CHAPTER 2

Major General Stanley Evans was a lean old solider, who moved rather quickly for
someone his age. Clearly a man who didn’t have time to waste.
Harding matched pace with him as they walked up the corridor outside the meeting
room. A well-dressed aid fell in beside them and began feeding the director memos.
They moved along silently until the director stopped suddenly.
He finished the note he was reading and then looked up at Cyrus.
“Was that alright, sir?” Cyrus asked.
Initially the director’s mind seemed elsewhere, calculating. But then his eyes
focused, and he spoke in his usual tight-lipped, rapid-fire manner.
“Yes. Fine”
He looked back up the corridor towards the meeting room, and then at Harding.
“Here. Right now. Off the record. What’s our gut feeling on this Harris thing?”
Harding eyed the assistant, but Evans shook his head.
“Well, sir. It’s all a bit of a surprise you’ll appreciate. My only hope is that Tank
simply had a little something on the side that turned to custard. It wouldn’t be the
first time for us, and it won’t be the last”.
Evans was licking his teeth under his lips as he waited for what Harding would say
next.
“The only questions of course”, Harding continued, “are why the disappearing act,
who did this to him, and what’s our exposure? The fact that the body was left to be
found is suggestive.”
“Indeed,” the chief agreed, “so what do we do?”
That stopped Harding. He had not anticipated this question. He had only been
thinking about what Tank could have been doing to get himself into this mess. He
had not been thinking about responses.
“Sir?”
Evans looked up the hallway again conspiratorially. He stepped closer to Harding
and lowering his voice.
“Look. None of us have got time for this sort of shite. But there’s obviously
something not right about it. I mean, Christ! The headless body of a dead soldier
turning up? With everything else that’s going on?!?”
He paused and pulled his palm across his cheek. It was a delicate game he was
playing.
“I need someone to look into this affair for us. Beyond the usual report. Really
quietly. What do you think?” he asked.
Harding suddenly understood.
“You’re not suggesting…”
“Yes, I am”
“It’s not really my…”
“As one of his commanding officers, you…” Evans interupted.
“But with respects sir, isn’t that the domain of MI6…or the foreign office? We don’t
want to be standing on anyone’s toes” Harding countered.
“Yes, and 6 has some people on it already. But I want my own man. Reporting back
to me. And only me…and Charlie here”, he pointed over his shoulder at the aid, who
nodded politely.
“He’s a good man”, Evans said for added measure, but Harding ignored it.
“So you want me to liaise with 6?”
“No. You are to be completely independent”
Harding frowned.
“This isn’t overkill is it, sir?”
“No. Something like this warrants investigation. Especially given recent events as it
was described. Everyone’s on edge at the moment. We can’t have loose ends. So, I
want to know what Harris was doing between the time of his death and…”, he
frowned in annoyance, “…and his subsequent death. And who was behind the latter.
But I don’t want the bloody watered down version that 6 will feed us. This isn’t
about Harris. It’s us. The regiment. I want to clear his name. Before this thing has
time to get political. Out of control. So I need my own man. You. See what I’m
saying?”
Harding’s shoulders sagged slightly.
“Don’t get me wrong, sir, I want to know what happened to Tank as much as the next
man, but…”
Evans ignored this and pressed on.
“Consider yourself relieved of duties…effective immediately. I’m assuming someone
else can fill in. Tell Mullane that you’re taking leave for personal reasons. A death in
the family. Think of something. We’ve asked him to keep the Harris thing hush-
hush. Only you and he know about this, you realise. Better that no one else on base
knows. Bad for morale, what.”
Cyrus nodded slightly, reluctantly.
“And where should I begin, sir?”
Evans turned to his aid.
“Charlie? Thank you.”
A manila folder was passed to Harding. He regarded Charlie as he took the folder. A
clean cut, young man with dark hair and a slightly olive skin. He had prep school
written all over him.
“Maybe there’s something useful in there. It’s everything 6 has on Harris at present.”
He turned to enter the room behind him, but stopped in the doorway.
“Oh and Harding. It may all come to nothing, but do remember the golden rule in this
game: Don’t – fuck - up. There is something not right about all this. So try to be
discrete”
“Sage advice, sir” Harding replied blandly as the director turned and disappeared.
 CHAPTER 3

17:22, Wednesday 28th November, 2001

London, UK

Cyrus Jonathon Harding pulled on his long coat as he emerged from the security gates
at the east end of the neoclassic building in Whitehall that is the Ministry of Defence
headquarters. He looked up at the grey, autumn sky and sighed.
Harding was a career soldier. With the regiment, his solid 6 foot frame had seen most
of the world – both friendly and hostile. His tours had been many, but age was finally
catching up with him – he was now 38. The regiment wanted to retain him, to take on
a training and operations role in the regiment. But he wasn’t sure.
Tank had been in the same situation.

