Three years have passed since young Josie Fortune tried to make some decisions that would have a bearing on the rest of her life. We first met her in Book One as a young, attractive and entirely convincing male to female transsexual.

Josie had to deal with the painful and awkward transition from being Joseph, while fending off corrupt politicians determined to murder her, earnest young men eager to bed her, and best friends who fell in love with her.

In seeking her own destiny she struggled to find what she needed to do rather than what others would have her do. We pick up the tale as she graduates from University and selects a rather unusual career path, ready to deal with whatever the world throws at her...

 

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Tanya has a new website where she will display her latest works first and then to BigCloset TopShelf a few weeks later is here at Tanya Allan's Tales .
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The Legal Stuff: Changed Fortune © 2009, 2010 Tanya Allan
 
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.
 
Please enjoy.
Tanya
 
 

 
 
 
Prologue
 
 
Someone was coming my way from the alley ahead of me, so I drew my gun and took cover behind the small ornamental wall. There was only one place the person could have come from at this time of night, so I believed that this could possibly be it!

It was dark, but I could hear the footsteps before I could see the person who made them. It had taken me several days, but I’d managed to locate the building, once I’d spent time learning the city and trying to figure out where I’d hide with a hostage. The local police, even with the language barrier, had been relatively indifferent, as they had a veritable war on their hands as far as crime was concerned, so were actually happy to allow me the freedom of their computer system if it meant they didn’t have to be involved so much with the investigation.

There was some political pressure on the local commander, but as their enquiries had reached a brick wall, the logical answer was to let me have what resources I needed (within reason) and give me free reign. Initially, all I needed was access to their intelligence computer and someone to help with the language. Rosetta was just one of the civilian intelligence analysts, but she was keen and ever so helpful. She’d always wanted to join the police, but her poor eyesight and very small physique barred her from the local department. This had been the next best thing, so she was more than willing to help me.

It had been she who had discovered this building, with the possible escape to the rear down this very alley. The triangulation on the last cell phone message had been the clincher, so I had told my boss as well as the local police chief. Leaving Rosetta at the office, I had made my way down here and was still awaiting some help.

I had been instructed to wait for back up before entering. I’d been lucky to get this far, so was excited at the possibility of breaking this case. I watched as the figure came into sight, reaching a pool of light from a single external light fixed to the wall. I relaxed slightly as I saw it was a woman. So far there was no evidence that a woman was involved, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Stop right there, don’t move, I’m armed and will shoot if you give me cause,” I said.
 
 
The woman stopped, starting slightly, so I could tell my presence surprised her. Firstly, she didn’t expect me to be here, secondly she didn’t expect me to be armed and waiting for her, but mainly I felt that she was taken aback because I was a woman.

As she turned towards my voice, very slowly, so I now realised how they’d managed to get past the surveillance team. This was no female, but a man dressed in women’s clothes. He stopped turning when I told him to, but then, as the tone and timbre of my voice sank home, he started to smile, pulling the gun from his belt in a practised, fluid movement. The chrome of the weapon gleamed evilly in the poor light, so I realised, with some trepidation, who I had in my sights.

However, I was acutely aware that others far more experienced than I had died by this weapon. He didn’t point it at me immediately, so it dawned on me that perhaps he couldn’t see me, as I was in deep shadows and behind the wall and he had just come from a reasonably well-lit building. Only my weapon, hand and part of my head were exposed, in any case.

“Go on, you stupid tart, fucking shoot me, coz if you don’t, I’ll fucking shoot you!” he said, with his eyes searching the darkness for a hint as to where I was hiding.
 
 
His accent was strange, for although he spoke English, he wasn’t from the UK. There was a slight Americanisation, but equally, there was also an accent that had more than a hint of German or Dutch; - South Africa or Zimbabwe perhaps. We knew precious little about him; a partial fingerprint here, a fuzzy photograph there, and crucially a hair and blood sample which gave us DNA.

I found the situation faintly ironic, for this was no camp transvestite, but someone using a disguise for a specific purpose. Back when I’d been ‘pretending’, I’d like to think that all my mannerisms and appearance would have been as feminine as possible, whereas this guy made no attempt to appear female, apart from the clothes, wig and shoes. He so nearly succeeded. The apparent contempt he had for me as a woman was considerable. Had I had time, I’d be interested to find out what he had against women, and why he held us in such utter contempt. But time was one thing I had very little of.

“Put the gun down. I will shoot you, believe me,” I said, feeling the tremors in my voice.

“You? A woman? Like fuck you will,” he said, making the word woman sound like an insult, Stepping closer towards me and raising his weapon, he sought me in the darkness. One more step and he’d see me.

I’m not sure who was more surprised, him or me. I was surprised at the noise even though I was prepared for it, but I think he was more surprised at the two holes that appeared in the centre of his chest, ruining his false breasts. I’ve watched countless movies, but the many times I’ve heard real gunshots, I often wonder how movie makers get away with it. Surely there’s something under the Trades Description Act, for the noise was truly deafening — literally.

He dropped the gun staggering backwards and falling with the impact, while looking at in my direction in surprised dismay, knocked off his feet by my two 9mm rounds hitting him.
 
 
Recalling my training and with my undefended ears still ringing, I immediately moved position and prepared to fire the next pair of shots, even though he was down and disarmed. I held my fire, as I could see he was no longer a threat, and I desperately needed him alive to give me the information I wanted.

I approached him, pointing my Glock at his perforated chest as I kicked his gun well out of his reach. Initially, I wasn’t certain that he wasn’t wearing body armour.

I soon discovered that he wasn’t, as his breath came in pink frothy bubbles and his hands were clawing at his wounds. His eyes met mine and he was frowning.

“You fucking shot me?” he rasped, his voice betraying utter disbelief along with the pain.

“You twat, I told you I would. Now, where’s the boy?”

“You fucking shot me!”

“Shut up about that and tell me where the boy is, or I’ll shoot you again!” I shouted at him. Knowing what he’d done and who he was meant I didn’t actually care about him, but I did care about the boy. I struggled to control my patience.

“I can’t get shot by a fucking woman!” he said in disgust, as his breathing got worse. Once again, I had to smile slightly at the irony of the situation, but thought the truth would be wasted on him.

“The boy, where’s the boy?” I asked, and held his head off the ground.

He looked back the way he had come, nodding his head slightly. Then his eyes rolled away and he was gone. I checked his pulse, curious to know what I’d feel like having taken a life.

I suppose I felt numb and pissed off, but I guessed the true feelings would come later.

“Shit!” I said to no one in particular, as I began to search for a way into the building. I could hear the wails of sirens, so I knew help, of sorts, was at hand, but I also knew that time was running out for the victim.
 
 
Chapter One
 
June 2006
 
It was hot and sticky in the great Guildhall of Portsmouth University. The rented gown and mortarboard didn't help, but it was a scorching day outside, and as the building was erected sometime in the Eighteenth century, they hadn't thought about air conditioning at that time. I resisted the urge to scratch my hair, as I’d spent ages getting it right for the ceremony.

By turning round, I could see my parents several rows from the rear, as my mother saw me, she gave me a small wave. I smiled back and turned to face the front.

Once the dreary speeches were concluded, we had the degree awarding ceremony, which seemed to take an age. Finally, they called out my name and I dutifully rose and walked to the stage to collect a rolled up parchment that said I was now the proud holder of a BSc (Hons) Criminology and Criminal Justice. Dad was disappointed that I missed a first, but I was pleased with a two-one.

Let’s face it: he was also disappointed that I’d deliberately chosen to go to any university other than Oxford. Portsmouth was nowhere near the same league as Oxford, but the course was exactly what I’d wanted and it was far enough away for me to leave Joseph and his past behind.

At last the proceedings finished there was almost a stampede out to get some fresh air. There were the expected farewell gatherings and photographs on the steps of the Guildhall, so I did my bit, posing for photos and saying goodbye to all those who seemed to want a great song and dance. There were some exceptions.

I’d shared a house in Southsea for the second and third years with two girl friends I’d met in halls in the first year. Janna, Lilly and I had very little in common, but we’d somehow just gelled. We were on three different courses and had initially three completely different sets of friends, but over the first year, we found we got on very well with each other. I was the organiser, which was obviously a hang-over from being a rep. Janna was the social secretary, as she adored sports and socialising, so seemed to know everyone important. Lilly was the studious one, who was more introverted than us, but once we’d encouraged her out of her shell, she’d blossomed into a stunningly attractive girl who was also outstandingly intelligent.

I was genuinely sad to say goodbye to them, as they’d been good friends to me. I’d kept my secret up until the start of the third year, and to my delight, initially neither believed me, and then stated that it didn’t matter in any case.

As for men...

Well, Stewart had traveled down a couple of times in the first year, but I think we both sensed that we’d each moved on further than we’d anticipated. We still saw each other in the holidays, but although still good friends, the sparkle had gone, which meant that I didn’t feel it right we get together, sexually, that is.

I met loads of men, many of whom showed great interest in me, or rather interest in screwing me. However, I was still searching for something or someone, and as neither appeared, I made many friends and never went to bed with any of them, which sent the wrong message to Janna. Lilly had a steady boyfriend called Rob who was at Southampton University. They’d get together at most weekends and we’d not see her until Monday morning.

Janna wasn’t so controlled for, as I discovered, she didn’t really care with whom she went to bed, male or female.

She made a pass at me when we got very drunk after a ladies' hockey match in which she’d been playing. I’d sort of gone along with her fumblings on the sofa until I realised what she was after.

I froze for a second, and thought, what the hell, so went along for the ride. It was fun, but not as good as with a bloke. The next morning she’d been terribly embarrassed so I told her my secret, as I suppose I’d been to bed with a girl before, only she was now a he.

“I’m sorry, Janna, but I’m not really into girls, so I suppose that was my way of finding out. If you don’t try, you’ll never know, eh?” I said.

She was still doing a goldfish impression.

“No way! No bloody way you were ever a man, Jojo. I’ve been with both, and you are a girl, believe me!”

I smiled, pleased with the compliment, so I then explained my life history, in brief.

“Does Lilly know?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I suppose so. I may as well, now you know,” I said.

“Can I be there when you do?” was all she asked.

In the event, Lilly expressed surprise and then treated me exactly as before, which was exactly what I wanted. They both agreed never to mention it to anyone.

The University admin knew, as it was hardly something I could keep from them, but their equal opportunities policy meant that I was never highlighted nor put under any spotlight. Here I was, collecting my degree and as far as the world was concerned, I was just another normal young woman starting out in life. There was a GBLTG group somewhere within the university, which I avoided like the plague. Mind you, there always seemed to be loads of students dressing up in the clothing of the opposite gender, but relatively few, I guessed, were transgendered in any way.

The three of us said our farewells with a few tears, but with satisfied smiles, for we’d all succeeded and made good friendships. We swore not to lose touch and went our separate ways. My parents had come down in their big car, which we loaded to the gunwales with my clobber. With the remainder, I filled my own car, ironically, one of the new minis made by BMW at the old British Leyland site in Cowley, Oxford. I had been sad to see my old one go, but it had started to cost me too much in repairs and parts. Then we drove home in convoy.

It took me three whole days to get completely bored by Oxford and everything I’d run away from. My parents were lovely, but I felt hemmed in and threatened by my past life. It was nice to have a degree, but it had yet to impact my life. I still had no firm idea as to what I wanted to do for a career. Somehow becoming a police officer seemed a little humdrum and unappealing. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good career, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a uniform wandering the streets of one of our big cities or provincial towns. I couldn’t join the local force, for obvious reasons, and in any case I wasn’t that keen to go to start training school just after having finished three years at university.

All the police forces seemed to encourage the recruitment of members of ethnic minorities or even gays and the transgendered, however, I knew from several friends that the reality was that the serving officers weren’t thrilled by the prospect of working alongside the people the Headquarters were determined to recruit. Prejudices ran deep, no matter what government ministers said or wanted. I knew I could pass, but that wasn’t the issue. I wanted to live without fear of my past and having to pretend was no longer something I was prepared to do anymore.

Stewart was now working with Martin full time, and when I popped in to visit he seemed slightly reserved with me. We went for a drink at the local pub where he admitted he was seeing a girl he’d met a few weeks ago.

“I was going to write, but thought it best I wait until I saw you,” he said.

“Why, afraid I’d be angry or upset?” I asked.

“Possibly, but I believed that you deserved to hear it face to face. I never meant to hurt you, but I felt you were turning into someone different, someone I no longer know so well.”

“What did you expect, Stoo? I’m not the same person that went to school with you. Of course I’ve changed, as I’m now the person I wanted to be, even way back then. I’ve seen what both sides of the fence have to offer and I’m more than happy to be on this side for the rest of my life. I just don’t want to be tied into what used to be, as I’ve moved on.”

“I thought we could move together, was I so wrong?” he asked.

I felt awkward and a little guilty.

“Oh Stoo, what we have will never go away. We’re best friends, that can’t change. You know me better than anyone else in the world, even my parents. I value our friendship, but I don’t think we’re destined for a long term close relationship. Not just yet, that is. Unless you know better?”

He smiled sadly. “Maybe you’re right. I sort of held off getting close to Kath until I spoke with you.”

I laughed, as I’d been here before with Paul. I seemed destined to let others move on, while thinking it was me.
Strangely, the strongest feeling I experienced was one of relief. It was the last thread that connected me to this place and my old life, discounting my parents, that is. We passed a pleasant few minutes, but then I made my excuses and walked out of his love life without a backward glance. I’m sure we’d remain life-long friends, but not as lovers.

There was nothing for me here anymore, and there was only one person I could think of to ask.
 
