Free The Vengeance Man by John Macrae

even in Hansard.” He grinned mirthlessly. “So you can see you're not the Cabinet Office's favourite heavy. Number Ten went ballistic. PM’s personal poodles wanted to come over and give us grief directly. Demanded to see you. Personally. Chief of Staff told them to fuck off….  And I won't tell you what those pompous turds in the FCO are calling you."
    Shit.
    Tony's voice went on, but I was only half listening. Nusret. Poor, decent honest Nusret.  He'd obviously gone for the big one. Big public revenge. 'I will revenge my brother, Sayeed ': and the silly sod had blown it.  "….Of course they topped him,"  Tony was saying,  "Word is they wanted to do a show trial, but the poor bugger wasn't fit to be seen in public. So they put the Landrover on display and blamed HMG and gave the poor sod a Penkovski special.."
    "A what ?"
    "Executed him by feeding him into a furnace. Slowly. Feet first. And filmed it as an example of what happens to enemies of the Great God’s regime on earth.  The Ayatollah’s revenge, I think they call it. Apparently it's a bit of an Iranian speciality to keep the faithful in line nowadays. Anyway, I don't think you should plan on taking any holidays in the Tehran Hilton for a while.  But there are some desk warriors in the JIC who'd probably give you a free ticket to share the entertainment. You really aren't flavour of the month, I'm afraid. Ministers have even denied your existence in the House. And you can imagine how much this bunch of control freaks enjoyed that ."
    Shit.   Shit, shit, shit.
    Poor little Nusret. So that was where his Intiquam had led him. If ever a man deserved revenge on his enemies, it was Nusret. And it was all my fault. I'd given him the bloody tools to do it.  Shit. If ever a man deserved revenging, it was Nusret. 'My brother,' I'd called him. What a bloody farce.
    "Are you all right?" said Tony.
    "Yup. I'm fine. Shit happens."
    "Right. Glad you haven't lost your sense of proportion.  I didn't know how you'd take it.  We've been pretty worried about you, you know."
    Sure you have, Tony. Bastards. Worried enough to try to get rid of me as an embarrassment.  Me. After all I've done for them. They're worried about me; so, remove the source of their worry. Very logical. Very MOD.  I'd give them something to bloody worry about.
    "Let's go and see the Director. We don't want to be late.  I expect he's got a way out. He's good at this kind of stuff. It's not as bad as it seems, you know. I think you'll find the system will take care of you."
    Sure, Tony, sure. Poor bloody Nusret. Burnt alive. And they’re trying to kick me out, that's taking care, is it?  Alex dead. James dead. My mates. What the hell was going on?  I couldn't take it all in.
    No wonder I'd always hated coming back from leave.
    You always come back to trouble.
    *               *               *
    The interview  with the Director went nothing like I expected it to go.  Brigadier Peters stood up as we went in, lean, rangy and with the sandy hair going grey.  With his pin stripe suit and gold watch chain he looked more like a successful banker than the Director, Special Forces. He seemed older and greyer than the last time I'd seen him. Tireder, too.
    He looked me over carefully and then shook my hand.  "You're going grey," he said unexpectedly.  "And you've lost weight. You'd better take a chair. How’s your health? You’ve had a bad time, I know.”
    I muttered something about being alright.
    He humphed and looked at me sharply. “You aren't going to like this much."
    He sat down opposite me at the comfy armchair end of the office.  Tony found himself a hard chair and moved it.
    "I expect Tony's told you what this is all about?"  He noted my assent, and went on.  "This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Believe me.   Whitehall wanted to hang you out to dry. They had to find someone to blame for all the fuss. The Board of Enquiry