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“And finally, it gives me great pleasure to declare, The People’s Palace of Tehran, well and truly open,” announced Iran’s unofficial first lady and beloved figurehead of the revolution. “Millions of square metres of hotels, casinos, fine dining and designer shopping, gifted to us by our brothers and sisters from the United States of America. On behalf of the people of Iran, I send you our deepest gratitude for everything you have done in helping us rebuild our country and establishing the Democratic Republic of Iran, from the bottom of our hearts, thank you!” Habibeh Namdar of the Ministry of Enlightenment, stunningly beautiful, loved by the people, trusted and believed by everyone, continued her address to the assembled media and to the thousands gathered at the grand opening of what can only be described as the Las Vegas of the Middle East. Millions of square metres of gambling, consumerism, alcohol consumption, sexual promiscuity and distraction foisted upon the city of Tehran with gambling debt, alcoholism, sexually transmitted diseases and family breakdown, the ultimate goal. Obesity, clinical depression and suicide among the young was on the increase, and the population of nearly 80 million people was under control. Just enough to be productive but not enough to be disruptive. Persia, the birthplace of human civilisation, humbled and brought to its knees. The new government and former opposition, The People’s Party, funded by western corporations and organised by the CIA, MI6 and Mossad now had complete control of not only Iran but the whole region. Of course the face behind the mask was not Persian nor was it human. The face behind the mask was pure evil, Archontic, predatory and the dinner bell rang loudly across Iran.

Originally from Rey, the 20th district of Tehran, born of factory workers Amir and Anahita, Habibeh Namdar became the official face of the new Iran. Orphaned during the great water plague of 2022, Habibeh was raised by the state, groomed and conditioned from an early age to represent the new regime. She was one of the people, an ordinary person who had suffered under the old corrupt system, a system responsible for the genocide of millions of its own citizens in an attempt to suppress their free will. A false flag event had been orchestrated and managed by the elite and executed by British special forces, Iran’s 9/11 brought about the sea-change that would usher in the new world order, a new world government that the vast majority of its people knew nothing about. Ruled by a shadow government which hid behind each individual nation’s sovereignty and an illusion of democracy. The Ministry of Enlightenment had the sole responsibility of maintaining this illusion, with democratic elections and lively political debate at the forefront of everything they did.Through their own media outlets, the Ministry could manage the perception of the masses by creating an impression of impartiality and scrutiny, not unlike the BBC in the United Kingdom. With the People’s Princess, Habibeh Namdar at the helm, the Ministry had become a beloved and trusted institution, to be relied upon, to be transparent and to have the citizens’ interests at heart.

“Good evening Sister Namdar, I trust you have had a wonderful day?”

“Yes Bijan, I most certainly have,” replied Habibeh to the concierge at the Ministry Workers Residential Apartment Building.

“I intend visiting the People’s Palace myself this evening sister, when my duties are finished for today of course.” Bijan had never gambled and had never drunk alcohol but he knew he was missing out on something truly special. All ministry workers’ payment and security chips had been credited with complimentary funds to be spent at the People’s Palace, by way of a thank you for their loyal service.

“I am sure you will have a wonderful evening Bijan, and don’t forget to take that lovely family of yours too. The children will love the delicious food and the new Disney show, ‘How to be Happy’. Be sure to treat your wife at the jewelry emporium, I’ll add a little extra to your chip, on me.”

“Thank you so much sister, you are most gracious,” and with that, Bijan returned his gaze to the image ridden screen containing all the delights that awaited him and his family. Entering the lift, Habibeh tapped the back of her slender neck, the area where her implanted chip was located. She was sure it had been malfunctioning recently. The voices she had been hearing every time she went to sleep had not originated from the ministry. She knew this because she had reported it to the tech department and even insisted on a replacement, but the voices continued unabated, louder and more insistent. “ما شما را دوست داریم و ما می رویم” in Persian, “nahn nuhabuk wanahn qadimun,” in Arabic and, in English, “We love you and we are coming.”

