Thursday, 7 July 2011

It's not robbery, I'm a Police Officer

As one travels around the world one gets used to the idea that different societies have different approaches to policing. In some countries a “service charge” is expected, in others the Police are quite clearly in existence, merely to enforce the interests of the state. However I had some experiences in Douala the other day that brought it into perspective. I went out for a drive in the evening to clear my head after a particularly stressful day. There is a small strip of land that over looks the Wouri River mouth, which in the six years I have been in Doaula, has always been a parking space, or picnic location. I wanted to make a phone call so I considered this a safe place to pull over off the main road and use my mobile. I was mildly frustrated but not surprised when I was approached by a uniformed police officer, I remembered from my Policing days that a vehicle pulled over at night might be of interest so I cut my phone call and prepared to give my papers over. The officer then proceeded to point to a sign some ten meters behind me  (i.e. that I had not driven past) and said that I had committed a serious offence as I had driven into a controlled military zone. The sign said nothing of the sort.  However it is the beginning of a military area so I did not feel unduly put out buy his request for a security check. Then he announced that he would have to report my for the infraction, I agreed, and prepared for the paper work. Then as I expected (he was not anticipating my compliance) he began looking for a way to ask for a bribe so that he would not need to do the paper work. I explained that, as it was clear from his explanation that I had committed a serious offence he really should fill in the paper work.  He then began to get irate and finally pulled a pistol on me and demanded whisky. I explained that I did not drink and drive. He did not see the humour in this and became irate, “ just give me the money to buy whiskey”. “ Ah I understand now you want me to bride you?” I paid the money and he stormed off”. In fact this is not the first time I have been the victim of armed robbery in Africa, the other occasion was also a Police officer.

A few days later I was in a Police station reporting a fairly serious crime the police explained quite clearly that if I wanted anything done about it I would have to pay.

I also asked  why when I had tried to report an assault in progress no one would come, the officer explained that they would not come unless any one was already hurt or dead.


Protection of life and property?

The British public has no idea how lucky they are!

A LIE ( A short Story About Police Work)


A Lie


It was raining, it always seemed to be raining on these occasions, the water beat against the door with a furry that would infuse life in to the dead wood, it streamed in rivulets down the ornate knocker I had just used and it flowed of my cap down the back of my neck. I had rapped hard on the door to make myself heard over the storm, “wake the dead” I thought to my self, a sick sense of humor, just a sign of nerves, even after all this time, I still had a sick feeling somewhere down where the pit of the stomach is generally presumed to be. I had once asked a first aid instructor where, this mythical place was. “ Don’t worry son it’ll find you before you find it” he had replied to classroom full of naive recruits who had probably thought I was a smart arse. He had been right.

The door began to open, the security chain was on, I could see the form of a woman with short hair peering through the gap.  There is always a delay when they see the uniform, whilst their mind just awaked from slumber, is first shocked then starts to make  rapid calculations, who’s in? What have I done?

“Yes Officer?”

“ Good Evening are you Mrs. Delaware?”

“Yes”

“Does John Delaware live at this address?”

“ Yes, I am his mother, but he’s not here, he’s not in trouble is he?”

When they ask that you know they want you to say, “Yes I am afraid so, a spot of bother” because the alternative is so much worse.

“Mrs. Delaware, can I come in please?”

She pulled the door to, and I could just see her fiddling with the chain behind the door. I don’t know why they call them security chains; I’ve yet to encounter one I could not rip off. The door opened into a wide hall or foyer that spoke eloquently of hard work and middle England, the polished parquet floor was already flinching at the thought of being trodden by muddy Policeman’s boots.  The only members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary expected here ( even the furniture, mock antique mixed with merely old seemed to say), wore leather soled shoes and had Crowns on their epaulettes.  This was no place working constables on night shift.

The woman was quite short and wrapped in a thick pink dressing gown, She had a hair net on, she looked older than she was. A tall man, in pajamas appeared on the stairs the crown of his head was bald, the hair around his ears was neatly trimmed and grey, he stooped slightly.

“What is it Jane?” It was as if by ignoring my dripping fluorescent jacket standing in the doorway he could defer for a brief moment whatever was coming. Whatever commitment they have to Protect and Serve very few Police services bring good news at three o’clock in the morning.

“Good Evening Sir, Mr. Delaware I presume?”  One had to be careful on more than one occasion I have stumbled across intermarital shenanigans in leafy suburbia. I removed my hat. “ He nodded in agreement.