 
“Josie, what a lovely surprise. What can I do for you?” Commander Michael Hutchings said when I called him.

“Congratulations on the promotion, by the way,” I said.

“Ah well, all good things come to those who wait. Besides, I think a few years running Special Branch will do me up until I retire and disappear off to my little farm in France.”

“Do me a favour, men like you never retire, as they all become security consultants and disappear into the intelligence services,” I said, laughing.

“You’ve become rather too worldly and cynical whilst at university, my dear.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was cynical long before that. Being what I was can warp one somewhat.”

“I appreciate that, but let’s skip the chit chat, why the call?”

“I need some career advice,” I admitted.

“Given up on the police?”

“More or less, you see, I just don’t think I want to go back to school and be a beat bobby for a couple of years. I’m sort of beyond that.”

“Everyone starts at the bottom, my dear.”

“I know, but at the bottom of what? You see, for most girls, there’s the ultimate goal of finding a husband and having a family, so you see, I’m slightly different.”

“Lots of women can’t conceive, what’s the difference? You could still lead a remarkably normal life if you wanted to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Ah, I see. I can’t say I blame you. Coppers can be very hard people to prove yourself to, and I can see how you could feel your past is something you’d rather not have as an issue. It’s something that a good lawyer could find out and drop into a cross examination, just to shake you and the prosecution. Well perhaps you could come and see me, as I think I may know a man who could help you.”

“Do what?”

He chuckled on the other end of the phone.

“Let me put it this way, if you went to work for him, I might end up seeing you again, as a consultant perhaps,” he said.

“You mean MI5?”

“Either them or one of the other departments. They’ll take a long hard look at you and decide where best your talents lie.”

“When?”

“Let me see, do you have the same phone number?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll call you. I imagine it will be next week sometime, okay?”

“Thanks, that’s kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it. I rather believe you’ll do well, it’s a pity you can’t come straight to SB, but that’s the way of life.”

I came off the phone feeling slightly better about life. Indeed, I experienced a tingle of excitement about the unknown future I now faced. I’d never imagined myself as a secret agent, but then I’d probably end up working as a data analyst or something.

Needless to say my father was hardly enamoured with my possible career choice. However, he recognised that his newer daughter was hardly likely to settle down to an orthodox life.
 
 
Chapter Two
 
 
I sat outside the office and tried to calm my shattered nerves. I was dressed smartly in a skirt, blouse and jacket, hoping to make the right impression. Well, it was all over now, as my interview, if that’s what it was, was now a thing of the past. It was two weeks since my meeting at New Scotland Yard with Commander Hutchings. Actually, that sounds rather grand, but I never went into the building, for we met in a little coffee shop just round the corner.

He was interested in my degree and tried to persuade me to reconsider the police.

“I’m sure I can get you an inside track to SB if you wanted it in a couple of years?”

“Can I hold you to that?” I asked.

“Yes, but not for too long, as I’m not sure how long I shall be here for.”

He then told me about a selection meeting for me in Whitehall for the security service.

“It will be harder than Hendon,” he pointed out.

“In what way?”

“In every way,” he said.
 
 
I’d arrived at this faceless building in Whitehall to be met by a very dapper man in a pinstripe suit and regimental tie. He was tall and ramrod straight, so I assumed the tie wasn’t an affectation. I guessed his age was around sixty, but as he was almost totally bald and what little hair he had was very short and fair, he could have been younger. He introduced himself as Humphrey Maynard and described his role as ‘something in the intelligence game’.

I had to suppress the giggles, as I immediately saw the parallel as the ubiquitous Sir Humphrey from the TV show, Yes Minister. I followed him through the modernised building, along carpeted corridors and glancing into offices that seemed dominated by computers and subdued lighting.

He took me to a comfortable office at the back of the building overlooking Horse Guards where we had an informal chat over a cup of coffee. It seems he knew far more about me than I knew was in the public domain. In fact, there were almost things he knew about me that even I didn’t!

Michael Hutchings must have told him everything, and I mean everything. We spoke at length about the case of the crooked MP and then my various jobs.

“You seem to have had more than your fair share of excitement, how do you feel you coped with being targeted by assassins?” he asked, changing the subject.

“At the time, I hadn’t much choice. People said I was brave, but it wasn’t a case of that, I just got on with my life. I trusted those who were given the task of protecting me, and I like to think I have become more aware of what’s going on around me and of the people that I wouldn’t have bothered about before.”

“How do you feel about who you are now?”

I suppressed a smile. I knew they’d ask, even though I’d been told that they weren’t allowed to bring up gender issues in the actual interview. This wasn’t the interview, was it?

“I’m completely content at being a female. I have no regrets at all,” I answered, completely honestly.

“There are some who would say that having experienced what you have would be a disadvantage. How would you respond?”

“Experienced what? The attacks or the gender issue?” I asked, meeting his stare.

I noted he smiled.

“The latter.”

“I’d tell them that I never asked for the problem. I found myself living a lie and took steps to rectify it. One has to realise that it took prime position in every aspect of my life, so I rarely had a minute, let alone an hour or a day, when I didn’t think about the problem in one way or another. One becomes strong and able to deal with life, regardless of the burning urges one experiences. I think that must be an advantage, to set aside a type of pain or distraction and still manage to do what is expected of you to a high standard.”

“I think I agree, but do you not feel disadvantaged by having the distraction in the first place?”

“I lived in a competitive world, through school, university and in life generally. I like to think I have succeeded as well as I would have done had I not had the problem. If I were placed in a situation where I had a job to do and there was something causing me a distraction, I believe that I could deal with the distraction and get on and do what is expected of me. Those who haven’t had to deal with such things may not be so successful.”

He nodded, scratching his balding head. He had no notes or any information sheets, so I was impressed by his ability to recall facts and keep this ‘conversation’ on track.

“You’ve had several relationships since, ah, since becoming what you are now. Do you believe that honesty is important in a relationship?”

“In other words, did I tell them about me? Yes, both to the honesty and yes to the unasked question. I told all those with whom I had a deep relationship that looked as if it could become serious. As for the few men with whom I’ve had sex with on a slightly more casual basis, no, I didn’t. It had nothing to do with honesty, but everything to do with me being normal. I’m not stupid, as I realise that my history will affect the way people treat me, so I have to exercise exceptional judgement. The question dealt with relationships, so if I was entering a relationship, I’d like to think I’d be honest at the outset, otherwise things could turn nasty later. I’d rather deal with rejection early on, as to deal with it at the altar would be rather too traumatic, even for me.”

This elicited another smile from my questioner.

“Why did you decide against joining the police? Surely having the encouragement and help from someone like the Commander of SB would do your chances of advancement no harm at all.”

“I haven’t completely decided against it, as it will always be an option. However, I’ve just finished twelve years of schooling, followed by three years of university, so I’m not desperately eager to go off to training school to four or five months, only to spend two years dealing with drunks, fights, domestics and road accidents. The public face of policing is also a potential problem for me.”

“In what way?”

“As Commander Hutchings reminded me, if my past is an open book, then not only is that information freely available to the internal police machine, but also, potentially, to defence lawyers and the press. I’d hate to get to a crucial point in a criminal case or my career and have the whole thing erupt in my face, which I believe I could weather but don’t actually believe I want to. It could damage either my career prospects or the case. You see, I’m not naíve enough to believe that the police are free of prejudice and I know that I would have to work twice as hard as anyone else not only to become accepted, but to make decent headway.”

“Are you certain of this, or could it be something that exists in your mind only?”

“No I’m not certain, but I’d like to think I have a reasonable grasp of the harsh realities.”

“The police would offer you an excellent career,” he insisted.

“I’m acutely aware that it’s an important job, and I have the utmost respect for those who do it, but I’m hoping for something more.”

“Like?” he asked, regarding me with some interest.

I thought for a moment. I’d guessed that this would be asked, so I formulated my answer.

“It’s hard to explain. We take so much for granted that it made me wonder about certain things. I mean, who really protects us? I know the government exists to keep things in motion, but there’s so much we don’t see. MPs and other civil servants keep the ball rolling, but what about when the wheel comes off and there’s some dirty work to do that no one wants to know about? I mean, some things can be dealt with openly by the police, other agencies and military, but what about the other, rather nasty things that we don’t want dragged through the press or courts? Most of these things can be prevented by knowing as much as possible about as much as possible, so that’s why intelligence work appeals to me. Someone once said that knowledge is power. I believe it, but only if the right people have the knowledge and do the right thing. I actually believe in this country, but rather than sit back and let others do the dirty work and pretend it doesn’t happen, I’d like to do my part, if I can that is.”

“Hmm, what is the right thing?”

I smiled, as he was far more astute than he looked.

“The right thing is what protects the sovereignty and safety of this nation. It is not always possible to protect everyone, but that’s why people in responsible positions have to make tough decisions,” I said, knowing I was bullshitting.

He smiled again.

“What about you, if you are placed in a situation whereby you know that you have to make a decision and that regardless of which way you go, someone might be harmed, what will you do?”

“I can’t say, not just like that. However, I believe that, using whatever knowledge I have at the time, I hope I’d make the right decision that would be justified by the outcome.”

“Could you directly or indirectly harm another?”

“I think I have already. The men who came after me, their families and even that first man who came into my shop all were harmed because of actions I took or didn’t take.”

“That’s different, as there were others more responsible for the situation than you.”

“You say so, but had I done one thing another way, then things might have been very different. I made decisions based on what I knew. In the end, they proved to be the right decisions, so I’ve learned to trust my judgement.”

“Yes, but could you kill someone?”

“Is that a prerequisite for the job?” I asked with a smile. Before he could answer, I continued. “Yes, if I believed that if I did not, then my life or the life of someone else would be in danger, I could.”

“You seem certain?”

“I am. I thought about this a lot when things were tough, so expected the question, but in the end, I’ll only find out if I have to.”

“What if there was no immediate danger to you or another, but the individual concerned's very existence was a serious threat to our freedoms?” he asked.

“You want me to take out Bin Laden already?” I asked, joking.
 
 
Fortunately, he smiled, so I continued. “I’m not sure. I think I’d like to know exactly what the nature of the threat was and if this was the only means of averting it. If it was just a case of obeying an order, I’m not certain anyone is justified in ordering another to kill, unless there are exceptional and very sound reasons for doing so. I’d need to be convinced that it was imperative.”

“Soldiers do it every day,” he reminded me.

“I accept that, on the field of battle or in situations where it is acceptable. When we sent in the SAS to take out suspected IRA terrorists, like the Gibraltar incident, everyone screamed how wrong it was.”

“Was it wrong?”

“Knowing what we know no, probably not, but we are rarely given the benefit of hindsight.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“As I said, I’d need to know it was essential.”

“So, you’d do it?” he asked.

I smiled, meeting his eyes.

“Yes, if you convinced me I had to and there was no other way.”

Oh fuck! I thought, I’ve just failed. I’ve come over as a gung-ho fool who just wants to kill people.

“Right, they’re ready for you now, so come with me,” he said, rising.

“Ready for me?” I stammered.

“Yes, the selection board.”

“I thought you…” my voice trailed off.

“Me, good God, no. This was just a helpful little chat so I can get to know you a little.”

I followed him along the corridors again until we came to a large conference room. Seated on the far side of the mahogany table were three people, two men and a woman. All looked up as I entered alone, as Humphrey had simply opened the door and allowed me to enter.

The man in the centre invited me to sit in the only chair available. I sat.

The questions started off innocuously, rather like many job interviews. What did I know about the Intelligence services? What research had I done? What skills did I think were needed, and what skills could I bring? What were my weaknesses and strengths, how did I work as a team member and could I work by myself?

I dealt with them all as best I could, but then the weird ones started; the hypothetical situations. Some were silly, but each had one thing in common, they wanted to see how I made decisions and whether I was decisive or impulsive. They were also keen to understand how I solved problems. I hope I dealt with them adequately.
 
 
After what seemed a short time, the woman asked me some personal questions about my current situation.

“Are you in a relationship at the moment?” she asked.

“No. I’ve just split with my boyfriend. We’re still friends though.”

“This is a delicate question, and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to, but as you are applying for a sensitive occupation that may bring you into the realm of national security, do you feel your past makes you vulnerable?”

“No more than anyone else. As you’ve asked the question, you will know everything there is to know. I’ve no secrets and although entitled to a private life, I certainly don’t intend to stand on a soapbox and make a noise about my past. I don’t actually believe it’s relevant, so just want to be accepted for who I am now, not who I was.”

“Do you not feel that if successful, you must accept certain limitations and restrictions on your private life?”

“That happens in many walks of life. I’m aware of the restrictions and accept them. Such is the price for the nature of the job. I’d still rather have these restrictions than those of a famous celebrity who can’t even pop to the shops because of the paparazzi."

The woman glanced at her colleagues, both of whom nodded and then the chairman asked if there were any questions I had for them.

“None. I’d just like to thank you for giving me an opportunity to do something different. I understand that not everyone is successful, but appreciate that my past may be awkward for you. I’d just like to show you it isn’t an issue for me, as I like to believe that I’m surprisingly normal,” I said, instantly regretting it, but she’d made me angry.

Now I sat outside and tried to calm down. I was surprised to learn that an hour had gone by while I was in there. It only seemed a few minutes.

Someone sat next to me. It was Humphrey.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“I lost my temper. She asked about my past and I stupidly got cross.”

“Did you show it?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ve had lots of practice at hiding my emotions.”

“Apart from that?”

“Okay, I suppose. Time flew past, but I think I answered everything.”

“Oh, you did, remarkably well, by all accounts.”

“So, did I make any awful blunders?”

