Friggington on the Warpath

A Clearing, a Choice, and the First True Strike Back

Charles Keane’s Den - Safe House - Spitalfields London

Charles Keane leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the grainy CCTV footage. The soft hum of the monitors and the faint smell of stale coffee filled the room, but his attention was elsewhere. His jaw clenched as the black people carrier came to a stop around 300 metres down the road. Six men stepped out, three heading towards the back alley and the others strolling up the main street as if they owned the place.

Glancing down at his phone, he saw that he had received a message. ‘Police CCTV is blocked and you will not be detected. It will revert to normal when we see the operation is complete.’

A mirthless smile crept across his face. Convenient. Someone was orchestrating events, but who? He did not have time to dwell on it now. His fingers flew over the screen as he dialled a number he had memorised decades ago.

‘Go! Go!’ His voice was sharp and urgent.

‘I’ve got you, Chas,’ came Tel’s calm reply, a steady voice in the storm.

Middlesex St London E1 7EZ

Moments later, Keane saw Tel’s solution to everything — the tipper truck — hurtling down the road. It screeched to a halt just short of the potential attackers. Four burly men jumped off the back with pickaxes in hand. The scene unfolded like a well-rehearsed play. The attackers never stood a chance — they were completely blindsided. Within minutes, the crew subdued them and threw them into the back of the truck as though they were livestock being loaded for slaughter. Keane’s lips curled into a cold smirk. Too easy.

Another buzz from his phone confirmed it. Attackers collected. Instructions?

Keane did not hesitate. ‘Take them to Epping Forest.’

Epping Forest Loughton

A thick morning mist hung low over Epping Forest, the trees casting long, twisted shadows in the dim light. The clearing was deserted except for a small group gathered by a small lake — a former quarry which was occasionally used by amateur fishing enthusiasts.

Keane arrived on foot, his breath visible in the cold air. Six young men lay bound and gagged on the damp grass, their expensive suits soaking up the dew. They shivered, fear slowly replacing the bravado they had displayed earlier.

Tel leaned against a tree, grinning. ‘Ready for you, Chas,’ he said, nudging the ringleader with his boot. ‘This one has been talking, but not saying anything useful.’

Keane crouched down, locking eyes with the ringleader. His voice was low and almost friendly. ‘Good afternoon, gentleman. This isn’t a game of rugby, is it? Now, who sent you? Friggington. Let’s not prolong this.’ Charles waved to Tel to come over with his pickaxe.

The man’s façade crumbled. ‘Friggington… He was there when Carruthers was killed, and when Landon was killed a few months ago. He’s going to Moscow soon with Summers and a few others. Ann Fretwell’s handling it.’

Keane stood up, his smile now a thin line. Friggington. Moscow. Fragments began to align, yet the complete picture remained elusive.

‘Moscow again. Always Moscow. Friggington.’ It’s as if the past refuses to stay buried,’ Keane muttered under his breath. He turned to Tel. ‘Deal with them.’

Tel’s colleague approached with syringes, dressed in overkill PPE as though dealing with hazardous waste. Keane watched dispassionately as the six men received their injections: one to make them appear as though they had been on a drug-fuelled bender, and the other to erase any memories of their encounter in the woods.

Keane stepped back; the scene was playing out exactly as he had planned. ‘Give it fifteen minutes,’ he instructed Tel. ‘Untie them, strip them down to their underwear, and dump them by the main road. Let them wake up with nothing but bruises and humiliation.’ He shot Tel a wry grin. ‘Job well done.’

Tel laughed and lit a cigarette. ‘Would you like to attend the football match this weekend, Chas?’

Keane chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We’ll see, mate. We’ll see.’

Without another word, Keane made his way out of the clearing. The crunch of leaves underfoot was the only sound as he reached the edge of the forest. He changed into a pair of inconspicuous shoes and blended in with the early-morning commuters on his way to the bus stop.

A Thinking Man on a London Omnibus

As the bus pulled away, Keane took a seat on the upper deck and stared out of the window as the city came to life around him. His mind raced. The puzzle pieces were falling into place, but the picture was still incomplete.

Moscow. Friggington. The names swirled in his mind, but something wasn’t quite right. Why Moscow? Friggington wasn’t merely showing off — a more significant game was being played here that Keane hadn’t fully grasped yet. Was it related to Friggington’s family and the rumours about their connections to Russia? Or was there something else?

His thoughts drifted to Gaia. She was an enigma. Smart and resourceful, yet something about her felt off. She was undoubtedly Vergani’s protégé. Was she here to help him or to observe him? Vergani was a good man, but his methods were never transparent. Gaia was here for a reason, and it was not merely to protect him. He wondered if she knew more about MI6 than she let on. Perhaps MI6 had sent her to expose the moles. This possibility troubled Keane, especially after what had happened to Sanjana.

Then there was Laura, with her razor-sharp mind and her chaotic, untamable spirit. She’d been there for him when everything went wrong. While she was not always reliable in the conventional sense, she was a kind of anchor for him, providing him with a steady presence.

Charles drifted back to that day outside her flat. That was classic Laura: hurling wine glasses at someone’s head while swearing in half a dozen languages. He remembered her opening the door with red, tear-stained eyes and wrapping her arms around him as though he were the only thing holding her together.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she’d asked, her voice shaky but defiant.

