The Expired

Chapter Two-1

CHAPTER TWO

‘Look I’ve got the build and it’s the top bodyguard course so I might as well put my muscles to good use. It makes sense to have me trained up to improve our security.’ Francis and Isaac had just finished racing each other and were resting.

Sitting back on their bikes sweating profusely in Isaac Constantine’s state of the art gym annexed to his secluded mansion, Francis added, ‘You’re a famous star now, you need someone close to take care of you. Even if it’s just warding off over eager fans or reporters, including the paparazzi.’

Isaac reached across and put his arm affectionately around Francis’s shoulder. ‘I know you mean well, sweetheart. You do the course if it pleases you.’

Francis said anxiously, ‘I know you have those other minders and bodyguards around at concerts but it’s just, I feel so vulnerable sometimes when we’re out together in private. I’d kill myself if anything happened to you.’

Isaac hugged him affectionately. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, You Silly.’

Still sounding anxious Francis added, ‘I know but you can’t take chances. Look at Bobby Kennedy. If he’d had a trained bodyguard close by he might be alive today.’

‘Okay–Okay,’ Isaac laughed and hugged him. ‘You’ve convinced me. So where do you go for the training?’

Francis said excitedly, ‘It’s a Close Protection Operations Course held at Briar Lodge Manor near Lymbridge Green in Kent. It’s the most recognised establishment in the Bodyguard industry. This would lead to me obtaining the government standard SIA close protection licence.’ Then he hesitated and said sheepishly, ‘Only thing is, it’s a whopping three-hundred pounds.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But it’s for twenty-one days and fully residential. In fact the isolated manor it’s held in has a history of training SAS and British secret service agents.’

Isaac fondly squeezed him again. ‘Listen, Sweetheart, if that’s what you want, to protect me, I don’t care how much it cost. I’ll pay for you to have the best course on offer.’

At six-foot-one and weighing a hundred and sixty-eight pounds with a full head of blonde hair and a set of features any male model would be envious of, twenty-two year-old Francis kept himself in good shape. This was using Isaac’s private gym situated in the east wing of his eleven bedroom mansion set amongst the south-downs in Surrey.

It was one of the perks of being the boyfriend of Isaac Constantine who was currently the most famous black recording star Galaxy Records Inc’ had ever had. Last year’s record sales for 1972 had outstripped any other recording artist. This success was reflected in Isaac’s other three palatial homes. Two in the UK and one in Los angles.

To keep in trim, Francis’s gym favourite was the cross trainer. From here he could get an erection just looking at the black and white life size posters of his lover on the wall. Tall and shaven bald with a kind face like Harry Belafonte and the physique of a light weight boxer, the posters, taken from his European tours, showed Isaac in various stage bondage attire. From tight leather shorts and a zip up mask to being naked while on all fours. Other raunchy posters revealed him tethered by a lead and a spikey dog collar to some beautiful blonde in a figure hugging rubber suit.

His risqué stage acts that reflected his gender didn’t just appeal to his huge gay following; the girls went wild over him as well.

Wanting an autograph, Francis had met Isaac at the stage door of a concert seven months ago, and it was love at first sight. Isaac Constantine at twenty-five years old and currently the most successful black soul singer in the UK and Europe with album sales increasing steadily in America, was smitten with Francis.

The singer had tried to keep their relationship under wraps, hiding from reporters and cameras when they were out together. The heavy minders had seen to it. Francis always maintained Isaac didn’t need these brainless apes to look after him. He would do it.

Keeping a low profile on his love life, Isaac had kept the usual threats by telephone or mail, mostly from National Front and anti-homosexual groups, down to a minimum. His agent and secretary screened all his fan mail. If a threat looked serious it was referred to Isaac’s head of security, a huge black man called Marvin. It usually finished there. Only a couple of times had they been on standby with the police, when some nutter had threatened to shoot or hurl a bomb. They’d all finished up as a hoax; sickos hiding behind their fantasies.

When Isaac Constantine first came out, the hate letters were smoking – He’s not only a n****r but queer as well they’d written. Now of course with Gay Pride Rallies being held in London and Britain’s first gay newspaper being launched, the racist remarks had dwindled to a trickle.

*

The Director General of MI5, Sir Geoffrey Hodder, had every reason to look worried. Recently this March 1973 there had been a cabinet reshuffle and it was known the new Home Secretary, Ruth Torrington, would be considering making changes in some top security positions.

Sir Geoffrey and the new Home Secretary had never been the best of friends since the accusations she’d made in the house while in the shadow cabinet. She had once asked for his resignation over what she called, “Lack of basic security,” concerning the IRA car bombings outside The Old Baily. Since her ten month term in the new cabinet, relations had been frosty between them. Even more so now with a new kid on the block - Desmond Harrington, currently a director on the board for Northern Ireland Terrorism and tipped as a strong candidate for Sir Geoffrey’s position – especially as one of his rich uncles had donated one million pounds to the party election campaign. More than once at meetings without Sir Geoffrey, she had hinted on a department reshuffle.

Sir Geoffrey knew, a strong show of senior department hands for a vote of confidence might sway her decision, perhaps curb her enthusiasm for a while. However, if he could ride out this latest MI5 reshuffle and maybe just keep his head above water on his £17,000 a year salary, he might be able to pay back some of the money on the loans he’d taken out.