“Not that they said.”

“Who are they?”

“The Chairman is director of a department here at MI5, the other man is the senior training officer for all the service.”

“And the woman?”

“She’s from the human resources department.”

“I won’t have to work for her, will I?” I asked, making a face.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“She didn’t like me. I could tell,” I said.

“I don’t think she’s ever met a post-op transsexual before. I don’t think you met her expectations.”

“Oh, what were they, then?”

“Not what you are.”

“What’s that?” I asked, feeling cheeky.

“A well presented young woman of remarkable intelligence, common sense and humour, perhaps three things that she would find difficult to identify in a mirror.”

I laughed, relaxing slightly.

“When will I hear?” I asked.

“You just have. Welcome to the club,” he said with a smile and offering me his hand.

I shook his hand and thanked him.

“Not at all, my dear, but there is one thing,” he said.

“Yes?”

“The name, it has to go.”

“Name?” I said, feeling stupid.

“Yes, Miss Fortune, I appreciate it’s your name, but I don’t think it’ll help you in your chosen path. Besides, I don’t think you want to shine out and be easily traced back to you know what.”

It had never dawned on me. Oh, I’d teased Jess about it when we grew up, and even when people called me Miss Fortune, I never thought about the other meaning.

“Oh.”

“Is this a problem?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I’d not thought of it like that.”

“No rush, talk it over with your family. I can’t force you, but I do believe you need a fresh break and things like names tend to be a dead giveaway for those keen to back track. The un-fortunate synonym is neither here nor there, although I know of a couple of slightly superstitious fools who’d make something from it,” he said, smiling as he said the words.
 
 
Chapter Three
 
August 2006
 
“Again, Miss, if you’d be so kind!”

I looked up, out of the mud at my tormentor.

“Again?” I spluttered.

“And today, if that’s all right with you,” he said, smiling at my discomfort.

I knew better than to argue or make a fuss. Wearily, I dragged myself to my feet, hefted the pack onto my back and returned to the start of the confidence course. This would make my fifth circuit and so my shoulders ached abominably from the straps of the twenty kilo pack of rocks, and I was bathed in sweat from both the exertion and hot sun. I, together with twelve others, nine men and three women, were undertaking several weeks’ training at Hereford. There had been over thirty of us at the start, back in July, but over the last seven weeks they’d whittled us down to just thirteen.

During the first couple of weeks we’d seen the bulk of drop-outs, as all we seemed to do was run and clamber over obstacles until we literally dropped from exhaustion. Then we went onto the ranges and learned to shoot, as well as the clambering and running. First of all we were given SLPs and went through the basics. After a week of firing Glocks or Sigs, we moved onto H&K MP5s. Once we were proficient with them we familiarised ourselves with all manner of firearms and moved to explosives, as well as the clambering and running. I’d never been fitter in my life, as with my skiing and stuff, I thought I was pretty fit. I was wrong.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first part of the course, and my favourite handgun was the Glock 17. However, it wasn’t to last, as we then were trained in self defence, progressing to how to kill someone with bare hands or innocuous items such as credit cards and pens, sometimes as well as clambering and running.

The next phase involved us learning some basic psychology and instruction on body language; watching others and controlling our own. After a lecture and demonstration on survival in the wild, we were dropped, in groups of four, at midnight somewhere in the mountains. Our task was simply to get back to the camp without being seen by the instructors who would be out looking for us, or the local police who’d been told we were likely to try to get back. I guessed we were now in Wales, but didn’t know for sure. The truck that brought us seemed to be driving for over an hour, but it could have gone in circles for all we knew. There was no time limit, but the closer we got and longer it took before being discovered would determine whether we passed or failed this module.

We seemed to be miles from human habitation, and all we had was the clothes on our backs and boots on our feet - no compass, no matches, no food or water, and no mobile phone! I was grateful that it was August, so it wasn’t cold and it was getting light already.

The three others with whom I was grouped were all men, and one was ex-army. He assumed leadership without hesitation, but after a couple of daft decisions that led us into a marsh, we had an argument. The men nearly came to blows, so I ended it with a suggestion.

“Look, we can’t spend all night squabbling, let's move to higher ground, look at the stars and go in one direction until we come to a track or path,” I said. Colin, the ex-soldier was in a huff and almost walked off on his own, but I persuaded him to stay. After an hour we came to a track, which eventually took us to the back of a small farm.

We stayed in the trees and watched. It was around five am, but there were lights on and movement in the farm house. A dog barked in one of the outhouses.

“I say we go in and ask for some food and water,” said John, the youngest of the group.

I disagreed.

“No, we can’t afford to be seen. The whole point of this is to survive and get back without being seen by anyone or captured by the instructors. This must be a regular thing, so all the farms will be warned to expect groups of people like us, so probably have a hot line to the base so we’d be caught in a jiffy. No, I think we scout around to see if we can find out where we are, and then we can decide which way to go to get back.”

The farm was no help, but the old beaten up Land Rover sitting out the back was. In the glove box, on an old envelope, was the address of the farm. We were at a place called Abergwesyn, but the postal town was Llanwrtyd Wells, which was about four miles south. I smiled, as I had a friend who used to live near here, so knew roughly where we were.

“Hereford is sixty miles away by road, probably only forty overland.”

“Over land, shit Jo, it’s all bloody mountains and rivers. We could never walk across country,” said John.

“Why don’t we nick the Land Rover?” said Colin.

It wasn’t a bad idea, but being arrested for theft of a vehicle wasn’t part of the plan. The others were up for it, but I refused. We had another argument.

“Look, let’s walk the four miles down the road. We should be there before six, so there won’t be that many people about. I bet the instructors will be out looking for us, so we have to walk off the road, just in the woods. Besides, look at the state of the Land Rover, it looks as if it wouldn’t last four miles, let alone sixty!” I said.

Reluctantly, they agreed and we set off. Just as we passed a small church, half way down the road, I say a flash of green on the road.

“Hide!” I said, leaping into some bushes. The others followed.

Sure enough, round the bend came an Army Land Rover with two instructors sitting in the front. One was Sergeant MacLean.

“See,” I said, “They would have caught us in the Land Rover for sure.”
 
 
We continued cautiously to the main road, to what is called the smallest town in the UK. It was little more than a village, but they had a town council, so thought themselves a town. We even passed my friend’s old home, it was a pity they’d moved; otherwise we could have got some food and a lift.

All was quiet in the town, with one or two cars hissing along the all but deserted main road. The camp, or base, was the old air force station RAF Hereford, just to the north of Hereford itself. We had several choices, hitching a lift by road north-east to Builth Wells and then to Hereford, or south-west to Llandovery, then to Brecon, then up to Hereford. Thirdly, we could cut across country on foot, in which case it could take us days.

“Stuff this!” I said, taking off my denim jacket. “I’ve an idea!”

Twenty minutes later, I was wearing a denim mini-skirt, or rather a mini-kilt, that threatened to fall down if I moved, and my white singlet that I’d been wearing under my jacket. The boots were military, but strangely in vogue for young women.

I stood by the road just outside town, with my thumb extended for traffic heading north. The guys were in the bushes behind me.

A large German articulated truck stopped, but as the driver leaned out to talk to me, my colleagues were clambering into the cab’s passenger door on the offside.
I explained to the poor driver exactly what we were doing. Once he calmed down, he was okay with it, and we trundled north to Builth Wells. We left the lorry just to the north of the town and skirted around to repeat the trick to another truck to Hereford. This time we crammed into an empty removal lorry heading off to do a pickup in Hereford itself.

They caught us three miles from the camp. It was all Colin’s fault, as he persuaded the other men that we should skirt round the town centre. I proposed to use the bus and travel straight through the town, and get off at the bus stop a few hundred yards from the turning to the camp. Sergeant MacLean was parked in his Land Rover near an industrial estate on the route we took, and so we were nabbed. Colin and the two other men decided to try to run away, but I just sank to my knees and put my hands on top of my head. They were rough, but less so with me than with the other three.

I was gutted that we were caught, particularly as I hadn’t been keen of that route, but we’d managed to get farther much quicker than any other group, so went to celebrate with a hot shower and huge late breakfast.

That was in the early stages. My tormentor at this moment was a training sergeant in the SAS and I’m sure he wasn’t as polite to those unfortunate soldiers who came through his hands. For the next excruciating twenty minutes, I clambered over walls, along others, swung through trees on ropes, climbed up, slithered down and across other ropes at varying degrees of angle, ending with a death slide over a pond and then through a tunnel under twenty foot of water. For the first time since my operation I actually wished for some testosterone to give me some extra power. By the time I emerged from the tunnel for the fifth time, I hadn’t even the strength to look up at him, but simply waited for his demand that I do it again.

“Right Miss, why don’t you pop off to the showers now? It’s almost tea time,” he said, as he turned round and walked off.

Disbelieving, I stared at his back. He kept on going, so I managed to stand up, totter gingerly back to my barrack hut and strip off my stinking and sodden clothes, which I left in a heap in the corner by the door. I had my own room, but we women shared the shower and toilet facilities. I hadn’t a clue where my colleagues were, as I’d long since learned that we were all being tested and trained for different things, even though we knew nothing about who was destined to do what or where. I was no longer surprised when someone no longer attended a lecture or a meal, for failure was the instant ticket back to the real world. Sometimes failure was very tempting!

I just enjoyed standing under the hot water and eased my aching muscles. I was still there when an equally dirty, damp and exhausted face peered around the door. It was Carol. At least that’s the name she used here, just like I was supposed to be Joannah Fuller, allegedly working in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office records section as a clerk. None of us really knew what future job beaconed, just like all the other details we’d been made to learn were equally false.

I quite liked being Joannah as it meant I could shorten it to Jo and still answer to it without having to think

“Hi, Jo, any water left?”

“Yup, but don’t leave it too long, as the blokes will take it all.”

She joined me in the next door stall.

“God, I’m completely fucked!” she said, sitting on the floor of the shower.

“Bummer, I wish I’d got your course,” I said.

“Not literally, mores the pity, but they ran me for fifteen miles, the bastards!” she said.

“I had that three days ago. You think you’ve finished but they take you past the gate for another three miles!”

“I hate that bastard MacLean!”

I smiled, as Staff Sergeant MacLean was a particularly sadistic s.o.b. when he wanted to be. They were all very polite, but my God, they made us work.

At that moment, some men in black clothing and wearing balaclavas burst into the shower room, dragging both of us, naked, out of the showers and placing canvas hoods over our heads. I tried to resist by lashing out with my foot. I think I connected with a groin, as there was a satisfying grunt in response. However, in return I got punched in the face, not softly either.

“Cunt! Behave,” a male voice said.

I tasted the salt of my own blood and felt my teeth chip. I stopped struggling. We were then hauled, naked and wet, out of the hut and into the back of a waiting truck. I was stunned and shocked, and even though in the back of my mind I knew it was part of the course, I still felt terrified. What if it wasn’t?

Carol grabbed me as were lay on the floor of the truck, holding my arm and trying to pull herself closer to me, but we were dragged roughly apart. I heard her sobbing a few feet away. My mind went back to our briefing on that first day.

A Lieutenant Colonel welcomed us and told us what to expect. So far he’d been right, but then he warned us of some lessons in objectivity.

“You are here until you pass. There are no set lengths for your courses, as we find that setting time-frames gives you the edge, and we wouldn’t want that. You are here until you fail or until you reach a standard that is acceptable and you will leave here knowing that you’ve passed. Please understand, that for us to allow you to leave if you are not of the required standard, we would be simply putting you firmly in harm’s way.

“You and I work for the same mistress, and although Her Royal Highness hasn’t a clue what we actually do on her behalf, she demands certain sacrifices, and one of those is what most academics term being civilised. The chances are that, for the most part, most of you will never be placed in harm’s way, but then if there is even a slight chance, it will pay for you to be prepared. Unfortunately, the only way to prepare you may seem slightly barbaric, but unless you know what to expect, there is no way you can be prepared.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, this is your one and only briefing, so listen and understand. The files that sit on my desk are all we know about you. Your real names and personal details are confidential and to be perfectly honest, we don’t either want to know or need to. We know the names you are using are not your real ones, and there is good reason for this, as it is necessary that your attendance here is never traceable. Therefore, you must keep to what only we know. There may be attempts, either directly or indirectly through subterfuge to ascertain your true identities. If we succeed then you fail and will leave this establishment and look for a new job in civvie street. There are no rules, except we shall endeavour not to do any lasting damage to you, but it is essential that you stick to what we know, regardless of how sneaky and underhand we may become.

“We don’t know who your enemies will be, but believe me, they won’t be nice and polite and take no for an answer. They will use every trick in the book, and may even invent some new ones. From this moment on, you must be on your guard. Remember, when you are at your lowest you are at your most vulnerable!”

Vulnerable!

As I lay naked and shivering on the hard floor of the truck, I couldn’t actually imagine myself any more vulnerable than at this precise moment. The initial terror passed; I felt strangely detached as it was just so unreal. It was only a glorified game and all I had to do was stay in character and hang in there. It wasn’t real, no matter how real and frightened it felt, so the trick was to hold onto that truth and not let myself forget.

The problem was that I think Carol was in danger of forgetting, so I hoped we’d be separated as soon as possible. I tried to listen to any conversation by our ‘captors’, but they weren’t going to give me the satisfaction.

I knew that they’d all done this before, so knew the drill. There would be those victims who’d create and those who’d give in, but then there were others who’d stay silent, but I didn’t think that would help.

Keep to what they knew, that was the only way through this. Don’t add, embellish or change anything, and certainly don’t give away anything that was true.
 
