

THE DICTATOR OF BRITAIN

BOOK THREE: THE END OF DAYS

PAUL MICHAEL DUBAL
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Dictator of Britain

Book Three: The End of Days

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2017 Paul Michael Dubal

Published by Paul Michael Dubal

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# "The Only Thing Necessary for the Triumph of Evil is that Good Men Do Nothing"

Edmund Burke (Irish statesman, author, orator, political theorist and philosopher)

## CHAPTER 1

When Harry Clarke was four years old his life changed irrevocably. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain, he still held pictures of that day when his mother, her eyes red and swollen with tears, broke the terrible news to him. The house bustled with uncles, aunts and cousins, but this was no celebratory family gathering. Even at his tender age, he could sense the mood of deep despondency and grief among the relatives who crowded into the house. Everyone he knew was there, except the most important person in the world.

He recalled his mother trying to explain, her voice breaking, that his daddy would not be coming home. He did not quite understand. Why not? he wondered. He thought he had been delayed from his job doing 'computer' stuff. Harry did not know what that meant but he boasted about it to his friends in kindergarten. His father was his hero, role model and playmate rolled into one. Sure, he had a younger brother, but he was too young to be any fun.

An aunt mentioned that Harry now had to be the man of the house, yet he still didn't understand. Eventually everyone left and he was alone with his mother, his infant brother having drifted off to sleep long before.

Then his mother explained further, bending down to his eye level. She pulled him closer in the way parents did when they had something serious to say to young children. His father had been taken away from them and was now in heaven. A bad man had hit him with a car and driven away, leaving his daddy in hospital where they could not save him.

That was when his morbid fear of needles originated. He threw a tantrum, kicking, hitting and spitting at anything that was within range, whirling around like a dervish, as if the mere act of expending so much energy and rage could make it not true. The doctor came quickly and shoved a needle in his arm. He recalled the sensation of blinding, stinging pain, and the energy drain from him, leaving him so weak that he felt as if his bones had dissolved before he finally lost consciousness. That feeling stayed with him to this day, leaving him in terror of any needle. He associated it with death.

In the empty days that followed, the realization that his father was not coming back sunk in. It took many years to fully understand the truth of what happened. He had been hit by a reckless driver while crossing the road near Hammersmith as he headed to the tube station on his way back from work. The driver had sped away and in the blink of an eye his father was gone.

People speculated that the driver was probably drunk but no-one really knew, as his father's killer was never traced. That possibility affected him greatly, but not enough to stop the long slide into alcoholism when he was still married, despite the guilt that plagued him every time he sobered up. From that day forward he grew up without his beloved father, his greatest friend. It left a void in his life that his mother tried hard to fill. She never remarried but devoted her life to her two boys. It was perhaps the only common trait that Harry shared with the Prime Minister Lawrence Pelham. He too lost his father in childhood. However, Pelham had been older, aged ten, and his loss was not due to bereavement; rather his father's incarceration for the serious crimes he had committed.

Harry had resolved to be the good father to Byron that he had been denied, but now as he surveyed the grimy, pitted walls of his tiny cell, he knew that was a remote possibility. History was repeating itself, but what truly anguished him was the knowledge that Tamara, Byron's mother, had died in the government deportation camps. As far as he knew, Byron was still there, a virtual orphan. Of all the things they had done to him, the intense, aggressive interrogations, the mind games and the long periods of isolation, nothing could compare to the torture of not knowing what had happened to his son. He asked many times, but his jailers merely shook their heads condescendingly, as if imparting such knowledge was a trade secret that couldn't possibly be disclosed.

He heard the metallic click of the serving grill opening and a tray of congealed food and cloudy water was pushed under. His stomach rumbled, a constant dull ache from the unhealthy diet and small portions that just about kept him above the edge of starvation. He had to be careful. They sometimes fed him contaminated food that would leave him violently sick. His interrogators knew that in such a weakened state he was far more open to suggestion, and in the time he had been held a prisoner he was certain he had confessed to being a terrorist and an enemy of the State many times. He could only guess, as the days blurred into one another and natural daylight became a distant memory, but he estimated it to be at least two months since they had dragged him away from Pelham's office and taken him directly to the dungeon-like basement of Belmarsh Prison. Apart from several brief court appearances, he had been held there ever since, cut off from the outside world, starved of human contact in an attempt to break his spirit.

The only faces he saw were the hostile faces of his interrogators, officers of the State Secret Police, whose colleagues had pursued him relentlessly across the rugged countryside in Wales until he had returned to London where he was caught in a trap. They clearly despised him for having outrun their colleagues. They constantly reminded him that no-one could ever escape from the SSP. It was only a matter of time.

The interrogators were invariably the same two people. They did not look like archetypal interrogators, if there was such a thing. Indeed, the first had a professorial air that would not have looked out of place in a lecture hall. His rounded spectacles, thinning grey hair and smooth, clean shaven face was only betrayed by his eyes, narrow, darting pupils that glared at Harry with undisguised contempt. He was a pale, wiry character with a slight build and physically more passive than his colleague. Often he was bent over his tablet, examining it studiously as if searching for some inner secret. However he was clearly the leader and it was from his mouth that most of the taunts, insults and threats flew. He was also the one who prepared the syringes, waving it in front of Harry, lapping up the fear in his prisoner's eyes. They rarely used them, but the "professor" as Harry had unconsciously dubbed him knew his paranoia and used it to torment him.

By contrast the second interrogator fitted the stereotype of an SSP officer. His heavyset frame was too big for the shirts he wore, the buttons pushed to the limit, about to pop out any second to reveal his fleshy stomach. His straw coloured crew-cut hair came to a point like an arrow just above his speckled forehead. His close cropped beard, flecked with grey, masked a swarthy, rutted face that carried a constantly tight, intense expression. Although he was the younger of the pair, his forehead had deep furrows, as if he had been scowling all his life. His dark, sunken eyes were like black pools of hate, and he had a menacing, unpredictable air like a child about to throw a tantrum. His demeanour threatened violence at any moment. Even his colleague watched him closely, unsure what he would do next. Neither of his tormentors had ever revealed their names, but he had heard the professor refer to his compatriot as "Skunk," probably on account of his tendency to sweat profusely when he was worked up.

His nameless interrogators were subtle in their techniques. After the first few weeks, they rarely beat him or attacked him physically, despite Skunk's brooding propensity to explode. Their methods of persecution were more psychological, designed to wear him down and demoralize him until he openly confessed to whatever they told him to. They probed for weaknesses in his psyche, systematically prodding at his mental barriers in an effort to break him down. It was the classic ' _Stasi_ ' tactic used by the East Germans against their own citizens during the height of the Cold War. Harry remembered that period from his political studies at King's College, London. It was that deep interest in politics that had ignited the fires of passion with Tamara.

The thought of his deceased ex-wife brought him fresh pain. It was part of the tactic of course. Isolation allowed plenty of time for painful reflection, and he found his thoughts often wandering at a tangent. The word _Stasi_ translated meant literally to break down, and that is what they tried to do to him, piece by piece, a process of mental erosion. They regularly broke his sleep pattern through harsh lights or extremely loud death-metal music, so they could interrogate him when he was tired and hungry. They promised food, water and plenty of sleep if he told them everything. They wanted to know every single minute of where he had been, when he escaped the compound in July to when he was arrested in the Houses of Parliament in November. They exploited every inch of the imbalance of power between captor and captive. Harry had already lost control over his life and freedom; his only possessions were his thoughts, the only currency. It was those thoughts that the interrogators sought to extract through threats, pain and coercion.

Hammering away at his defences, they quickly found his vulnerability. Byron was more precious to him than anything, and his tormentors were all too cognizant of that. While they refused to tell him what had happened to his son, they taunted him that Byron was alone and scared, and that he needed his father more than ever. "Harry, you're here through your own fault. You let your son down. You betrayed him," they reasoned. While he knew their tactic, and he was relieved Byron was still alive, he could not help believing that part of it was true. He had not been there for Byron since Tamara had divorced him, and that was something he now regretted more than ever.

Then they would change direction. "You may still be able to see him. Just tell us what we need and we will try our best to arrange it." That was the hardest part to resist. They lured him with the fruit of temptation. When he found the strength to refuse their entreaties they quickly turned to threats of reprisal. They informed him that the cyber resistance cell had been destroyed, which meant Julianne was probably missing. If he did not co-operate he faced the death penalty if convicted of murder and the terrorist atrocities he had committed. They offered to help him but they needed information. They persisted for hours, working like a tag team, getting in his face, calm at first but growing more angry and red-faced as Harry insisted he had told them everything he knew. When he told the truth they called him a liar and waved a syringe at him. When he told them anything because he was so exhausted and terrified of the needle, they sneered and drank lavishly in front of him, their whiskey breath drifting over to remind him of a vice long since denied.

This went on for so long that it became hard to remember the life he once knew, a life of freedom and daylight. The isolation seemed to make time drag on for longer, and he only remembered his life as if through the lens of another person, mentally detached from his true self. He cautiously picked at the starchy, tasteless slop they served him and sipped at the tepid water, which always had a slightly metallic taste. They would come for him soon, he was certain of it, and then the whole sickening routine would play out again. His fears were confirmed as he heard the snap of several bolts being drawn back.

The guards placed a black hood over his head and handcuffed him in the usual ritual before leading him to the metallic interrogation room, seating him on the cold steel chair, uncomfortable yet so familiar. The 'professor' whipped off the hood and Harry faced his interrogators. He knew this time would be different when he saw the expressions on their faces. They carried an air of deference bordering on fear, subservient to the other person in the room. The wiry figure in the black turtleneck sweater appraised Harry with dark, penetrating eyes. His imperious air had been cultivated during his term of office as the Head of the People's Independent Army and the State Secret Police, one of the most powerful men in Lawrence Pelham's dictatorial regime. When he spoke his voice was laced with scorn. "The famous Harry Clarke," sneered Adam Griffiths.

## CHAPTER 2

Lady Helen stood in front of Lawrence Pelham in the large, luxurious master bedroom at Number 10 Downing Street, her face a mask of rage and humiliation. The room was filled with exotic treasures from her travels as a 'goodwill ambassador' for the nation, such as the ornately decorated ivory serpent head from Botswana. Yet Pelham could not escape the feeling of sterility among the opulence. His wife's once soft features had grown harder over the years. Those keen hazel eyes that hinted at a powerful, forceful intellect were now ringed by crow's feet that were accentuated every time she frowned, which in the last few years was far too often. As a young Conservative Member of Parliament representing the constituency of Battersea, Pelham had met Helen at a Tory cocktail party and had been instantly captivated by her.

It was not really her looks, which in some respects were understated. Her features were soft and feminine but did not fit the definition of a classic beauty. Her nose was just a little too squat, her mouth just a touch too wide, her auburn hair cut a little too short. However, she carried her elegant, lissome frame with a sophistication developed from a privileged upbringing on a country estate. That sophistication was complemented by her sharp intellect and wit, which made her a perfect foil for his political ambitions. The attraction had been mutual and had quickly developed into a serious and blossoming relationship, so much so that they were married within the year.

Pelham reflected that they had perhaps been too hasty. It was only after their union that he fully appreciated the disparity in their political viewpoints. She was a consummate professional however, and understood well that the marriage had been a mutually beneficial arrangement. She was always the perfect companion in public, discreet enough never to reveal the cracks in their marriage. Pelham had honestly thought he would grow to love her more after their marriage but the difference in their views always proved too much. Her sheltered upbringing had in fact given her a keen empathy for those less fortunate, and her charity work had grown over the years until it became all-consuming, a compensation for the void elsewhere in her life.

As it became apparent after several years of trying that the couple would never be able to have children, their lives drifted even further apart as Helen threw herself deeper into the charity work. She became the patron and spokesperson for a number of international charities and received widespread acclaim for her benevolent campaign work. It was highly convenient from a public relations perspective. He had to acknowledge it was probably a factor in his landslide election victory the previous year. Certainly his campaign team had squeezed every ounce of goodwill from her ambassadorial roles to ensure that Pelham was cast in the reflected glow.

However, it merely accentuated the fact that their marriage, devoid of the adhesive qualities of family life, had become nothing more than a mutual convenience, like a business arrangement. Sex became pointless with no prospect of any end result, and they had long stopped trying. Then came Rachel.

"You killed that poor girl didn't you!" she screamed, interrupting his reverie.

Pelham stood against the window, peering out into the gloomy winter sky. "Of course I didn't. Her brakes failed and she skidded through a barrier. It was a tragic accident." His voice was calm, almost pensive.

Helen persisted. "You may not have killed her yourself but you gave the order. I know you Larry. I know what you've become."

Pelham turned from the window and cast her a smouldering glance. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He began to move toward her and she backed away, putting the ornate Chesterfield dresser between her and her husband.

She hesitated, her expression betraying a hint of fear. Pelham enjoyed sensing her fear. It was one of the few pleasures left in their relationship. "You know damn well what I mean!" she yelled, watching him intently. Pelham said nothing but moved toward her, his movements calculated like a lion tracking its prey.

"I know you took her to our bed when I was away. No wonder the staff could not look me in the eye. I heard their nasty, pernicious whispers. You humiliated me. She might have been a little whore, but she didn't deserve to die!"

Pelham balled his fists, furious she had the temerity to speak to him like that. "Shut up woman, you're hysterical," he shot back, teeth clenched.

"What are you going to do, hit me again? The great political orator and global statesman has to resort to violence to control his own wife. The papers will love that!" she barked.

Pelham knew that Helen was antagonizing him deliberately, anxious for a reason to leave him. Their simmering resentment and mutual antipathy had finally exploded into open warfare, something they had both threatened many times before. As he watched her yelling obscenities at him, her once attractive face twisted in rage, he raised his arm and advanced menacingly toward her. It was if his arm had become detached from the rest of his body and he swung it hard, sending a stinging blow to Helen's face. He instantly regretted it. She stopped short, shocked and bewildered, tears welling in her eyes, before she erupted again, this time sobbing hard. "Is that the best you can do? This marriage is a sham just like your administration."