Cyrus ran his hand through his short dark – slightly greying – hair. He felt like a
stroll along the north bank of the Thames to clear his head. But decided to visit a
sympathetic old friend instead.
He hailed a black cab and climbed inside.
“Herbert Crescent, please”
“In Knightsbridge? Off Sloane innit?” the driver asked.
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”
The taxi pulled out into the evening traffic and headed westward.

Sitting in the back of the cab, Cyrus considered everything that had happened that
day. Earlier in the morning, at headquarters in Credenhill, General Matthew Mullane,
the base commander, had summoned him to his office.
“It’s the damndist thing” Mullane had started when Cyrus entered.
Mullane’s old face was a mix of shock and confusion, with maybe a hint of
amusement.
“What is sir?” Cyrus had answered back.
The General had said nothing, but slipped a piece of paper across the table to Cyrus,
who stepped forward and took it.
It was a fax.

19:34 27-11-2001
Office of the Director Special Forces
Regents Park, London
NW1 4NU
+44 (0)20 722 46 471

The Foreign office has informed us the body of Specialist

Thomas Harris, regiment 22 of the SAS was pulled from the
harbour in Mumbai, India on the 21st November, 2001.
Confirmation of identity has been made. There will be a
departmental inquiry meeting into this matter tomorrow
afternoon at 15:30 in room B1.26 of the Ministry of
Defence. Please send Specialist Harris’s immediate
commanding office to attend said meeting.

Yours,
Stanley Evans
Director of Special Forces

Harding couldn’t believe what he had read. He had looked at Mullane, who simply
smiled knowingly back.
“Tank?” had been the first thing to spill from Cyrus’s mouth.
Mullane had bit his lips and raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘I know!’.
“This has to be a joke” Harding had proposed.
“I’ve spoken with the DSF this morning. It’s no joke. He’s actually quite concerned
about it”
There was a moment of silence between them.
“He wants you to attend the meeting this afternoon,” Mullane continued, “Sorry, but
you’re on the midday train to London. He doesn’t want you to say too much when
questioned about Harris. Just the basics. At least until we get a better handle on
things.”
“Mumbai?” Cyrus wasn’t listening to the General. He simply couldn’t begin to
fathom what he had read.
Not given everything that had happened.
Earlier in the year - on May 15th - Tank had been on a helicopter in the Congo doing
some reconnaissance work. The 2nd Congo war had been raging for a little over 2
years and Her Majesty’s forces – while not officially involved - had been quietly
keeping an eye on affairs. One hour into the flight, the helicopter suddenly
disappeared. There had been no distress call. And when the burned out wreck was
finally found three days later, the remains of only four bodies were found. One in the
burned out wreckage, while the others had been found scattered not far from the crash
site. Most were partial eaten. Initially it was believed that Tank and the one other
passenger had survived and would endeavour to make contact with British forces in
the area. But no contact was ever made. Diplomatic enquiries between the various
parties involved in the conflict were made to see if prisoners had been taken. But that
process lead nowhere. In the end, Harris and his colleague had been declared missing
in action/presumed dead. A funeral was held. Harding had attended.
“I know,” Mullane had said reassuringly, “Mumbai”.
“And they’ve known about this for a week?”
“Presumably. They want to keep it very quiet, you understand. You’re not to speak
of this outside this office. Agreed?”
“But what the hell was he doing in Mumbai?”
Mullane had chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He had been up most of the night
before asking himself these same questions.
“Who knows. Take an overnight bag with you. They have a room at the barracks at
Regents Park for you”
Harding couldn’t remember if he had saluted before leaving the office. But he had
stood in the hallway outside for some time. Trying to understand what he had read.
Many thoughts had passed through his head as he stood there.
And on the platform at the train station.
Then on the train down to Paddington.
And now in the back of a London Taxi on his way to South Kensington.
All of those thoughts made him feel uneasy.