Thursday, 14 December 2017

Andrea Davison Shoot The Women First. Spy Story which exposes State Sanctioned Child Abuse

Just read Shoot the Women First by Andrea Davison and Tom Doe.
Running through the book is a web of  State sanctioned child abuse. Andrea tells her story with a touch of magic and an attention to detail.

It is at times beautiful at other heartrending and always exciting. Every page leads to revelations of a hidden hand behind world events.

Thrilling, tragic and utterly compelling read.

 Shoot The Women First, has now been released in hardback and paperback for Xmas.




1. Bastard Son. 13
2. Elephant Cage. 21
3. Petals Of Death. 31
4. Hostage. 39
5. Not So Cold War 45
6. Into The Frying Pan. 51
7. High Five. 57
8. After Eight 65
9. Unsanctioned. 73
10. Alarming News. 83
11. Lady Of The Lake. 93
12. Deadly Game. 107
13. Kock And Bull Story. 119
14. A Nadir 133
15. Suffer Little Children. 143
16. Birthday Card. 155
17. Fact Or Fiction. 165
18. Shopping List 177
19. What A Scallywag. 185
20. Propaganda Wars. 195
21. Neat Job. 207
22. Written In Blood. 217
23. Diplomatic Solution. 225
24. Somewhere Safe. 235
About The Author 245
Appendix. 247

Begining of firts Chapter. 


“One day I’m going to go up in a helicopter and it’ll just blow up.  MI5 will do away with me.”  Princess Diana

