PART 2

Honi soit qui mal y pense

King Edward III (1348)
 CHAPTER 1

16:43, Wednesday 28th November, 2001

London, UK

“The autopsy confirms that Specialist Thomas Harris was the victim of rather severe
torture”, the aged army physician began. “Starting from the ground up: Crushed
bones throughout the lower limbs. As can be seen by these photos...and X-rays.
Most likely a machine vice of some sort”
The projected image changed.
“Hot and cold burns all over the body…as seen here…and here. And a
formaldehyde-based compound was injected into the lower extremities of both arms –
via the fingers - resulting in these contortions of the hands, and partial fixation of
tissues elsewhere.”
Several members of the assembled group grimaced in the dark at this last point.
Sensing a mood change, the officer presenting the report paused.
“Mode of death?” came a question from the far end of the table in the darkened room.
The physician adjusted his glasses and spoke into the void.
“Everything suggests that Specialist Harris was still alive at the time of decapitation,
sir”
Silence.
“How long was he dead before the body was found?” asked the same voice.
“Not long. And the body wasn’t in the water for more than a few hours”
“No obvious signs of who did this…on the body?”
“No sir. Many commonly used techniques. Nothing signature” replied the physician,
squinting in the projector light.
The Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Defence lifted his glasses and rubbed his
eyes before asking his next question.
“And where exactly is his head?”
The physician motioned to answer, but then considered the question.
“I…er…I’m sorry sir, I…”
“I mean”, the secretary corrected, “why did they cut off his head?”
The question was for everyone.
But only the dim humming of the projector’s fan filled the darkness.
“Perhaps they took it as a trophy” pondered one of the men from Vauxhall Cross
house.
There was another long silence, and then the pathologist who could not see the
audience timidly raised a hand.
“If I may be so bold as to offer an opinion, sir?”
“If you must”
“Well… it’s just that… in all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this”, his face
contorted slightly to emphasis the point as his pointer circled the screen. He changed
to another slide.
“We’ve had many interrogation vics. A bullet in the head and track marks up the
arms is the usual. But this… The genitals are charred… Hydrogen peroxide has
damaged the lining of the gastric system… The degree of severity…of effort here…
It might have started out as a grilling, but... Whoever did this…was making an
example of this poor soldier”
“That much is obvious, thank you doctor” the secretary responded plainly.
“A message to someone. Perhaps” the doctor continued concernedly.
“Thank you doctor. Moving along please”, the undersecretary ordered.
The physician bowed slight and disappeared into the darkness to his right.
“Can we raise the lights please?” the under-secretary asked before impatiently adding,
“who’s next god damn it!?!”.
His assistant fumbled with her notes in the darkness before calling:
“Sergeant Cyrus Harding”
The lights of the mahogany panelled conference room suddenly flickered into life.
The 20 or so people seated around the long table in the middle shifted their attention
to the smartly dressed army officer approaching the head of the table.
”You are Sergeant Cyrus Harding, of…regiment 22 of the SAS?” the under-secretary
asked looking up from his notes. He was an emaciated man with thin lips. Pale from
too many years in darkened meeting rooms.
“Yes, sir”
“It says here you read history and literature at Oxford. What the devil are you doing
in the service man?” the undersecretary asked with a cheeky smirk.
“Academia wasn’t to my liking, sir” Harding replied plainly.
The undersecretary snorted away the response, annoyed with himself for the
irrelevant detour. He checked his watch and then clasped his hands on the table in
front of him. “Well Sergeant Harding, we only have a few minutes left. But very
briefly tell us about your man Harris. You were his immediate commanding officer,
were you not?”
Harding nodded and addressed the assembly.
“Sir, yes sir. Specialist Harris was quite simply one of the finest assets we had. And
his death…or…disappearance... earlier this year was an incredible loss to the entire
unit, and of course to our operations at the time. He…”.
“Very good, Sergeant”, interrupted the under-secretary with a courteous smile, “And
well rehearsed. But this isn’t the time or place. Tell us about the man. And why we
should be worried that someone did this to him.
Harding adjusted himself. He momentarily glanced at the Director Special Forces
who sat half way down the table. The DSF blinked back slow and deliberately.
“Well sir, as for the man, Tank was a…”
“Tank?” the under-secretary raised his eyebrows.
“Ah, sorry sir. It’s what the lads called him, sir”, Harding replied before continuing,
“He was a loner socially. Largely kept to himself. We worked closely together
though, he and I, regularly as part of the same unit. And I like to think I had a pretty
good handle on him, sir. A quiet guy, but straight up. No nonsense”
“A team player?”
“As I said, sir, one of our best”
“You don’t think…”
“No sir, I don’t. Tank was a patriot, sir. The man I knew would never have done
anything that would threaten Queen or country. That I am absolutely positive about”.
“How much did he know?”
“Harris was only ever exposed to operational details. Nothing useful”, the DSF
suddenly interjected.
“So why the hell did someone do this to him?” the under-secretary asked ignoring the
interruption and never dropping his fix on Harding, “an IRA thing?”
“In Mumbai?” Harding shook his head, “I don’t think so sir”
“Humour is wasted here, sergeant” the under-secretary shot back coldly.
“I’m sorry sir, I wasn’t trying to be…”
“Just tell us what you think happened?”
“I honestly have no idea, sir. And given the lack of information, I really wouldn’t
want to speculate.”
The under-secretary chuckled.
“Well, given the nature of recent events across the pond Sergeant Harding, I’m not
asking you to speculate. I’m ordering you to”
Harding blinked and sighed inwardly.
“Sir. The unit has no clue of what has happened here. And we know of nothing in
Harris’s past – professional or private - that would result in someone doing this. His
activities before the crash certainly provide no insight. And I was with him just days
before that happened. He seemed fine”
Or did he?
The undersecretary shifted his gaze towards the DSF, who was contemplating the pen
in his hands.
“Right. I see,” the undersecretary started slowly, “thank you very much Sergeant
Harding. Is that the final item of the day? Excellent. And D notes1 have been sent on
it? Good. I need to meet with the Minister shortly so…lets close this session”.
The Director of Special Forces rose from his chair, collected his papers, and was
moving towards the door before the under-secretary had finished talking. He did not
wish to be cornered.
“Harding, you’re with me”, he ordered quietly as he passed Cyrus. Harding turned
and followed him.
The undersecretary watched them both leave.

1
D notes are MOD memos to the English Press indicating subjects deemed sensitive and not appropriate for publication.