Wrecking Crew

THREE

The Wrecking Crew operated from an anonymous building in the center of an uninteresting field in a quiet corner of the British countryside. In a large room at the rear of the building, the man known as ‘The Fixer’ sat at the head of the conference table. He was impatiently tapping his pen as he read a report about the death of Charles Rathbone. Casually leaning against the wall behind and slightly towards each side of The Fixer stood two enormous men who acted as his bodyguards and enforcers; they were identical twins. With typically ironic humor, The Fixer called them ‘Kitten’ and ‘Bunny’ — although nobody else would dare to, particularly if they wished to avoid a slow and painful death.

Born in the former USSR and trained as Olympic wrestlers, both men were over six and a half feet tall and as wide as a door. They both wore identical dark suits that stretched ominously over their distended muscles. Their shaven heads emphasized their bulging foreheads and eyebrows, and added additional darkness to the cold dead eyes that were carefully watching the other occupants of the room. There were five other people around the table. They were the key team members of the Wrecking Crew. The Fixer, Kitten, and Bunny, were all voluntary members, but the other five were more like draftees; unwillingly called into action because of some past indiscretion.

To the right of The Fixer sat Becka. Petite at five-foot tall, and just twenty-seven years old — but with her bright orange hair, facial piercings, and tattoos on her arms and hands — she looked much younger. Becka was the Wrecking Crews’ computer hacker. A gifted mathematician and a graduate in computer science, Becka was steadily building a successful career with a top internet security firm when her rebellious nature and interest in accessing government secrets brought her to the attention of the authorities.

After a month in the remand center, Becka was staring at the wall and contemplating the depressing prospect of a long jail term without any recreational drugs, or computer access to break the boredom, when a handsome and extremely well dressed woman walked into her cell. With the prison guards standing at a respectful distance, the nameless woman made Becka an offer that was simply too good to refuse. The woman said that if Becka agreed to work for the Wrecking Crew, doing the very things that had just put her in jail, they would pay her an obscene salary, and the charges would simply get lost in the back of a filing cabinet.

Now five years later, aided by access to substantial resources, the latest computer equipment, a backdoor pass into the U.S. National Security Agency and the British Government’s Intelligence Agency, GCHQ, Becka had become one of the best hackers on the planet.

Sitting to Becka’s right was Norris Halpin founder and Chief Executive of ‘Dime’, one of the largest data mining and banking companies in the world. Halpin was an unremarkable man to look at. At around fifty years old, he was overweight, and balding, with thick eyeglasses and the pale complexion of someone who had spent too much time looking at computer screens — but he was also a visionary. Towards the end of the 1990’s, as the internet started to engage with every aspect of our lives, Norris Halpin was one of the first businessmen to recognize that our data history could have a value.

One day as he was stuffing yet another handful of pointless, unwanted, and irrelevant junk mail into his garbage can, he had a true ‘Eureka moment’. Although he had a real interest in computing, and money to spend, he had never received any offers or advertising from people who sold computer equipment. On the other hand, his mother had been sent several flyers by a local computer store, even though she was ninety-two years old, and frequently confused the television remote control with the telephone. Halpin suddenly realized that companies would be happy to pay for accurate marketing information, which was based on people’s actual interests and activities.

With the help of his roommate Felix, an unemployed university dropout, he wrote a rudimentary computer worm containing a simple algorithm that returned basic contact details for people showing an interest in computers. Armed with a 3.5-inch floppy disc of unsorted data, he approached the marketing manager of a large computer retailer. Although he clearly recognized the benefits of such targeted data, initially the marketing manager was resistant to this new idea, but in the end, Norris Halpin successfully closed the sale with the line, ‘Or if you prefer, I could sell it to your competitors?’

Even though his first sale earned only a few pounds, Halpin was convinced that he had hit on a sure-fire winner. The next morning he withdrew his savings, sold his collection of vinyl records, quit his job, and in partnership with Felix, founded DataMine. Five years later, with the name changed to the snappier ‘Dime’, the company’s turnover exceeded $1 million for the first time. To celebrate, Norris and Felix threw a party at a top Mayfair hotel. Inevitably, the festivity soon degenerated into a monumental three-day bender of booze, drugs, and prostitutes. On the fourth day, whilst inspecting the wreckage with the hotel manager, Halpin discovered his business partner slumped beneath the grand piano. Felix had died from a massive overdose of heroin; his body had lain unnoticed for two days, while the party raged on.