"What the hell do you know about my administration? You've buried your head in the sand most of the time," he snapped, moving away from Helen in case he was tempted to strike her again.

"Oh I know more than you think," she retorted. "You're the one who has buried his head in the sand. Outside this country you are despised and vilified. People are abhorred by what you have done to this country. You have no allies left overseas and soon you won't have any friends here. How long can you last Larry, before they remove you and put you on trial as a war criminal? You're a bloody monster!"

Pelham wanted to hurt her again, badly this time, and it took an effort of will to resist the urge to punch her. She had never spoken to him like this before. She had always kept her counsel, particularly in political matters. His aggression had unleashed a torrent of emotion, as if her suspicion that he had Rachel killed had finally caused her to vent her feelings. At that moment he made up his mind. Helen could have her rant but she had firmly placed her stake in the ground. He now considered her an enemy of the regime, and that could only lead to one result.

Helen pushed past him and fled the room, grabbing her Gucci bag half packed with clothes and the vestiges of a doomed marriage. She stormed out of the room, nearly crashing into the solid, immobile form of one of Pelham's bodyguards. She whirled past him. "Get out of my way!" she shouted at the statuesque, impassive figure.

Pelham called after her. "I'm warning you - don't do this. If you leave now, you are _never_ coming back!"

"That suits me fine!" she called back. "Daddy was right about you all along! I'll get Harris to collect the rest of my things."

She tottered down the curved set of stairs into the spacious lobby, her heels clicking on the polished wood. Pelham watched her from the balcony above as she stormed out of the door. He had now lost both women in his life within the space of a few months. Rachel's vivacious blond features popped into his mind, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of grief mixed with guilt. He had done what was necessary, but the wounds of betrayal were still fresh. He truly mourned his mistress, had even considered a future together with her. Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled the last message he had recorded for her before she plunged down the ravine in the Peak District. He wished things had turned out differently.

As for Helen – Pelham no longer cared for his wife, had not done so for years, but the political fallout from a divorce scandal would harm his reputation. He allowed himself a wry smile as he dialled his cellphone to the unlisted number. She wouldn't need her things anymore.

## CHAPTER 3

A frigid winter wind whistled its way in and out of the rows of narrow but long huts. The ugly, squat buildings looked cold and grey even on the warmest summer day. In the depths of a bitter Wiltshire winter that showed no signs of abating even as February neared its end, they looked positively depressing. They stood as a testament to the human misery inside the concrete and wooden walls. They had been constructed hastily to cope with the sudden influx of internees, little more than concrete blocks cobbled together against a wooden frame, with little thought given to comfort or utility. The powdery snow whipped around the buildings, propelled by the stiff breeze as the first of the inhabitants shuffled out of the huts, head bowed, for the daily roll call. In the twilight hour just before dawn, they gathered together and stood outside their huts in a well drilled routine that clearly had been carried out innumerable times in the past.

Dr. Hilary Warnecki knew the roll call could take up to an hour, and the camp inmates had little clothing or possessions to protect them against the cold. Her duty, as mandated by the callous Chief Administrator Barry Sullivan, was to carry out a visual check of the inmates. She needed to assess whether they showed signs of the anthrax-like disease that had swept through the camp like wildfire and continued to fill her limited hospital beds every day. She tried to get through the macabre process as quickly as possible but it still took an hour while the people were forced to stand in line and wait in the cold until the inspection was fully completed. Even the guards – the pretence of using the term 'administrator' had long ceased - stood around bored, smoking to stave off the chill of winter, but at least they were dressed in layers of military clothing designed for the harsh weather. They stood around, watching the inmates keenly, fingering their weapons, cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

It seemed to Hilary that less people attended every day. It was not just the disease that scientists had now called in their usual dispassionate way anthracis hemorrhagic fever that was the killer here (it was named because of its similarity to anthrax and its symptoms but everyone else colloquially called it the 'camp plague'). Hilary and her small group of medical service personnel were confronted with every type of ailment, aggravated by lack of protective clothing, poor shelter, poor nutrition and sanitation, overcrowding and the stresses associated with captivity. The other major stress factor was the circumstances of the camp. Unlike many refugee camps she had worked in throughout the world, this one suffered an undercurrent of fear. The biggest fear was the possibility that people would be taken away by the trains, especially when families were separated, as they often were. No-one seriously believed anymore that they were taken for repatriation to their home country. The prevailing view was that, much like her hospital, the trains were a death sentence. She recalled the last time that people were loaded on the caged trucks for transporting to the train station. There had nearly been a riot as panic-stricken people resisted until the guards quelled the situation by threatening to shoot anyone resisting. For all those that did leave, however, there was a constant influx of new inmates, and despite the turnover of people, the camp was still expanding, forcing more people into already overcrowded buildings.

She inspected a toothless Oriental man of about sixty, his sallow skin hanging in loose folds around his neck. Hilary had seen that before in refugee camps where malnourishment was rife. This man had a large frame, but his body had thinned out so considerably from lack of food and poor nutrition that the stretched skin hung limply. She followed the usual protocol for checking the disease. She shone her intense flashlight into the man's open mouth, searching for signs of ulceration or blood clots in the mouth, an early warning sign of the camp plague. The man silently and compliantly rolled up his filthy sleeves, familiar with the drill. Hilary checked his arms for skin lesions, rapidly turning them over so his skin did not freeze in the bitter cold. Finding his arms clear, she quickly nodded to him to roll his sleeves back up and moved onto the next in line.

In the next row of internees, the boy confidently followed a similar protocol. Ever since Hilary had taken guardianship of him since the traumatic death of his mother, the twelve year-old had worked as her faithful assistant. Byron was bright, and possessed a maturity beyond his years. He had taken on the duties with enthusiasm and passion, as if to do otherwise would consign him to the same miserable existence he saw of others all around him. Byron would someday make a brilliant doctor, she was convinced of that. When he wasn't assisting patients, he spent hours poring over the complex medical journals in her makeshift office. He was highly popular with the patients, more so than the qualified nurses, because he was the only one, herself included, who did not wear protective face masks. Miraculously, Byron had shown immunity to the plague. He worked so closely with infected patients that it was inevitable he would contract the disease. Yet he had ignored her pleas to wear protective clothing and was fully exposed to the toxic atmosphere in the hospital. It was if he truly believed himself to be not just immune but invincible. He had seen what happened to his mother and showed great empathy for the patients, fully aware that their chances of survival were slim.

Byron moved onto the next inmate, a tall middle-aged man with a bushy grey beard, who once would have been stocky, but now merely looked gaunt, as if his frame was too long for his withered muscles to support. He was slightly bent, but even so Byron had trouble reaching his mouth, and stretching up, he accidentally knocked his flashlight against the man's teeth. The man rubbed his mouth and enraged, shoved the boy harshly to the ground.

"I'm sorry!" cried Byron, trying to scramble away, but the man barely heard. He aimed a kick at the boy which did not connect and only grazed his thigh, but he moved forward to kick out again. As Hilary watched in horror, three guards sprinted in and jostled the man to the ground. He curled up into a fetal ball as the soldiers kicked the prone figure, swinging wildly as if they were kicking a football. The man cried out, screaming for mercy, but they were relentless, and Hilary heard the sickening crack of broken bones. In spite of the savagery of the attack, no-one moved to intervene or help the victim, not even the men. Hilary understood why. Most of the men had wives and children who needed them. Reprisals would have been instant and ruthless, and no-one was prepared to risk their life for a relative stranger. In a place like this survival was everything, but that came at a cost, one of which was the loss of humanity.

The soldiers continued to hack away at the prone figure and one beat him with his rifle until the snow around him began to turn red. Hilary could bear it no more. Without thinking she ran into the group and pulled at one of the soldiers.

"Get off him," she screamed. "I'll tell Sullivan!" The soldier turned and for a split second Hilary saw the feral look in his eyes. The frustration and anxiety of the camp guards, knowing that the tide was starting to turn against their masters, was evident in their conduct over recent weeks. As the stress and desperation increased, so did their cruelty. The soldier snarled with hate and raised his weapon to strike Hilary, but his compatriot intervened and grabbed the weapon bearing down on the doctor.

"Stand down Patterson!" the other soldier yelled fiercely. "Don't you know who this is you idiot!" Patterson skulked away, his pride wounded. The soldiers stopped their attack on the man, his broken body twitching on the snowy ground. The soldiers decided to break up the roll call and send the inmates back to the barrack-like buildings. A few men lifted the unconscious man inside. Hilary glanced at Byron. There was deadness in his eyes, as if he had been drained of all emotion, silently watching the men carry the beaten victim back into the shelter. His eyes never turned away or changed expression. It was in that moment that she truly understood what she had suspected for so long. The horrors of this regime would surely leave a lot of damaged children behind. For one young boy, it felt to Hilary that his childhood had ended there and then.

The next few days were busy and frantic for Hilary and her staff. The cases of camp plague continued unabated and the daily cycle of life and death continued routinely. With the limited resources at her disposal, Hilary could do nothing but try and make the lives of those infected as comfortable as possible in the final days. The casualty rate for the camp plague was nearly absolute, although she knew that with better antibiotics and the equipment to treat patients at an earlier stage, the survival rate could be much higher. The nature of the illness, characterized by open skin lesions and sores, meant that patients had to be quarantined in the latter stages of the illness to prevent further spread of the infection. In practice this meant that the worst affected patients were grouped together in one corner of the hospital, which was little more than a huge marquee tent.

Byron continued to help her, running errands with his usual energy, talking to patients and more importantly listening to them. He was a great source of comfort, Hilary was sure, and she felt affection for the boy that went far beyond legal guardianship. She noticed he had been very quiet since the incident outside the barracks. They had not had the chance to talk about what happened, but they had heard that the man beaten by the soldiers had subsequently died even before he arrived at their hospital.

Their mutual intimacy had developed over the last few months as a strong mother-son relationship. As a virtual orphan, Byron had found in Hilary a mother figure to replace the tragic loss of his natural mother Tamara through this terrible disease. Hilary knew Byron continued to grieve, but at the same time had looked to her for the support and love she was happy to give. Byron filled a void in her life that had grown into a chasm over the years. Her response to infertility had been to dive into her work and career throughout the world. It had only served to blind her from the awful reality she did everything to avoid confronting. Unconsciously she yearned for something she could never have, a family of her own, but Byron was as close as she would get. She found herself worrying about him as a mother does her child, and she knew it was out of love.

That concern was uppermost in her mind. Hilary knew Byron well enough to sense he was troubled. She could see the expression on his face, the way he looked. It was a world weary expression, a twelve year-old boy that had seen too much pain in his short life. It was impossible for her to shield him from the harsh realities of their existence. She got the sense from Byron that she should not even try. She had once asked him about her father, but he had been curt in his response, revealing nothing about him other than saying he drank too much and had abandoned him and his mother. He did, however, disclose that his father had tried to rescue them from the camp when they first arrived. That was the last time he had seen his father, and he did not know if he was alive or dead. Hilary had empathized, understanding that not knowing his fate must be agonizing for him. Despite his harsh words about his father, Hilary could see the flame in his eyes, as if he had not yet given up hope of seeing him again. The subject had not been spoken of since, as if it had become taboo.

A boy needs his father, reflected Hilary. The evening before Hilary had seen the effect of the camp on Byron. A man lay dying, and there was little that could be done for him, a common occurrence. One of Hilary's nurses took the man his food and Byron had objected loudly. He insisted that the man's food rations be spread among other patients who had a fighting chance. Hilary had to intervene and it took some time to persuade Byron to let it go. She feared that his environment had made him tougher but also ruthless, understandable given the survival culture and the obsession with food that permeated through the camp. Perhaps it was the sight of families who had gathered at the gates of the camp, holding up their skeletal children in the freezing cold, imploring the authorities to take their offspring because they could no longer feed them. Hilary knew that the children would fare little better inside, but the thought that things were so bad outside their insular camp, where news of the outside was scarce and carefully filtered, alarmed and frightened Hilary.

The closed nature of the camp administration could not, however, prevent the rumours that spread like primitive social media among the inmates. The Chinese whispers had grown in intensity over the last few days, and brought some degree of hope to people desperate to cling onto anything. The rumour was that the United Nations was on the march and would soon liberate them. Some said that they had already passed London and would be here in days, others feared that they were not yet even in the country. No-one knew the truth of course, but the speculation was enough to unsettle the guards who took every opportunity to cruelly exert their authority while they still had it. As Hilary prepared for her meeting with Sullivan, probably the usual pointless request for further supplies, she fervently hoped the rumours were true, if only that Byron could have some vestige of a normal life. Even outside the camp, however, that appeared to be a remote possibility.

## CHAPTER 4

"Hello Julianne. It's been a while."

Julianne merely sneered at Giles Chamberlain, fighting the temptation to rip that self-satisfied expression off his face. The bastard was as smug as ever, she thought, hating the man with every inch of her being. To think she had once slept with him. A tiny voice inside reminded her that he had actually been an accomplished lover, but she dismissed it quickly. Her sheer loathing for the Prime Minister's right hand man surpassed any other emotion she felt at seeing him for the first time in nearly three months.

Since her aborted mission at the Houses of Parliament she had spiralled into a haze of depression. Returning to the bunker, she had been forced to reveal everything to Anatoly Kessler, the arrogant leader of the mercenary cell who liked to be known as 'the Czar.' Kessler had been incandescent with rage, especially as her mission was unauthorized. He had threatened to banish her from their tiny enclosed community, but had little time to consider his options before the invading force arrived. They shot through the hydraulic bunker doors and amassed in the operations centre of the underground chamber, where most of the hackers were bent over their machines. There were at least forty soldiers, and they flooded into the operations centre with their bulky uniforms and guns through the steel hatch like a rush hour tube train to Piccadilly.

