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Dallas, Texas.

  The police officer released the safety on his rifle, and waited; calm, confident, resolute in his beliefs and his purpose. A moment later cheering signalled the approach of President Kennedy’s motorcade, the procession visible now through a crack in the wooden fence he now stood hidden behind. The officer had just a few seconds to make a choice that might change history, his grip on the rifle tightening.

  As he observed his intended target three shots rang out, distorted echoes bouncing off nearby buildings, an overlapping chorus of screams and shouts rising up. He felt oddly relieved, and heaved an involuntary breath. Lowering his rifle, he peered over the wooden fence at the chaos. In his black and white police motorcyclist’s helmet, he studied the scene through his sunglasses: the President was slumped forwards, not a visible target, not that it mattered now, it seemed the job had been done.

  The rifle’s barrel and stock were unclipped in haste, the weapon now a third of its original length. His motorcycle’s pannier hung open ready and the rifle parts fitted well, covered in a moment as the pouch clipped shut. Throwing a leg across, he pushed the bike for ten yards, free wheeling before starting it. Pulling off quietly, he gently accelerated, the bike’s radio buzzing with shouted orders and requests for clarification. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed an empty parking lot.

  With the sun beating down on deserted streets, he drove four blocks, the only thought on his mind being what a pleasant day it was for such a cold act. He pulled into the next alley. Turning hard and then braking, he passed under a shutter door being held open for him, halting with a squeak in the dark interior of a large workshop, the shutter immediately dropping down behind him with a clatter. The officer dismounted, kicking out the bike’s stand before calmly taking off his helmet. A punctured oil barrel enclosed and funnelled a roaring fire just outside an open rear door, the police helmet tossed in, his sunglasses and gloves inside.

  ‘Any problems?’ came a familiar voice from the shadows.

  The officer took a moment to adjust to the darkness. ‘None at all,’ he said in a nasal and clipped English accent, calm and casual as he continued to strip down. ‘Our friends loosed off three shots, so one fired twice. Poor old Oswald, in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Did you … need to, you know?’ echoed from the shadows.

  ‘No,’ the Englishman answered as he undressed, amused by the other man’s discomfort.

  ‘And … would you have?’ the second man asked after a moment, standing and moving into the light.

  ‘Without hesitation,’ the Englishman firmly stated, as if proud to issue the words, grabbing fresh clothes. ‘I manage to see these things … quite clearly.’

  The second man nodded, putting his cigarette back on his lip. ‘Listen, old chap,’ he mocked, stepping closer and checking over his shoulder. ‘Family would prefer if you didn’t get too friendly with my kid sister given who, and what, you are.’

  The Englishman attended his clothes. ‘Oliver, let’s be clear about this; she … was the one making all the moves. And dare I remind you that it was you who introduced us. A surprise given just who, and what, I am.’ He tipped his head and formed a thin smile as he buttoned his shirt. ‘And the good lady is not quite the kid sister. She’s twenty-six, divorced with two kids, and could probably drink us both under the table!’

  Oliver shrugged a reluctant agreement with that last statement. ‘C’mon, old chap. The new Chairman of The Lodge is waiting. He hasn’t yet had the pleasure that is Morris Beesely from Englandshire.’

  England. June, 2007. The Joke.

  Sir Morris Beesely woke from a daydream certain he could hear gunfire. Sitting up and letting down his legs, fogged for a moment, he observed delicate beams of sunlight highlighting dust, his mind still in Dallas on ‘that sunny day’. Easing up and stretching, he peered through a crack in the curtains, noting his bodyguard below with a resigned sigh. ‘Oh … gawd.’

  Sweat rolled down the bodyguard’s face, today being a particularly warm day for stalking prey. He now wished that he had not worn his silk ‘Simpsons Family’ shorts, they were stuck to his skin.

  He stood motionless, pistol ready, breathing steadily. Ignoring any distractions, he waited for the right moment. Nine years in the SAS, ten years working as a freelancer for various mercenary and intelligence groups, he had seen better days; now he had something to prove. He had missed this quarry fifteen times already, but this time it would be different, he told himself. With his weapon held on-target, he wiped sweat away from his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket, his sponsor observing unseen from a high window.

  Movement. The gunman’s quarry foolishly gave away its position. This one would be different, they would see, he could do it. He pulled his sweaty shorts out of the crack of his backside, and fired. Quickly adjusting his aim a fraction he let off six rounds, ‘bracketing’ the target, spent 9mm cartridges flying high and wide. He closed the gap and fired again at point blank range with anger and determination, willing the bullet into his intended victim.

  Nothing. No movement.

  He readied his trowel, determined that they were not getting away. Digging quickly, he opened up the mole’s latest mound, right down to the small two-way tunnel. Nothing. ‘Bollocks!’ With a sigh he holstered his weapon, his sponsor turning away from the window.

  ‘Any luck?’ his sponsor’s housekeeper enquired from the edge of the lawn, the lady stood with a tea towel in her hand.

  The gunman lit up as his sponsor came into view. Since leaving active service, and retiring to work as a driver, his sponsor and mentor had been very tolerant. So far.

  ‘Well?’ the old man asked, no hint of emotion evident.

  The gunman lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. Two hours of shooting up his sponsor’s lawn with a 9mm pistol had produced no visible results; no deaths, not even a wounding. The garden moles had won.

  The housekeeper was sympathetic. ‘Maybe if you wore your old camouflage clothing?’

  Slowly, his sponsor’s features distorted. He bent double, clutching his chest. Laughing hard, but silently, he crumpled and fell over. Bemused, the housekeeper did not understand the cause of the hysterics, rushing to the aid of her elderly employer. She had not meant to be cruel about the gunman’s efforts. The gunman walked inside, his head lowered, checking his watch. The Simpsons were on in five minutes, time for a cuppa.