Norris Halpin was sitting in a waiting room at the police station, facing a damaging enquiry and possible jail time for supplying drugs and manslaughter, when a smartly dressed woman stepped into the room, and in a clipped and precise voice, made him an offer that was too good to refuse.

“I have some good news for you, Mr. Halpin. It seems that you were not at this party after all,” she said reading from the pages in a manila file, “it seems that you were playing golf in Scotland at that time. It seems there will be several witnesses to your golfing prowess. It seems that while you were playing golf in Scotland, poor Felix died from a massive heart attack. A tragic death in one so young, don’t you think? So this whole sordid affair can simply disappear, and you can get on with your life.”

Halpin stared at the woman in utter disbelief.

“I don’t understand, I… I… I don’t understand, I can’t even play golf, and I have never been to Scotland.”

The woman gave Halpin a gentle smile, as if she was explaining something to a child. She waved the manila file she was holding.

“Of course you were in Scotland, Mr. Halpin. It’s all here in this file, although there isn’t actually any mention of your prowess as a sportsman. Nevertheless, any minute now the charges will be dropped and you will be free to leave.”

Halpin looked at the woman with renewed interest.

“Go on,” he said cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“And in return for this little act of kindness, your company will undertake to conduct extensive covert data mining on behalf of a certain charitable organisation,” the woman said. “This will prove to be a convenient arrangement because, after tomorrow’s reading of Felix’s last will and testament, that charitable organisation will own a 51 % share of Dime.”

She gave Halpin a hard look and a cold smile.

“Do I make myself clear?”

With just a nod of his head and a resigned sigh, Norris Halpin became another unwilling member of the Wrecking Crew.

Sitting next to Halpin was Gordon McIntosh. Born and raised in Scotland, he still spoke with an almost unintelligibly heavy Glaswegian accent. A short man at just over five and a half feet and incredibly thin; unshaven and with a head thinly covered with grey hair, he had the unhealthy pallor of someone who ate too little and drank too much. To even the untrained eye he radiated the appearance of someone with a history of drug abuse and mental illness. With his shoulders hunched and eyes down, he sat uneasily at the table, constantly moving and twitching as if he were itchy or uncomfortable. His arms and hands carried the tattoos and scars that recorded every bar fight and prison term of his forty hard years, while his nicotine stained fingers constantly manipulated the matchbox that had earned his seat at the table. Gordon McIntosh was the Wrecking Crew’s arsonist.

Directly opposite Becka sat a serious looking woman; she was holding the latest model of computer tablet, and staring intently at the screen. She wore a modest dark wool suit, along with a perfectly pressed blouse and a carefully knotted tie. Although she wore some make up and nail polish, it was understated. Her long brunette hair was tied back in a simple bun that along with her black plastic framed eyeglasses, added to her professional, business-like appearance.

Now aged in her mid-forties and still unmarried, Helen Atkins had been a successful city girl, making heaps of cash as a futures trader in the London stock exchange during the boom years. Like many others, she and her employers fell foul to the deadly combination of high commissions and lax financial controls, and when Barings Bank was declared insolvent in 1995, she lost her job. Under-qualified, over-paid, and tainted by the legacy of a few disastrous trades, she struggled to find work in an environment where suddenly opportunities were scarce and the competition was intense. Fortunately, she had invested her own money more wisely than she had that of her employer, so Helen Atkins put the enforced sabbatical to good use and retrained as a forensic accountant.

Fifteen years later, she was working for an insurance company and forensically examining the financial background of a man whose business had conveniently burned down, saving him from certain bankruptcy. The trail had been difficult to follow and the money hard to find, but she was making good progress and had finally amassed enough evidence to be sure of a conviction. Clearly, the businessman was crooked and incompetent. His business was recycling cardboard; it was a stable and profitable business with several long-term contracts and almost no competition. However, he had a gambling addiction that had devoured the company’s profits and after a disastrous trip to Las Vegas, he no longer had the cash to pay his staff, the bank loans, or the loan sharks. Clearly, the wolves were at the door and he had decided to take the cowards’ way out by torching his warehouse and defrauding the insurance company.