“ Is there some where we can sit down please?”


We made our way into a well decorated, but sterile, sitting room, they sat together on the sofa, he held her hand. By his face, I had seen it often enough before, he knew what was coming.  She was still hopping it was a spot of bother and that I would ask them to get dressed and come down the station.  I took a quick look around the room before I spoke, it’s always a good idea to try and get a sight of a family photograph or something just to finally check and double check it is the right house. I saw the photo; I had to get on with it.

“ I’m sorry to have to bring you some bad news, there has been an accident”. 

It was a formula, it’s amazing what we can do with language. The real accident occurred when the thieving ungrateful little bastard was not strangled at birth. As I stood there dripping fresh British rain onto their fake Persian carpet. My mind replayed the chase. We knew little Johnny well, he was always drunk when he went stealing cars, and this evening had been no different except he had had a passenger, his new girlfriend. My colleague and I had flipped a coin as to who went to which family house.

But this had been his swan song, the young couple that he plowed into before making off, whom had been  walking peacefully back home along the quite leafy lane, would live. She would probably never have children and he would certainly never play rugby again, he might not even walk with out a stick. She had been dragged along the road 75 meters, (Accident Investigation are very precise about things like that).

It was just after the girl’s body had been freed from the car , it had been thrown clear when Johnny had made a hard right turn, that he had seen the Marked Parole Car sitting up on the side of the road and Johnny had  panicked. He had  acted true to form and tried to out run it. As soon as the officer saw the lights of the Mitsubishi on an other wise empty road, stop, and swing around his Police instincts had kicked in and he pulled out of the drive way where he had been “sitting up” and got behind Johnny’s vehicle. Johnny’s stolen Mitsubishi was probably a faster car than the little Peugeot patrol car, but he had already had one front end impact, some of the girls blood was still on his windscreen and the force of the collision had put the tracking out, the handling was off. Johnny was also full of alcohol and panic.  He had sped back past the slaughter he had left on the roadside, with the officer on his tail. The officer did not see the bodies, they were found latter by the back-up  that the officer had called for assistance in stopping the speeding Mitsubishi. Johnny had then tried the car thief’s favorite trick, switched off his lights and taken a sharp right. He had got it wrong and piled into a parked JCB at seventy miles an hour. The JCB had not been showing parking lights.

Johnny had been a screamer. When we arrived on scene, both he and his girl friend were still alive. We followed the rule drummed into us since training school, always treat the silent casualty first, both teenagers were trapped. As we had waited for the fire brigade with there cutting tools, Johnny screamed for attention, never once did he ask after his girlfriend. She died holding my coat as I tried to support her head and keep her airways open. When there is that much blood on the floor, creeping out of the bent metal you know they are not going to make it.  We knew too that only the pressure of the bent car body was holding Johnny’s insides where they belonged,  but it was a good 8 minutes before the ambulance crew sedated him. By the time Trumpton cut him out he was dead.

Of course I did not go into details. I looked at the couple sitting there on the sofa, I think there might have even been a look of slight relief on the father’s face, but mother’s love knows no bounds. How had such a picturesque home produced such a vile little scroat?  One thing a career in the Police service teaches you is that the only people who really know what happens in an Englishman’s home are the people who actually live there.

She looked up at me. “Was it quick, did he suffer?”  I thought about the night’s carnage, the devastated families the young girl who had died with her head in my hands, whose blood was still on my coat. “ Not nearly enough” was what I wanted to say.  I looked at that wretched couple sitting in hand in hand on their sofa for which they must have worked so hard.  In a moment I saw what “Johnny” must have put them through already. The unfulfilled hopes they must have built on him. In that instant I looked into the abysses, the black soul of Middle England. It was the most horrifying sight I had ever seen. The truth, whole truth and nothing but the truth, or “Protect and Serve’ sometimes the two noble principles are contradictory.  I opted for the latter.

“No,” I lied, “it was over in an instant”.

A Bullet

Bellow is an entry for a short story competition I wrote a while ago. I was mention in the results but did not win, however my previous post brought it to mind.