 
The truck lurched to a halt and the tailgate dropped with a resounding bang. We were pulled from the truck and half dragged and half allowed to walk the short distance to some form of building. The door sounded think and heavy when it slammed shut behind us. I heard Carol being dragged away as I was pushed into another room, again the door slammed behind me.

My wrists were bound with duct tape and then a chain was looped through the bindings as I was lifted onto tiptoe from the ceiling. I still had the bag over my head

“We’ll be back, bitch!” said the same voice as before.

The footsteps retreated, the door opened and closed and I was left in silence.

I sensed that someone was still here, but gave nothing away, for knowledge is power and I didn’t want them to know anything that I knew that they didn’t know I knew.

I allowed myself to relax, permitting the chain to take my weight. I wasn’t comfortable, but then I wasn’t that cold either. I simply breathed deeply and let my aching muscles relax. On hearing the faintest noise, of material moving against material, I became mentally alert and prepared myself for some form of attack.

It still surprised me when it came, in the form of a jet of cold water.

So much for not being cold!

Whoever was there said nothing, simply drenched me and then left the room. This time I was convinced I was really alone.

Within the constraints of my chains, I started doing some exercises to keep warm. I thought back to the PT sessions and literally ran through everything they had us do. I was tired, aching and cold, but I wasn’t afraid. Despite being tired, I kept the exercises going, counting out loud and pushing myself steadily. I didn’t know how long this was going to take, so I kept to a steady and manageable pace, feeling some warmth come back into my aching bones. I started to sweat, so I knew that when I stopped, then there was a danger of getting cold again, so I just slowed my pace and kept going.

I lost track of time. Then I recalled the lecture on interrogation techniques and remembered that this was a tactic to disorientate the subject. They knew what they were talking about, as it worked!

I was still doing the exercises when the door opened again. I assumed that I was under observation so they were probably pissed off that I wasn’t keeping to the script. Otherwise, why keep the hood on me? They had to be able to see me without me knowing.

I stopped as the footsteps approached. Suddenly bright light glared in my face as the bag was removed.

“You’ve failed, we know who you are,” said a new voice in my ear.

There were three figures in the room, all male and all wearing balaclavas.

“My name is Joannah….!”

I stopped as I received a slap across my face. It stung and I gave an involuntary yelp.

“Fucking shut up! Did I say you could speak?”

I shook my head, not falling into the trap of replying.

“Your name isn’t Joannah Fuller, and well you know it. Now, if you want to speak, tell us your real name!”

I stayed silent.

“I told you to speak!”

“My real name is Joannah Fuller,” I said, very quietly.

I was expecting it this time, but not from the other direction. I simply shut up and waited with my head down for them to do what they wanted. No matter what I said, they wouldn’t be happy, so I said nothing.

The slaps continued, every now and again, I simply repeated, “My name is Joannah Fuller.” But they beat me anyway.

Once more, I lost track of time, but they left me alone, this time leaving the hood off. The room was square and bare, with a single light bright light on the high ceiling. About a foot from the light was the chain on a pulley. I started looking for a camera, but didn’t have time.

The light went off, plunging me into darkness. This time I hurt and was shivering with cold. It took all my will power to restart the exercises once again, but this time, I went through the regime very slowly.

The next time they came for me, I was exhausted, but not so cold.

“All right you, you’re leaving, go get a shower,” the voice said.

“No thanks. I’ve just got dry.”

A hand grabbed my hair from behind and gave a painful yank.

“Don’t fucking argue, you will have a shower,” he said, undoing the chain and pushing me out of the door. More hands grabbed me and manhandled me to another room, which was tiled, floor to ceiling. They pushed me under a shower head and to my surprise warm water came out, so I made the most of it, revelling in my luck, but knowing that there must have been a catch.

The catch came a few moments later as a man grabbed me and pushed me face first into a bath full of icy cold water. It gave me an awful shock, so that I took in a mouthful of water. I tried to get up, but a hand held me under the water. I slumped deliberately and stopped struggling.

It worked, for rough hands heaved me upwards, allowing me to take a lungful of air, coughing and spluttering as I did so.

“Now, tart, your name?” said the rough one, the one who’d done most of the talking and slapping so far.

“Joannah Fuller, as you well know.”

I was almost ready this time, so took a breath before they put me under. Once again, I struggled a bit and then relaxed, feigning a lack of consciousness.

This time they weren’t fooled, for they left me for a very long time. I’d once held my breath for two minutes in the school swimming pool, so hung on for as long as I could. Just as my lungs were bursting and my eyes threatened to pop out of my skull, someone heaved me up, so I drew in as much air as I could.

“Oh, you tricky bitch, like this do you?”

Down I went again, and this time I didn’t have to feign anything. They repeated it time and time again. I actually passed out twice.
 
 
This went on for a long time. I felt sick, headachy and totally panicky, but I managed to hold out.

They dragged me back to the first room and threw me onto the floor, chucking an old and rather smelly blanket on top of me. I simply wrapped myself up as tightly as I could and fell asleep in the dark. I think I cried.

The light came on and eventually I was sufficiently awake to be aware of my surroundings. As I started to look around, the light went off. That meant they did have a camera on me. I curled up and tried to go back to sleep, just as I was dropping off, the light came on again. This went of for a long time, so I gave up looking for a camera, shut my eyes and tried to ignore the light.

It must have worked, for rough hands woke me up sometime later. The way I felt it could have been ten minutes of ten hours, I had no way of knowing how long it had been.

This time I was hauled out of the cell and sat on a chair in yet another small room. They let me keep the blanket, but I put my head on my arms on the table in front of me.

The table was removed, forcing me to sit unaided.

I felt like shit and almost jacked it in then and there.

The man came over and sat a few feet away from me. I stared through the holes in his mask at his eyes.

“Look, let’s not be unreasonable. If you simply tell me your real name, you can go to a nice warm bed and have a hot cup of tea. What do you say?” he said.

“My name is Joannah Fuller. How can I tell you anything else?”

He seemed to slump slightly, but then he lashed out, kicking the chair out from under me. By some remarkable stroke of luck, I was able to stay on my feet as the chair skidded across the room.

My temper broke, so I screamed at him.

“I’m fucking Joannah Fuller, so go away and leave me alone, you sadistic bastard. I’m not saying another word, so kill me or fucking let me go!”

I walked over to where my chair ended up, picked it up and sat down, folding the blanket around me and without turning my back to him, stared at him, as if daring him to do something.

“You’ll give in, you know?” he said.

I stared at him, shaking my head.

“They all do.”

I said nothing.

“You’ll want to sleep and for the pain to go away. You’ll have to tell me.”

The devil in me made me raise one finger at him.

“Swivel!” I said.

His eyes crinkled, so I knew I’d got to him, for behind that black balaclava the bastard was smiling.

Looking back on it, I think I knew I’d won from that moment. Oh, it wasn’t the end. The shoved me around and took my blanket away, but I sensed their hearts weren’t in it any more, even though it was bloody awful. There was a moment when one of the men who hadn’t said anything grabbed me by a breast.

Leaning close to me, he whispered, “How do you fancy a real man?”

“Do you know one?” I asked, for which I got a slap and he pushed me onto the floor. I was naked, but somehow it didn’t make any difference.

“Go on, fucking rape me if it makes you feel like a proper man!” I said.

He didn’t. Instead he took me back to the cell with the chains and left me on the floor with the blanket. I slept a little.
 
 
It was a waft of fresh coffee that woke me. On opening my eyes I saw a pair of gleaming boots; the NCO who owned them was holding a mug of coffee and seemed to be offering it to me. I didn’t recognise him, but my mind was focussed on the coffee. For some reason I heard the colonel saying, …………. “Remember, when you are at your lowest, that is when you are at your most vulnerable!”

“Cup of coffee, Miss?” the sergeant said.

I simply took it before he withdrew the offer, burning my battered mouth with the first gulp. It was utterly gorgeous!

“If you’re ready, I’m to escort you back to your quarters. There’s been a phone call, apparently your sister called.”

“My sister?”

“Yes, Jessica, it seems there’s a problem with your father.”

Alarm bells rang, as my false details told me I had one brother and no sisters.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a sister, you must have the wrong person,” I said.

"Don't fuck about, love, this is for real. Your father's been taken to the John Radcliffe," he said, not unkindly.

The mention of Oxford's main hospital almost got me. But Jessica was in the states, so if anything happened to Dad, it would be Mum who'd call, not Jess. So I guessed that they'd been given one or two true facts about me, so they could use them to try to throw me.

Besides, no one was supposed to know I was here, so I took a chance. Even if it was true, there wasn't much I could do about it now, so it would have to wait.

First, I finished the coffee before he got cross and took it from me.

"Sorry. I don't have a sister," I said putting the mug on the ground.

He looked as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. Instead he picked up the mug, turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

I felt completely drained, beginning to worry that my father might actually be ill. I was tempted to go to the door and venture out, but lacked the strength and courage. I actually wanted to stop and get off, perhaps to look for a new job.

I lay back on the hard floor and cried silently.

A shadow fell across the door. So I waited for my next challenge, deciding that I'd deliberately fail it.

"Right, Miss, best we get you into some clothes and down to the doc for a quick once over," Staff Sergeant MacLean said, throwing some of my underwear, socks, boots and a set of overalls at me.

I was too tired to argue, even if I wanted to. I sat on the floor and dressed myself, slowly and gingerly, revelling in the feeling of soft, warm socks.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked.

"No thanks, I've got this far by myself," I replied.

He had the decency to turn round as I dressed, which I found faintly silly. For all I knew, he had been one of my tormentors and had seen me stark naked since the start. I finished doing up my boots and, without hesitating, he put a hand under my arm and helped me to my feet.

I smiled weakly at him as he assisted me out of that horrible place and into the front passenger seat of a waiting army Land Rover. He then slid behind the wheel and drove rapidly away.

I noticed that where I'd been kept was in a small cluster of concrete buildings in a small compound deep in some woods. We followed a track through the woods that joined a minor road after about a mile. From there it was only a few minutes from the camp, so I was ushered into the medical unit shortly arriving back at the base. The clock on the wall informed me it was eight o’clock, but I didn’t know whether it was morning or evening, while the cloud cover gave me no hints.

The army doctor was thorough but hardly a great conversationalist. He gave me an injection and told me that I’d chipped a small piece off a tooth, but it didn’t need any dental work to repair. Apart from that I just needed a hot bath, a good night’s sleep and some food, not necessarily in that order.

I was still wary and treated him as if he was hostile. I didn’t know if the training exercise was over or not. I was left alone to get dressed again, so looked into a small mirror.

I looked a real mess. One eye was swollen and going a nice blue colour, my lips were swollen and bruised and I had huge dark rings under my eyes. As for my hair, my feelings weren’t repeatable!

One of the sergeants came and saw me. We sat in small office just next to an examining room.

I just sat there, unable to concentrate, not really believing it was over.

“Right, this is your debrief, Miss. You’ve completed the toughest part of the course, congratulations.”

“Yeah, whoopee,” I said resting my head on my arms.

“Seriously, do you understand what has just happened?”

I looked sideways at him.

“You are joking, aren’t you?” I said.

“How do you feel?”

I just snorted, and shut my eyes.

“I need to ensure you’re aware of the fact the exercise is over, and you successfully completed it.”

“Oh goodie,” I muttered.

“This isn’t helpful, have you any comments to make about your treatment?”

“It was a fucking wonderful experience; I must do it again some time. No, actually, it was fucking awful, but then it was meant to be. No, I don’t wish to make any comments. I just want to put it behind me and go to bed, is that okay with you?”

“There will be a further debriefing with your department head in due course. I just want you to know that you’ve the respect of the instructors here, as you conducted yourself very ably.”

“Ably? Shit, there’s a thing. Now my life is complete. Thanks Sergeant, but can I go to bed now?”

As I left the sick bay to head for the canteen, I saw Caroline being driven out of the gates in another Army Land Rover. Her suitcase was in the back, so I knew she hadn’t made it. I wondered how many of us remained.

As I wandered into the canteen, I was aware of some curious glances my way, but couldn’t care less. Those who were there seemed to be eating breakfast, so I assumed it was the morning. One of the officers, a Captain Clarke came over to me.

“Ah, Joannah, seen the doc?”

“Yes.”

“Well done, just popped over to tell you you’ve passed that little hurdle, but then you knew that, didn’t you?”

“I did?”

“You’re still here. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I said.

“Your treatment.”

“My treatment? Not you too? Are you afraid I’ll sue or something, besides, I thought it was standard, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but you’re not a soldier,” he said.

“I’m not one that wears a uniform and rushes about shouting, ‘Come on chaps!’, but in my own way, I suppose I’m just as much a soldier as you.”

“That doesn’t mean our chaps can abuse you.”

“Course they can. They have to, for otherwise how the hell will I know what I’m capable of?”

“Ah, there is that.”

“No thanks, captain. All I want is to lie down and sleep for a week. Unless you’ve more of the same planned?”

“Me?”

“You, or any of the others. If you do, forget it, I’ll tell you everything now and fuck off home to save you the trouble. It was shit with a capital S, but now I know a little bit about myself. Excuse me, I’ve an appointment with my bed,” I said, and went up to the counter.

Not feeling like greasy eggs and bacon, I grabbed a mug of hot coffee and some bread, which I carried back to my room. I never finished the coffee, as I collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, and was instantly asleep.

It was dark when I awoke, shivering again. It dawned on me that I hadn’t asked or ascertained how long I’d been away. I found my wristwatch beside my bed, only to discover that it was four in the morning just four days after I’d taken my shower. Assuming I’d slept for more than twelve hours, then the whole thing only took a couple of days, three at the most. It seemed much longer.