As she continued her forensic investigation, one particularly suspicious group of transactions had caught her attention. Why would someone in such extreme financial difficulties suddenly decide to make two large contributions to a charity? Even more suspiciously, the two payments were of identical value and made on either side of the date of the fire. Suspecting some collusion in the fire at the warehouse, she switched her attention to the financial affairs of the charity. Her investigation was making good progress when she had a visit from the handsome and extremely well dressed woman.

Physical threats are realistically only effective as a deterrent, and although Atkins had no skeletons in her closet that could be used as leverage, she did have a certain moral flexibility combined with a fondness for collecting money. In the end, her visitor found that it was surprisingly easy to win Helen Atkins as a new recruit for the Wrecking Crew.

She quickly became a trusted employee, using her unique blend of knowledge and training to manipulate financial reality. To meet the needs of a client, she could remove or alter records and information, lay false financial trails, or when necessary, subtly influence the markets to undermine a competitor’s share price. By simply reversing her forensic accountancy skills and applying the computers and other resources available to the Wrecking Crew, Helen Atkins had become a deadly financial assassin.

The final team member present at the conference table was Peter White. He was a tall, lean man in his early sixties who usually wore a fine Harris Tweed jacket to complement his distinctive goatee beard. White had always wanted to be a successful actor. However, he lacked the good looks, talent and luck required to make it big, and eventually became disillusioned and dissatisfied with a succession of bit parts and crowd scenes in ‘B’ movies. For a while, he made some decent money in California playing an English gentleman in soft-core videos, but his lack of essential equipment precluded any chance of big money in more hard-core films. He was also a competent magician, but lacked the flair and presentation skills to become a successful entertainer.

Eventually, desperate for money, he returned to his native England and performed in bars and on street corners, picking up money wherever he could; usually it was from someone’s billfold. Magicians rely on sleight of hand, manual dexterity, and misdirection to perform an illusion; the same skills are needed to pick pockets, and Peter White was a very capable pickpocket. His route into the Wrecking Crew was slightly unconventional.

One sunny afternoon in Reading Town center, Peter was caught trying to pick the pocket of a violent and vindictive man who was also one of the Wrecking Crew’s security men. By pure luck, Kitten’s twin brother Bunny, happened to spot the skillful theft. Peter thought he had gotten clean away, until a massive hand closed around his arm like a steel vice; then he thought he was about to die. For once, the two Neanderthal bodyguards acted with some initiative and kept the hapless pickpocket in the trunk of their car until they could speak with their boss. The Fixer immediately realized that this hapless thief had skills and contacts that could add value to the capabilities of the Wrecking Crew, and he made Peter White an offer he could not refuse. Join us or die.

For Peter, it was a good decision, regardless of the alternative, as he soon became a successful and respected member of the crew. As production manager, he was responsible for most activities that involved getting someone close to a target. Carefully put together and rigorously trained, his regular team of over fifty people included actors, magicians, pickpockets, prostitutes, and former military personnel. They had an excellent performance record, and were skilled in the arts of surveillance, theft, intimidation, and bribery. At first sight, the cast may have seemed overly large, but to use a theatrical analogy, many of the players would only have walk on parts.

Even the apparently simple act of planting a bug in someone’s house to gather information for a client could require a team of ten or twelve people. First, the target (or ‘mark’) must be followed to ensure that the people planting the bug are not discovered. If you want to covertly observe a mark who is out walking, you cannot just put on a hat, a false moustache, and sunglasses, and walk behind him; you are likely to be spotted within a couple of minutes. Successful surveillance would require a walking box of at least four people, surrounding the mark at varying distances of up to thirty feet, almost like an unseen security detail. To prevent the mark from seeing any player too frequently, these four close-in players will move around within the box and randomly be replaced by players from a second team acting as a wide perimeter. All of the players would be in constant communication, via micro radio receivers, with a central controller who can visually monitor and direct the mission.

At the same time, a second team would be needed to observe and monitor the house where the bug was to be planted. Two to four players would watch the street to ensure that the entry and departure was unobserved. Finally, a further team of three would actually perform the break-in and plant the bugs.

