MI6 and CIA orchestrate a coup in the islands of Fiji. WHY???

My former days as an SAS officer provided astute knowledge of how the secret world of intelligence works.

Then things go horribly wrong. My wife Claire walked out, telling me she was sick of being married to a ghost who lived in the shadows.

The bullet wound I sustained working covertly in Iraq got infected. Doctors told me it was either surgery or lose the leg. I spent six months on the couch feeling sorry for myself. My leg now had more working metal parts than a G41.

There is a knock on the door of my studio in Kensington. I quietly open a kitchen drawer and check the 9mm Browning, shoving it down the back of my jeans.

“Captain Michael Edwards?” A tall well dressed man stands on my door step.

I instinctively know who he is and where he came from. He still flashed an ID with the SIS insignia under my nose.

“ Okay, come in.” I stand aside, not wanting him to see the Browning pistol in the waistband of my jeans. I needn’t have bothered.

“I hope the safety is on, otherwise you could end up with two holes in your backside.” He mutters, ”it is still a good weapon.” The SIS officer watches me. ”Your old regiment swears by it.”

“ In my experience you are better off swearing by it than swearing at it.” I reply.

“Quite so.” He agrees, glancing around the studio. “If one has to swear at it then it is too late.”

Like all spooks, this one is too nosey for my liking. There is a hidden agenda here somewhere.

“ We need you back in the fold, old son.” He comes to the point immediately…

Claire is sitting alone sipping champagne, portraying the epitome of a corporate lawyer. She is a picture of beauty and elegance. Even now as the mother of our daughter, Claire is an eye popper.

“Michael! Thank you for coming.” She prepares to stand up.

“No, don’t get up.” I deliver a kiss to her cheek. ”If you do, every red blooded male in the restaurant will begin salivating over their meal.” I sit down, allowing the waiter to flap a napkin the size of a parachute canopy over my lap.

Claire laughs, “oh Michael, you were always a charmer.”

Though separated almost a year, we still met up frequently. “You look a billion, Claire. I love the corporate glasses.” The horn rimmed spectacles suit with her blonde hair framing the glasses.

“Yes, “ she hesitates. “My contacts have been giving me hell.”

“Far more appropriate for a lady than a guide dog and a white cane.” I assure her.

Claire giggles. “ You still crack me up.” Her beautiful round eyes become serious. “Michael, I will always love you. The problem is, I bloody well can’t live with you.” She touches my forearm.

“ Perhaps in our twilight years we could take our Zimmer frames out to lunch and dribble over each other.” I suggest. “Or even stay in the same house together.”

“We were hardly ever in the same house.” She chokes back a sob. “You were always gallivanting around the world killing people. It was like being married to a mass murderer employed by the government.”

“I say Claire, that is a trifle cutting.”

Her eyes well up. ”Michael – I want a divorce.”…

The British Hunter Killer class submarine is huge and capable of remaining underwater indefinitely.

The submarine begins to dive as the Rating closes the hatch behind me. I follow another Rating to the accommodation section in front of the Galley. I know the submarine allocates eleven bunks for SAS personnel on operations. There will be 100 crew and 18 officers on board. SAS members are not permitted to mix with the crew. We know too many secrets for our own good. I know the routine. The Watch Officer will be my only contact until I disembark at American Samoa tomorrow. He doesn’t know my name and I don’t know his. I am just another Spook hitching a ride from one obscure place to another…