They raised their guns at the hapless operatives, ordering them to move away from their computers. They thrust them into one end, opposite the large control screen that displayed satellite images of the Parliament buildings above them. The heated argument between Kessler and Julianne was abruptly halted by a bulky soldier who burst into the room waving his gun wildly and poking it at them, forcing them to assemble with Chen and the rest of the crew. A few soldiers departed in search of other people in the bunker. When everyone was rounded up, the leader of the group took off his black ski mask, revealing a grizzled, battle-hardened face. Julianne remembered his haunting eyes the most. They were like deep black pits, devoid of emotion, and they flicked over the group like a panther eyeing its prey.

"Who cut the media screens?" he asked in a gravelly voice, referring to the successful hijack of the huge high street media screens the previous November. Before anyone could stop him, Hayashi the young Japanese man stepped forward and bowed stiffly. The leader of the assault team towered over Hayashi and he barely had to raise his assault rifle until it was level with the diminutive Japanese man's chest. Without hesitation the soldier fired one shot squarely in the middle of Hayashi's chest. His rasping cry was lost in the deafening recoil of the rifle which bounced with ear-splitting intensity in the confined space. Hayashi staggered forward, clutching his gaping chest, and dropped to the ground immediately. Blood spilled through his fingers, and his eyes were glassy and lifeless even before his head thudded against the metal floor, sending his spectacles sprawling. There were screams of horror from his traumatized comrades and even Kessler was too aghast to protest.

The killer casually holstered his weapon around his shoulder and addressed the group, some spattered with Hayashi's blood. "Let that be a lesson. From now on you only work for us. We tell you what to target and you do it without question or hesitation. You've seen the results of failure to comply. You belong to us now."

In the days and weeks that followed, it became obvious that the invading force were loyal to Chamberlain, but that did not necessarily equate to loyalty to Pelham's regime. Instead of dismantling the group, as Julianne and everyone else including Kessler had fully expected, the soldiers allowed them to continue their cyber-attacks, but under the direction of Captain Mason, the ruthless killer with the soulless eyes. The soldiers tended to rotate so that there were only about ten of them at any particular time. However, their alert nature and heavy firearms made a coup virtually impossible. The soldiers were professional and never let their guard down, hardly ever speaking to Kessler's team except to issue orders. They also controlled food supplies and allowed no-one from the cell to leave, the location of the bunker making it easy to hold the group as hostages.

Presumably following instructions from Chamberlain, Mason ordered attacks on several corporations, including financial and manufacturing businesses. They appeared to be random targets but Julianne suspected it might be connected with the valuable information on the SD card he had stolen from her. In the three months since the Captain's invading force had overrun Kessler's group, the two sides existed in close proximity in a tense détente, following Chamberlain's will but never having seen him. Until today that is.

Now as the Deputy Prime Minister stood in front of her, she wanted to tell him how she had spent endless nights fruitlessly plotting revenge, fantasizing about his painful death. All she could say in response was "What the hell have you done with Harry?"

Chamberlain gave a wry smile. "I honestly don't know Julianne. I am not the Head of the State Security Service. Why are you so interested in him? I never understood your infatuation with him."

"He's twice the man you'll ever be," she spat back.

A bolt of anger crossed his smooth features but he remained composed. "Don't be like that Julianne. We had a good thing going."

"Don't kid yourself. You never cared for me at all. You used me!" she said, her voice shaking.

"People use each other all the time Julianne. It's human nature. I know you're angry at me right now but give it time. We still want the same things Julianne; to see Pelham removed from office."

"Yeah, but not to be replaced by you!" she retorted.

He let out a deep sigh. "I don't have time for this. It's been lovely seeing you again Julianne but I did not come here to see you. Where's Kessler?" He moved to kiss her on the cheek but she quickly stepped aside, incredulous at his audacity. His look of annoyance offered her a tiny piece of pleasure.

As he strode past, a bulky shadow permanently at his shoulder, Chamberlain looked back. "By the way Julianne, you're looking pale. You really ought to get out more." He laughed hollowly at his own quip as he headed toward the Czar's office.

"Forgive me if I don't get up to shake your hand," said Kessler sarcastically.

Chamberlain merely smiled and sat down in the ratty plastic chair opposite Kessler. The presence of the Deputy's stocky bodyguard made the confines of Kessler's office feel even more cramped. He flicked dust off his neatly pressed charcoal Hackett suit. "If I had known it was so dirty down here I would have worn my joggers. You need to improve your decor too. Your furniture is quite depressing."

"What the hell do you want?" snapped Kessler impatiently.

Chamberlain's smile looked as if it were fixed to his face. "Come on Anatoly. We go back a long way. That's no way to talk to an old friend."

"You were never my friend, Chamberlain, let's be clear on that."

Chamberlain's voice carried an edge. "Then let's cut the bullshit. I never believed the stories of your demise. You were far too intelligent to jump off a boat in the Solent, and far too arrogant just to disappear forever. I always thought you would be back. Just for the record, if we had been in power at the time instead of those feeble Labourites, we would have given you the funding and support you needed."

"That's very gratifying," replied Kessler coldly.

"So here we are, and now I am in a position to support you, as long as you follow my direction."

Kessler's voice was choleric as he spoke. "Why the hell should I follow you? Your savages killed one of my best men in cold blood. You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself."

Chamberlain stroked his chin thoughtfully with a perfectly manicured hand. "I agree Mason was over-zealous but it had the desired effect. You're intuitive enough to know who's really in charge here and it's not you. I'm not without compassion. Had I chosen to do things differently, you would probably be sitting on death row waiting for your execution date."

"Your _compassion_ is merely to serve your own ends," argued Kessler.

"Maybe it is but that does not alter the fact that I did not give away your location or even the fact that you exist. Pelham is totally unaware of your cell and his investigative team are still unable to explain these random cyber-attacks. I have had to throw them off the scent a few times but remember Kessler, you work for me. Any attempt to deviate from my instructions and the location will be revealed to the PIA, and the whole army will come crashing down on your head. So do I have your support?"

Kessler reached for a drawer and Chamberlain's bodyguard twitched uncomfortably, instinctively drawing his pistol.

"Put that away you prick!" scowled Kessler, producing a lint brush which he swept across the upper shoulders of his suit. He turned to Chamberlain as he lightly brushed himself. "I see your monkeys are nervous as well as trigger happy."

The Deputy P.M. gave an irritated wave to his bodyguard and glanced at his wristwatch, which monitored his pulse, blood pressure and other health-related data in between telling the time. His heart rate was elevated, reflecting his annoyance. "I need to be at the House in thirty minutes. You know Kessler, our interests are convergent. We both want Pelham removed from power and for sanity to be restored to this country."

"We have one fundamental difference, Chamberlain. We also want to get rid of _you_."

Chamberlain again gave a fixed, stony smile, like turning back to gaze upon Medusa. "Let's hope for your sake you don't outlive your usefulness before you get the chance." His face suddenly brightened. "As for our glorious leader, I think I may have the perfect opportunity for your team..."

## CHAPTER 5

Tapping his fingers against the steel knuckle brace on his left hand, Adam Griffiths regarded the prisoner with a wry smile. He had contemptuously waved the interrogators out of the room and now the two of them were alone. "How are they treating you Harry?"

"Why do you care?" Harry snapped. He tried to hide his fear with a show of bravado. Griffiths' reputation preceded him. A visit from the leader of the nation's secret police force was more than ominous.

Griffiths leaned in closer, the sharp rosewood scent of his cologne drifting in the enclosed air. "I care, Harry because, believe it or not, you are quite important to us. If you were just another political prisoner I can assure you that whatever conditions you have endured, they would be considerably worse elsewhere. Some of the officers in my organization are experts in torture, and they take a sadistic pleasure in it." His dark eyes suddenly danced with amusement. "Imagine being in a dark cell, and all you can hear are the agonized screams of the prisoner in the cell next to you. You can literally hear their bones cracking as they scream for mercy again and again until suddenly it becomes silent, and then you know they're coming for you next. The Bible tells us that Jesus's sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground in the Garden of Gethsemane when he anticipated the pain in store for him. That could be you." He rested his palms on the table, patiently waiting for Harry to respond.

Finally Harry shrugged. "So why isn't it me?"

Griffiths let out a mirthless laugh. "If it was up to me, you would have been hanging from Southwark Bridge with your eyes pecked out by the crows a long time ago. You caused us a lot of trouble with your treasonous broadcasts." He leaned back and let out an exaggerated sigh. "For some strange reason our esteemed Prime Minister has decided that you have some value to him. He has sent me here as an emissary."

Harry locked eyes with Griffiths, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You were highly influential in the short time you made the broadcasts. Lawrence appreciates the value of propaganda. You could be a highly useful asset to him. He might even spare your life, against my advice you understand."

Harry sat back, vigorously shaking his head. He badly wanted to throttle Griffiths but the metal handcuffs dug painfully into his wrists when he tried to move them. "Tell your Prime Minister I don't cut deals with the devil."

Griffiths flexed his left hand, the fingers opening and closing rapidly against the knuckle brace. "Brave but foolish Harry. Mr. Pelham does not make deals as you put it. What the Premier wants the Premier usually gets. You're choices are so limited they are non-existent. However I have been instructed to offer you the chance of seeing Byron again."

Harry sat up alert at the mention of his son. "Okay, I'm listening now."

Griffiths gave that arrogant, crooked smile that Harry desperately wished he could wipe from his face. "I thought you might. Now I have your attention we can get down to business. You could leave this stinking place all behind for a life of luxury if you publicly renounce your views and work for us. Some of the people in Pelham's administration are weak, no stomach for the fight. As soon as things started to get tough, they objected that they had not signed up for the policies the government was pursuing. These cowards will be weeded out, but we need a strong spokesperson, someone who can rouse the masses."

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. "You cannot be serious. I would not work for your regime in a million years!" he spat.

Griffiths' eyes flashed but he retained his composure. "Not even to see your son again?"

Harry strained against his cuffs. "Where the hell is he? I need to know he's alright!"

Griffiths sat back, his mouth curled into a sneer as Harry struggled with his restraints. At length he spoke. "The boy is alive, although my soldiers tell me that conditions in the deportation camps have deteriorated over the winter. He must be missing his mother terribly. You're probably more important to him now than you ever were. I heard you were never much of a father," he taunted.

During his confinement, Harry had descended into the depths of depression as he contemplated his son alone and afraid. His enemy now offered a chance to reach Byron, yet his words were more agonizing than any dark thoughts Harry had conjured up during his long isolation. "That is blackmail," he uttered in a rasping voice.

Griffiths' tone was even. "Call it what you will Harry. I am offering you a way out. If your son is as important as you suggest, then surely his welfare outweighs any political views you might have. Like I said Harry, I am merely a messenger. I had to sacrifice two good men for you so I have absolutely no interest in whether you accept or not, other than the fact that Pelham himself sent me and it would not look good to come back empty-handed. Pelham is interested in you and these are generous terms. You have twenty-four hours to decide. Think of Byron. It's a cruel world and a boy needs his father."

The Head of the Secret Police suddenly stood up and towered over Harry. "Let me add one thing that Pelham did not. I am a firm believer in guilt by association." He pulled his face closer so that Harry could smell his stale tobacco breath. "It would be a terrible shame if something happened to your son. He is alone and afraid Harry and only you can save him." Griffiths stood up to his full height and for a moment Harry thought he was going to smash him in the face. However, he did something far worse. Smiling insidiously, he produced a small steel cylinder and thin surgical gloves from a small black satchel tied round his waist. He put on the gloves and carefully unscrewed the cylinder and took out its contents, a small glass syringe full of cloudy liquid. He took the cap off the syringe and held it ceremoniously in front of Harry, bending over slightly so the needle was directly in front of Harry's eyes.

"Do you know what this is Harry?"

Harry strained at his handcuffs, his panic rising as the malevolent needle filled his vision.

"One of the many lies in your broadcasts, which have been discredited, was that the camp plague had been manufactured by our own physicians as part of the population solution. Well guess what, I used my influence to acquire a small sample of the plague. It is shatterproof Perspex but even so I have to handle it carefully you understand."

Harry shot up, kicked his chair away and cowered in the corner of the blank room. He wanted to lash out but the handcuffs bit into his wrists as he struggled. "You wouldn't," he gasped.

Griffiths merely smiled. "Wouldn't I?" He motioned to the door and the Professor and the Skunk rushed in and, standing either side, pulled him by his shackled arms until he stood directly in front of Griffiths, who held the needle aloft. Harry struggled but his captors held him in a vice-like grip.

"You may have some value to Pelham. I'm not sure why but in these troubled times it is necessary for leaders to take executive decisions. This is for Bruce and Ethan." Griffiths raised the syringe still further and plunged it into Harry's neck, pressing his thumb on the plunger so the liquid in the barrel was released into Harry's bloodstream. Harry fell to his knees and his two captors allowed him to sink to the floor.

Harry's vision blurred, Griffith's black jackboots filling his field of vision. He fought to stay conscious; his mind barely able to comprehend the agony and revulsion at what Griffiths had just done to him.

Griffiths gave a short laugh. "Oh Harry what a drama! Do you think I would take the risk of carrying the disease on my person? It is a saline mix, quite harmless, except a little unpleasant to someone like you with your aversion to needles. Remember, twenty-four hours." With that he strode out of the room as the interrogators lifted Harry like a dead weight into the steel chair.

"Let's get you cleaned up," said the professor. As he began to release his prisoner's shackles, Harry threw up all over his shoes.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL FEBRUARY 24

Speculation surrounding the fate of rebel activist Harry Clarke was finally resolved today with the announcement that the Crown Prosecution Service, had formally indicted Clarke on charges of murder, high treason and various terror related crimes. Clarke was not present at the preliminary hearing at the Old Bailey where an application for bail by a court appointed lawyer was swiftly denied and a fast track trial date set for early March. Following the brief hearing, a lawyer in the CPS prosecutor's office emphasized that the Crown would be seeking only one outcome in this case – the death penalty. Given the crimes that Clarke is accused of, it is not surprising; however the announcement was greeted with outrage in international circles.