A Bullet


I remember slipping with a loud click, from the magazine into the dark chamber. I remember the smell of oil, and the little point of blue that I knew must be the sky.  A while I lay in the darkness, and then it came, the touch of the firing pin and the heat and crash as the charge in my casing erupted ripping me in two and thrusting me down that smoothed and riffled barrel. For an instant I caressed the light and then I plummeted, till I hit the soft tissue made hard by my velocity. The impact pushed and strained my form, spreading me as I fell and tumbled, cascading chaos from rib to rib, slicing through veins, arteries and organs, a sucking vacuum in my wake as I slowed and finally stopped.

Only once more did I see the light, as I was held in between steel points, and now I lie forever in obscurity, in the Black Museum, my brief life is over, for I am the bullet that killed WPC Yvonne Fletcher. On 17 April 1984 in St James’s Square, I lived, I flew and we both died.

This Post Is Copied And pasted here, in hope that even if one more person belives its one step forwards

DEATH IN SAINT JAMES
Copyright Joe Vialls - 15/01/96 - All Rights Reserved

         On the morning of 17th April 1984 an unarmed policewoman by the name of Yvonne Fletcher was gunned down in cold blood while on duty outside the Libyan People's Bureau in St. James Square. British accusations that the Libyan Government was responsible were wrong. Yvonne Fletcher was murdered in a pre-meditated "black" Psyop (Psychological operation) designed to manipulate British emotions on television. Two years later when America launched a vicious bombing attack on Libya from British bases, only a handful of voices were raised in protest. After all, the Libyans murdered an unarmed English policewoman didn't they? No, they did not.
         More than ten years after the event, to even suggest that the Libyans did not murder Yvonne Fletcher evokes anger, because everyone knows the Libyans were proved guilty when Yvonne died on television outside their Bureau. Who proved that the Libyans murdered Yvonne Fletcher? The media, in a politically-correct feeding frenzy where truth and British national security fell casualty to the greater needs of the "international community". The media had no proof to back its hysterical propaganda after her murder, and appeared not to need any. Ironically perhaps, Yvonne Fletcher's deceptive assassination was staged in 1984, the same year chosen by George Orwell as the title for his famous book, in which the television media continually distorted or reversed the truth to suit the whims of a global elite.
         All covert operations involve deception to a greater or lesser degree and St James was no exception. The police present that day were briefed that a group of anti-Quadhafi demonstrators would be cordoned on the inner pavement of the Square, enabling them to demonstrate peacefully against Libyan staff situated in their bureau across the road at number five. As with all such briefings the police were told to keep both factions apart, with the dividing line being the road itself. Since there were only two groups opposing each other, it was "obvious" that if a member of one of the two groups was injured, the other group would be responsible. So when Yvonne Fletcher was shot in the vicinity of the anti-Quadhafi demonstrators, the immediate assumption was that she must have been shot from the Libyan Bureau. It seemed there was no other option, but there was.
Two professional television cameras were filming at the time, one located outside the Bureau at 5 St James and the other outside 8 St James. In ballistics terms the footage from those two cameras provides most of the hard scientific proof needed to prove the shots could not have been fired by the Libyans, and confirms the firing platform was located in a building on the northern side of the square, well to the west of the Libyan Bureau. Forensic details from Yvonne Fletcher's post mortem provide the balance of irrefutable scientific evidence.
         Early that day crowd barriers were placed round the central garden pavements of St James Square, and also to the west of the Libyan Bureau in front of numbers 7 and 8. The anti-Quadhafi demonstrators were ushered behind the barriers in the inner square at 10.15 am and a senior police officer then personally positioned twenty police constables, including WPC Fletcher, in an arc facing the inner square. Significantly, although there were more than 50 police personnel present in the Square, Yvonne Fletcher, the shortest constable in the Metropolitan Police Force, was the only female officer present.
         As the constable with the lightest body weight facing multiple demonstrators of considerable bulk, every rule in the book says the senior officer should have positioned Yvonne well out on one of the flanks, but he did not do so. Yvonne Fletcher was deliberately positioned on the apex of the curve in front of the Libyan Bureau, in front of the television cameras, and directly in the chosen line of fire from 8 St James Square.
         Just four minutes later at 10.19 am a 3-shot burst of automatic fire rang out. Yvonne Fletcher was hit by the first bullet in the upper right back. Bullet entry angle was 60 degrees from the horizontal, with an exit wound visible below the left rib cage. If the entry and exit wounds are lined up with her known height, and her televised position when the shots were fired, the line of fire backtracks precisely to the top floor of 8 St James Square. No other building in St James Square is high enough or at the correct azimuth to facilitate the sixty degree shot. At the coronial inquest into her death, creative media deception "proved" that Yvonne Fletcher was killed by a shot fired from the first floor of the Libyan Bureau on her left-hand side, at only 15 degrees from the horizontal!