Unfortunately, these were on numerous bad choice stock-exchange shares that had crashed in this year’s Bear Market downturn and could force him into bankruptcy. Some of this investment money, which he vowed to pay back, he’d skimmed off the department’s expenses budget and if not rectified, would show up as a deficit at the end of the year accounting period. Knowing of course, this would bring embarrassment to his department and further her call for his replacement and even prosecution. So he had to sit tight and remain squeaky clean.

Two weeks later, Sir Geoffrey received in his mail a summons for a meeting with the Home Secretary. He had expected it of course. He had five days grace to organise a vote of confidence and to make sure it was documented.

Although he was Director General, his five deputy staff that were responsible to him including, the Deputy Director General, the Assistant Director General, the Director for Joint Terrorism Analysis, the Director of National Protection and Infrastructure and Commander Gregory Potting, former head of MI6 and the governments most senior advisor for internal affairs, constituted the management board for the MI5 service. Chaired by Sir Geoffrey, they would hold regular meetings to consider policy and strategic issues. Fortunately their next meeting was in two days’ time.

Sir Geoffrey knew he could also lean on a couple of retired Director Generals he played golf with, one of whom sat in the House of Lords.

A few days later, with the ammunition tucked inside his briefcase he was shown into the Home Secretary’s office. Sir Geoffrey had been a visitor here many times but was always astounded by the enormous length of the boardroom table and its thirty-two surrounding chairs. With an air of importance, Ruth Torrington sat at one end stamping her authority immediately on anyone that entered her domain.

Looking up, the pretty white face with the thin red lipstick smile beckoned him to sit. ‘Ah, Sir Geoffrey, please take a seat will you.’ At thirty-six years old, she was medium height and attractive with long dark wavy hair cascading down her shoulders onto a slim figure hugging lime green fashionable suit. Ruth Torrington looked as though she could be an advert for cosmetics in Vogue magazine.

On the other hand, fifty-eight year old Sir Geoffrey with his thinning silver hair and six-foot four-inch frame, engulfed the boardroom Chippendale chair.

Always with a serious expression on his lined face and wearing a dark blue pin striped suit, he cut a distinguished pose clutching his Aspinal crocodile skin attaché case.

Ruth Torrington had her notes set out. She was going to tell him tactfully, as Home Secretary she had decided changes were needed and the MI5 department required a fresh approach where its leadership was concerned.

However, before she could launch into her dismissal dialogue, Sir Geoffrey interrupted and pulled out the signed vote of confidence the department had in him. ‘If this meeting is for my yearly appraisal, Home Secretary?’ He knew the coming Monday would be the anniversary of his third year in office. ‘I would just like to add, I wasn’t happy with the department’s current strategy to counteract terrorism. So I’ve been re-evaluating the overall structure of mainland security and wanted to make sure the senior board of MI5 were behind me on this.’

Sir Geoffrey had done his homework and produced an initial 6 page report for his proposals. He explained to her, ‘This report shows the threat of the IRA and Black September attacks require two major changes in counter-terrorism. The first is to set up offices closer to the regional centres of extremist UK activity and the second, to improve collaboration with local police forces.’ He passed her the buff folder. ‘You will see the list of signatures endorsing my proposals including two of our most senior advisors, Lord Pendleton and Lord Manning.’

Ruth Torrington listened with a stunned look on her face. It wasn’t so much the signatures from his department but the one from the former Director General, Lord Manning. He just so happened to be her husband’s current boss. Ruth Torrington had to back pedal and quickly find an excuse for the meeting.

Sir Geoffrey even helped her with this. ‘Do you want to discuss further actions that need addressing on this year’s appraisal, Home Secretary?’

Her face lit up at the get-out and without hesitation she went into her usual summing up speech of the department’s efforts and how satisfied she was. The same speech she used before the house and in front of the cameras. ‘I’m pleased with the department’s performance and their response to terrorist situations.’ She quickly flicked through a folder in front of her and began reading from it. ‘We must address the whole spectrum of terrorism and that applies to our communications response as much as anything else. It also means that the response isn’t just about delivering a ‘counter-narrative’. It’s about promoting a whole set of positive values that define who we are and what the security service stands for. We only have to look back a few years to the threats we faced before the emergence of Black September - just imagine what could happen in the next few years if we don’t act now. Imagine how the IRA and Black September threat may yet transform into something even more grotesque and inhumane - or more powerful with greater capability and reach, if we don’t take action. In fact it is vital that our response is clear and consistent at home and abroad, because there is no longer any distinction between domestic and international terrorism when it comes to radicalisation, which is the communications methods used by the terrorists and the threats we all face.’ Ruth Torrington carried on for another full minute and then glanced at her watch.

Sir Geoffrey yawned mentally and thanked her for her time.

At the door she shook his hand with a pleasant smile but very much aware, Sir Geoffrey had won the day and they both knew it.

*

Sir Geoffrey could relax a little even though he still had his investment problems. Then as if matters couldn’t get any worse, the following day his son Francis dropped a bombshell. Sitting in his spacious Director General’s office, Sir Geoffrey’s telephone rang and he was asked if he would like to take a call from his son.