Calls as to his whereabouts have long gone unanswered. After causing the Pelham administration huge embarrassment with his sensational revelations of atrocities by government forces, supported by apparently genuine footage, he suddenly fell off the radar in early December. He is widely credited with starting the ripple effect that has put the government under intense pressure, particularly in the international community. His next broadcast was widely anticipated, but as the silence stretched from days into weeks, it became clear that Harry Clarke had become another one of the 'disappeared.' It was feared that his fate would be that of so many political dissidents, simply never heard of again.

The irony is that the government, through the judiciary, is keen to show that it is not impervious to international opinion. By putting Harry Clarke on trial under the intense glare of the world's media, there is still some respect for the democratic process, assuming he is given a fair hearing. Many commentators are already writing it off as a show trial, speculating that his fate is already sealed. Indeed, reports abound as to whether he will be put to death by firing squad, the preferred method of execution for this regime. Amnesty International has declared him as a 'prisoner of conscience' whilst Human Rights Watch has declared him a priority case, publicly urging the government to ensure that he receives proper representation and that the trial follows the due process of law.

It is not yet known just what degree of access the international media will have to the trial. Given the increasingly secretive and isolated nature of the regime, it is likely the judicial process will disclose little to the outside world, making it impossible to determine if Clarke receives a fair trial or not. As soon as the trial date was announced, many European journalists including some from Reuters submitted their applications for entry permits for the trial. Whether any overseas journalist is given access remains to be seen.

A message quickly followed from an anonymous group promising disruption to the trial. Given recent successful cyber-attacks on key infrastructure points, it would suggest that this is not an idle threat. In the past couple of months, key installations controlled by central government, including a research facility in Watford and the underground communications facility known unofficially as Q-Whitehall have been targeted by damaging cyber-attacks. The perpetrators have not been identified, and no group has claimed responsibility. It is clear that whoever is behind the attacks represent a clear and present danger for State authorities, which are more reliant on computer based systems and therefore more vulnerable than any previous administration in history. Party spokesman and Deputy Prime Minister Giles Chamberlain denounced these anonymous hackers as terrorists intent on derailing Pelham's administration, stating confidently that they would be rooted out from whatever hole they were languishing in. Despite this robust and colourful rhetoric, it has long been recognized that the government's cyber defence capabilities are highly fallible, and vulnerable to more attritional attacks, with the hackers enjoying the advantage of surprise.

The severe pressure that Lawrence Pelham has been under, however, was eclipsed by the tragic news that his loyal wife, Lady Helen Pelham, was killed when her car was attacked on the way to the Prime Minister's country estate at Chequers, where the P.M. was due to join her in a few days. It's unclear why she was travelling unaccompanied, without even a bodyguard, but reports suggest that her car was forced off the road by a gang of vigilantes who subsequently assaulted and beat her to death. The car was pillaged and burnt, leaving police with few clues, and it is unclear if Lady Helen's identity was known to the attackers.

The Prime Minister's office released a sombre written statement. It asked for privacy and understanding at this difficult time whilst the Prime Minister grieved the tragic and senseless loss of his beloved wife. The statement continued, however, that the P.M. 'would not rest until the perpetrators of this heinous crime had been brought to justice to the fullest extent of the law.'

A special task force of the National Criminal Police Service has been set up by its leader Sir Robin Duncan, who has promised unlimited resources so that 'no stone will go unturned in the hunt for these criminals.'

Meanwhile at buildings across the nation, Union Jacks are being flown at half-mast as a mark of respect for Lady Helen. Like everything else in this fractured country, her death has divided opinion, another sorrowful event to add to the litany of suffering the nation has endured in the past year.

## CHAPTER 6

The tense atmosphere in the elegant War Room was palpable. Chamberlain glanced at the Prime Minister as he poured a glass of water from the carafe. It was a crisp Thursday evening, and if one cared to peer out of the windows they would have witnessed a spectacular London sunset, the last golden rays of the sun setting the wispy clouds on fire. It glimmered against the spires of old Kensington churches and distant concrete and steel towers west of Hammersmith, many of them now just burnt out shells. Whether the sun would set on Pelham's administration, the next few weeks and months would tell, but Chamberlain knew as well as anyone the pressure he was under. The nation's leader looked strained, his bloodshot eyes framed by puffy bags of sallow skin, his boast of only sleeping four hours a night never looking more true.

Chamberlain had also noticed a subtle shift in the attitude of the assembled Cabinet toward Pelham. Perhaps emboldened by the intense pressure from the United Nations, the politicians around the table were less acquiescent. The Deputy's eyes and ears told him what he needed to know. Mutiny was brewing in the corridors of power, from hushed whispers in dark alcoves to secret meetings behind closed doors. He was aware that several of them were planning an exit strategy, concerned only to save their own hides. They were cowards, he thought contemptuously.

The usual formalities over, Pelham turned his piercing gaze to Angus Shaw, the Homeland Security Minister.

"Mr. Shaw, your report please."

The corpulent minister ran a chubby hand through his red hair and fingered with his touchscreen tablet. Before he could begin, however, he was interrupted by a delicate but firm cough further down the long table.

"May I interject?" The voice came from Eleanor Beaufort, the Secretary of State for Health.

"Yes?" Pelham's voice masked his irritation. Chamberlain knew he had always had a soft spot for his Health Secretary, but was never quite sure whether the attraction was sexual or otherwise, given their relative ages.

Beaufort stood up, adjusted her half-moon spectacles and cleared her throat as all eyes at the table turned to her. She had a willowy elegance to her, a refined quality that emanated from her every time she spoke. It was not just her flawless porcelain skin that belied the fact she was in her late fifties; she possessed a natural grace in her actions and movement that reminded Chamberlain of the several royal women he had met in his political career. Only the faint lines around her eyes and the strands of silver hair betrayed her true age, but she was still a striking woman.

Chamberlain knew Pelham felt the same, and his affection for the Health Secretary had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the Cabinet. Her affinity with the Prime Minister had elevated her to the status of unofficial spokesperson for the Cabinet.

"Mr. Prime Minister, may I be perfectly frank. It my opinion, and the opinion of most of my colleagues around the table that you have been under considerable strain lately and - " she hesitated, as if calculating what to say next - "it has affected your ability to make decisions in the best interests of the country." She continued standing, peering at the Prime Minister. Chamberlain noticed a slight tremor in her hands. It was the type of comment that could result in a one way ticket to a deportation camp for less respected Party members, but Pelham merely twitched.

"How so?" he said finally.

Beaufort continued, trying to keep her voice even. "Mr. Prime Minister, I'm sure I speak on behalf of all the Cabinet in expressing my sincere condolences for your tragic loss. I cannot comprehend what you must be going through. You have been under enormous pressure lately, especially given the continuing civil unrest and the UN knocking at our door. We are concerned that some of your directives may, eh, escalate the current situation."

"Really?" replied Pelham condescendingly, as if humouring a child.

"Well yes-"

"Is there one particular directive you are concerned about, Miss Beaufort?"

Beaufort took off her spectacles and laid them by her tablet. "Harry Clarke," she said simply.

"Ah, yes. Harry Clarke, a terrorist and murderer."

"Alleged," corrected Beaufort gently.

Pelham snorted with derision. "There is no alleged to it, Miss Beaufort. I am confident that the judicial process will run its course and find this criminal guilty of all charges. Harry Clarke is one of the most notorious criminals in our prison system."

"He is also considered an international icon, a symbol of the fight against an oppressive regime," Beaufort persisted. "Not my words. I'm quoting from the UN's recent British Situation Report. He has as much influence incarcerated as he did when he was broadcasting."

Pelham's voice betrayed his irritation. "He committed treason when he spoke out against our beloved country with his catalogue of lies and vicious propaganda. Clarke is a cancer that has to be cut away."

"How many of them are lies?" objected Beaufort, her eyes peering intently over the rim of her spectacles.

There was an audible gasp around the table. No-one had seen Pelham challenged so overtly and directly by any Cabinet member. Chamberlain felt the tension in the room rack up a notch and glanced at the Prime Minister. His eyes narrowed and face reddened at this unexpected provocation. The Health Secretary had clearly got under his skin. In the heavy silence that followed, all faces turned to the Prime Minister, eagerly anticipating his response.

When he spoke again, his voice was measured, a low drawl. "May I caution you not to take this any further Eleanor," he began, ignoring the usual protocol of using last names in the meeting. "This is a rocky road you are venturing down. Do not challenge me on how to run my country," he warned.

A dissenting voice suddenly arose from an unexpected quarter. Angus Shaw rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and clutched at his leather chair for support, but his voice was firm. "Isn't that our job, Mr. Prime Minister? We have watched you steer this country to the edge of ruin and devastation. We are international pariahs because of your policies." He breathed heavily, his broad face flushed with sweat as incredulous eyes turned to him. "This Cabinet has allowed you free reign to create a climate of oppression not just over us but over the whole country. You have hidden most of the atrocities from us but we know the truth. We cannot continue as a puppet Cabinet while you continue dragging this country through its worst crisis since the War."

Pelham clapped his hands sarcastically. "A very noble, if misguided speech Mr. Shaw. I didn't know you had it in you." His tone darkened. "Now shut the hell up and sit down!"

Shaw was not finished however. "I will not Mr. Prime Minister. Hear me out. Whilst I sympathize with your loss-"

"I don't want your sympathy!" snapped Pelham.

Shaw continued, committed to his action. "The country is riven by disease and civil war and our reputation and standing in the international community has been destroyed. All under your watch." He made a sweeping gesture with one hand. "My colleagues and I have to bear some responsibility. We are culpable for being too weak and allowing all of this chaos to happen. It's time to put an end to this-"

"An end to what exactly?" interrupted Pelham. "I've heard quite enough Mr. Shaw. You should have listened when I told you to sit down."

He snapped his fingers and the two bodyguards standing discreetly in the corner sprang forward, abruptly animated from their statue-like poses. They moved with feline grace, bounding across the room until they stood either side of the Minister. Shaw stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend this abrupt turn of events, but Chamberlain saw fear reflected in his eyes. One of the bodyguards landed a fierce chop to his fleshy neck and the Minister dropped to the polished wooden floor, grasping at the table as he did so, sending a glass decanter smashing to the floor with him. Shaw cried out in agony and clutched his neck, and the other Cabinet members hastily moved back, shocked at what they were witnessing. The clear space around the sprawling Minister allowed the other bodyguard to press his heavy military-style boot on Shaw's neck and he pressed hard. The Minister's eyes bulged and he gasped for breath, his heavy body twitching like a fish plucked from the river.

Pelham got up and stood over his fallen Minister. "Mr. Shaw, I always thought you were foolish but I never thought you were stupid enough to challenge me so publicly. You fail to see the bigger picture, what I am trying to achieve. There is no room in the Cabinet for weak-minded bureaucrats like you. I will expect your resignation in the morning."

The Minister was unable to speak and his face was now a shade short of beetroot, but on a short nod from the P.M., the bodyguard released his boot. Shaw lay there wheezing and rubbing his neck. The Cabinet members looked on, too shocked to object. Pelham returned to the head of the table and addressed them, smoothing his stylish chequered tie. "This is a long term project still in its infancy. When I came to power less than a year ago I promised reform and a return to a more traditional British way of life, free form the invasive presence of immigrants that have diluted our culture and undermined our identity. I truly believe that we are at the dawn of a new British Empire. I never promised that it would be easy. There would be tough choices to make, some bitter medicine to swallow. It has taken considerable sacrifice and courage to get us this far, and it will take significantly more before we realize our vision. If you cannot share that vision like Mr. Shaw here-" he made a sweeping gesture of his hand toward the soon to be former Homeland Security Minister, who was now being dragged out of the room by the burly guards- "maybe it is time for you to consider your own position. If you do not possess the strength and fortitude I need from you over my term of office, then tell me now, because we need to be united, and dissent will be not be tolerated."

Pelham looked over his Cabinet expectantly. Apart from a few murmurs, there was no dissent from the assembly. Pelham sat down and nonchalantly poured himself a glass of water from a crystal decanter and picked up his tablet. "Now, let's get back to business shall we?"

## CHAPTER 7

When she received the summons to see Pelham in his private office the following Monday morning, Eleanor Beaufort was originally fearful. The Prime Minister had become as unpredictable as the policies he imposed without consultation on his Cabinet and the people. Under his stewardship she had seen the country plunged into a morass of human misery; yet he remained dogmatic in his approach. Dissent was not tolerated, as evidenced by his disgraceful display of force at the Cabinet meeting several days before. How culpable was the Cabinet in allowing this to happen? They were supposed to be his advisers, to challenge and debate his policies. These were all the hallmarks of a democratic society, but that notion had been cast aside long ago. They had stood by, as powerless as the man in the street, while Pelham bullied them into submission. She wished they were stronger.

Eleanor knocked once and as she entered his elegant wood-panelled office, noted with relief that his usual bodyguards were absent. Pelham was writing studiously at his desk, his face bathed in the soft glow of the extended table lamp. Eleanor knew the pressure he was under, but the diffuse light made him look relaxed, younger even. A picture flashed through her mind of the day he had taken office and addressed the media. His features were refined, sporting the chiseled, athletic gaze of a strong and charismatic leader, a man who would lead the country out of darkness.

On that day in May last year, she had been proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with Lawrence Pelham. He promised to lead Britain out of the wilderness years of the Great Recession, determined to haul Britain back to its rightful standing in the world; not the sickly, third world nation it had been reduced to under the stewardship of the last Labour government. Those dreams had quickly evaporated when the man was unmasked to show his true self. She had clung on, more out of fear than loyalty, her role as Health Secretary rendered virtually useless under the onslaught of the mysterious plague that had swept through the deportation camps and threatened to go 'mainstream.' She guessed that this was why she had been summoned, yet she felt powerless to stop the disease from entering the general population. The Health Protection Agency had consistently denied her access to sensitive medical records despite repeated requests, undermining her ability to make informed decisions at the national level.