I went to the showers, where I carefully folded my clothes by the door and made sure I locked the door before starting the water.

I wouldn’t know what it would be like to be dragged through a hedge backwards, but thought that it sounded like a breeze compared to what I’d experienced. I stood under the shower for ages, eventually sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall of the stall with the water cascading upon my head and shoulders.

After I eventually dried off and dressed, I felt amazingly hungry. The one advantage of this particular place was the twenty four hour canteen, or mess. Everyone here wore ubiquitous green denim and boots all the time, with no badges or rank markings. One never knew who was what of from where. The instructors seemed to know, but they made no attempt to enlighten any of us, and we were actively discouraged to engage in friendly chit chat.

I found the canteen virtually deserted apart from a couple of people sat at the far end, away from the servery counter. The army cooks were bored and disinterested, so I was able to help myself to a huge portion of rather dry shepherds pie, with masses of soggy green vegetables and a chunk of apple pie and custard. With a steaming mug of tea, I sat by myself and ate every crumb. It might not have satisfied Egon Ronay, but I loved every morsel.

I was just finishing my tea when a hand fell on my shoulder.

Having been through the last few days, I jumped.

“Relax, my dear, it’s only me,” said a reassuring voice. It was Humphrey.

“Oh, it’s you. What brings you out here at this time of day?” I asked. It was just five thirty in the morning.

“You do.”

“Me?”

“I got a call yesterday afternoon to say you were ready for collection. I thought I might give you a few hours to recover, so asked for the officer of the day to give me a call when you surfaced. You could have picked a more convenient time, but at least the traffic back to London will be better now.”

“Collection, like this?” I asked, my hands going to my hair.

He laughed, shaking his head.

“I’ve seen men twice your size and as strong as oxen crumple during what you’ve been through, and all you’re worried about is your hair?”

“I look ghastly!”

“Yes, you do, but then I’m sure if I give you half an hour, you’ll make yourself a little more presentable?”

“But all my clothes and personal effects were taken away.”

“They’re back in your room. I’ll see you in the commandant’s office in twenty-five minutes, okay?”
 
 
Twenty three and a half minutes later, I was shown into the Lieutenant Colonel’s office by a corporal. I’d followed the instructions and left everything they’d issued me on the bed in my room. I wasn’t sad to leave.

I still looked pretty dreadful, but now wore jeans and a pullover, with sturdy hiking boots on my feet. I’d worn army boots for all these weeks, so didn’t feel I could wear anything flimsy or fashionable yet. I’d slapped a little make up on, and my hair was clean and reasonable, so I did feel a lot better than a few hours ago. The Commandant and Humphrey were sitting laughing at some anecdote when I arrived. To my surprise and some embarrassment, both men stood as I entered.

“See, you look much better now, my dear. How do you feel?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“Completely fucked,” I said.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, Brigadier, it seems she’s been around my chaps rather too long. I do hope we haven’t spoilt her?” said the Colonel.

So, Humphrey was a Brigadier. That was interesting. I wondered if he was still swerving or retired.

“Oh, don’t worry, James, young Jo may not look it, but she’s more resilient that most of your chaps, aren’t you, my girl?”

“If you say so, Brigadier,” I said.

“All packed?”

“I didn’t arrive with much,” I said, holding up my small holdall.

“Excellent. So, James, how did she do?”

“Surprisingly well, considering. She handled herself most intelligently, professionally and with a lot of guts. The chaps didn’t like being nasty to her, and they found it particularly hard to keep it up.”

“Keep what up?” I asked, straight-faced. Both men went a delightful shade of pink, which made me laugh.

“I meant that they didn’t like maintaining the regime of harsh treatment,” he clarified.

“They didn’t show it. Oh, and by the way, who did I kick in the groin?”

“Ah, that was Sergeant Patterson.”

“Tell him I hope they hurt,” I said, meaning it.

He smiled, passing over a buff file to Humphrey.

“Her file, a most resilient young woman, as you so rightly pointed out,” he said.

“Good, thanks James, you’ve done a good job, as always,” he said.

“Excuse me, what about the others?” I asked, as I was curious to know about those who were left. The two men exchanged glances.

“The three other successful candidates will leave in the next few hours,” The colonel replied.

“You’re the only one I’m interested in,” said Humphrey.

“But there were thirty four of us on day one. Is this normal, to get less than ten percent through?” I asked.

“Some courses fail a hundred percent. Ten percent is average,” the colonel informed me.

That made me feel quite humble, but then I had another thought and was about to voice it.

“No, Jo, they didn’t go easy on you. You went through exactly the same as all other candidates, male or female. We can’t afford to lower standards for anything. Gender, race, age, strength and ability are as nothing, for we have to ensure that everyone passes to the same exacting standard,” Humphrey told me.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly realising what I’d achieved.

He smiled, opening the door for me.

“Before you get too big-headed, that was just the beginning!”

*          *          *
 
End of Part 1
 
 
To Be Continued...

 
Three years have passed since young Josie Fortune tried to make some decisions that would have a bearing on the rest of her life. We first met her in Book One as a young, attractive and entirely convincing male to female transsexual.

Josie had to deal with the painful and awkward transition from being Joseph, while fending off corrupt politicians determined to murder her, earnest young men eager to bed her, and best friends who fell in love with her.

In seeking her own destiny she struggled to find what she needed to do rather than what others would have her do. We pick up the tale as she graduates from University and selects a rather unusual career path, ready to deal with whatever the world throws at her...

 

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Tanya has a new website where she will display her latest works first and then to BigCloset TopShelf a few weeks later is here at Tanya Allan's Tales .
Tanya's Book Shop where she is selling her works in book form is at http://tanyaallan.authorshaunt.com/shop.php . Please Visit!

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The Legal Stuff: Changed Fortune © 2009, 2010 Tanya Allan
 
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.
 
Please enjoy.
Tanya
 
 

 
 
 
Chapter Four
 
 
I thought he’d been joking, but yet again found out he wasn’t. We drove through the dawn back to London in his Jaguar.

As soon as we got onto the main road, I felt sleepy, but I had one thing I wanted to talk to him about.

“I’ve thought about a name, and as I’ve been Jo Fuller for the last few weeks, it’s sort of stuck,” I said.

“Fine, are you keeping Josie or do you want to become Joannah?”

“Josie, if that’s okay?”

“It’s up to you. You could be Rumplestiltskin if you wanted to.”

“No, Josie Fuller will do me.”

“Ah, best we change the Fuller, as we don’t want people to twig you were at Hereford.”

“Oh, what do you suggest?” I asked.

“How about Fullerton?”

“Fine, I don’t mind.”

He smiled and nodded, saying no more about it.

I confess to not being great company, falling asleep about three miles from the camp, and only waking up when he pulled into his car space in the underground car park in Whitehall.

“Feel better?” he asked, as we walked into the basement lift.

“Not much. I think I could sleep for a week.”

“Well, you can do just that as from tomorrow, but I’ve got you today so intend on getting you settled in.”

“Oh?”

“I run a special task force comprising of intelligence wallahs, soldiers and other specialists, like policemen and even immigration officers. My task is to deal with those things that fall outside the remit of the law enforcement agencies and fall short of the criteria for direct military intervention.”

“You mean the SAS?”

“Precisely. You see, MI5 the Security Service exists in a domestic capacity to gather intelligence and operate against those parties that threaten our national security, either through foreign intervention, terrorism or even against our parliamentary democracy in the political arena. MI6, or if you prefer, the Secret Intelligence Service do a similar thing, only they work away from home, so to speak, sometimes in a rather more proactive manner. My unit, which is called the Special Operations Unit, by the way, has no such parameters. We work alongside other the departments, or separate from them if the circumstances demand. Sometime we work with foreign agencies, as long as we are there to protect our national interests or our subjects. I am permitted to vary both the criteria for entry and the training programme. So, I’m afraid your recent experience was my fault. I like to think that everyone I select and train has the necessary qualities at the outset, so I provide or develop the necessary skills before letting them loose.

“All my people are hand picked for specific skills or reasons, so that if another department or agency is compromised or neutralised, we are able to slide into the driving seat and take over. I report directly to the Prime Minister for reasons of national security, thereby avoiding certain Whitehall corridors of power.

“You mentioned specific skills or reasons, what are mine?”

He smiled as the lift halted and the doors opened. He got out so I followed.

“You, my dear girl, are here because you have many qualities I like. One, you are a graduate criminologist, and I happen to need someone who has some form of training in that field, if for no other reason other than to say I’ve got one. Two, you are incredibly bright and decisive, and lastly, you are one of those people I believe I can trust to do what you’re told without a fuss. In short, you are one of those rare creatures, a team worker who can go it alone, and one that will do the right thing, or die trying. Oh, and you’re a woman, and I’ve been meaning to take on an attractive woman for a long time.”

I was stunned, for I didn’t recognise the person about whom he was talking. However, I had little time to dwell on it, as he opened an office door and entered. I had no choice but to follow.

The room was completely different to what I was expecting. It was large, square and in semi-darkness, with a huge wall of computer monitors or TVs along one side. There were desks arranged in a semi circle all facing towards that wall, each with computers and hi-tech communications consoles. Raised along the opposite wall from the TVs was a long desk, behind which seven chairs and seven computer terminals sat. Although with a capacity for perhaps twenty people, there were only four that I could see. Two were on the raised area and two were on the lower desks, all were working in the subdued lighting, with their own smaller, bright desk lamps, so took no notice of us.

Humphrey walked over to the raised area and sat at the central console. The man at the desk to his right looked up, nodded and continued his conversation on his wireless head-set style telephone. While talking, I saw him glance at me and look me up and down. He was a good looking man in his early thirties, with short hair and a ready smile. I’d been around soldiers enough recently to recognise one even out of uniform, I felt self-conscious under his gaze, so looked away and at the others in the room.

All were men. The other one on the raised area was at the end. He appeared to be in his fifties with grey, thinning hair and wearing a crumpled suit. The jacket was over the back of his chair and I could see perspiration under both arms, as it made his light blue shirt darker. I was quite surprised, for the air conditioning was on, keeping the room to an even temperature, but on the cool side. It was a warm August day outside, so I found it quite pleasant. As I looked at him, he turned towards me and smiled. His face was round and slightly florid, giving me the impression he was out of shape, which was another surprise, until I recalled Humphrey telling me that he had selected different people for different reasons.

Of the two remaining men, I could only see their backs as they worked on their computers. Both seemed younger, more my age, both wore suits, while one was Afro/Caribbean and the other was white. The man beside Humphrey came off the phone.

“Hello sir, so this is my new recruit?”

“Harry, meet Josie Fullerton. Josie, this is your section leader, Harry Pearce, so he’ll be taking a first hand interest in your continued training and development. You’re now on his section so I’ll leave you with him to get sorted out. Harry, don’t keep her too long, as she’s only finished Hereford this morning and needs a bit of TLC.”

“Right sir, will do.”

Humphrey handed Harry my file, the front of which was already amended to ‘Josie Fullerton’, which I noted was typed, so he was anticipating my agreeing to the change of name. He then got up and left, leaving me with four strange men in a strange room.

“How was Hereford?” Harry asked.

“Most of it was okay, but the last bit was pure shit!” I said, making him laugh.

“So, it hasn’t changed?”

“I don’t suppose it has.”

“I did it about ten years ago, but as a soldier.”

“Are you still a soldier?” I asked.

“I suppose so, as it’s on my pay slip. Actually, I’m a major, on attachment, but we don’t use ranks here. Mike there is a computer specialist, we nabbed him from IBM and what he doesn’t know about computers isn’t worth knowing.

Mike was the older man who’d smiled at me. He waved at me again and gave me another smile as he realised he was being talked about.

“Down on the floor are Steve Kitchener and Janus Spencer. Steve is another soldier, from the Royal Engineers. His speciality is explosives and anything that goes bang. Janus is a telecom genius and at the moment is looking at upgrading our microwave systems.”

“I feel a bit inadequate. So much specialist knowledge,” I said.

“Well, they’re all here for the field agents. So make full use of them.”

“Field agents?”

He looked at me strangely.

“You do know why you’re here, don’t you?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Not as such.”

“The old bugger, he keeps doing this. Okay, welcome to the unit, Jo, and congratulations, I think, for you’re now one of our field agents.”

“Field agent? What the hell is that?”

“Well, each section has ten to twelve people. We try to have experts on hand for advice and technical support, so there will usually be anything between three to five experts and always five or more field agents. We’ve twelve in this section, the other two specialists are a doctor and an intelligence bod.”

“I thought this was all intelligence work,” I said.

“You’re right to a point, as intelligence is what we work with, but we’re also doers, in that we put the intelligence to good use. For example, if we receive information about something that’s going to happen, we have some choices. Do we pass it on to another department, like MI5, as they may be better placed to deal with it? Do we let it happen? Do we ensure it happens? Do we stop it, or do we change it? Depending what the thing is and depending on what our position is in relation to it, depends on how we play it.”

“So who makes the decisions?”

“For relatively routine stuff, I do, or the section leader on duty. If it’s more serious it goes to the assistant director on call, otherwise to the boss and to the PM. However, sometimes, the field agent on the spot may have to make the decision, as there may be neither the time nor the opportunity to make contact with us here at control.”

“And I’m a field agent?” I asked, with some trepidation.

“Yes, well, not quite. You’ve some more training first, and then you’ll fly a desk here for a few weeks until I’m satisfied you’re safe to go out. For a while you’ll work with another agent, just until you find your feet, and then you’ll be on your own. There may be some little job that we’ll have to use you for before that, but you’ll be given full back up.”