The continuous television video sound track records the crowd chanting, followed by a bullet strike on a human body, followed in turn by the sounds of three equally-spaced very fast shots. By far the most important point proved by the sound is that the camera microphone located outside the Libyan Bureau recorded the `whump' of the bullet striking Yvonne Fletcher before it recorded the sound of the three shots being fired. What this means in layman terms is that the bullet which killed her was supersonic, and was fired from a position more distant from the camera's microphone than Yvonne Fletcher herself. This analysis alone proves the shots could not have been fired from the Libyan Bureau under any circumstances.
         If the shots were fired from the Libyan Bureau they would have crossed over the camera microphone before the first bullet hit Yvonne Fletcher, i.e. the microphone would have recorded a different sound sequence: first a single shot, then the bullet impact, then shots two and three - whether the bullets were supersonic or not. There is absolutely no trace of this latter sequence on the audio, which also destroys the claim made at the coronial inquest that two 9-mm Sterling sub-machine guns fired at the same time from the Libyan Bureau. The professional television audio proves in absolute scientific terms that no shots were fired from the Bureau, nor from any other building on the eastern side of St James Square that day.
         The camera positioned outside the Bureau panned left and right, showing demonstrators massed along the pavement on the inner square. When the shots were fired, this camera zoomed in and filmed the demonstrators falling sideways to the ground towards the camera's left. So their physical response was to shrapnel and noise from the opposite direction: exactly the line of fire from 8 St James. The massive kinetic energy and inertia of the high velocity assault round fired at her from 8 St James Square, knocked Yvonne Fletcher to the ground in precisely the same direction as the demonstrators, once again proving the direct line of fire. The second TV camera at 8 St James then zoomed in to show Yvonne Fletcher rolling from side to side on the road, dying on national television in excruciating agony for the greater good of the "international community".
         It is no great secret that many embassies stock weapons for use in self defence, which are normally limited to handguns loaded with jacketed or solid lead bullets of standard military type, normally 9-mm parabellum, designed to remain intact and not expand on entry to the body. In the case of the 9 millimetre 115 grain bullet fired by defensive pistols, and sub-machine guns such as the Sterling, energy falls from 341 foot-pounds at the muzzle, to 241 foot-pounds at 100 yards. Quite enough to cause serious injury, but rarely death if hit in the upper right back at fifty yards. Conversely, the energy from high velocity 7.62-mm burst-fire assault rifles such as the Belgian FN or German Heckler and Koch51, firing a 150 grain standard military round is a massive 2,288 foot-pounds at 100 yards. Enough to go straight through a policewoman with energy to spare.
         The full Fletcher autopsy report will never be made public, but details released at the coronial inquest into her death are sufficient for military experts to prove that a 9-mm parabellum bullet fired by a Sterling could not have been responsible for the terrible damage inflicted, even at point-blank range. After entering WPC Fletcher's upper right back the single bullet damaged the right lung, completely destroyed both lobes of the liver, shredded the large inferior vena cava vein leading to the left ventricle of the heart, caused damage to the spine and cut the pancreas in half, before completing its 12 inch track through her body and exiting below the left rib cage, continuing on to cause further injuries to Fletcher's left elbow. Massive injuries like these sustained through 12 inches of human tissue, can only be caused by the colossal hydrostatic impact and inertia of a full bore (7.62-mm) high velocity assault round.
         To rule out any further argument on this point, tissue tests were conducted in Australia to establish the maximum penetration of 9-mm parabellum rounds in pig carcasses. At its maximum muzzle velocity of 1,350 feet per second, the 115 grain bullet fired at 50 yards penetrated only 6 inches, with no hydrostatic effect at all on wet organs such as the liver. Then, to counter ridiculous claims from London that Yvonne might have been killed by a "silenced" pistol or sub-machine gun, more 115 grain rounds were downloaded to a subsonic (silenced) velocity of 900 feet per second. At 50 yards these puny rounds penetrated only 1.5 inches. Further tests established in absolute scientific terms that the minimum round needed to inflict Fletcher's hydrostatic injuries and penetrate 12 inches of tissue, was a bullet with a minimum weight of 150 grains, fired at a velocity in excess of 2,750 feet per second. Such rounds can only be chambered and burst-fired by full-bore high velocity assault weapons.