The chip activated the door to her apartment and, kicking off her shoes, Habibeh began her usual evening routine. The bath began to run, automated and set to the perfect temperature, a large margarita, chilled to perfection waiting in the catering dispenser and the huge screen sprang into life replaying her earlier address to the people. Sinking into the luxuriant leather of her designer viewing chair, Habibeh had a strange sensation of not being alone. “Ridiculous,” she thought as she shrugged of the silly notion and the sense of being watched. It would be impossible for anyone to enter her apartment uninvited, the security was incredibly sophisticated and forced entry would trigger alarms that would alert the whole city of Tehran. But then, a voice did speak to her, from a dark corner of her grand apartment, a British accent, menacing and foreboding, “Good evening Habibeh, you don’t know me but I killed your parents.” The powerfully built figure of a man, possibly in his sixties, emerged from the shadows. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Simon, Simon Hayne.”

BBC News September 2044
“A memorial service will be held today at Christ Church, Oxford to remember the 30 students slaughtered by Chinese dissidents in a cowardly nerve agent attack in July. The young men, all students at Oxford University, were enjoying a quiet meal at a local bistro to celebrate the end of term, when they became unwell. All 30 later died in nearby hospitals. Among the dead was Andrew Harrington, son of Lord Peter Harrington, Government advisor and wealthy philanthropist. There will be a private family reception after the service, at the Macdonald Randolph Hotel, where Lord Harrington is the proprietor.”

Harrington was sure this announcement would flush out Hayne and provide the perfect bait for his trap. Simon wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to come after him on his home territory, a relatively soft target and an area he knew well. This would be a textbook assassination the like of which Sargeant Hayne had performed many times, however, this time, heavily armed Secret Intelligence Service operatives would outnumber the assassin by a hundred to one and any suspicious activity would be attended to with overwhelming force. The BBC would provide the necessary propaganda with the blame placed firmly at the door of Chinese terrorists. All 151 rooms at the Macdonald Randolph had been booked by Harrington’s team for his guests and Bullingdon Club alumni, that is, 150 for the rich and powerful and one, left available, for Simon Hayne. Harrington knew Hayne’s MO from old and that he would want to be inside the kill zone to execute his mission effectively and with one day left before the service, that room was booked, using a burner phone but with a credit chip baring the identity code of a certain Mr S Hayne. The trap was set!
The service was beautiful, culminating in a performance of the magnificent “Miserere mei, Deus” by Allegri and, as the voices of the Choir of New College Oxford soared among the Oxford Spires, a crack SIS team made their move on room 151. Earlier CCTV footage had shown a heavily built man, in his sixties, checking in, that morning with a single suitcase. He had remained in his room all day and no sound or movement had been detected.
A flash bang through the window, an explosion, a boot through the door and a hail of automatic gunfire spattered body parts, offal and blood over the luxurious decor of room 151.
The news was immediately communicated to Lord Harrington who released a deep sigh and smiled sweetly as he led his guests out of the Cathedral and into the early Autumn sunshine. The threat was eliminated and he could finally begin to grieve for his son.
“The flight now boarding at gate 13 is the 15:50 Iran Airways flight to Tehran, please have your passport and boarding pass ready for inspection at the gate,” announced the tannoy at Heathrow Airport. A 62 year old businessman routes through his hold all to find the required documents and shuffles un-noticed towards the departure gate. James Hargreaves, legitimate business owner by day, satanic peodophile by night, not a pleasant man but an excellent double who didn’t need too much ‘persuading’ to exchange identities. The threat of exposure to his clients and family of his nocturnal pastime at the Albany, was sufficient to do the trick. Of course Harrington would quickly realise the remains were not Simon’s, but the diversion would buy him enough time to get out of England and begin his mission in Iran. There would be other opportunities to take out Harrington but for now, where better to start his campaign than at the Ministry of Enlightenment, Tehran.

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