“Why me?”

“You’re the first girl we’ve had on the section.”

I felt this was strange, as women seemed to be in most jobs across the career spectrum. My face must have reflected my surprise, for he laughed.

“Don’t get too concerned, we’ve only been operational for ten months, so the boss has been seeking the right ones. You just happen to be our first,” he said.

“How many sections are there and are there any women on them?”

“There are six sections, and three have at least two women, and all the others bar one have one. Some of the specialists are women, as our doctor is, for a start. But as far as field agents are concerned, you are our only one to date.”

“Why ten months?”

“I’m not sure. I think the PM found the existing system of departments unwieldy but so entrenched that change was only likely to weaken our effectiveness in difficult times. The obvious answer was to create a small but highly versatile unit that could be used alongside or apart from the other departments, with free reign to work here or abroad. The boss thought it up and so was made Director General for his sins.”

“When I was interviewed, he wasn’t on the board,” I pointed out. This surprised Harry.

“He wasn’t there at all?” he asked.

“Well, I spent an hour or so with him before the interview, but that was ever so informal.”

He smiled. “There you are then; you had two interviews, and must have done well enough on the first to get to the second. Still, that’s in the past, you’re here now, and we have a lot to do.”

“You said I had more training, in what exactly?” I asked.

“Lots of things. Our specialists will teach you what they can about their field, mainly so you know what they can do, but also so they don’t have to do everything and you will be able understand a fair bit yourself. You see, if you’re handling explosives, it’s an advantage to know more than the basics, so when he tells you to look for a certain wire going into a certain place, you know where he’s coming from. Likewise, if you’re trying to save someone’s life after a shooting, it will help you if you know your basic physiology and anatomy, so when the doctor tells you to do something to a certain artery or vein, you know what she’s talking about and don’t have to ask silly questions.

“Then you’ll spend some time with our SIO, that’s Section Intelligence Officer. These guys are brilliant, as they sift through the current intelligence on a daily basis, trying to identify crucial clues as to what’s happening or going to happen. They know how and where to look to foretell the future, we call them our witch doctors. We want you to have a good grasp of their role and some of their skills. When you’re out there, maybe in a foreign country, maybe in a hostile environment, it’s essential that you can read your surroundings and the people. Intelligence is only as good as the source, but if you don’t understand what you’re looking at, it’s next to useless.”

“When do I start?” I asked, feeling quite keen to do so at once.

“You heard the boss. You’ve got a week’s leave, if you want it, so we’ll start a week from today.”

I almost said I’d forgo my leave, but suddenly the weariness of the last few weeks hit me, so I smiled and told him that would be fine. Harry then handed me over to Mike who arranged for my ID card to be made and logged me into the computer system.

“It seems I get you all to myself first,” Mike said with a chuckle.

“Oh?”

“When you get back, next week, you’re to spend a week with me. How much do you know about computers?” he asked.

When I told him, he rubbed his hands together with some enthusiasm.

“Thank God for that. I’m so fed up with Luddites who think they’re only good for watching porn or writing emails. You and I will get on famously, and we never need go outside.”

I wasn’t sure that sounded that much fun, but it would be nice not heaving my aching body over a ten foot wall carrying loads of rocks. I met the HR officer, who showed me where the female lockers were, gave me a key to mine and issued me with my own stationary and HP laptop. I noted that she had me as Josephine Fullerton on all her records. I was amazed, but accepted it all in my stride. She then asked me where I was living.

“Um, I was with my parents in Oxford,” I replied.

“Oh, that won’t do. You’ll have to find a place near here, at least for now,” she said.

“What, like rent or buy?” I asked, feeling very naíve.

“Most people buy eventually, but renting is fine. We’ve a few small studio flats available for new staff, but there’s a restriction of six months on them. They’re rather pokey, so most people tend to stay for as long as it takes until they find somewhere bigger. Do you want one of them until you find somewhere else?”

Dumbly I agreed, and she rooted around in a box for some keys. She handed me a set of keys attached to a card with an address thereon.

“It’s a new place, just off the embankment. Good views and not much noise,” she said.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t be silly, these are free, just until you get yourself sorted. They really are very small, but it’ll help you save for your own place.”

“Are they furnished, or what?”

“Basic furnishings only. You’ll need your own linen and crockery. You were at uni, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In halls?”

“The first year, yes.”

“So you know,” she said with a smile.

I then reported back to Harry who smiled and told me to go home.

“Oh, and Jo, Glock or Sig?” he asked, as if he was asking whether I wanted a tea or a coffee.

“Glock, please,” I said, smiling at the surreal nature of the question.

“Right-ho, I’ll ensure there’s one ready for you when you get back. Have a good rest, you’ll need it.”
 
 
I rested the first day and a half, having gone back to Oxford. I slept for almost sixteen hours and then ate a larger meal than my mother had ever seen me eat. My father was ambivalent towards my name change, accepting that MISS FOTUNE was perhaps not ideal, but equally, understanding about my desire to break with my past. Then I bribed my father to help me move all my university stuff out of the attic, which had taken him three days to get up there, and then drive it into London to my new flat.

She hadn’t lied about the size of the place. It was a very small, one bedroom studio flat in a modern block overlooking the Thames. It was on the top floor, but there was a lift that worked and a parking space in the car park below. I bought my father lunch at the Lord Nelson pub just round the corner and then retreated alone to my new pad as he drove back to Oxford.

Having spent the afternoon distributing my personal effects around the flat, I ventured forth to find a small corner shop in which I bought a few essentials. Then I returned to the flat, sat on my sofa, ate a fish-finger sandwich, watched my TV and promptly fell asleep.

I was far more tired than I’d realised. I thought about starting work early, but found myself sleeping for more than twelve hours a night and even once up having very little energy. I’d also lost a stone in weight, so had a very lazy week sleeping and eating. After the first three days, I became more adventurous, and headed up to the West End to look around. I’d never lived in London, so apart from the occasional trip near Christmas with the family, I hadn’t really visited the capital at all. The problem with living in a large city is that one tends not to bother going to another one. Oxford was no where near as big as London, but it had everything I’d wanted while growing up, and besides, I’d never been here as a woman.

The first thing that struck me was the amount of people, and then it was the diversity of those people. All the main shopping streets were crammed with people, yet hardly any were speaking English, and those that were had North American or other accents. Even the street sellers were all foreign, and that included the three card tricksters and other con men. There was a constant groan of traffic, interspersed with rumbles of larger vehicles and dreadful squealing of maladjusted brakes on the red busses.

I found my way to Oxford Street and did a little shopping for some clothes, stopping mid-morning at one of the thousands of coffee shops that now graced our streets.

Having been served by a Pole and a Ukrainian, I sat and drank my coffee wondering where all the British had gone. Not only were most of the customers foreign, but so were the staff. I finished my coffee and wandered to Hamleys, the giant Toy shop, the one place I recalled from my childhood.

It hadn’t changed much, so I enjoyed wandering round the four stories, lost in a world of reminiscence and nostalgia. The last time we’d come here was when Jess and I were about nine or so. I remembered Jess making a bee-line for the dolls, while I made for the games. I’d wanted to look at dolls too, but knew it wasn’t expected or approved of.

This time I didn’t have to do anything other than what I wanted to, so spent some time looking at the amazing variety of dolls that they stocked. I was examining a particularly realistic baby-type doll that seemed to wee, poo and vomit, as long as you fed it the right formula. I thought you could take realism a tad too far.

“My God, Josie?” said an uncertain voice.

I looked up in some surprise to see Paul standing there. Next to him was a slightly plump, but nevertheless attractive woman, trying unsuccessfully to control two very excited children — a boy and a girl.

“Hello Paul,” I said, quietly and without enormous enthusiasm. I wasn’t sure how to feel.

“Jeez, girl, you’ve changed!” he said, kissing my cheek.

So had he, for a start, he now sported a full beard and moustache, which tickled when he kissed me.

“I should hope so,” I said, smiling for the first time. “So have you. You’ve put on some weight, for starters.”

He patted his middle and grinned at me, turning round to look for the woman.

“Honey, come here a moment. There’s someone you have to meet,” he said, and my heart sank, as I wondered what he’d told her about me.

“Josie, this is Marianne, now my wife. Honey, this is Josie Fortune, a good friend from way back.”

I noted he didn’t refer to me as anything else.

“Actually, it’s Fullerton now, Josie Fullerton,” I said.

Paul started and stared at my left ring finger and then looked confused, but his wife wasn’t listening.

“Robert, put that down and don’t hit your sister again!” Marianne said, before shaking my hand.

“Hi, I don’t often meet old friends of Paul’s, as we don’t leave Jersey that often these days, but I promised the kids we’d have a week in London,” she said, watching both children and not me.

“You’re looking very fit,” he said, regarding my figure. It was a warm day, so I wore a simple summer dress with short sleeves.

“I’ve just had a, ah, a very strenuous time away,” I said, trying to find the right words to describe SAS training.

“It looks good on you. You’ve cut your hair, I like it shorter,” he observed.

“I’ve changed a lot in my life.”

“Did you go to university?”

“Yes, eventually. I got a two-one at Portsmouth.”

“Not Oxford?”

“No, I had to make a break. How about you, still writing?”

“Occasionally, but I’m spending more and more time working in the hotel.”

“How did you manage to get away, it’s only just September?” I asked.

“We’ve a good assistant manager who looks after the place. Most of the children are back at school within the next few days, so we took the opportunity to come over and show the kids London before they have to start a new term.”

“How old are they?” I asked.

“Daisy is seven and Bobby is nine,” said Marianne. “Have you any?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Not yet,” I replied looking at Paul, who smiled back.

“So, what are you up to?” he asked.

“I work in an office just off Whitehall.”

“Oh, doing what?”

“I can’t tell you. If I did, I’d have to kill you,” I said, smiling sweetly.

He laughed, shaking his head.

“You always had a good sense of humour. Seriously, what are doing?”

“I’m an assassin for MI5.”

“Another secretary, right?”

“Something like that,” I replied, giving in.

“Do you live in London?” she asked.

“Just down by the Embankment.”

“Wow, you’ve really made the break. Have you anyone special?” Paul asked.

“Not at the moment, but I’m not complaining.”

“We ought to go, the kids are getting stroppy,” Marianne said to Paul.

“Okay, look, Josie, don’t be a stranger, if you’re ever in Jersey, come and see us, okay?” he said.

“If I’m in Jersey, I’ll make a point of it,” I said.

As I watched the little family walk away, I felt pleased for him and a little sad at my loss. He’d found what he’d always wanted, while I was still searching, not really knowing what I wanted. It also convinced me that the road I was on was right for me at the moment.

I left Hamleys without buying anything. I’d grown up at last!
 
 
Chapter Five
 
 
“Are you doing anything for Christmas, Josie?” Harry asked.

We were in the control room late one December evening. Over the past few months, I’d completed all my specialist attachments, and enjoyed them all. I found the specialists a weird bunch, but each was a mine of information on their specialism. Mike was a really funny guy, but slightly bonkers. He was a bachelor, and I doubted he’d ever get married, as his computers were his life. I learned a heck of a lot from him, despite thinking I already knew a lot. I was a non starter compared to Mike.

The doctor was called June Simons, having gone through the army medical scholarship and then served in all the odd parts of the world, dealing with everything from bombings to measles. She was potty about scuba diving and would often disappear with her doctor husband for romantic weeks below the Indian Ocean or similar exotic climes.

By the end of October, Harry issued me with my gun and paired me up with Malcolm Palmer, an experienced field agent. We took some routine jobs, mainly liaising with the police on some Middle Eastern intelligence. Usually it meant we had to chase down snippets and little pieces of information and try to give them some basis in fact and truth. After 9/11 and the London Bombings, it seems the world was becoming faintly neurotic and saw terrorists in every shadow. Often people would report their neighbours as being terrorists if they had darker complexions and any form of anti-social habits, such as playing loud music or farting after dark!

Malcolm was a quiet, slightly dour man from the West Country, divorced and over thirty with two children that he seldom saw, as his ex-wife moved to the Isle of Mann with her new husband. He’d joined the service from the army five years ago, and rarely attempted any irrelevant conversation. This suited me as he genuinely wanted to help develop less experienced agents. He was helpful and very patient, but he had very high standards, and I rarely knew what he was thinking. He seldom praised, but would suck air through his teeth when he felt I wasn’t performing as he would have liked.

He was the one who told me about the no sex rule at work.

“Are you involved?” he asked one day, out of the blue.

“Sorry?” I asked, blankly.

“Do you have someone?”

For a moment I thought he was offering, but he didn’t seem to be.

“No, not at the moment. Why?”

“Just make sure you avoid the love thing with someone at work. There’s a rule against it. If you do, you and the other will be out on your arses as quick as look at you.”

“Why?”

“If you’re shagging someone you’re working with, the boss reckons your objectivity will be screwed up and you may make the wrong decision if you’re personally involved.”

“Really? Well, I suppose that may be true. What do you think?”

He shrugged. “It’s a rule, so I obey it. If there’s a good enough reason for the boss to think that way, then that’s good enough for me. Besides, we never had a girl on the team before, so it wasn’t a problem.”

That was the end of that conversation, but it gave me food for thought, not that I found any of my colleagues that interesting, apart from the one who was clearly unavailable, my direct boss — Harry.

Malcolm and I had some success with a four Al Qaeda wannabes, who’d made a crude bomb making factory in south London, but literally wet themselves when the SO19 Police Firearms unit raided them with us along as advisors. It was my first time out in the real world, and I was over conscious of carrying my gun on a holster on my belt in the small of my back, where it was hidden by my jacket.