Now, as things spiralled out of control, he wondered how long he could keep her in the dark about the bigger picture.

He blinked and noticed the tipper truck in the distance, with Tel driving the battered vehicle into the park. Keane smirked at the thought of the spectacle Friggington’s men would make when they woke up half-naked, dazed and confused in the middle of a public park. That’ll make a splendid headline.

His ribs still ached. He would need to get the bruising checked later, but not now. Not with Friggington accelerating the timetable. However, Friggington’s story would not conclude in a forest clearing. It would end in the dirt, somewhere much closer to home.

Stitching up Friggington

Back in the sleek confines of the mansion’s surveillance laboratory, Arti’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. Caribbean music pulsed through the room, providing an incongruous counterpoint to the tense atmosphere, as he tried to reconstruct the day’s events.

Meanwhile, across the room, Gillian fast-forwarded through the day’s footage, carefully curating an alibi for Keane. She clicked through clips of him boarding a train at Fenchurch Street, fishing in Southend, eating chips on a bench, and finally catching the train back to London.

‘Alibi prepared,’ she murmured to herself.

Games in the Park

Artie’s gaze shifted to the screen, showing Tel’s truck rolling into the park and unloading Friggington’s men in their underwear. The joggers, early-morning and unsuspecting, bore witness. ‘Nice one, Charles,’ Artie said with a grin, though the tension in his voice hinted at his unease.

‘It appears our boy is in the clear,’ Gillian remarked, leaning back in her chair. ‘At least for now.’

Arti frowned, his fingers still dancing across the keys. ‘We’ve got eyes on the park, but someone’s jamming us. I do not like it, Gillian. There’s something else going on here.’

Gillian shot him a sharp look. ‘You think we’ve been compromised?’ She frowned. ‘Not SVR. The signature’s too clean.’

‘Not sure yet,’ Arti replied doubtfully. ‘But someone is manipulating events. I do not think we’re the only ones moving the pieces.’

Gillian’s gaze hardened as she switched back to the live feeds and caught a glimpse of Keane boarding a bus out of Epping Forest. ‘Well, if anyone excels at strategic manipulation, it’s him.’

🧭 Cross-References

Drawing the Lines — Towards the Retreat to Valtellina

Narrative Posts in this Section

1. Lunch – A Whisky and Reflections Sanjana leaves for Scotland; whisky and introspection. Flashback to her history with Charles and Friggington’s harassment. 17 November 2025

2. Night of 3 March 2014 — Two Rooms, One Resolve Parallel meetings: Sanjana’s summit in Perthshire and Charles’s Den in London. Rossella introduced.“Two Rooms” structure; Friggington and Ann Fretwell named as dual threats. 24 November 2025

3. The Road South Sanjana after the Perth meeting. Arti and Gillian monitor remotely. Adds action, shows Cambridge team’s efficiency. 1 December 2025

4. Friggington on the War Path 8 December 2025

5. By the River — July 2013 (Flashback) Sanjana–Charles flashback on the Thames after Angus’s death.Reinforces loyalty and moral contract. 15 December 2025

6. A Day Return to Cambridge Charles visits Laura; tension, flirtation, and Rizzo connection. Ends with Laura’s dispatch to Paris. Narrative bridge; deepens Cambridge bond. 22 December 2025

7. The Line to London Sanjana’s journey to London 29 December 2025

8. Laura in Paris and Return to London 5 January 2026

9. Charles, Gaia and Laura Interogate 12 January 2026

Previous Narrative Posts related to this section

Private Letter to Jamie Gordon Date: 28 February 2014 Location: Islington, London — Sanjana Jaitley’s Study 15 October 2025

The Map to Nowhere One man dead in a Mayfair hotel. A champagne glass swapped. A dossier erased. Charles Keane is back, but off the books—and the only clue is buried in a smile last seen in 1989. 17 May 2025

Lines in the Water Southend-on-Sea, 14 November 1989 12 May 2025 This dossier provides a background to the relationship between Charles Keane and Lord William Hancock, PC (Labour) — Born 1928 Stepney, son of a dockworker and a seamstress. Labour peer and civil-service reformer who chaired the Inter-Party Parliamentary Committee on Intelligence Oversight (1983–89). Mentor to Charles Keane; his insistence on “truth over tribe” shaped the younger man’s entire career. 12 May 2025

The Sleeper’s Web Begins 9 November 1989 – Berlin, West Germany. Bornholmer Straße Border Crossing 1 May 2025

Dossiers

📖 Butler Britain – Laundromats, Livery Companies, and the Oligarch Welcome Committee Editor’s Note” this isn’t about conspiracy, but complicity.

Triple Edge Diaries

Gillian Gordon – Private Diary 6 November 2025

The Wrong Questions Were Never Asked. In the silence after Matlock, Charles confronts the consequences of what wasn’t asked — and who was already watching. 20 June 2025

Field Notes

Observations, intercepted messages, field sketches, and whispers from the ground.

Charles Keane – Private Notes (Handwritten Fragment) (London Safehouse -Den, 23:47 BST) 26 February 2014 13 November 2025

Viktor Pavlov – Private Notes (Geneva, night flight back to Moscow – undated) 10 November 2025