"Ah, Eleanor, come in come in," he smiled amiably, gesturing to the leather-backed chair across his desk.

She gave a tight smile and sat down.

"Thank you for coming," he continued. "I'll get straight to the point. Since Harry Clarke's outrageous suggestion during his illegal broadcasts that the camp plague has been engineered by our scientists, there have been some ugly accusations regarding my own knowledge, or even worse, involvement. It demonstrates to me how, in this information age, it is easy for someone to spread lies and vicious propaganda to further their own ends at the expense of the truth. He has tarnished my reputation, but I want to tell you here and now that his claims are utterly without foundation."

Eleanor did her best to feign surprise but his look told her he was not convinced. The rumours were about as secret as his affair with his private secretary had been until her untimely death in the Pennines.

"I have always had great respect for your opinion Eleanor. It hurts me to think that you might consider me capable of such a terrible atrocity. I confess that I have not been entirely candid with you, but I want to prove to you that this disease is not of our making, and that we are doing everything we can to fight it and find a cure."

Eleanor's voice betrayed her scepticism. "How do you propose to do that?"

The Prime Minister paused, as if considering his response. "We have a secret facility in an industrial area on the outskirts of Watford. I never told you about it and perhaps on reflection I should have trusted you more."

"Have I ever done anything to betray your trust Lawrence?" She posed the question almost as a challenge, as she had always found it difficult to gauge exactly what he thought of his Cabinet members.

"No you haven't," he conceded. "Which is why I want to take you to the facility - to show you the efforts we are making to contain this terrible disease. It is only through the efforts of these heroic medics that the disease has not escaped into the general population."

"Why was I not told of this before?" she said testily. "I'm the Health Secretary for God's sake!"

Pelham's leather chair squeaked as he shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, yes, you're right. I should have told you. I did not want to advertise its existence and give people false hope of a vaccine until we made a breakthrough. We are still not sure if we will succeed at all. This is one of the most virulent pathogens that our doctors have faced. If it continues unchecked it has the potential to be as devastating as the Zika virus was in the developing world ten years ago. I can assure you we are working round the clock to fight this thing. I want to make up for my lack of trust and show you everything. You can be a great advocate for my cause Eleanor."

"Why are you showing me now? Does that mean they are close to a breakthrough?" Beaufort asked hopefully.

"We will know more when we get there," he said evasively.

"So when are we going?"

He glanced at his Rolex. "In three hours."

When Eleanor Beaufort had left, seemingly appeased, Pelham sat in his study, contemplating. He knew that his autocratic style had endowed him with many followers but with few friends. Beaufort was someone he was keen to place in the latter category, particularly as her influence among her colleagues on the Cabinet had risen substantially. As a result, he had gone to considerable trouble to garner Beaufort's support, at least as far as the health issue was concerned. Lord knows he needed the support. He was not immune to the public opinion and vitriol that had effectively forced him to become a virtual recluse in the corridors of power.

He picked up his tablet and his fingers danced over the touch keyboard while he inserted his earpiece. A breathless voice at the other end of his secure line answered. "Good afternoon Mr. Prime Minister."

Pelham waived the pleasantries. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes sir. It will be an honour to see you again," the voice gushed almost reverently.

"Good. I expect this to go smoothly. I want her to see only what we want her to see. No slip ups."

"Of course not, sir. We look forward to welcoming you shortly."

Pelham signed off, not bothering to reply. Doctor Raymond Heath was such a sycophant, he thought contemptuously. The head of the government's clandestine research facility had, however, been a faithful servant and a willing participant in Pelham's elaborate deception.

## CHAPTER 8

Chamberlain had never liked Griffiths. He failed to understand why the Prime Minister had given this loathsome bigot such an exalted position within his regime. But then as the Deputy had discovered all too often, especially during the last few months, Pelham's judgement was fatally flawed. At least he and Pelham shared a common bond as highly educated and articulate public school and Oxbridge alumni. Adam Griffiths was just a former boot boy from the British National Party that transformed itself into the radical far-right movement known as the Fight to Return England to the English ('FREE'). This reviled street force with its open policy of brutal violence and intimidation had helped to create the climate of hatred and resentment of immigrants that ignited the whole crusade against them, a cornerstone of Pelham's five-year plan.

Griffiths had enjoyed a meteoric rise to become the Head of the People's Independent Army and the State Secret Police. He was now one of the most powerful political figures in the country. Chamberlain fully understood the realities all too well. It would be unwise to make an enemy of such an influential figure, particularly as, like Pelham, he had a reputation for volatility. Their mutual antipathy merely simmered like two angry neighbours staring at each other over the fence. He was taking a huge risk in coming here but the discreet enquiries his team had made had convinced him that Griffiths and he shared a common view.

Suffering the ignominy of a full body search did not help his mood. He was ushered in by Griffiths' Chief of Staff, Ramsey, who looked like a pugilist from the nineteen-fifties, with a temperament to match. The Deputy P.M. barely acknowledged the hand that was extended to him. Griffiths, dressed in his customary black turtleneck sweater and combat trousers, merely gave an ironic smile and smoothed down his thinning straw-coloured hair.

"I assume we can talk freely?" asked Chamberlain.

"Of course," replied Griffiths. "It may not be as fancy as Pelham's little basement at Chequers but we sweep regularly. It's clean."

"What the hell was the body search for?" spat the Deputy P.M.

Griffiths turned his back and peered out of his window. Spread before him, the vast expanse of the metropolis of London, bisected by the River Thames, gleamed in the late winter sunshine. "You can't be too careful in these times Giles. I apologize if it caused you any inconvenience."

Chamberlain snorted derisively, unimpressed by the lack of sincerity in Griffiths' voice. "Let's get to it shall we. I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to."

"You called this meeting," Griffiths countered, turning to face his political associate.

"You know why I'm here. Let's not waste time on pointless chatter. We don't have much time. I need your support."

Griffiths placed one hand on his high-backed leather chair, as if to steady himself from the shock of what he had heard. "You need my support?" he said with an incredulous laugh. "Now there is irony for you. From the man who has the ear of the Prime Minister and has used it to undermine me at every opportunity. I see the chatter on social media you know."

"You're still here aren't you?" protested Chamberlain.

"Maybe because he doesn't listen to you as much as you think. What possible reason would I have for supporting you?" Griffiths challenged.

"This is not about personal relationships. There needs to be a changing of the guard. You've seen what Pelham has become. The man is a despot, we all knew that, but now he is far too unbalanced to remain in control. He has brought this country to the brink of ruin."

"Really? I agree that the pace of change has been far more rapid than even I thought, but my forces have the situation well under control. We will be immigrant free well within the five years that Pelham projected."

Chamberlain rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Don't delude yourself Adam. Every day we see new enemies emerging. You squash one resistance and others step in to take their place. We will never be free of terrorists while we continue the path that Pelham is intent on."

Griffiths ambled over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a small glass of whiskey. He offered a glass to Chamberlain who merely shook his head. "You have taken every step of that path with him," he said pointedly. "I'm assuming that the 'changing of the guard' as you so eloquently put it is in favour of you? What makes you think you can be a credible alternative to Pelham?"

"I can ensure we don't lose focus, but more importantly that we don't completely isolate ourselves from the world community. The UN sanctions are killing us. We need to soften our hard-line approach. Pelham thinks the universe ends at the cliffs of Dover."

Griffiths sipped at his drink, grimacing as the burning liquid rolled down his throat. "He's still a better leader than you'll ever be," he taunted.

Chamberlain could feel the temperature rising in his face. If Griffiths was trying to needle him, it was damned well working. "Let me tell you how Pelham works. He keeps you in power just so long as he finds you useful, but like all of us you're a puppet that he manipulates. Jesus, he killed his own wife when she became a liability to him!"

"I heard she was abducted by a criminal gang on the way to Chequers."

"Yes that's true, only she wasn't on the way to Chequers. She was driving _away_ from Chequers when she was attacked. This was engineered by people loyal to Pelham. I thought you might have had a hand in this before I made my enquiries."

"So he killed his wife. What does that prove?" said Griffiths casually.

Chamberlain placed his palms on Griffiths' polished wooden desk and leaned forward so that their faces were only inches apart. "You don't get it do you? Your forces have failed to crush the resistance movement and the streets are more dangerous than ever. They are worse now than when his cavalcade was attacked in the autumn. Your army's attempts to restore order and subdue any resistance have failed miserably. Have you been out in the field recently? The sanctions against this nation and the continual fighting have demoralized your men. Many have not been paid for weeks, even those that have can barely feed their families. It's not just the immigrant population that is facing a battle to survive."

"My men are loyal to me!" responded Griffiths fiercely.

"For how long? They can't continue like this. It just needs a few agitators to create dissension in the ranks and the whole thing will spread like wildfire. You've built your house on a deck of cards Griffiths."

Chamberlain observed Griffith's disturbed expression and he knew he had hit a nerve. The leader of the nation's army and its secret police had a reputation for being distant, as if the elevated status bestowed upon him by the Prime Minister rendered him above the ordinary concerns of the men who served him. Chamberlain mused that Griffiths would be the last one to know of a revolt, and he decided to press home his advantage. "You lose their loyalty and you will lose Pelham's support."

"I control this country's army. They do what I say!" Griffiths responded petulantly, clearly rattled.

Chamberlain nonchalantly stepped round the wooden desk to stand by the window, peering out at the sunlit metropolis. Chamberlain could tell this small act of trespass irritated Griffiths and he smiled inwardly. He spotted a number of small fires burning in the distance, and many buildings bore the scars of the conflict that had raged since Pelham had first declared martial law the previous summer. "They may listen to you at present but that can quickly change, and the tide is turning. You've seen what Pelham is capable of. Remember Canary Wharf."

Griffiths scowled at the reminder, when the Prime Minister's mysterious enforcer had almost thrown him off the top of the massive eight-hundred foot high tower at One Canada Square.

"It may be convenient for Pelham to keep you in power for now, but things can and will change quickly. Harry Clarke's military trial started today and just because the process is behind closed doors, we all know how that will end. A fast track trial like this may last only three days; and when the sentence is announced, there will be anarchy in the streets. Your men will lose grip and then Pelham will lose faith in you. You won't see it coming until it's too late and – to use a quaint old Mafia expression – you'll end up swimming with the fishes."

Griffiths' face flushed with anger. "Are you threatening me?"

Chamberlain turned from the impressive vista. The sun had dropped behind a cloud, sending a huge shadow racing across the city. "On the contrary Adam. Whilst you may consider Pelham a better leader than me, I can assure you that I am less prone to snap judgments. I don't necessary like the way the PIA carries out its duties, but under my administration you can at least be assured of a more stable tenure."

Griffiths flopped into his leather chair, downing the last of his whiskey. "We offered Clarke a compromise and he refused to take it. He deserves everything he gets."

"That may be true, but it does not hide the fact that it may not just be pockets of insurgents we will be fighting if we execute Clarke. We have to take bold action now or the window of opportunity will be lost. The corporate sponsors have sanctioned my approach."

Griffiths bolted upright in his chair. "What do you know about the corporate sponsors?"

Chamberlain gave a satisfied smile. "Everything I need to know. The Prime Minister could not expect to hide it from me for ever. He's been lining his own pockets while people like you do his dirty work. I have met with a delegation from those sponsors. They have grown deeply concerned over the turn of events and are rapidly losing faith in Pelham's ability to control the situation. I offered them a viable alternative."

"Under your leadership of course?"

"Naturally, but I can offer a better way, a more accessible government that is willing to negotiate rather than to bludgeon any opposition into submission. I will still achieve the same goals, only without the collateral damage. Pelham has become more obdurate by the day, and the sponsors are rapidly losing faith in his judgment. They are also concerned about his probity. They suspect he has enriched himself personally from their coffers. The problem is that Pelham thinks he is infallible, beholden to no-one, even his benefactors. No-one is infallible but Pelham is living in this cocoon of invincibility he has created for himself. It's just a matter of time before he goes. I am just planning ahead."

Chamberlain watched Griffiths carefully as he sat there pensively, probably contemplating the fact that the corporate sponsors were now in open dialogue with him. Clearly Griffiths had known of them before Chamberlain had retrieved them from Julianne after she broke into Pelham's office. It irritated him that the Prime Minister had revealed their existence to Griffiths and not to him, as if this fascist could be trusted. However, he knew Griffiths was not naive enough to ignore the implications. With the corporate sponsors wavering, it became a case of which horse to back. He was confident that Griffiths' appreciation of just how powerful the corporate sponsors were would be sufficient to convince him, and he sensed a breakthrough.

"So what do you propose?" Griffiths said finally.

"I happen to know that Pelham will be taking one of his rare excursions outside his ivory tower tonight, this time by train to and from Watford. I will have the coordinates and timing sent to you by secure message."

"He's taking a train. So what?"

Chamberlain's voice was condescending, as if he were addressing a child. "We do what Faisal Khorasani failed to do at Wembley. We assassinate the Prime Minister."

## CHAPTER 9

Sitting atop a raised dais at the front of the tatty courtroom, the three presiding officers studiously consulted their notes. Above them, carved into the faded mahogany panels was the Royal Coat of Arms of the United Kingdom, a crowned lion and a shackled unicorn, each on their hind legs supporting the Royal Shield. The vibrant red and gold brought a splash of colour to the otherwise muted, austere surroundings. Only a Union Jack flag fixed to a pole on either side of the dais provided further relief from the dark wood-panelled room. The formerly grand space had seen better days. Its grey carpet was stained and threadbare and the wooden benches were chipped and bleached with age. The courtroom was set deep in the bowels of the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, the ancient wall lighting making little impact on the gloom of the windowless court.

