Thanks to all who read and since the last chapter was something of departure from my usual writing style the lovely reviews were especially appreciated.

This chapter: between personal and professional frustrations Harry is not a happy man. The script directions might say Zen calm but I've a suspicion that his personal thoughts were anything but.

2 May 2002 (07.10am) Bomb detonated in Allerton, Liverpool. No warning and no opportunity to trace perpetrators prior to detonation. Asset: code name Osprey contacted handler (Danny Hunter under the legend of Chris Patterson) 20 devices, pipe bombs, remote detonation kit. Asset lost track after items brought in at Liverpool at 2.30am approx. Information given face to face at approx.6.00am. Informant is a Grade 1 asset whose past Intel has been reliable. Asset will try to obtain further data but may have difficulty doing so without breaking cover. Extraction or burn plan for asset being rechecked – note asset is unaware of its existence and will only be contacted if we have definite cause to think her compromised. Loyalist source so Irish involvement possible, despite asset claiming no one in her group responsible.

Not those bastards again. Whatever the asset says, and however much our in denial political masters choose to play it down, the Irish are bloody well involved since they've provided the sodding bombs for someone else to detonate. I know the theory, 'jaw jaw is better than war war', outright war anyway, not the never ending spy against spy undercover, unadmitted, permanent battle of wits and subterfuge. Just don't expect me to start humming 'forty shades of green' any time soon, unless I can mean it ironically. Whenever I think about what those oversized leprechauns did to Bill my stomach heaves. The one and only shade of green I associate with the Emerald Isle is the memory of my reflection in the mirror after I'd finally stopped vomiting.

As for today I'm bracing myself. Any second now various denizens of the Home Office will hitting the secure line, once again reverting to their customary default mode, pure panic. On average this is a thrice weekly process, usually succeeded by an acrimonious conversation between yours truly and Whitehall's finest! An exchange of views during which the inhabitants of that department collectively display less sense of direction than coup full of headless chickens. By now I'm accustomed to it, but what'll be so fucking galling this time around is that I tried to tell the Home Office that Ireland was still a risk, but do politicians listen? Not on your sweet life, they're all far too busy seeking photo opportunities with people who should be clapped in prison, aka their new found political chums. All friends together singing in harmony. Where the fuck do they think we're living, bloody Disneyland! On further consideration given the way some of our glorious leaders have proudly gone public about their student pot smoking escapades I can think of several candidates who'd be dead ringers for Dopey, the intellectually challenged dwarf.

Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be lovely