Even then, the circumstances may not be suitable to permit an entry on the first, second, or even the fifth attempt. Perhaps the street was too busy, perhaps the mark was too close to the house, or more likely, the lock refused to yield to the lock pick at the first attempt. The apparently simple task of planting a bug in a mark’s house could require a team of sixteen people, and take several days. The Wrecking Crew may charge a considerable fee for its services, but they had a flawless record of achievement — until now.

With a snort of disgust, The Fixer dropped the report on the table, pointed at Becka, and barked a single word.

“Explain.”

Becka leaned back in her chair and raised her palms in the international sign of innocence.

“Hey Boss, it wasn’t my fault the guy offed himself, I did just what you asked.”

She carried on talking rather too quickly, counting off the points on her fingers as The Fixer continued to stare at her unblinkingly.

“OK. First, I got close enough to this guy, Rathbone, so that I could get remote access to his smart phone. It was ridiculously easy — some people are so careless. I sat at the back of the bar where he was having a meal with some guy. I had my laptop set up to scan for Wi-Fi requests and within seconds his house name popped up. Most people make that mistake, calling their home Wi-Fi network something obvious. As I said, some people are stupid. Then I created a clone of his home Wi-Fi, logged him in, and enjoyed a drink as his phone backed up all of his data onto my laptop.

“It took me a day to sort through the data. His phone yielded all of his bank information, mail, diary, and his password; we got lucky there, he used the same password throughout. Then using his bank details, Helen was able to make payments to a cloned credit card that she had already used to create accounts at some of the least reputable porn sites.”

The Fixer gave Helen a small nod of acknowledgement and a smile, which was politely returned.

“A couple of days later he was back at the same bar again and I was able to upload a good chunk of our own kiddie porn collection to a hidden folder on his phone, I also added a new history and some interesting bookmarks to his browser, and disabled the privacy settings. The next time he synced that phone to his laptop, all of those pictures, videos, and settings were copied across.

“Later that week, I used one of our sleeper agents to plant the fake report about Rathbone in Afghanistan; you may recall that our guy is a file clerk with the Ministry of Defense. He’s still involved in his little gun running operation; it’s quite profitable, so he was more than willing to help. Once I had called the police and given an anonymous tip about Rathbone accessing child porn, the whole project grew legs of its own.”

Becka raised her hands a little higher this time, to emphasize the point.

“My work was exemplary, perfect in every detail. No fault here…. He wasn’t even due to be arrested until next week, so it wasn’t my fault that he got cancer and blew his head off!”

She sat back and folded her arms with a huff worthy of a disgruntled teenager.

“OK, Becka,” The Fixer conceded after a long pause. “Good work as always. You can relax.”

He gave her a brief smile, and rotated his uncomfortably direct gaze towards the opposite side of the table.

“Peter? Tell me about the surveillance; any problems?”

“No, nothing Boss,” Peter shook his head firmly. “It all went like clockwork. I brought in a team of watchers from way south of London, all unrecognizable. As usual, I added one local guy to help with the geography. He had never met Rathbone and didn’t know him, so he couldn’t have been recognized either. We were clean.”

“Norris here dug into his data bank and got us a good deal of tracking history from Rathbone’s cell phone, his credit card, and a radio frequency chip — I think it was from his shoes?”

He looked at Norris Halpin, who nodded to indicate that the information was indeed correct. Peter continued.

“So we knew at the outset where he was likely to go. That made it easy to plan ahead. The surveillance was textbook. The guy was as regular as clockwork, so regular it was boring; Christ, he even took a dump at the same time every day. There is no way that he made us…. NO WAY!”

He rubbed his face in frustration.

“As you know, we started our operation as soon as he arrived back from his trip to America. Since then he was never out of our sight, except for when he was in his home, and the three times that he went into the House of Commons, where even we couldn’t follow — not without special passes. Anyway, thanks to Becka, we knew from his diary that he was meeting with the current Member of Parliament for his local constituency. She’s an independent MP who is retiring before the next election. We believe he was trying to win her support for his campaign. Our brief was just to watch and report; up to the moment that he stuck the gun in his mouth, everything seemed in order. It’s all in my report.”

