Invasion by Dc Alden Page A

kids playing on a beach somewhere, azure-blue waters washing gently on white sands behind them. The Gulf, Cooper realised, dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. The children looked young, maybe five or six, dark-skinned, Arabic. Who the hell were they? Suddenly, the camera panned to the right and his heart skipped a beat. Aleema. She was still beautiful as ever, but her beauty no longer filled Cooper with longing and excitement. Instead, he felt dread. This wasn’t the Aleema he knew and loved.
    The delicate make-up was gone, along with the flowing silk robes. In their place, Aleema wore an unflattering military uniform, a baggy desert-pattern camouflage shirt and trousers tucked into high-legged boots, her dark tresses scraped back into a tight bun. She stared into the lens, a blank expression on her face. No, not blank, Cooper realised, simply emotionless. One of the children ran to her and grasped her legs and she bent down, suddenly beaming that familiar, perfect smile.
    A man entered the frame and scooped up the child. He was roughly the same age as Aleema, dark and handsome, also dressed in combat uniform. They embraced and Cooper felt a sharp stab of jealousy as he watched them, watched the way Aleema looked at the man, how she stroked his face and laughed, the love, the admiration in her eyes impossible to ignore. They were a couple, that much was obvious, the children theirs, by-products of their love for each other.
    In the top corner of the screen Cooper noticed the date stamp. Two days ago. His fingers stabbed at the keyboard, Aleema’s beautiful face frozen on the screen. It was a message, plain and simple; farewell to the fool called Geoffrey Cooper. For a long time he just stared at her image, his emotions ranging from utter despair to fear and rage. Then, with a cry of frustration, he picked up the display and hurled it across the room where it shattered on the floor. All the strength left his legs and he slumped into his chair. He felt totally crushed, his hopes and dreams as shattered and irreparable as the computer screen lying in pieces across his ornate office. What had she done? What had he done? He’d been baited and caught, like a fish in a net. But for what purpose? So what if she was a spy? He’d said nothing, passed nothing to her that could incriminate him. What the bloody hell was going on?
    He refused to accept the fact that Aleema felt nothing. Those special times they’d enjoyed together, the words of love exchanged between them, her pain at their parting. All a ruse? Impossible. The game was up, though. He knew this would come out. Maybe that’s what Ali meant when he said something about being too late. Maybe the press had got hold of it. In that case he was ruined, his career gone. Cooper slid deeper into his chair. On swift reflection he realised he didn’t care. He was no spy. Besides, when all was said and done, it was only losing Aleema that really hurt. Without her he had nothing. In his mind he’d included her in his life, his future plans. Now she was gone forever.
    Cooper opened a desk drawer, retrieved a glass and bottle and poured himself a generous brandy. He took a large gulp, the liquid burning a fiery path down the back of his throat. There was a knock at the door and h is stern, middle-aged secretary Charlotte, entered the room. She observed Cooper splayed in his chair, drink in hand and tie askew. She tutted under her breath and took a step forward, looking down in alarm as her shoe crunched on the wreckage of the computer screen.
    ‘Foreign Secretary? Is everything all right, Sir?’
    Without looking up, Cooper tipped the contents of his glass down his throat a nd refilled it. ‘Be a good girl Charlotte, and fuck off. I’ve had rather a day of it.’
    Speechless, his secretary backed away, closing the door behind her.
     

Chiswick, West London : 5.57 pm
    Fresh from her shower, Kirsty Moore was towelling her hair dry when she suddenly paused in mid-rub; a car