The officers glanced up as the accused appeared from a gallery below and was half dragged by two heavily armed soldiers into the dock facing them. The dock had been specially adapted into a cage and only when the officers had secured him inside did they release his handcuffs through a slit in the cage. Dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit, the prisoner faced the judges, and the middle seated officer, Judge Advocate General Thomas E. Hodgson or 'old Tom' as he was affectionately known in the Bar, peered over his horn-rimmed spectacles at him. "The special Tribunal in the matter of Harry Clarke is now in session. God bless this Tribunal and the sovereign nation of England," he announced stiffly and banged his gavel.

Clarke regarded the silver-haired octogenarian keenly. It was almost a compliment that such a distinguished legal luminary presided over his trial. His hard-line reputation stretched beyond military circles, such was his influence over some of the most high profile military tribunals in the last quarter century. His wrinkled face betrayed his advancing years but his square jaw and strong visage still carried a youthful vigour, and his eyes were clear and intense. It was an expression that had struck fear into the accused and their defence lawyers for many years. Acquittals from Judge Advocate Hodgson were as rare as an honest politician in Whitehall. His fellow officers on either side looked older than him, and they sat motionless like ancient stone statues.

"Harry Clarke," Hodgson began stiffly, "you stand accused of various crimes against the State." He nodded to the Court Clerk, a ferret-like creature in a wrinkled pin-stripe suit, who quickly stood up and read the charges directly from the tablet in front of him. He began by reciting the first degree murder of Graham Matheson, the original charge that had sent him on the run in the first place. Other charges included involvement in the attempt to assassinate the Prime Minister, plotting with a terrorist organization to overthrow the State, spreading false propaganda as well as a slew of other charges. It took the Clerk nearly five minutes to read. He turned to Judge Advocate Hodgson, who continued to glare down at Harry as if insulted by his presence.

"How do you plead, Prisoner Clarke?" All eyes turned to Harry expectantly.

Harry answered with all the strength his weakened body could muster. His diet had improved recently, as if they were fattening him up for the trial, but the months of captivity had taken its toll. "Not guilty."

Hodgson knitted his bushy eyebrows together in irritation that there would be no quick resolution to proceedings. He whispered to his aged colleagues on either side, who nodded in assent, before addressing Harry. "Very well," he said gravely, "Let the trial begin. I assume your legal counsel has explained your rights during this process?" He nodded to Harry's lawyer, Peter Stanworth, who sat nervously playing with his tie at a small desk facing the dais.

"Yes your Honour. He explained that I have no rights," retorted Harry.

There were a few gasps and murmurs from the small group assembled in the public gallery, most of who looked to Harry like Army officials. Hodgson rapped his gavel in annoyance. "Prisoner Clarke, you will respect these proceedings or I will find you in contempt of court. This is your first warning," he admonished him like a headmaster scolding a pupil, while the court stenographer tapped furiously at her tablet.

Stanworth looked crestfallen and inspected the patterns on the worn floor. Harry looked across at his legal representative. They had travelled together across London from Belmarsh Prison to the Strand in virtual silence, seated as they were in a windowless Black Maria under the watchful eye of four heavily armed soldiers. The journey had taken an hour, and carried out under cover of darkness to avoid unwanted attention. They had arrived before dawn and since then Harry had been placed in a holding cell while Stanworth went off to grab some coffee and do everything he could to avoid talking to his client.

Harry found Stanworth to be the most incompetent lawyer he had ever come across. Appointed by the court, a mandatory measure in potential death sentence cases, he had troubled Harry from the outset when he proudly informed him that he had represented Faisal Khorasani. The Muslim teenager had been executed in Belmarsh Prison, probably in the yard not far from Harry's cell, for trying to assassinate Lawrence Pelham. After the initial meeting, Harry had made a motion to dismiss counsel and to represent himself. His motion had been flatly denied on the basis that an accused was not permitted to dismiss counsel in a military Tribunal where the potential penalty was capital punishment, due to the risk of a mistrial. In addition, he could not choose his own counsel, as it had to be a lawyer who had been granted security clearance. Stanworth informed him that these provisions resulted from the passing of the Military Tribunals Act that Pelham had forced through Parliament last year in order to speed up the trial process for 'enemy combatants.'

One thing Stanworth possessed was deep knowledge of the military justice system, due to his intimate acquaintance with it. In the few pre-trial meetings they had been allowed, Stanworth explained that the new system extended military 'justice' to civilians accused of crimes against the State, much as the United States Department of Defence had created for Guantanamo Bay detainees at the turn of the century. It essentially transferred the administration of justice from the judiciary to the executive branch of government. This meant that the normal rights permitted to the accused such as habeas corpus and rights of discovery to view the evidence against them no longer applied. It also allowed for a swifter process, as no juries were involved, just three presiding officers. A two to one majority was sufficient to convict. Stanworth estimated that the trial would last no longer than three days.

The previous evening they had been allowed a short time in one of the bare, sanitized interrogation rooms, the chemical smell of chlorine almost overpowering. "Why can I not see the evidence against me?" Harry protested to his lawyer. "How am I supposed to defend myself? How are you supposed to defend me?"

Stanworth merely gave a sardonic smile. "You have to understand their position. While these courts are not open to the public or reported in the media they are still recorded. If a matter comes up or information is revealed that is adverse to the national interest or exposes secrets prejudicial to the State, it cannot be disclosed."

"How do I possibly see or refute any of the accusations made against me?"

"You don't."

"But what if the prosecution concocts a tissue of lies against me?"

"There is very little you can do except stand up and talk in your defence, although there are some strict rules in terms of what you can and cannot say. That is your chance to stake your credibility, to get the Tribunal to believe you."

"You sound like you are on their side," Harry said bitterly.

"I am merely relaying the facts," Stanworth countered casually. "Oh, and one other thing. Any information extracted by torture is inadmissible, but torture is defined fairly narrowly." He glanced at his tablet. "For abuse to count as physical torture, it has to cause pain equivalent to that accompanying organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death. To qualify as mental torture, the abuse has to cause, and even be intended to cause, psychological harm that lasts months or years. This is set out in Pelham's Military Tribunals Act, using guidelines produced by the U.S. Justice Department after 9/11. Any evidence produced by coercive or interrogation techniques are purely admissible. I have studied your file and your treatment falls into the latter category."

"You mean I was never tortured?"

"Correct, not within the definitions set out in the Act."

"It sure felt like I was tortured. So now the government is trying to legitimize what it did to me?"

"Of course. It was all done on the grounds of national security," replied Stanworth as if it was a purely natural activity.

They discussed their strategy for the trial and it left Harry more depressed than ever. It was clear that while Stanworth had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the trial process, his ability to analyze the facts or to develop a robust defence was virtually non-existent. It felt to Harry that the lawyer was merely a puppet of the court, another cog in the legal machinery that appeared to be rolling inexorably toward its inevitable conclusion, his execution.

"Will you be calling any witnesses?"

Stanworth tapped his pen nervously. "Not at this point."

"Does the prosecution have any witnesses?"

"Oh yes they have a number of them."

"And who are they?"

"The prosecution has not told me and they are not obliged to in these proceedings until just before they present them at trial. Another provision in the Act."

"So how the hell can you cross-examine them?" said Harry, raising his voice in frustration and capturing the attention of the burly guard who stood watching them intently. The guard slapped his baton against his hand every so often to relieve the boredom of being perched in the corner of the harshly lit, pungent room with its soulless, metallic walls.

"They may give me a list before but at most I will have only a few hours to prepare. Oh, and they can add witnesses without telling me at the instance of the Court if it decides that doing so enhances the administration of justice."

"You mean if it strengthens their case against me."

Stanworth merely shrugged.

"Can we cross-examine them?" continued Harry.

"Yes but they are not obliged to answer unless the Court compels them to."

They discussed the impending trial a little further but it was apparent that Stanworth was not even adequately acquainted with the facts, and developing a trial strategy was too far distant to contemplate. Harry was escorted back to his dingy cell in a deep depression. His life was not in the lap of the Gods – that would have been easier to contemplate because there was some glimmer of hope for mercy. Whether he lived or died was based on the phlegmatic analysis of a military court, his only line of defence a feckless lawyer with no concept of how to defend him.

Harry's thoughts snapped back to the present as Hodgson addressed the two teams in the case. The prosecution team consisted of three lawyers. They huddled together until the lead counsel, a rotund, overweight barrister who, despite his bulk, carried his black flowing gown and wig with a scholarly air addressed the bench in a deep, clearly enunciated voice. Harry knew Gordon Sinclair Q.C.'s reputation from his days as a political correspondent. He could pass for a jovial clown at a children's party, but appearances could be deceptive. Sinclair had prosecuted many high-profile cases, including the Dr. Zachary Kirchner espionage trial in 2021, when the Oxford university professor and leading academic in political science was outed as a Russian informant. His reputation as a ruthless, combative prosecutor over the last decade was fully merited. He did whatever was necessary to win, and his results justified his methods. He rarely lost. Pitting him against Stanworth made David and Goliath appear an equal fight.

"Your Honour, the Crown would like to call the first witness. Bernard Maxwell."

## CHAPTER 10

Standing no more than ten yards from Harry, Bernard Maxwell appeared nervous and agitated as he was sworn in, barely able to cast his eyes over at the metal cage. Harry watched him intently, aghast at Maxwell's physique. His shabby clothes hung around his skeletal frame as if they were about to fall off. Maxwell had always been gaunt, the weight kept down by his addiction to cigars, but he always stood erect, carrying himself with understated dignity. Now he was bent, and he held onto the wooden witness box like a crutch. It appeared to Harry as if he had aged several decades in the period since they had last met, around eight months ago. He had shrunk, his face finally giving up in the fight against gravity, his features wizened and his sallow skin wrinkled and hanging in folds around his chin. His famous glossy jet-black hair had turned a shocking iron-grey, cut scruffily in clumps, the privilege of hair dye denied him in prison.

Sinclair carefully adjusted his horsehair wig, squeezed out from behind his desk and strutted arrogantly toward his witness.

"Mr. Maxwell, please tell the court about your publication before you were arrested."

Maxwell answered in a quiet, faltering voice. "The British Guardian. It was a socialist newspaper."

Under further questioning from the barrister, he provided a history of the paper from its beginnings as a radical publication aimed at balancing the predominantly nationalist popular press to its ultimate demise when Maxwell was arrested.

"Is it fair to say that the contents of your publication were subversive?"

"It depends on what you mean by 'subversive.'"

"Working against the interests of the State," the barrister said condescendingly.

"My paper was certainly not designed to promote the State. It was to raise valid concerns about the erosion of democracy in this country. If that is subversive then yes it was."

Apparently satisfied, Sinclair stabbed a pudgy finger in Harry's direction. "Do you know this man?"

Maxwell glanced at the cage, still unable to meet Harry's eye. "Yes of course, it is Harry Clarke, former political correspondent."

"Did he work for you?"

"No but I hired him to write several articles for the paper over the years."

"So it's true to say that he held the same perverted views as you?"

Judge Advocate Hodgson raised his eyebrows but decided not to intervene.

"If you mean the same concerns over where the government was heading, then yes."

"So he was a left-wing sympathizer, a militant? Yes or no?"

"I wouldn't nec-"

"Yes or no?" Sinclair interrupted stridently.

"Well yes but -"

"Thank you. When did you last see Mr. Clarke?"

"June last year. He came to my office to see me."

"Why?"

"He said he had an explosive document, the Government's five-year plan. He wanted me to publish it in full. I had great concerns about its content, that it might spark severe protests. The document was quite incendiary."

The barrister shot up a fleshy hand to stop Maxwell before he said anything more about the five-year plan. It was one of the topics which had been considered too sensitive for open discussion, even within the privileged forum of the court. "Thank you Mr. Maxwell, and where did he say he got it from?"

"He said he acquired it from Graham Matheson."

"The former Cabinet Minister he murdered?"

"Allegedly," countered Maxwell, his voice raspy.

"A document so incendiary that Clarke was quite prepared to kill for it."

Hodgson glared down at the barrister. "Is there a question in there counsel?"

Sinclair's sweaty face turned a subtle shade of pink. "Yes of course your Honour," he mumbled.

"Did he tell you that he was meeting Matheson?"

"I can't recall."

"But he was wasn't he? On the night he was killed. You knew Matheson was dead when the police came to prevent you from publishing this seditious material."

Maxwell shrugged his bony shoulders. "If you say so."

It felt to Harry like a cross-examination of a hostile witness, and he wondered whether Maxwell had been coerced into an appearance in the witness box. They clearly had a huge hold over him, but Harry sensed with wry satisfaction a shred of defiance, despite the intimidating atmosphere. They had not broken his spirit yet.

The Q.C. continued to grill him, occasionally consulting with his two assistants, who every now and then passed him a piece of paper or waved their tablet at him. He forced Maxwell to admit that he considered publishing the document and that it was more convenient if Matheson were not around. The barrister was trying to establish motive, as he could not prove that Harry had killed Matheson for the disk. In any event, Maxwell had clearly implicated Harry in plotting against the State.

Sinclair continued to question Maxwell about their discussions regarding the disk and his knowledge of Harry's meeting with Matheson, reminding the presiding officers at every opportunity that Matheson died at about the same hour that Harry was due to meet him. This was not purely coincidental, was his unspoken inference to the judges.

Satisfied that he had extracted all he needed from the witness, Sinclair waved dismissively to Stanworth and said, "He's all yours."

There were so many things that Harry wanted Stanworth to cross-examine Maxwell on, but it was not practical to consult with his lawyer from his isolated position in the dock. Another tactic, surely, to undermine the defence, he thought. It was therefore with a sense of impotent frustration that he observed Stanworth get up and pace around in front of the witness box.