         There are three high velocity rifle rounds specifically designed to cause the savage fatal injuries suffered by Yvonne Fletcher that day, the worst of which is the `petal' fragible, an assassination bullet designed to enter the body before its nose separates into several razor-sharp high velocity splinters, leaving the heavy base of the bullet to continue on a straight track through the body. If three petal frags were fired, with only one striking Fletcher, the remaining two would explode on impact with the paving, hurling razor-sharp metal shrapnel fragments and hard granite chippings in a low arc towards the anti-Quadhafi demonstrators standing behind the barriers just beyond Yvonne Fletcher's position. Quite enough to injure a large number of bystanders but not kill them, which is exactly what happened at 10.19 am on the morning of 17 April 1984.
          The question has to asked whether the objective of the covert operation was simply to splatter a few demonstrators with shards of shrapnel, which would have been enough to swing public opinion against Libya. Perhaps the operation simply went wrong and Yvonne Fletcher was killed by mistake? No. The sound track analysis and film footage prove she was hit by the first shot in the 3-shot burst. The first shot in an automatic burst always hits its target, before the weapon "walks" due to recoil effect. Therefore the assault rifle sights were lined-up on Yvonne Fletcher's back when the shooter squeezed the trigger. The only possible verdict is pre-meditated murder.
          Hours after Yvonne's death, when the counter-terrorist squadron of the Special Air Service arrived by helicopter from Hereford, its members were advised by a senior police officer that the shots were fired from the Libyan Bureau at 5 St James Square. Good though the SAS normally is at countering terrorists in multiple environments, this wildly inaccurate police information made it impossible for the Squadron to successfully track down Yvonne Fletcher's ruthless killers.
         There are few things more sacred to the British public than the safety of its proudly unarmed police force. Therefore the murder of a young unarmed policewoman on the streets of London would generate feelings of intense loathing in the British public and direct raw hatred towards the Libyans as the supposed killers. It did, but the public remained unaware of the real culprits as the horrifying sight of Yvonne Fletcher dying on national television was beamed across Britain into millions of homes.
         Police Special Branch and MI5 had suspicions of course. The shots rang out for no obvious reason, and seasoned officers understood only too well that for the Libyans to kill an unarmed policewoman in broad daylight on a London street was tantamount to committing diplomatic suicide. Making the task even harder for police was their exclusion from the first three days of COBRA intelligence meetings after the murder, chaired by the Deputy Prime Minister, while Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was out of the country on an official visit to Portugal.
         It was an entirely critical time when the police were in hot pursuit of the murderer of an unarmed British policewoman, and had every right to storm the Libyan People's Bureau in order to search for evidence. Indeed the police wanted to storm the building, but permission was refused by the chairman of COBRA. It is perhaps a coincidence that, at this early stage, storming the Libyan Bureau could only have proved that no shots were fired from there at all.
         The Chairman of COBRA and members of MI6 at the Foreign Office were demonstrably certain that Yvonne Fletcher was not killed by Libyans located in the Bureau, because after a creative media feeding frenzy and a bloodless siege that lasted until 22 April 1984, Britain broke off diplomatic relations with Libya and ordered the occupants of the Bureau to leave the country within seven days. They departed on 27 April, with no suspects being arrested or charged with her murder. Immediately after their departure the Libyan Bureau was entered and searched from top to bottom by a specialist military clearance team looking for booby traps, weapons and ammunition. Despite an exhaustive search of every nook and cranny in the building, nothing was found, a fact reported by the media the next day.
         It was not until 2 May 1984, five days after the extensive military search, that the Metropolitan Police suddenly "found" 4,367 rounds of 9-mm and .22 calibre ammunition, 7 pistols, two Sterling pistol grips and two Sterling magazines in the Libyan Bureau. On the face of it, Mr. Plod had suddenly become much more skilled at finding concealed weapons and ammunition than the premier military explosives clearance team.
         Who was fooling who? If the weapons and ammunition were Libyan property they would certainly have been loaded into one of the 18 Libyan diplomatic bags which left the country unopened. Critically though, no Sterling sub-machine guns or 7.62-mm high velocity assault rounds were planted in the Libyan building to be later "found" by the Metropolitan Police. There were sound reasons for this. Any "whole" Sterling sub-machine gun could be tested ballistically by forensic scientists, an event that had to be avoided at all costs because it would have exposed the deception; and 7.62-mm assault rounds had to be excluded because WPC Fletcher was notionally murdered with a low velocity 9-mm parabellum round: a fraudulent "fact" officially recorded at the inquest into her death.