The Fixer slowly flicked through the pages before him for a second time, the uncomfortable silence was emphasized by the rhythmic tapping of his pen on the table. Finally, he closed the report, folded his fingers together, and gave his team a wide smile.

“OK. For the time being we will file his death under ‘Shit happens’, but it still seems a little odd. Let’s find out what we can about this guy Stone — but off the books please, I don’t want the client to know we have any doubts about this suicide.”

He pushed the report to one side and subtly changed his posture to one that was less threatening.

“We all need to get back to our desks, so let’s quickly summaries the progress on our other live projects. Item one, Harry Harrington and the planning application for Whitewater farm. Sorry Peter, back to you again — any progress?”

This time Peter White sat forward and spoke with an air of excitement.

“Yes Boss, we got a result there. My people were able to keep tabs on this Alan Merry, the Councilor from Reading. We got photos of his family, wife, grandkids, and his new girlfriend — it was the usual stuff. I used one of our London girls to give him a few afternoons of unforgettable pleasure; the poor guy never saw it coming. Then I caught up with him at a bar to deliver the message, ‘Vote for Whitewater farm or else’, and he folded up like a cheap stepladder. Job done… case closed. Incidentally, I’ve put this Alan Merry character into the sleeper file — he may be useful again.”

“Well done, Peter,” The Fixer nodded with a smile. “Please thank your team for their excellent work.”

Peter smiled back proudly. “Thanks, Boss.”

“Right then, item number two.” The Fixer paused for a moment, his lips drawn tight in obvious anger. “Last month Becka received information from her source in GCHQ that someone had searched for, accessed, and copied files relating to our work. Obviously, any leak of this information would pose a considerable risk to us all. Our usual operative was already engaged in other duties so, given the need for urgency in this matter, I immediately dispatched Kitten and Bunny to solve the problem.”

The Fixer looked over his shoulder and gave his two massive bodyguards a tight smile, which was met with an almost imperceptible nod. When Kitten spoke in heavily accented English, his voice had an unnaturally high pitched, almost girlish, quality, brought on by years of steroid misuse. He read his report, slowly and carefully, from a folded sheet of paper that he had removed from his jacket pocket.

“As directed, we picked up the subject at his house. He was an old man and gave no resistance. After a short interrogation… ” Kitten paused and gave what he may have considered an ironic smile, “the subject gave us a data stick that contained the files he had stolen. We questioned him thoroughly to make sure that we had the only copy of these files.”

Kitten’s eyes took on a dreamy quality, as he replayed the event in his head. He carried on reading in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“Afterwards we took him into the woods, where we broke his hip. Then we set up a tent for shelter, so we could stay warm while we waited for him to die of exposure.”

Kitten gave a nod and respectfully handed the report to The Fixer. Not to be left out, Bunny added his postscript.

“It was cold and wet, and we had laid him in a muddy puddle, so it didn’t take too long for him to die. I played with his dog while we waited.”

A few people shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. The Fixer put the single sheet with the other reports and lifted a final page.

“Ah yes, we can close with this one. The South West rail franchise, I have a final report from Chameleon.”

The people around the table stiffened visibly.

“Our client wanted to gain the upper hand in the bidding process and felt that his competitor’s greatest strength was their formidable and charismatic chief executive, Lynda Devon. We were tasked with removing the dear lady, permanently, but without any suggestion of foul play. Naturally, I handed the completion of this assignment over to Chameleon.”

The Fixer nodded to himself.

“It seems that early on Tuesday morning, Ms. Devon was driving her car along a quiet stretch of road, when this expensive vehicle’s automatic stability system suddenly malfunctioned, causing the car to swerve and collide head on with a fully laden semi-truck. According to the police report, Ms. Devon was initially seen to be alive, although gravely injured. In his statement, the truck driver, who was himself shocked but uninjured, reported that while he was calling the emergency services, a passing pedestrian had attempted to administer CPR. However, when the truck driver returned to the scene a few moments later, Ms. Devon was deceased and the helpful pedestrian had vanished.”

The Fixer scanned the faces around the room, like a teacher checking that all of his pupils were paying attention.

