D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

“Not that we know of.”

“Then not to worry. We will be done here very soon.” He then picked up another stamp and pressed it onto a black ink pad.

After another twenty minutes, Jalil closed up his ink pads and put away the stamps, then drew out what looked like a fountain pen and used it to sign the name of some obscure Foreign Office functionary. He blew on the ink and then handed it over to Michael. He whistled. It was a bloody work of art. Erika had been right; her friend had produced a flawless document that would pass muster anywhere.

“There is only one problem, my friend,” he said tapping the passport with a long-fingered hand. “If they are checking numbers, you will be caught. That is the one part I cannot forge perfectly, for it would mean having access to their computers. I am sorry.”

Erika took Jalil in her arms and hugged him. “Thank you so much, old friend. You may have saved our lives.”

Jalil’s eyebrows arched. “Where are you going?”

“It is best you do not know,” she replied, shaking her head.

The little Pakistani shrugged and smiled, taking her hands in his own. “Take care, my child. The gods smile on you.”

Erika kissed him on the cheek, eliciting a deep blush. He then turned and fixed Michael with a level stare. “You would be wise to treat her well.”

“I intend to,” Michael said, extending his hand. “Thank you for all your help.”

When Jalil reached to grasp his hand, the front door exploded inward, knocked off its hinges by four black-clad men holding a battering ram. More figures dressed in black ran in around them brandishing Enfield automatic rifles. Michael instinctively grabbed for Erika and moved away from the door as the men barreled into the room screaming.

“ON THE FUCKING FLOOR, NOW!” they shouted. “HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!”

Michael, Erika, and Jalil hit the floor simultaneously, their hearts racing, while the black-clad men encircled them, weapons aimed for their heads. It was obvious these men were Special Air Service. Their timing and efficiency spoke of military training, where split-second decisions were the rule rather than the exception. Special Branch would have knocked first. The question that remained was why the SAS were operating in a civilian environment? All this went through the back of Michael’s mind, though he barely had time to think before those questions were answered.

Directly on the heels of the SAS came a tall blond-haired man, who strode into the room with a pleasant smile and a confident air. He stopped and stared down at the three people on the floor and his smile widened. “Mr. Thorley, I’m Simon Welles, MI6. So sorry to intrude, but I thought it high time we had a talk.” He nodded to the SAS men. “Take the wog to Scotland Yard and have him booked on forgery charges; the others will come with me.”

Jalil was dragged to his feet, twisting and squirming, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “The gods will curse your children, you petty bureaucrat!” he said, spitting at Welles’s feet. “You have no honor.”

“Now, there’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Welles replied, chuckling.

Jalil misinterpreted the statement as a slur against his color and began hurling invectives in his native tongue at the top of his voice. The two burly SAS men hauled him out the door, his feet kicking at the air.

When Jalil’s curses faded away, Welles turned to Michael and Erika. “On your feet.” He saw them eyeing the automatic rifles and nodded to the SAS men, who stepped back and pointed their weapons at the ceiling. Michael then helped Erika to her feet.

“You two can make this easy, or not, it’s up to you.”

“What do you want with us?” Michael asked.

“I’m under no obligation to tell you anything; however, I think it would be in your best interest to cooperate.”

Michael shot Erika a glance. She appeared inordinately cool, and he found that both inspiring and worrisome.

“My car’s waiting downstairs,” Welles said, motioning toward the door. “We can talk freely there.”

Out on the street, they found a large Daimler Limousine waiting, its engine idling. The driver sat behind the wheel looking bored, while beefy MI6 agents stood by the open passenger door. One had his hand on the door’s handle and one on a holstered pistol. The other had his pistol drawn and held at the ready.

Welles let Michael and Erika enter first, then followed them inside. The two MI6 agents brought up the rear and took their places on either side of Michael and Erika. A moment later the driver stepped on the accelerator and the car glided away from the curb, headed back toward central London.

Michael and Erika sat facing Welles, who examined Michael’s new passport, flipping through it with the same infuriating expression of smug amusement on his face. Michael wanted to punch the man. Welles reminded him of all those arrogant bureaucrats who used the system to heap abuse on those less powerful. He’d run into them his entire working life and he hated them with unspoken passion. Here was one, however, that had real power. And it scared him.

Welles closed the passport and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “A nice job, really. Too bad your friend won’t have the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Forging a British passport is a serious offense. Of course, so is using one....”

“You can’t prove I was going to,” Michael said.

That smile again. “Perhaps not.... But I believe Scotland Yard would very much like to see you right about now.”

“I don’t know anything about what happened to