         The situation became more confusing in April 1985, when on the first anniversary of Yvonne Fletcher's pre-meditated murder, BBC2 Television ran a documentary in which an amateur video film of the demonstration was shown for the first time. The amateur camera allegedly recorded the sound of a 12-shot Sterling sub-machine gun burst, which concurred nicely with the coronial inquest findings of May 1984, and appeared to explain the inexplicable: eleven fired 9-mm bullets found by the Police during a search of St James conducted 10 days after the murder, in which time period the crime scene was not secured. Add to that the 9-mm bullet which allegedly killed Yvonne Fletcher but was not recovered from her body, and we have a neat figure of 12 rounds to match the forged video footage.
         The amateur video footage provides an object lesson in how not to use forged evidence in an attempt to pervert the course of justice. The audio of a Sterling firing an 12-shot burst is real enough, but it was not recorded in St James Square, nor on the morning of the 17th April 1984 when Yvonne Fletcher was murdered. How is it possible to prove this? By relying on hard science and ignoring misleading media hype. Immediately before the murder, one of the professional cameramen filmed the front facade of the Libyan building, which was crossed diagonally by a clear shadow line cast by the sun. The exact time was accurately calculated using survey techniques and astronomical data from the Greenwich Observatory in London.
          The forged amateur footage also shows a sun line diagonally crossing the front of the Libyan building, but unfortunately it is in the wrong place and at the wrong angle for 10.19 am on the morning of 17 April 1984. More convincing for the layman reader is the car parked in front of the Bureau. On the professional video the car is an unoccupied blue Peugeot sedan with its bonnet positioned between the two windows to the left of the Bureau entrance. On the blatantly forged amateur video, the unoccupied blue Peugeot sedan magically transforms itself into a white station wagon, starts its own engine, then drives itself five feet closer to the Libyan Bureau front door. Clever!
         For forensic scientists there are a staggering number of other errors on the footage providing 100% proof of forgery, including the sun shadow line failing to shade the bonnet of the "new" white station wagon; the green Libyan flag vanishing from the pole above the Bureau front door, and a tall black street light to the right of the Bureau disappearing completely. There is no doubt the forged footage was prepared in order to forever cement the reversed Orwellian media "truth" in the minds of the British Parliament and people. Anyone daring to challenge this reverse media "truth" would be patted indulgently on the head and given a copy of the BBC2 film, complete with the damning forged amateur video footage "proving" the Libyans fired an entirely mythical Sterling sub-machine gun burst that day.
         Ultimately the ploy failed. Unwittingly perhaps, the film makers proved their own video footage was deliberately forged, and thus in turn proved they were accessories after the fact to the murder of an unarmed British policewoman on the streets of London. At the time of going to press, Scotland Yard was making no moves to have this loathsome section of the media tracked down and charged. Sooner or later it must do so, because there is no statute of limitation where the murder of a uniformed police officer is concerned.
         Yvonne Fletcher's pre-meditated murder was one of the major triggers allowing blanket sanctions to be imposed on Libya by the United Nations Security Council. With less than a handful of bullets Libya was brought to its knees by deception alone. But who did it? It was in early 1984 that an American multinational moved into 8 St James Square. Unknown to the British or Libyans, the multinational owned three smaller oil-related service companies. The first, Intairdrill, operated inside Libya, while the second had exclusive access to the top two floors at 8 St James Square. The author was a consultant to the third. One year after Yvonne Fletcher's murder, all three small companies were discreetly disposed of by the multinational corporation, which was in turn linked to foreign intelligence agencies including the Israeli Mossad and American CIA.
         The identity of the person responsible for actually ordering the operation may never be uncovered. Was it the Director of the Mossad, or the Director of the CIA? Or was it simply an in-house multinational job on behalf of one of those agencies or an unknown third party? Because the occupants of 8 St James on that day and their connections are known, it is still possible to backtrack the chain of command, though this would require significant resources.
          For the television media 1984 was a landmark year. Though in the past "little" lies had been broadcast frequently, this was the first proven occasion when the media deliberately covered up a horrific murder and reversed the absolute scientific proof for its own biased internationalist reasons, to the detriment of British national security. Fiction was overwhelmingly embraced as a substitute for truth. After 17 April 1984 the media lost its credibility. Lying on national television about the horrific pre-meditated murder of an unarmed British policewoman on the streets of London, proved it would lie about anything at all, once paid the traditional thirty pieces of silver.
          WPC Yvonne Joyce Fletcher, ruthlessly sacrificed on television at the age of twenty five, was laid to rest at her local village church in the county of Wiltshire with full police honours. One of her mourners was the very same man who denied her superiors the right to enter the Bureau at 5 St James Square, and prove no shots were fired by the Libyans that day: The Chairman of COBRA.