I enjoyed returning to the special, high security Custody Suite at Paddington Green Police Station. Special Branch officers were responsible for interviewing the suspects, but we sat in as observers. Malcolm sat in on the first two and left me to sit in on the other two. I was amused by the police officers’ attitude towards me. I was frequently asked who I was, so displayed my ID on a chain around my neck. The problem was, no one knew what it was, so I repeatedly had to explain that I was with the Security Intelligence Services.

The Special Branch Detective Inspector and Detective Sergeant were very professional and I studied their interview techniques with interest. I sat behind them, so I was able to watch the suspect and his lawyer, who sat opposite the interviewing officers. I had to introduce myself for the police tape, so I simply said I was Agent 560987 attached to the Home Office. The lawyer raised his eyebrows, but as his client was under arrest for acts of terrorism, he knew that someone from the Security and Intelligence Services would be presence. I think my gender and appearance startled him. The Special Branch Officers only gave their warrant numbers also, as acts of terrorism changed the rules slightly.

Malcolm was the lead agent, so I always deferred to him, simply watching and learning in everything we did. Mostly we followed up on information about people or organisations. This meant several hours of research on the computer and then going to the local police to see what they had on the subject. Only then did we approach the informant, if available, to finally start surveillance on the subject to see if further action was warranted.

It was exciting at the start, but as most of the jobs ended up to be nothing, I began to get bored and fed up. This caused Malcolm to tell me off.

“You’re working for the country,” he said. “Not for your own enjoyment. Just be grateful that these jobs a squared off without going red (active). When you get a red job, you have to move so fast your head spins, and you rarely know what the fuck is going on until it’s over! That’s when instinct and training take over, so, learn to make the most of the dull jobs, because they’re what pay the bills. The red jobs are what can end it all.”

Suitably chastised, I determined to try to do as he suggested, even though it was quite hard.

When Harry asked about Christmas, I’d just been given my freedom to operate alone, but Harry had me flying a desk for a while, just so I could see what he did and how the systems worked from his perspective. I understood from the others that this was common practice, so made the most of it.

We operated a twelve hour shift system, seven o’clock to seven o’clock, two days followed by two nights followed by four days off. That was the theory, but once a field agent took on a job, the hours went out the window until it was completed. There were three sections running this system — on reserve, as we called it, with three sections operating out there on specific operations (SO). Every four months, we changed round, so we got four months away from being stuck in the control, so dealt with those jobs that were more involved, protracted, complicated and time consuming.

It was a good system, as those on reserve took on the latest jobs, but were able to defer many to either other departments or to the SO Sections if the jobs couldn’t be dealt with then and there. Being late December, things were relatively quiet, so I’d been doing a crossword in the Daily Telegraph when Harry had asked the question. We were on the day shift and it was around five in the afternoon, so rush hour was under way outside.

“My parents are flying out to the states to visit my sister and her family. She had twins two years ago, and so Mum and Dad want to see them. That left me at home so I volunteered to work,” I replied to Harry’s question. “How about you, I’ll bet your kids will want you to be there?”

“Yup, and I hope I will. It’ll be my first Christmas with the family for three years, so I’m looking forward to it.”

“Gosh, that sounds rough. Can you take time off just before or after instead?”

“Sometimes, but I have to admit, this job puts a strain on any relationship at times. Thankfully Linda was an army wife for a couple of years, so understands my problems. It’s still hard,” he said.

I found Harry a very attractive man. Not just in looks, which were super, but in temperament, attitude and personality. He was calm, patient, intelligent, understanding and funny, so I liked a lot more than perhaps I should. Malcolm wouldn’t approve of some of my thoughts, which I had to keep well hidden.

Our personal lives were the major casualty of this work. Police officers and soldiers could understand it, but for me it was a new experience. If I met someone at a party, for example, I had to think carefully about whether I could afford to take any further steps with them, so I ended up backing off every time.

Then there was the added complication of being a transsexual. I know I didn’t look any different, but it was always there. I wanted to be a normal girl, but lurking just beneath the surface was my past. Sometimes I’d cry about it in sheer frustration.

“Linda has taken the boys up to her parents for the week end, so do you feel like a drink after work, just until the traffic quietens down?”

Harry lived down the M4 near Reading, so hated getting stuck in traffic. He tended to get in by six in the morning and rarely left here until eight in the evening.

“If you like,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

The last couple of hours dragged, but in the end we walked down the road together to a small Italian restaurant/wine bar just off the main road.

There was an office Christmas party in full swing in the large back room, so we sat in the less hectic front area. It was big enough to be anonymous, but small enough to be intimate. We put our coats on the spare seat at the table.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“This may sound odd, but I’d kill for a long cold pint of lager. It’s so dry making in the control room, so I always need a long cold drink when I get home.”

They didn’t have any draft lager, so we both settled for some Italian bottled beer that was rather too expensive for what it was.

“Do you fancy eating here?” he asked.

“I’m going back to sausages or fish fingers, so if you want. But I’ll pay my way,” I said.

“Nonsense, this is on me. I’ve been meaning to get you alone, in any case.”

“Oh? That sounds ominous,” I said.

He smiled and waved at the waiter for some menus.

“Nothing like that. I just felt I ought to get to know you a little better. You’ve been here for five months and yet we’ve hardly had a chance to talk.”

“Oh,” I said, as there wasn’t much else I could say.

“How do you feel you’re getting on?”

“Fine. I enjoyed my time with each of the specialists. Malcolm is a bit dull, but I can’t fault him on what we did. I learned a lot from him. I’d like to get some experience working on my own, though. I think we’re very different.”

“There’s no doubt that you’re different. He’s a good bloke, very dependable, even if, as you say, he’s a little dull. But then he wasn’t recruited for his sparking personality.”

“You’d be the best person to know how I’m getting on, for I’m sure you’ve talked about me to everyone?”

He smiled again, looking at the menu.

“I have, you’re right, and they’re all impressed with how you’re developing.”

“But?” I said.

“No buts, you’re doing well. I have one concern, though, and it has nothing to do with your performance.”

“Oh?”

“Your private life, do you have one?”

He had me there. For the last few months, I came to work, returned to my flat, slept and went back to work again, every day.

“Not really,” I admitted.

“How come? An attractive girl like you.”

“What do you know of me?” I asked.

“Not a lot, just what’s in your file.”

After ordering our meal, including a bottle of house wine, I looked Harry in the eyes and told him my story.

When I’d finished, he shook his head and smiled.

“Wow, what can I say?”

I shrugged, feeling drained. I hated revealing myself like this, but sometimes it just had to be done.

“That took some guts,” he said.

“What, telling you?”

“That, and everything else. I’d never have guessed, not in a million years. You didn’t have to tell me, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes I did. They say that knowledge is power, so it gives you some power, and me the protection of your knowledge. I know I look okay, but…”

“No, Josie, you don’t look okay,” he said, interrupting me. “You look stunning. If I wasn’t married, I’d….” his voice trailed off, and I found he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Does the boss know?” he asked after a strained silence. I was strangely pleased that he’d noticed me.

“Oh yes.”

“Wow!” he repeated.

“So you see why my private life is less than enthusiastic.”

“But you did have a boy friend, once. Right?”

“I’ve had several, and no, I’m not a virgin, but I’ve no one at the moment.”

“Do you have many friends in London?” he asked.,

“Not really.”

“It can be a lonely place, without friends.”

“I suppose so, but I’m very good at being on my own. I’ve found that people tend to let you down.”

He smiled again. “I know what you mean. Still, you should get out more.”

“I know, I do a bit, every now and again, but there’s always my past. It makes me hold back and I can’t seem to help it.”

“I can understand that. I suppose you’ve more to fear than most, so it must be hard for you. But, as someone once said, there’s nought to fear but fear itself.”

I smiled, but delayed response until the waiter had delivered our first course.

“Sometime the fear is justified. I’ve experienced rather too many rejections, even though each time they said it wasn’t my past, it was connected. For example, my first boyfriend was considerably older, and with problems of his own. All he wanted was to be a dad and to be part of a family. I couldn’t provide that, so we parted. I met him recently and he’s now got what he wanted. The strange thing is, I couldn’t see what I saw in him before, but then I’ve changed a lot.

“What about you; when did you meet your wife?” I asked to change the subject.

We talked about everything other than work and my past. It was a reasonable meal in good company, and I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time. It was helped considerably by the alcohol, but that didn’t help me and my feelings for Harry, which I found were getting stronger.

He was just so understanding and gentle. I sighed. Why were such things so bloody complicated?

“I take it you’d rather keep this under your hat, at work, I mean?” he said, after paying the bill.

“What? The fact we had dinner or my past?” I asked with a smile.

He smiled back.

“You know very well.”

“It’s not something I want broadcast,” I admitted. “It’s bad enough taking the bloody pills every day, so all I really want is to be accepted for being me, and the now me, not the then me.”

We left the restaurant much later than I expected, walking slowly back towards the office. I dearly wanted him to ask to come back to my flat, but knew that he wouldn’t and if he did, I’d have to refuse.

He didn’t and kissed me on the cheek instead.

“Goodnight, Josie, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, leaving me alone once more.
 
 
Chapter Six
 
March 2007
 
I lay on the damp ground, feeling the moisture slowly seep through my clothing, but I wasn’t able to move. I watched the building below without taking my eyes from the binoculars. I’d learned that if you were watching someone, they always moved the moment you looked away or scratched your bum. I scratched my bum without breaking my gaze. This was all my fault, as I’d picked up on the small piece of information that led to me being here on this damp morning.

It had started with one information docket that was sent through to us from an informant. This wasn’t the usual, ‘My neighbour must be a terrorist because he looked at me in a funny way,’ dockets. It came from a company manager who suspected one of his employees was stealing chemicals from the company but felt the reason wasn’t for money but in order to manufacture explosives. He’d thought about telling the police, but having had an unpleasant experience with the local Traffic Police, he decided to call us. There was a problem, apparently, with the senior management of the company, as the suspect was related to one of the co-owners.

I went to see him.

The company was based in High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, a town I’d often driven past, but never been to, so I quite enjoyed the drive out there. I wasn’t desperately enamoured with the place, but that was only first impressions.

I found the company on a small industrial estate on the outskirts, called Cressex. I’d called ahead and arranged to meet the informant at TGI Friday, the American Style Diner up the road, as the suspect still worked for the company.

I parked my Mini in the car park and entered the diner. As I wasn’t there for a meal, I went up into the bar. There were a few men who appeared to be on their own, but none looked expectantly, as if they were waiting for me. They looked at me, but in other ways. I was dressed for the part, as a smart city executive in a neat skirt and jacket with court shoes. I approached the bar and ordered a J2O, and then sat and waited for my appointment.

I didn’t have to wait long, for a rather flustered young man entered looking extremely furtive and comically suspicious. I suppose when a member of the security service tell you to meet them in a given place, you start to believe you’re James Bond.

He looked round the bar, saw me and looked even more furtive. I couldn’t take this, so I got up and went over to him.

John Appleby? I’m Jo, we spoke on the phone. Grab a drink and come and sit down.”

He bought a half pint of beer and joined me at the bar, perched on bar stools.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” I said. “It’s often best to get the preliminary questions sorted out away from the place of business. But, please relax, you’ll find this much easier if you just treat this like an ordinary business meeting.”

“Um do you have an ID or something?” he asked.

I showed him my ID card.

He smiled tentatively, but still looked very nervous. I called him a young man, but I guessed he was older than me by a couple of years, so he must have been about twenty six or seven, but he had probably joined the company straight from school and worked his way up through the office rank structure. He was the despatch manager for the company, which wasn’t the most complicated job, but he also dealt with shortfalls and complaints if deliveries weren’t as per orders.

“Just go through the problem, from the beginning,” I said.

The company was a distribution warehouse for the chemical industry. They bought chemicals from the manufacturers for onward distribution to all manner of companies, such as industrial cleaners, medical facilities and factories. Such were the regulations pertaining to the handling of such chemicals that a company had to be licensed, as was theirs.

One driver, Ahmed Khan, a second generation Wycombe lad of Pakistani parents, had got the job of driving one of the smaller vans on local runs only as he was a nephew or cousin of one of the company directors. John found the lad personable enough for the first few months, but recently he’d turned moody and aggressively antagonistic to anyone who wasn’t a Muslim. This happened after he returned from a supposedly extended holiday in Pakistan.

“Then the complaints started. A bottle here, a bottle there, never very much, and never anything dangerous or valuable. We were easily able to make up the orders and put it down to clerical error or breakage. Many customers break a bottle and then claim it was broken in transit or never arrived. We make allowances for this in our costings, so can afford a bottle adrift here and there.

“After the bombings in London, and 9/11, I started to worry about Ahmed, so spoke with his uncle. He assured me he’d speak to the man and it would all be sorted. It was fine for a while, and Ahmed was always courteous, but I always felt uneasy about him. The complaints stopped and I thought it was sorted, but then they started again, in slightly greater quantities. So I had to tell someone.”

“Why not the police?” I asked.

“I tried, but there’s this one copper I, well, I had an altercation with outside the night club in town.”
I’d already checked with the Thames Valley Police and their Local Intelligence Unit. The incident he referred to occurred on a Friday evening a few weeks previously. It was after midnight, and an inebriated John was ejected from the club by an enthusiastic bouncer after he’d groped a girl who’d been dancing. Her boyfriend had reacted in a highly unfriendly manner, and they were both chucked out. The fight continued outside, which resulted in the police being called by the CCTV operator, so both men were arrested. The traffic officer who arrested John wasn’t impressed when John, in his drunken state, attempted to swing a punch at him as he was being bundled into a police van. As a result, any conversation he attempted later about his concerns fell onto deaf or unappreciative ears.

