Judgement Day — Michael Condon

The SAS (Special Air Services) did not exist officially; at least not lawfully, but a small red building three doors down from the Hyatt on 10 Downing Street had an office on the third floor. Twelve men sat listening to the head of MI6. "What are the three main types of terrorists? Who is he and he wants what? We can safely say we have one section cooperating with files out of Dubrovnik office at present. Who he is remains unimportant at the moment." The head of MI6 walked back to his seat and sat down. The secretary and the other eleven men sat back in silence. The room became quiet. The secretary named Lakeridge folded his hands together and addressed the others positioned around the table. "Do you have any ideas Swanson, Myrgatroyd?" Wainwright, the second man across from the third from the left removed his spectacles, set them on the table and looked up. "For all intents and purposes, I think we need a man. We need a man who can sort these terrorists out." He sat back comfortably fixing a match to his pipe. "Do you know such a man?" the secretary asked. "There is a man," said Wainwright. "Is it someone in this room?" The former SDECE, (Service De Documentation Exterieure Et De Contre-Espionage) now DGSE Inspector from France asked. "No. He's not in this room," said Wainwright. The smoke continued to drift. This time the smoke drifted towards the DGSE inspector. "Where might this man be at the present, sir?" "I should think he is in France at the moment, sir " "And you can reach this man?" "Of that I am certain Mr. Secretary " "Then get him, sir " For a long moment the room became quiet with the exception of Swanson who was dreaming of the blond he had been seeing, had fallen asleep halfway through the meeting and was snoring away as the fan overhead turned slowly. Outside, the rain had subsided just as the meeting was closing. Jack Emerson having been instructed toppled the dark trench coat over one shoulder, the right arm hanging loosely. He stuck a cigar into the corner of his mouth with his open hand as the chimes of Big Ben struck midnight. It was just ushering in the first of November as wind blew fog over the Thames in London. He had a job to do. A German vendor asking for directions flicked the lamps of the Land Rover as he pulled to the curb. Director Lakeridge and a German motorist; having trouble with translations, received directions then pulled away. The time was barely readable.