“The coroner’s report later showed that Ms. Devon had suffered several serious, but survivable injuries to her legs, chest and face, but had died from choking on a marshmallow that had become lodged in her throat. An open packet of marshmallows was found in the side pocket of the car, the mystery pedestrian was never identified.”

He gave a little smile.

“This tragic news caused the share price of Devon Rail to fall sharply, and on the back of this turmoil, our client has now secured the contract he desired so dearly.”

There was a moments silence while The Fixer placed the report on top of the other files.

“Chalk up another success to the elusive Chameleon. Now we can all sleep safely in our beds,” Helen Atkins said with heavy irony.

“Or not!” Becka added. “His is not a face that I would ever want to see, or even know.”

“Last thing you ever saw if you did,” Gordon McIntosh spat coldly.

Peter joined in. “Privacy and secrecy is why he is so successful. Isn’t that right, Boss?”

“Alright children, that’s enough!” The Fixer shouted, waving his hand at the group. “Let’s all get back to work, please.”

He helped himself to some coffee and a pastry from a side table as the team shuffled out, then he looked towards Kitten and Bunny, who were still leaning against the far wall.

“You two as well please, I have some work I need to do. Close the door as you go.”

The twins glanced at each other for a moment, shared a barely perceptible shrug, and walked casually out of the room.

When the door was shut, The Fixer returned to his seat where he slowly ate the pastry and sipped his coffee, savoring the bitter taste in silence as he organised his thoughts. After a while, he picked up the report on Charles Rathbone and carefully read through it again, stopping occasionally to write notes in the margin and underlining a particular name with three heavy lines. At the end of the report, he paused for several seconds, tapping the page with his pen before coming to a decision.

The Fixer reached forward and switched off his cell phone. Then he reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a second cell phone. There was one person on the planet who knew the number of this phone, and the phone’s memory contained only one number. He dialed that number now and listened, counting quietly as it rang six times, before hanging up. Then he sent a single word by text, an identifying code word. The word was different each day; it was always the first three letters of the day, three days previously. Today was Wednesday, so he sent the letters MON. If the code were ever incorrect, the number that he dialed for the second time would remain unanswered forever. Today it was answered on the second ring; a flat metallic, computer generated voice grated sharply in his ear.

“SPEAK!”

Even though he was the employer, he found his throat constricting involuntarily. He coughed to cover his tension and then spoke the single word that re-established his authority. There was a moment of silence, disturbed by a faint electrical crackle, before the voice of death spoke again.

“Go ahead, I am listening.”

“Hello Chameleon, I have two new targets for you.”

Stone had stopped the video to allow himself a few moments of silence to process the enormity of what he was hearing. Staring at the face of his best friend, temporarily frozen by the video in an unfortunate comical pose, stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sneeze, Eric had no doubt that Charles was telling the truth. Any allegation of child abuse tended to prompt an instant reaction of revulsion along with an internal dialog of, ‘No smoke without fire’. Even if the allegation was later proved false, the damage was instantly done and permanently irreversible. However, in the case of Charles Rathbone, Eric was certain — as absolute as the existence of gravity and as unquestionable as the sun coming up tomorrow — that the allegation was made up.

On the other hand, the story about this Wrecking Crew seemed more like a conspiracy theory, easy to claim but difficult to prove. With his stomach growling with hunger and the first indigestible seeds of doubt, Stone leaned forward and tapped the play button once again. Charles’ image was released from its unfortunate pose, and he began to talk again.

“Eric, I know that the idea of this secret organisation sounds fanciful and made up, but I can assure you that every word I am about to tell you is true. The information first came to me from a trusted source that knew about this Wrecking Crew and had high-level access to documents through his position at GCHQ. He was a man of the greatest integrity, he was fiercely patriotic, and yet experienced enough to understand that sometimes governments need to perform secret and unpalatable acts to protect its citizens. To believe otherwise would be naive.

The Wrecking Crew is a privately operated team with some very special skills. They even have their own assassin who calls himself ‘Chameleon’, I think he may be ex-special forces, perhaps Russian or Israeli. This team of specialists was originally put together as a deniable asset that was able to manipulate, discredit, destroy, or dispatch, anybody, anywhere — for a fee. However, as the world security situation became less cold war and more about fighting insurgents, the military requirements became less subtle. Consequently, this Wrecking Crew started to take on freelance work, mostly in America and the Britain — and not all of it was deemed acceptable. In his research, my source found clear evidence that the Wrecking Crew was now operating beyond government control, and in a way, that was undermining our freedom and democracy. He was so disturbed by what he had found that, at great risk to his life and liberty; he copied those documents and gave them to me.

