle.” Shabby wrote the address down for me and continued. “It is still early in the negotiations and so Von Braun is not familiar with any of the main players, but he is very smart and will be able to spot a fraud from a mile away. So please create a plausible scenario, because if you don’t, you’ll be dead before you know it. As you know the IRA is very active in Boston and they have spies everywhere. You must be extra careful.” I nodded and thanked Shabby and as we were saying our goodbyes, he surprised me and uncharacteristically gave me a very warm hug. As you know the Brits are not prone to emotional outbursts and so our last moments together were awkward but for my part, I was pleased he felt comfortable enough to display such emotion. A couple of days later I would remember that conversation vividly.

The city of Boston buzzed with the soft hum of late autumn, the golden glow of the sunset casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets. I stood on the edge of the Charles River, my heart pounding in concert with the passing boats, knowing that what lay ahead would forever change the course of my life—and perhaps the lives of countless innocents.

The chill of the Boston night crept through the streets, a foreboding reminder of the storm that loomed overhead—not the weather but a political tempest that threatened to consume the world once again. I had been tasked with a mission that was shrouded in shadows, one that required the stealth of a phantom and the ruthlessness of a predator. My target: Dr. Wilhelm Von Siegler, a biochemist whose mastery of toxins had once endangered the world before my time during those harrowing days of World War II.

Back then, British intelligence had foiled Von Siegler’s sinister plot—a desperate attempt to poison the civilian population of London. He had slipped through our fingers, fleeing to America as the war neared its end, like a ghost vanishing into the ether. Now, two decades later, whispers of his name were echoing back through the crumbling walls of the IRA, who recognized his talents and sought to leverage them for their cause.

“An ordinary man with extraordinary skills can become the architect of disaster,” my handler had warned me. “You must bring Von Siegler back. We cannot let history repeat itself.”

The mission was fraught with risks, not just from the man I'd been sent to capture but also from the turbulent landscape of global politics. I was equipped with a cover: an art historian doing research in Boston, a ruse that allowed me to infiltrate the circles that surrounded the elusive scientist, and that Sir Clive, my godfather had arranged for me.

Weeks passed as I navigated the academic labyrinth of Boston, learning the rhythms of art and culture while keeping my eyes peeled for any signs of Von Siegler. It was a city veiled in history, each corner telling a story of the past. I attended lectures and mingled at galas, all while biding my time, observing the biochemist from a distance.

One evening, I received my first glimpse of the man who had haunted my dreams. Dr. Von Siegler stood tall, his unmistakable silvery hair catching the soft light of the gallery, where the elite gathered to admire art, sipping on champagne and exchanging pleasantries. I could see the shadows of his past lurking behind his thoughtful gaze, a man smart enough to evade justice, yet oblivious to the dogged pursuit of those like me.

That night, in a corner of the gallery, I decided to make my move. I approached him, my heart racing, masking my intentions behind a façade of fascination.

“Dr. Von Siegler, this gallery is truly remarkable,” I offered, attempting to lure him into conversation with the charm of an admirer. It was the first time I had met him, and I wanted to give the impression that I was one of his students. He looked at me, curiosity piquing his interest.

“Thank you. Art provokes thought, something science strives to achieve as well,” he replied, his German accent thick but refined.

I engaged him in conversation, mentioning an obscure research article he had penned years before, carefully guiding our discussion toward his expertise in biochemicals. The hours passed with me dancing on the edge of deception, skillfully weaving tales of admiration while mapping out any potential escape routes.

Days turned into weeks, and as I came to know him, I found a crack in his armor. Von Siegler was naive, convinced that his past was buried, and he unwittingly confided, possibly because he recognized my Irish accent, about his recent meetings with IRA agents, unaware that his every move had been monitored. The stakes had been raised, and he didn’t even know it.

The night of the kidnapping came with a sense of tragic gravity. It was an unseasonably warm evening as I invited him to an exhibition at the edge of the city—a secluded venue with only a handful of guests. As we walked under the stars, I signaled my team, who were hidden in the shadows, poised to strike.

The plan was executed flawlessly. In the darkened alley, I revealed my true identity, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through me. “Dr. Von Siegler, you’re coming with me.”

His eyes widened, a tumult of fear and disbelief. But before he could protest, my team ushered him into the waiting vehicle. Despite his efforts to resist, he was overpowered, and in that moment, history began to repeat itself, yet with a new narrative.

As we sped through the night, I looked at the man I had captured—once a master of death, now reduced to a prisoner. He sat shackled in a corner; a puzzled expression etched on his face. "You can’t take me back," he stammered.

“You underestimate how far I’m willing to go. You want to experiment with humanity's fate? You’ll have to answer for it first,” I replied, determination hardening my voice.

The journey back to London was quickened by the somber responsibility weighing upon me. We arrived under cover of darkness, the city alive with its secrets. I turned Von Siegler over to MI5's custody sergeant where he would face an indictment for crimes against humanity.