"Mr. Maxwell, you were convicted of treason and the publication of seditious material contrary to the interests of the State. The sentence imposed by the court was the death penalty. Is that correct?"

Maxwell sighed with grief at the reminder. "That's correct."

"Have you made a deal with the prosecutors?"

"What do you mean?"

Stanworth rolled his eyes theatrically for the court. "Oh come on Mr. Maxwell, it's quite simple - a deal to save your own neck. You would say anything they ask against my client to save yourself. How can this court"- he made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his arm - "believe anything you say?"

Maxwell at first said nothing but cast his tired eyes pleadingly in the direction of the prosecution table. Harry felt a wave of empathy toward his former associate. Like him, he was a victim of this regime for having had the temerity to speak up.

Seeing Maxwell hesitate, Stanworth pressed home his advantage. "You are facing the death penalty Mr. Maxwell. Perhaps you made a plea bargain to tell a tissue of lies about my client so the Crown might commute your sentence to life imprisonment?"

Before Maxwell could answer, the prosecution barrister shot up, wheezing. "Objection, your Honour, this is merely speculation," he protested loudly.

Hodgson briefly turned to his colleagues who at last showed some signs of sentient life. "Objection overruled," he said smartly, and Sinclair sat down, red-faced. Hodgson turned to the witness. "You will answer the question, Mr. Maxwell."

Maxwell appeared torn and he looked down at the scruffy suit they had provided him for the trial. "No, that's not right," he murmured. "Everything I said is true."

Harry sensed that his body language said exactly the opposite, but to his astonishment Stanworth merely addressed the bench and said, "No further questions your Honour."

Even though Harry felt some sympathy for Maxwell, he had expected his defence counsel to rip the testimony to shreds. Infuriatingly, Stanworth glanced over at Harry with an encouraging smile, as if he had nailed it. At that point Harry knew what he had long suspected. Whether Stanworth was really committed to defending him or whether he was merely going through the motions to play his part in the circus that was supposed to provide some facade of justice, Harry was unsure. He knew, however, that this trial was preordained, and his only line of defence would get steamrollered in the process.

As Maxwell was led away, a police officer on either side dwarfing his shrunken frame, the prosecution wasted no time in calling the next witness. "Your Honour, the Crown would like to call Sean Kelly."

## CHAPTER 11

The square, bland terminus of Euston railway station reminded Eleanor Beaufort of the ugly, functional architecture that had typified modern construction in Britain since fifties. The original station had been built nearly two hundred years before with a vaulted ceiling and a stunning Arch supported by imposing neoclassical columns. The first intercity railway station in London, it had originally been built for people to escape the grimy polluted factories of London to the fresh air and green pastures of the countryside. Although much of that countryside had been swallowed up in housing development and chaotic urban sprawl, the station retained its purpose as a gateway for people trying to escape the City.

The station had been demolished in the sixties and replaced with the featureless square building they entered today. It was built in the so called international modern style, which Eleanor considered was a colloquialism for the ugly concrete monstrosities that blighted many urban landscapes across the country. This 'style' had created a huge array of inner city slums, such as the decaying tower blocks that would not have looked out of place in Communist ruled Eastern Europe. The station was in decline, not just because of reduced rail traffic in the last year as a result of the troubles, but because there was little finance to maintain the building itself. Euston looked tired and run-down. It did not take a keen observer long to spot the large cracks in the concrete and the degradation around the shopping areas on the ground floor, several of which were now boarded up.

Today the station was a hive of activity, but not due to any commercial traffic. The station had been sealed off as the heavily escorted government party arrived to take their place on the hastily commissioned electric train. The large hall where the gleaming train stood waiting for its high profile passengers buzzed with security staff, heavily armed soldiers and police officers with sniffer dogs patrolling every inch of the station. It was completely over the top but typical of Pelham's regime, thought Eleanor Beaufort bitterly. Since the attempt on his life last year, the Prime Minister had changed, becoming more reclusive and obsessive about security. During the rare times he ventured out into the public domain, the tight cordon of security around him was so claustrophobic that no-one could get close. Now Eleanor was part of that bubble, and she hated to think how much the security was costing the taxpayer. It was money that could have been spent on vaccines to treat the terrible plague that had eradicated so many lives in the deportation camps.

The party of five boarded the train. In addition to the Prime Minister, there was his new private secretary, Geraldine Cathcart. She was older than the vivacious Rachel, who had tragically died in the Pennines in December. Cathcart was in her forties but trim and elegant, her looks demure but attractive in spite of her minimal make-up. Unlike Rachel, she was a brunette and very business-like. She clung to her boss like his shadow, constantly tapping at her tablet every time Pelham spoke. From deep within her subconscious a tiny pang of jealously arose but Eleanor quickly dismissed it, reminding herself of the type of man Pelham had become. Completing the party were his two muscle-bound bodyguards, and to her it rather typified his regime. He had torn his way through his policies with blunt force, leaving chaos and catastrophe in his wake. It was no wonder that he needed them. She figured that at least half of the country wanted him dead, and the other half wanted him removed from power.

Eleanor felt sick to the stomach as she thought about how this once glorious nation had deteriorated under his oversight. In the past few weeks she had been forced to examine her own role as a member of the Cabinet, recognizing the obvious dangers of challenging this dictator. She had been forced to accept that her role as Health Secretary implicated her in this despotic regime, even though she had fought hard to bring some glimmer of hope to the dying hordes in the deportation camps. It had been a battle against bureaucracy, her own staffers apparently denying her vital information. She suspected this was at the command of Party loyalists more powerful than she. Eleanor was under no illusions that being a Minister in this government carried little weight of authority. They were puppets in the regime, and the weakness of so many of her ministerial colleagues typified that.

The carriage they settled in was luxurious. Only the gentle rocking motion of the train as it pulled away from the station, and the landscape slowly rolling past the window exposed the fact they were on a train. The room was like a tastefully decorated smoking room, with subtle wall lighting and comfortable Regency style chairs. With its dark walls, it felt to Eleanor like a relic from a bygone age, not unlike an Agatha Christie setting. There was even an Ottoman desk at the far end, but there the similarity ended. Set into the ceiling was a bank of sophisticated video, social media and surveillance equipment, and one of Pelham's bodyguards, or security assistants as he liked to call them, worked silently at a compact control station, his skin-tight leather-gloved fingers dancing over touchscreen controls. Eleanor had no doubt that the train was designed to withstand most types of terrorist attacks. Neither did she doubt that Pelham would have used as much public money as he felt necessary to protect himself.

The journey was short and uneventful. She spent most of the time reading a report that Cathcart passed to her about the facility they were visiting. It was effusive in its praise of the medical research centre and its attempts to tackle the disease, but there was no real concrete information and Eleanor perceived it to be no more than a highly sanitized public relations document. She occasionally glanced out of the window at the countryside rushing past, noting the wreckage of burnt out cars and damaged buildings. At one point she saw a group of six or seven bodies lying motionless on the snowy ground, which had turned red around them. It felt to Eleanor that since the indictment of Harry Clarke, the fractious civil war had stepped up a notch. With his trial in progress, and expected to finish before the end of the week, Eleanor Beaufort feared that the inevitable escalation of hostilities could slide the country into anarchy.

They soon reached Watford Junction which, like Euston, was buzzing with activity in response to their VIP guests. A number of armed soldiers formed a tight cordon around them as they exited the train, and Eleanor felt as though she was in the middle of a media scrum. She shivered in the cold air as the crowd crossed outside to the threshold of the station, where the party were escorted to a convoy of waiting limousines.

Surrounded as they were by a huge convoy of vehicles, including two motorcycles that ran along each side of Pelham and Eleanor's limousine, they were whisked smoothly and efficiently through the crumbling streets of Watford. They soon left the town behind and entered a bleak industrial zone, where the buildings resembled the drab, cheerless sky that hung like a grey blanket over the area. She listened politely as the Prime Minister prattled on about the dedication of the team to establish a unified, systematic response to pandemic control. The limousine slowed down as they reached a huge hangar-like building, and glided to a halt outside a large glass porch area. What struck Eleanor was the lack of signs outside the vast entrance. There was nothing in the grassy area at the front of the building or at the entrance to explain who occupied this mammoth construction.

Sensing the Health Secretary's confusion, Pelham turned to her. "It's important that the work carried out here is strictly anonymous. If the public knew about this place it could be targeted, despite the important work carried on here. There are many terrorists willing to sabotage this project if they ever found out about it. It's not part of the Health Protection Agency. This is funded by private financing, but those investors are highly secretive. I hope when you see it that you can better understand why I was not positioned to disclose its existence to you."

Eleanor's breath condensed in the cold air as her party was escorted inside the building by two armed soldiers, where a large welcoming party greeted them in the large open foyer. At the entrance was a large area like airport security, with full size X-ray booths and metal detection barriers. However they passed to the side of this holding area, clearly too important and trusted visitors to suffer such indignity.

It was warmer in the facility, clammy, slightly humid warmth. She began perspiring mildly, more so when Pelham slipped his arm through hers and she sensed the hot glare of his secretary behind her. He flashed a toothy grin at her and she smiled back awkwardly. A number of workers, most of them in white laboratory coats, formed two lines facing each other, and they burst into a spontaneous round of applause. When it had died down, the leader of the facility stepped forward and gave an effusive welcome to the Prime Minister, pumping his hand. He reminded Eleanor of a huge stick insect, and when he turned to her, he regarded her from behind his half-moon spectacles with an expression of awe.

"Dr. Raymond Heath," he began, covering her hand with both of his. "It's a privilege to welcome you Miss Beaufort."

Before she could reply, Pelham interjected. "Call her Eleanor for Lord's sake. We're all friends here," he said roguishly. Eleanor meekly nodded her assent and after a cursory meet and greet along the line of employees, they embarked on a tour of the facility. She was relieved they left the security guards behind, and particularly so that his private secretary did not join them, much to her chagrin. Eleanor sensed a simmering hostility from the woman that she could not quite explain. Dr. Heath acted as their sole guide through the brightly lit corridors and he buzzed around them like a crazed mosquito, explaining everything they saw. Pelham hung back slightly as Heath focused on the Health Secretary, chatting to her casually at every opportunity as if they were old friends. She masked her irritation with awkward smiles as he explained in great detail how this 'cutting edge' research facility was at the forefront of research into emerging pathogens.

"The camp plague," he explained, "is our biggest issue at present. One of our major challenges is to understand the source of the disease and whether it is capable of mutating into an airborne pathogen. Thank God it has not done so yet, because if it did we could easily have a pandemic on our hands. It currently acts like Ebola, where transmission is usually through blood or other bodily fluids, or contaminated objects such as needles. Unfortunately in the camps, the latter situation is always likely given the close proximity of the people living in the camps." His tone carried a pinch of sympathy. "Part of our program," he continued, "will be to educate those living in the camps more effectively, as well as to help provide access to sterilized equipment. We also seek to understand at the molecular level how the virus moves around the bloodstream and how it interacts with the body's cell structure to destroy healthy tissue, leading to internal bleeding and organ failure. Diagnosing and understanding the disease at its most basic genetic level will provide us with the analysis we need to produce a robust defence to this pathogen."

"How close are you?" asked Eleanor.

Dr. Heath's eyes looked troubled. "We're doing everything we can but it's a long term project," he replied hesitantly.

As they passed through several laboratories, he proudly explained how the facility had been modelled on the Center for Disease Control and Prevention in the United States. The CDC, to use its acronym, was focused on public health through a number of initiatives including the study of infectious diseases and pathogens, as well as non-infectious diseases such as obesity and diabetes, both of which had now reached alarming proportions in North America and Europe. It first started as a response to the malaria problem in the Southern States, but expanded its mission to cover a range of categories, including, in recent years, fighting the Ebola and Zika viruses, avian flu and bio-terrorism. He explained that the UK facility also had a wide remit that covered the response to the camp plague. It also undertook research and development into vaccines, disease prevention, environmental health and health education. Heath jokingly assured her that they were not selling biological warfare agents, in an apparent reference to the scandal that had rocked the CDC five years before. The CDC was forced to strenuously deny allegations that they covertly supplied rebel forces with bio-weapons in Syria, despite evidence which suggested the contrary.

Finally Dr. Heath led them to a corridor on which one side was a large picture window and a locked door with the universal bio-hazard symbol, three broken circles overlapping each other equally like a Venn diagram. Through the window Eleanor saw a working laboratory with a number of scientists hunched over benches and working industriously. Heath stepped forward and a tiny laser flicked over his eye. The electronic door slid open and a soft female computer voice said "Welcome Dr. Heath." They stepped inside and Heath babbled to Eleanor about the security benefits of iris scans and how stress research had established that the optimal tonal quality for computerized voices was a smooth Caucasian female voice.

They stepped into a small holding room where a laboratory assistant was waiting to pass them a lightweight polymer hazmat suit. The white one-piece suit made from impermeable but very light PVC fit comfortably over their clothes, and a hood and mask completed the outfit. Eleanor glanced over at the Prime Minister and thought that he looked faintly ridiculous, although she was also relieved that there were no mirrors in the room.

A sealed metal door sprung open and they stepped into the laboratory. "This is our centre of operations for pathogen detection and control," Heath announced proudly, his voice muffled only slightly by the respirator mask. Some of the assistants looked up as the party entered, but others remained focused on their work. As they stood at the entrance, he explained that this specific laboratory was engaged in fighting the anthrax-like disease. It had so far confined itself to the deportation camps but, Dr. Heath said gravely, it was only a matter of time before it spread into the general population.

Heath conducted a tour of the laboratory, interrupting several scientists in their work to ask them to describe the work they were conducting. This ranged from environmental and occupational health and education through to the control of infectious diseases and strategic responses to large scale pandemics. Eleanor found it fascinating, but she felt there was something wrong. She could not quite place it. The tour of this laboratory and the explanations given of how they were focused on combating the camp plague felt convincing; yet an imperceptible, nagging doubt remained. A tiny part of her wondered if the whole setup had somehow been staged, but she instantly dismissed it. No, she decided, they really were working hard to find a vaccine.