Tom dashed into the kitchen carrying a bundle of papers, an old leather case and a bottle of Champagne.  Shutting the door behind him, he sat down opposite me.  Outside the night had drawn a blanket of stars over the Comechingones Mountains.  People had lived here since the first moon shone on a home.
“Your Macur Statement is going viral.  It’s getting the truth out there,” Tom said.
“I hope so.  The victims are so vulnerable.”
“If you have the Serco report, I’ll take it with me to BA tomorrow.”
Pushing the laptop across the table, I said, “I’m editing, but take a look, and see what you think.”
The clock in the corner paced out time, as we read together.
A loud hammering on the door startled us.  Our eyes met in a glance of silent communication, Tom’s pupils dilated and I read his dark thoughts, ‘sounds like police’.
The hammering resumed, but here in Argentina, I had no reason to fear the Police.  Time stood still, frozen in urgency, and then the pounding stopped.  Silence hung in the air like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion.  Tom sprang up and was at the kitchen door when it flew open and a young man, brandishing a pistol, rushed in.  Tom smashed his gun arm against the wall.  The gun tumbled from his grasp, as a second armed man rushed in, striking Tom over the head with his handgun.
“We have just come for the documents,” he bellowed in perfect English.  Was this statement supposed to calm us?
   My training kicked in like a snort of cocaine; seconds became minutes as I assessed the scene.  Tom was on the floor his blood splattering the white walls as he grappled, half concussed, with the first assailant.  The second man stood pointing his gun at the duo, now locked like passionate lovers in an embrace.  Telepathically Tom said, ‘Get the machete; I’ll buy you time.’
Neither assailant noticed me turn and run down the corridor to the bedroom.  Thrusting my hand under the pillow, I found the machete Tom had put there earlier.  Drawing it out the blade glinted in the cold electric light.  That morning, Tom had spent hours sharpening its edge top and bottom.  “More frightening than a 9mm close up,” he said prophetically.
Narrowing my thoughts to a perfect point, I stroked the blade with a snipers instinct.  Brandishing the Machete, I ran down the corridor back to the kitchen.  Tom was still struggling and rolling on the floor with the first attacker.  The second man, hearing steps turned bringing up his gun level with my face.  Subconsciously I noted the matt black metal of the small gun, the trained stance, his youthful, handsome face.  Raising the blade in a seamless movement, I angled it to take off his head at the neck.  Staring into his hard chocolate eyes for a fraction of a second I grasped the power, he quailed, turned and fled.  It was a good choice; his .32 caliber bullets would not have stopped me in the five feet between us.
Tom, sensing it was over relaxed his grip on the first attacker, who snatched up his fallen gun, fleeing after his friend.
“Tom, are you Okay,” I asked, as he stood up shaky and dazed, blood streaming from his open wound into his eyes and down his cheeks.  Lifting a hand to wipe away the blood, he said,
 “Fine; I’m fine.  Lock the door.”
Twisting the key in the door, I went back to help him.
 “Sit down,” I said, leading him to a straight-backed wooden chair.
He collapsed into it, as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins.
We needed help, so picking up the cell phone I rang Beth, who lived on the high slopes of the mountains overlooking my house.
“Beth its Tara, two gunmen attacked us, please phone the Chief.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Wait there, I will come soon.” 
Our mutual friend, the Chief of Police is a charming and resourceful man.  He helped me settle into my new country by finding Beth.  She was one of those rare and beautiful people who would do anything for anybody.  Her husband Richard spent his working life, creating special effects in films and thrilling people with his magic tricks.  Somewhere on his journeys, this Englishman found a dark beauty with the heart of an angel.
In what seemed like only minutes, the Chief had everything locked down and his team of plain-clothed officers was in the house.  Tom went in a police car to the local hospital along with Beth as an interpreter.  A police officer in dark jumper, combat pants and short black combat boots, sat with me, while the house and garden was dusted for prints.
 In Argentina, children learn English at School so even with my poor Spanish I could make myself understood.  A detective man with a moon face and tough look said, “Get the valuables and go to another casa.  Do you have somewhere to go?” 
“I have amigos who live nearby, I will phone them.”
As the detective watched, I called Alicia and filled her in on the details.
 Alicia is of German extraction, married to Cletus a full-blooded German.  They made a complimentary couple.  Alicia surrounded herself with family and friends, doling out ladles of love.  Cletus was the strong man of the duo brave and brusque.  Cletus came on the phone, and I repeated the story, when I told him about the Machete, he chuckled.
“We’re on holiday right now, but Carl and Otto are there.  Just stay at the Cabaña by the pool.  Stay as long as you like.”  Cletus said.
Thirty minutes later, Tom flounced in with Beth.  He was battered and sporting a few stitches over his right eye.                           
“The hospital was excellent.  We went right to the top of the queue.”
“That’s great.  Alicia and Cletus are giving us the cute spare house by the pool.”
“Fantastic.  We need to get you out of here,” Tom said.
Beth nodded agreement.
When the detectives finished, Beth drove us to our friend’s hacienda, then returned home.
Entering the compound, Otto greeted us with his Pocket Browning.  We embraced as the seven-foot tall electric gates closed behind us.  The hacienda was under lockdown, surrounded by high fences and paroled by four big dogs who knew us well.
 Otto had been a Hitler Youth, but that was long ago.  His haggard face, patrician nose and sky blue eyes looked at me with compassion.  His command of English and Spanish was like my command of German, almost zero.  However, warmth and friendship are a language of their own.
 Carl, his grandson, was a strapping lad of seventeen.  His close-cropped blond hair adorned refined carved features and a razor-sharp mind.  He was the epitome of his German heritage, but the furthest youth from Hitler’s conscripts as could be.  Carl had inherited his Mother’s caring nature and his Father’s bravery.
  “Come, the Cabaña is ready for you,” Carl said, “Dad told me what happened, are you both OK.”
“Thanks, we’re fine.”
Grandfather and grandson, the old tree and the sapling would not let any intruder in alive.
The Cabaña’s red clay tiled roof overhung the red brick walls.  Rows of bricks interlaced with cosmetic concrete slices reminiscent of the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel made out of sweets.  Towels, sheets and pillowcases were stacked up on a bench and the water heater was on.     
We dumped everything on the kitchen floor and opened a bottle of Champagne.  Grabbing two wine glasses from the cupboard, I went outside.
It had been a hot day and the evening warmth was balmy.  A potted jasmine grew by the door its tendrils thick with small white heavily scented flowers.  Surrounded by its fragrance, we settled down at the table by the dark and sky blue tiled pool.  Two of the dogs nestled close knowing something had happened.
“Well, life is never boring.  You did well,” I said.
“That’s what Staff taught me, in close, go for the gun arm.”
We smiled at each other.  The danger had passed and finally drained away with the first sip of champagne.  We were safe, we were happy and life was full of possibilities.
The cell phone rang, intruding on our peace,
“Are you Okay?” a familiar American voice said.
Ronald was a former arms dealer and a King Saud favorite who had worked along with the agency for donkey’s years.
“Yes, just two idiots with guns.”
We never listened to each other’s calls, so Tom took his glass and returned to the Cabaña.
“We’ll send up some people from BA,” [1] Ronald said.
 “No, it’s okay; I have plenty of protection right here, but how…”
“Grapevine.  Are you sure you’re Okay, we can send someone?”
The soft head of an Alsatian brushed against my knee.
“No, really, we are safe here, friends are looking after us.”
“Who were the men?”  Ronald asked.

[1] Buenos Aires 



1 comment:

  1. They're still in charge. But not for much longer I suspect...


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