Kallimet

Words are like bullets, once fired you can never call them back. It is true that following the theories of Derrida there essence can be modified whilst in flight but this is closer to the deflections studied in ballistic science than an abrupt halt.  The comparison continues, for a bullet does not stop when it hits its target, in the physical sense it may cascade through the victims body tearing flesh and organs to pieces the ripple s however echo through out time. A bullet fired from the window of the Libyan embassy (allegedly) killed WPC Yvonne Fletcher, that bullet not only killed and innocent police woman, but changed the history of the world.  Not merely did it force Margaret Thatcher to allow the Americans to use British air bases to bomb Libya, it removed Yvonne Fletcher from her family, friends and colleagues all that she might ever have been, it prevented her children from being born, it prevented her from achieving her goals, it also it might equally be argued prevented her from failing. No one knows, but the one certainty is that 17th April 1984 that bullet changed the world.  That is a high profile example, but words? It was brought home to me last night. Yesterday, I posted on this blog, I wrote the blog in the morning whilst staying at a friend’s house, I thought it highly unlikely that I would get internet access and post it that day, and even if I did get net access I had other far more pressing concerns to attend to.  During the day I was lent the use f an office her in Douala to conduct certain affairs, I was given internet access, it was explained by my friend that the access was limited, the company had blocked a number of sights during working hours in order that staff did not abuse the internet and concentrated on work, the sites included yahoo mail, Face book and any chat based servers, however, the company also accepted that the net was a powerful research tool for employees so they allowed browsing.  As it happens my blog was not on the blocked list so I posted.  I had a long list of jobs for the day, most of them unpleasant so that was just one item crossed off the list. I thought nothing more of it. I spent the rest of the day struggling through West African bureaucracy, stamps forms, stamps and more forms, paper work on top of paper work all which seem ed to be required in reverse order from different locations across Doulala.  The pen may be mightier than the sword but it is no mach for an official with a rubber stamp. As it was have sent the day tearing around Douala on the backs of various motorcycle taxis ( “bendskeen” as they are called here or “ okada” in Nigeria) I made it back to the friend’s house and started to switch off. It had been a long tiring stressful day.  I received a phone call from some one whose opinion of my actions and my work is deeply important to me, someone whose good opinions I value over all else. Dorian Grey had his painting in the attic, a mirror into the state of his soul that he could examine that showed him all his flaws. I do not think Wilde intended that as a metaphor for friendship but will steal it any way.  I took the phone call and heard distress in her voice, and I felt like Dorian Grey looking into the painting, (Let me state here and now I certainly do not claim Dorian’s physical attributes). The shrapnel from my bullets, collateral damage, from friendly fire, had hurt her. There had been a ricochet that I had been completely incapable of foreseeing. I had written what I thought were ‘clever’ words, but playing with irony is a dangerous game.  And like Hamlet I had shot mine arrow oe’r the house and injured my brother.  Wilde knew the danger of words, he understood their unpredictable power.  When he lists the ways in which we may hurt those we love, he includes, “ some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the hands of gold” but most telling, “ Some with a bitter look, some with a flattering word”. I cannot un-write what I have written, I can remove the post, but to what avail, the bullet was fired.

I can however use fire against fire, and write that word that is often overlooked in the English language for its power and importance.

It is best heard in a three-word sentence. It is not the one that comes pre programmed in to the text service of a mobile phone, that has become tarnished by over use it is far more important than that.

I have spent eight hundred words loading the gun, please be seated ladies and gentle men for I will now fire. My target is in site and I will fire the most costly bullet that is known to man (and I mean “man” in the gender specific);

Three words;

“I am sorry”.