We never met face to face; he always contacted me using an untraceable pre-paid cell phone. One day he instructed me to go to London by train, see a show, and return home. He also gave me detailed directions about how to change some of the security settings on my cell phone. When I returned home after seeing the show, I discovered that at some point during the day my phone had received a large file via Bluetooth. The file is called wreckingcrew.pdf, I have attached it along with this video, it is all of the information that he could gather.

A few days after my trip to London, I read that this brave man had died. He was an elderly man and in poor health, a widower. Apparently, whilst walking his dog deep in the woods near his house, he had a fall and broke his hip. Unable to move or raise the alarm, and soaked through by lashing rain, he soon succumbed to the cold and died of exposure. His body was discovered the following morning by a jogger; his dog was still waiting obediently by his side. Obviously, his death is disturbingly coincidental; I am convinced that it was the work of the Wrecking Crew.

I have discussed this information with Valerie Jenkins; she is the outgoing MP for my constituency area and a keen supporter of the concept of True Democracy. Like me, she feels that there is clear evidence that this Wrecking Crew have been used to undermine the democratic and legal processes in Britain and abroad. I have met with her at the House of Commons and she had agreed to back me if I decided to make this document public. We had planned to do exactly that at the beginning of my election campaign, she felt that such a public exposé would clearly demonstrate what a sham the current system of democracy was, while damaging the Wrecking Crew as an organisation.

Obviously, that plan has been derailed, although True Democracy will go on, my campaign obviously will not. I think you should speak to Valerie Jenkins to get her opinion, before you proceed any further. Our plan to expose the Wrecking Crew had merit, but contained one major flaw, as you will see. While the documents I received are clearly genuine and a compelling record of the activities of this dangerous organisation, the names of the people behind it, and even its location, remain a secret. Uncovering the identities of the Wrecking Crew’s key players, and killing them, is the only way to ensure that they can be stopped. Valerie will disagree strongly on this final point, but it is my considered opinion that we are way beyond a simple exposure — these people must die.

It is a lot to ask, particularly from beyond the grave, but I know that I will sleep the long sleep more soundly if these bastards are dead. As I said earlier, if you choose a different path, I will understand. If that is your decision, then with my blessing, please take the money and run. And if you do, then I sincerely wish you a long and happy life, my friend.

Should you choose to stand and fight — and I hope you will; the file Myteam.doc, contains a list of friends that I know you can trust. They are all good people with skills that you can use. If you ask in my name, I am confident that they will be willing to help. You cannot expect to do this alone, no one can. This is not some Hollywood thriller script Eric, this is real life, and you are just a man. In my experience, one man cannot find 100 % of the answer, but ten people each with 10 % of the solution will get the job done beautifully. This is just like a jigsaw puzzle; everyone has his or her pieces to add to complete the picture.

In my last will and testament, I have left you my farm, my car, and my other assets. Once the estate has cleared probate, do with them what you please. The file Money.doc, will tell you how to access the cash that I have put aside for you to use. It was legitimately acquired by selling my art collection; just don’t tell the taxman!

There is one other thing that may help. During the last week, I was sure that I was being followed. They are very, very good, but I could feel that itch on the back of my neck and I knew that they were there. During that time, I spotted the same person several times, and it was someone I recognized from a long time ago. At first, I couldn’t place him, but my old school teacher could. He was in the primary school class two years below me, his name is Darren Jeffers and he lives somewhere in Wethersfield. It could be a good place to start.

So that’s it my friend, it is time to say goodbye. I have left you a pretty problem and all of the help I can. The rest is up to you.”

Rathbone gave the screen a sad final wave, then he leaned forward with a finger extended and the recording ended. For a while, Eric Stone sat in the silent darkness of his kitchen, contemplating how his life had just changed. Finally, he spoke.

“Goodbye my friend, you can sleep well. I won’t let you down.” He slowly stood up. “Come on Stone, it’s time to get involved.”