“Besides, what can they do? They’re more bothered by untaxed cars and pykies than terrorists,” John said, slightly bitterly, I noted.

“What’s Ahmed doing at the moment?” I asked.

“He’s still delivering, but I put another lad with him, so he’s less likely to nick stuff.”

“Did you bring me the information, as I’d asked?”

He passed over a single photocopy of the man’s employment sheet, so it included name, address, date of birth, National Insurance number and tax details. Then he passed over an inventory of all the missing chemicals. I folded both and placed them in my bag.

“Thanks, that’s fine. You can leave this with me. If you get anything you think is useful, then call me on the number I gave you, day or night. If I’m not around, it’ll go to a secure voicemail. Just forget anything happened, oh, and make sure you document all missing items. If this goes to court, which it may, you need to ensure you’ve done everything you should have done. I’d advise you to notify your management by memo that items have been reported missing and let them conduct whatever internal investigation they want. It’s my guess, that if the items are relatively inexpensive and not dangerous, they’ll let it go. But you need to document everything properly, okay?”

“I suppose so. What will you do?” he asked.

“That’s my concern. You just go back, do your job and pretend this meeting never happened. I’ll give you an update as and when I can, so don’t worry, as doing nothing is not an option for me.”

"Can I ask a question?” he said.

“Of course.”

He looked round the bar, so I knew it was going to be a silly one.

“Do you carry a gun?”

I was right.

“Why, does that make any difference?” I asked.

“No, but, I just wondered. Sorry, I was out of line.”

“Yes, you were. But, yes, sometimes I do,” I said, standing up. “Goodbye John.”

I then walked out, leaving him staring after me.

Back in London, I met Harry and told him what I had. He had one of the specialists come in and take a look at the chemical list. That’s when the red flag was placed on the job. My first!

“These chemicals are innocuous and relatively harmless by themselves, but the quantity and varieties lead me to one conclusion. Whoever took these has chosen well, as together they will made a nasty bomb. Not something big enough to destroy a building, but something that could take out an aircraft, or certainly derail a train,” the specialist said.

Harry made a decision.

“Right, Jo, you’re lead agent on this one. I want you to get everything about this man, his relatives, associates and complete life history. Where did he go to in Pakistan? Who did he meet there? Why did he extend his holiday? Which mosque does he attend? Who are the clerics he listens to? What tapes or CDs are in his room or car? I want this man’s complete profile on the wall as soon as possible. I’m giving you Malcolm and Jamie as back up and to assist in any research. If necessary, get MI6 to get a man in Pakistan to get us the information we need, okay?” he asked.

I was stunned but excited.

“Go, get on with it,” he said.

“Yes boss,” I replied, grinning.

The next few days were full of fevered activity, as we liaised with other departments, agencies and the police to get as much information as possible on our suspect, or X-ray as he was to become.

He held a UK passport, so immigration authorities had little on him. One of our people, of Pakistani descent, called at the address posing as a representative from an opinion poll company, and was able to obtain masses of information about the family and friends from Ahmed’s sister who thought she was in with a chance of winning a car. She also told our man all about Ahmed’s trip to Pakistan, although interesting actually didn’t help us a great deal, as it was bare of any real details.

However, she did drop one piece of information which was helpful.

“He’s really taken on the faith since his trip,” she told him.

“The Muslim faith?”

“Yes, he wasn’t interested before, but I think he found it good to go back to our roots. He met someone at the local mosque who was able to help him find his faith again.”

“You wouldn’t know who? As I’m interested in reading any new material by clerics.”

“He brought back some books, I’ll see if they’re in his room,” she said, leaving the room for a moment. While alone, our man placed a small device inside their telephone, just in case Ahmed used it.

"There’s a couple, here,” she said on her return, handing over a couple of tatty tracts.

The author was billed as being Ali Mahommed Mehmet. He made a note and gave them back, changing the subject to household goods, so distracting her. He was thorough, so by keeping her for another fifteen minutes talking about cleaning products, she was totally convinced at his legitimacy.

Mehmet wasn’t known to us, but on checking with the US counterparts, we learned that they didn’t list him as a top drawer, Pakistani cleric, but was known for making outrageous and inflammatory remarks about America and the West in general. They were interested that we were asking, as his name had popped up several times during certain interrogations of suspected Al Qaeda terrorists. They suspected he was somewhere on a chain that led to a training camp in Pakistan.
I felt we were getting warm, so did Harry when I brought him up to date.

“Okay, I don’t want our section bogged down in all the early surveillance, so we’ll use a specialist team until we know what we’ve got,” he told me.

This meant a team from one of the police surveillance units, depending upon whose area the major players resided. This was the normal practice, so if there was a problem that required early intervention, then the police would act, using, in this case, the alleged theft of chemicals as a reason, and not advertising the terrorist links at an early stage.

I contacted the Thames Valley Police, eventually getting through to someone at command level, who was less than enthusiastic until I told him that our department would meet the bulk of the costs.

Now, all we could do was wait.
 
 
The surveillance lasted for three weeks. In which time, Ahmed managed to give us six of his associates, all local young men of no known criminal activity from ordinary families Checks were made and they all had one thing in common, tracts from the cleric, Ali Mahommed Mehmet. Two of them we were able to eliminate from any conspiracy, by virtue of the fact they were away from the High Wycombe area. One was working in London and the other was at college in Reading. The others, however, were all involved with Ahmed, so we knew that we might have at least five all together.

Also, Ahmed had taken a short term lease on a small warehouse on a rural industrial estate near Chipping Norton in Oxfordshire. There didn’t appear to be any link with other groups, so it was the consensus that they were working in isolation and not part of a larger conspiracy. My surveillance of the unit, usually in the cold and damp, placed all five in and around the unit, and this activity had increased recently, so Harry made the decision to go in with the police.

I contacted John the informant, who told me that Ahmed had been acting very tense and withdrawn of late. It was another factor in the decision to go. Ahmed had taken a week off work, so if anything was going to happen, it seemed likely that it was to be imminent.

“This is your job, Josie, so you attend the police station and conduct the briefing. Let the police undertake the entry, as they’re the ones trained to do this, but ensure that they’re well aware that there may be explosives on the premises, as well as firearms,” Harry told me.

It was feeling rather nervous when I arrived at Chipping Norton. I parked my Mini and entered the station, showing my ID to the officer on the desk. I was shown into a large briefing room where there were more police officers than I’d seen on one room in my life. There was a Special Branch DI waiting for me. His name was Gordon Wallace and we’d been in touch by phone daily for the last week. I’d also had a meeting with the Support Group Inspector who was leading the Police Firearms teams.

“Hi Josie, all set?” Gordon said.

"Yup, you?”

“Certainly. The local Superintendent wants a word. His name is Bartlett and he’s a bit of old fashioned,” he said.

As he finished speaking the uniformed Superintendent came over and looked me up and down.

“Sir, this is the officer from Special Ops,” Gordon said, by way of introduction.

“You’re the agent in charge?” he asked, almost disbelieving.
“Josie Fullerton,” I said, holding my hand out.

He shook it, but I think he was taken aback over my age and appearance.

“You’re conducting the briefing?” he asked.

“Just the intelligence details, as I’ve spoken to the support group Inspector, and he’ll brief your chaps on the approach and entry. I’ll go in when the building is secure. I want to stress that once the Army give the all clear, we must attempt to secure as much evidence as possible, so I won’t get in the way,” I told him.

He seemed reassured, even smiling a little.

“You seem very young to be doing this,” he said.

I just looked at him. “I’ve been doing this a while, and this isn’t my first raid.” I said, rather too primly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just I didn’t expect someone like, um, well someone as young, um, looking,” he said, digging himself a deeper hole.

“That’s to my advantage, as no one expects me to do what I do,” I said, relaxing a little.

“That’s certainly true, well, let’s get on, time to do it,” he said, standing up and calling for quiet.

“Okay ladies and gents, let’s have a bit of hush. We’re here to conduct a raid on a business premises as a result of a lengthy investigation by the security services. Miss Fullerton is an officer from the Security Service, and she will be giving you a bit of background as agent in charge. Miss Fullerton,” he said, looking at me.
I smiled and stood up.

“Thanks, Superintendent. Right, here’s what we know……”

Once I’d given them the basic background, including all details of the suspects, with photographs, I passed over to the Support Group Inspector. He briefed his people on the approach, the breach, and then the search to contact and the arrest.

“Miss Fullerton has told us that there is likely to be explosives on the premises. From what we understand, these have been manufactured from different chemicals on site, and so aren’t military or industrial explosives. There is a possibility that one or more of the suspects will be armed, so we go in expecting the worst. They aren’t expecting us, but the helicopter will be in support with thermal imaging, so if there are hotspots we’ll get a heads-up.

“The building is one of six on a small industrial estate. They are laid out with three to the right and three to the left as we enter. Our target is the last on the right. Fortunately it’s a fair distance from any main roads or habitation, which is probably why they selected it. Two of the units are vacant at this time, one of them being the centre one, next to the target.

“Team one; you go in through the main door. We won’t fuck about with the roller shutters; just go through the smaller door. Team Two, follow behind in support and open the rollers, so the army can get their vehicle as close as possible. Team three, take the perimeter. I want riflemen on the roof of the adjoining buildings covering each window and door, and I want each team to have their evidence gatherer with the camera in prominent position. To our knowledge, there is one rear fire door, which we won’t use for access, but will cover in case they attempt to decamp.

“The dogs will go in with the second team. Keep the explosives dog back until we need it. If any of the suspects twitch and look as if they’re about to go for a gun or dead man switch, just take the head shot. I don’t want anyone to die today, but if it’s a choice between them and us, it’s them every time, okay?”

There were nods and grunts from the officers. They all looked quite grim, and the apprehension in the air was tangible.

“Look,” I said, “I’ve done several of these recently, and all you need to know is that once the suspects are restrained and under control, then just get the hell out, taking them with you and preserving the scene for the explosives team from the army. It’s vital that we get as much forensic evidence as possible, but not at the risk of being blown away.”

Standing at the back of the room were two of the Amy bomb Disposal team, having just arrived, parking their big van next to my mini. It was good to see them, as they were highly skilled and experienced in all these I.E.D.s that terrorists were building these days. I’d passed over all the details of the chemicals and quantities involved, so they knew roughly what to expect. On my last meeting, the WO2, Andy Granger had been surprised at the amount of chemical involved.

“It’s either one bloody big bomb that will need a fair sized vehicle to get it into place, or several smaller ones, each capable of a fair amount of damage,” he told me.

The Inspector went through some more details, and then it was time to go.

The adrenaline was coursing through me as the first police team approached the target building. Using plain 4x4 vehicles, the dark figures in their body armour, helmets and MP5s were in place very quickly. In a practised and deceptively easy movement, the front door was breached and several pairs of armed officers entered.

I heard them shouting, “Armed police, armed police, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!”

Then I heard, “Office clear!”

“Main area Clear, three X-rays arrested!”

“Upper rooms clear, two X-rays arrested!”

I was entering the front door as the last came over my earpiece.

Each of the suspects was in handcuffs and being controlled by an officer, none were able to communicate with their friends. They looked shocked and dazed, but mainly they looked like terrified kids caught smoking joints behind the bike sheds. In the main area of the unit was a series of six large plastic barrels, each holding around twenty litres of liquid. On the top of each were a small electronic timer, some batteries and wires leading into the container.

The army bomb disposal team arrived. Andy Granger took one look and told us all to evacuate the building.

“Put the cordon at least five hundred metres away!” he said.

I noticed a laptop on one of the work benches. I was already wearing latex gloves, so told the officer taking the photographs to take a photo of it in situ, and then make a note that I was taking it.

Once I got outside, the police were already evacuating the other buildings, having removed the suspects by van to different police stations in the first instance.
I waited for the building to be made safe, standing by the forward command vehicle, the Firearms Inspector’s Land Rover Discovery. It didn’t take long. Andy walked over to us.

“That is some serious shit. Any ideas where they were going to plant them?” he asked.

“None, hopefully the details are in here or lying about in there somewhere,” I said, holding up the laptop. Gordon had already left, to set up the interviews of the suspects. Two Home Office forensic officers arrived, along with the police scenes of crime officer.

“Hi Josie, ready for us?” Mike Holmes, one of the H.O.F.O.s, asked.

“It’s all yours, good luck.”

I then left him talking to the army. I took my body armour off and relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. I suddenly felt drained, but knew that the work wasn’t over yet.

On my way back to Oxford, as that’s where the main suspects had been taken, I called Harry on my hands free.

“Done, Harry. All X-rays taken and IEDs intact. Oh, and I’ve seized a laptop from the building,” I said.

”I know, well done.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Leave the SB to conduct the interviews, as they’re experts at that. Just liaise with them and then get that laptop back for Mike to take a look at. Was there any paperwork at the site?” he asked.

“Not that I could see, but then I didn’t hang about, as the army were anxious to get us a long way from the building. Mike Holmes is in there now, so if there’s anything there, he’ll secure it.”

“Great, can you brief the police on what to give the press?”

“I’ve already spoken to the Superintendent Bartlett, but I’m sure the Chief Constable will want in on the act.”

“Right, I’ll see you back at the office in a few hours. Job well done Jo, you’ve done well.”

Thanks, but think what might have happened had I not,” I said.

“That’s the same across the board. They just have to be lucky once, while we have to be lucky all the time!”
 
 

*          *          *
 
End of Part 2
 
 
To Be Continued...