Hovering at the edge of the group surrounding one scientist describing her work in immunology, she was suddenly bumped lightly by one of the white coated staff. She felt something light yet solid slip into the pocket of her hazmat suit. She glanced at the figure behind her and their eyes locked for just a second, but it was enough. The woman gave a brief nod and strode swiftly down the laboratory, quickly lost among the rest of the white suits.

Eleanor surreptitiously placed her hand in her pocket and her fingers hands grasped something cold and metallic. As her fingers ran along its smooth surface, she could tell it was shaped like a pill, with rounded ends, and fit comfortably within her palm. She wanted to chase after the mysterious benefactor but she had long gone. Dr. Heath continued to bleat on about their successes, promising that they would find a vaccine by springtime to 'eradicate this filthy disease forever.' Eleanor almost tuned him out but when she caught Pelham's scowl, obvious even from behind his mask, she snapped to attention and nodded enthusiastically. She had a strong feeling that the tiny metal capsule was of profound importance.

The tour was ending and they would relinquish their hazmat suits shortly. She had to bide her time as the one-piece suits had no opening. Hardly able to breathe, she finally heard Dr. Heath announce that the tour was over and he escorted them back to the holding area. Her heart thumping, she managed to conceal the capsule in her fist and slip it in to the inside jacket pocket of her trouser suit. She glanced over at Pelham and Heath, who were engaged in earnest conversation as they stripped off their suits. They appeared not to have noticed, but only when they were back in the corridor heading toward the exit did she start to breathe normally again.

"Is everything alright?" Pelham said in her ear, sidling up to her stealthily. She gasped and held onto a railing for support. "Sorry," she blushed. "I was just thinking about the work still left to do."

If Pelham thought she was lying he did not show it. "You see how we are making giant strides. We will beat the camp plague soon."

She hardly heard Dr. Heath as he prattled on but as they left he coughed lightly, as if embarrassed about what he had to say. "It's just a precaution, but on the way out we always ask our guests – and employees – to pass through our security system. It's just a formality, and we did not ask you on arrival, but we need it for – ah – our records." He looked at the floor as he said it, but Eleanor's heart sank. She felt the weight of the tiny capsule in her pocket and knew that if she passed through the full body scanner that stood before them, they would discover it. The large black box hummed softly, almost expectantly. Whatever the capsule contained, she was now a part of the conspiracy merely for having accepted the capsule. That conspiracy looked like it was over before it had begun.

## CHAPTER 12

Glaring balefully at Harry throughout the swearing-in process, Sean Kelly wasted no time in implicating Harry on every crime, and a few more, that he was charged with. He looked rough, his cheeks hollow and the spider-like veins around his cheeks sharper than ever, a legacy of his drinking. Even so, he answered the questions from Sinclair in a measured and articulate way. His voice carried the undercurrent of malice that Harry had become so familiar with during his short tenure in the resistance cell.

Harry bristled as Kelly described how he had 'boasted' of killing a government minister and how he had become the architect of the plot to assassinate Pelham at Wembley. Presently he could stand it no more. "These are all lies!" he yelled, his fingers pressed against the cage. From nowhere a police baton came swinging wildly against the cage, rattling heavily and forcing Harry to stagger back.

Hodgson rapped his gavel hard and glowered at the prisoner. "Prisoner Clarke, that is your second warning. You _will_ observe the protocol of this court or I will have you removed from the proceedings." His fierce tone reflected his outrage, and the veins throbbed blue around his temple.

Sean merely grinned like a schoolboy whose nemesis had been caught by the Principal. He continued to take every opportunity to destroy Harry's faint chances of redemption. He described in detail how Harry had gone on the run, and how he had helped the State Secret Police in tracking him down. They only failed, he explained to the court, because they were tricked and left for dead by Harry and his accomplices.

The barrister paused, rubbing at his fleshy chin. "And who were his accomplices?"

Sean hesitated, as if conflicted. "D.C. Kendrick from the Order Police and Julianne Ferguson."

Stanworth looked up from his papers, suddenly looking interested again. Harry wished he could tell what his defence counsel was thinking, and he saw the lawyer scribbling furiously on his legal pad. Sinclair probed Sean briefly about the role of his accomplices, but he was keen to get Sean to clarify to the court that Harry was the ringleader. He was the one who made the decision to lock them in the coal bunker without food and water, left to die in the dark. With Sinclair's prompting, Sean's testimony was damning. He also took every opportunity to explain that he had assisted the SSP in searching for this terrorist, and he himself was a reformed character.

Harry could only speculate as to whether Sean was, like Maxwell, a prisoner hoping for leniency by testifying against him, or whether he truly was a 'reformed' character as he insisted. Sean had worked with the SSP to track Harry down, but it was impossible to tell whether that was because of his deep hatred and desire for revenge against Harry or whether he had truly become an advocate for Pelham's regime. Harry prayed that Stanworth would expose his lies, but unaware that Sean was to be called to the stand, they had no opportunity to discuss a cross-examination strategy.

As the examination-in-chief concluded, and the prosecution barrister sat down with a self-satisfied smile, Harry desperately tried to get Stanworth's attention by waving at him. His lawyer rose, however, and failed to glance in his direction.

"Stanworth," he called finally, and the court went silent.

Hodgson frowned at Harry. "Silence Prisoner Clarke," he admonished him.

Stanworth glanced over and then addressed the bench. "Your Honour; may I seek the court's indulgence to move for a short recess to consult with my client?"

The Judge Advocate was firm. "Motion denied," he said flatly. "Please proceed."

There were so many questions that Harry wanted his counsel to ask, to refute the accusations and inferences Sean had made that strengthened the case against him. Harry was convinced that the case would hinge on Sean's testimony and Stanworth's ability to shoot it down. To Harry's horror and dismay, however, Stanworth merely hovered around his desk as if conflicted and then casually sat down. "I have no questions for this witness, your Honour."

"Very well," said Hodgson. He turned to Sean. "The witness is excused."

Sean nodded and as he left the witness box he cast a glance at Harry. Their eyes locked for a split second and Sean's alcohol-blemished face lit up with a triumphant smile, as if he had just moved to check-mate in their execrable game of chess.

As Sean left, Hodgson banged his gavel. "We will take a recess for lunch. Parties are expected back by two."

Before the trial resumed, Stanworth was allowed five minutes to consult with his client. The security officer buzzed him into the heavily barred sterile grey cell where Harry sat on a black plastic chair, the only furniture other than a small table and a chair opposite for Stanworth. Before he had even sat down Harry ripped into him, only his handcuffs preventing him from grabbing his lawyer by the throat. "What the hell are you playing at? Why did you not cross-examine him?" The burly guard in the corner twitched and Stanworth looked to him for support, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in his tie. "It's no use looking to him for support. If I get free of these cuffs I will rip your throat out," yelled Harry.

Stanworth drew back from the table and pulled out his legal pad. "Getting angry is not going to help. We need to keep a calm head," he replied condescendingly.

"That's all very well for you to say! You're not on trial for your life!" Harry struggled to keep his tone even. The stress of the trial and his incompetent lawyer sent his blood pressure rising. The guard in the corner bounced on each foot, ready to jump in.

"Listen," replied Stanworth defensively. "I didn't know who he was. They never disclosed him as a witness. We have less than five minutes. Tell me as much as you can about him and I will ask Hodgson if we can recall him for cross-examination. We can only try."

Harry took a deep breath, fighting off the rising panic that gripped him, and provided as much history on Sean as he could in the limited time, while Stanworth scribbled notes on his legal pad. Minutes later, they were back in the vaulted court room and Stanworth made a plea to Hodgson. "Your Honour. I would like to seek the court's permission in recalling the previous witness Sean Kelly for further questioning."

Sinclair jumped up as fast as his stubby legs would allow. "Objection, your Honour!" He glared across at Stanworth. "You had your chance!"

Hodgson frowned at the barrister. "Thank you Mr. Sinclair. I will address counsel not you!"

The barrister turned crimson and sat down. "Yes your Honour," he said sheepishly.

Hodgson turned to Stanworth. "Motion denied. You had your chance."

Sinclair suppressed a snigger as Stanworth mumbled and sat down.

"Get on with it!" snapped Hodgson.

Sinclair hauled himself up again, anxious to proceed, and called two more witnesses that afternoon. The first was the soldier at the checkpoint that Harry and Joe had crashed through near the Salisbury deportation camp several months before. He introduced himself as Lance Corporal Fletcher, and Harry recalled the cold, emotionless eyes and terse voice of the young soldier.

Fletcher relayed in detail how he had recognized Harry from a previous break-in at the Salisbury camp. He had attempted to lawfully detain him when they suddenly screeched forward in the van, nearly killing two colleagues as they slammed through the barrier in an attempt to escape. He explained that they had no alternative but to pursue them, and a bullet from a fellow soldier had killed the driver. Fletcher suitably embellished the story, offering his opinion that Harry had sacrificed the driver to ensure he escaped, as if Harry himself had pulled the trigger. Also, with a little prompting, Fletcher vividly outlined an impression of a desperate man on the run. He suggested, helped by Sinclair's leading questions that it was probably due to fleeing from murder and terrorism charges.

Despite his gruff demeanour and relative youth, the soldier was worryingly articulate and compelling in his testimony, and Stanworth did little to mitigate the impact of the soldier's evidence. He even failed to confirm whether Fletcher himself fired at the van. Not that it would make any difference, thought Harry. It felt like the soldier's evidence merely reinforced the perception of the type of character that Sinclair wanted the judges to know; that Harry Clarke was a renegade murderer as well as a terrorist. The prosecution had squashed Stanworth's feeble attempts to undermine their case and Harry wondered if it could get any worse. The answer came quickly and his heart sank as he heard the name of the next witness.

## CHAPTER 13

A sense of betrayal surged through Harry as he saw the police detective enter the witness box. As Kendrick was sworn in, he cast an embarrassed, furtive glance at Harry. In turn Harry fixed him with a hard stare. Kendrick cast his eyes to the floor, his discomfort evident.

Prosecuting counsel allowed him little time to compose himself, launching into a quick-fire round of questions immediately after he was sworn in. Several were leading questions that Stanworth did nothing to object to. That made it easy for Sinclair to skilfully lead Kendrick down the path he wanted.

"Yes, I did have a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Graham Matheson and yes he did flee when we tried to arrest him." These were just a few of the admissions that Kendrick was forced to make under the barrister's intense questioning. At times Sinclair stepped out from behind his desk to stand menacingly close to the witness box, revealing a number of buttons under severe stress on his black worsted gown. Harry could see that Kendrick was a reluctant witness. Even so the barrister's skillful, aggressive questioning, which at times seemed more like a cross-examination, meant that Kendrick could not help but implicate Harry. At times Kendrick turned pleadingly to Hodgson and his colleagues, but the Judge Advocate remained firm. "You will answer the question Mr. Kendrick," he stated bluntly on several occasions when Kendrick sought guidance. Although he was able to brush over much of the information regarding Harry's involvement in the rebel group based in Kent, and the journey back to London, he was blindsided by the next question. "He shot you with your own gun didn't he?" said the barrister accusingly.

"Yes he did," conceded Kendrick, after several seconds' hesitation.

"Did you consent to him shooting you?" he asked in a tone that suggested no sane man would ever voluntarily agree to be shot.

Kendrick's eyes flicked over to Harry's cage and again he hesitated for several tense seconds, as if he were heavily conflicted. Eventually he said in a hoarse voice. "No, I did not."

"Would you care to repeat that a little louder for our Lordships?" said Sinclair, relishing the moment, twisting the knife.

Kendrick breathed hard and spoke slowly and methodically. "No, I did not."

The barrister's triumphant smile radiated around the courtroom as if he had just pulled an ace from the pack. He saved his broadest smile for Harry as he turned toward the cage holding the prisoner. "No further questions your Honour," he said.

Stanworth stood up and faced the police officer, holding a set of notes in his hand. It quickly became apparent to Harry that even with his limitations as a defence lawyer, Stanworth understood the implications of the evidence given. Stanworth grilled Kendrick on the incident when he was shot.

"You gave him the gun didn't you!" he barked at Kendrick.

"Kendrick squirmed in the witness box. "Of course not. Why would I?"

"Because you wanted to make it look to your superiors as if he had escaped, but that was always the plan wasn't it? Come on Kendrick you know it's true!"

Sinclair staggered to his feet again. "Objection! Defence counsel is haranguing the witness and putting words in his mouth!"

Hodgson banged his gavel hard. "Sustained. Stick to questioning the witness Mr. Stanworth."

Stanworth sighed with exasperation. "How did he get your gun?"

"I don't recall. He must have stolen it."

"Or you gave it to him?"

The Q.C. had barely sat down when he was up again, wheezing with the effort. "Objection! Leading the witness!"

Hodgson scolded Harry's lawyer. "The last comment will be struck from the record. Mr. Stanworth this is your last warning. Be careful you don't end up in the cells with your client," he threatened.

Harry watched the proceedings with increasing desperation. With Stanworth emasculated from leading him to the conclusion he wanted the bench to hear, and Kendrick proving a stubborn witness, he was unable to provide any compelling evidence to suggest that Kendrick had passed Harry the gun. The prosecution wrapped up their case with a few final stinging words, suggesting that this was an open and shut case. As Judge Advocate Hodgson closed proceedings for the day, it certainly felt like it to Harry. He was more sad than bitter that Kendrick had thrown him to the wolves. He understood why the police officer likely had no choice.

When Stanworth was escorted to the holding cell for the permitted fifteen minute consultation, Harry saw the lawyer scratching in an agitated manner at his scruffy, greying stubble. His expression on his face was grave. They had fifteen minutes to discuss their defence strategy, a plan to try and convince the panel of judges that everything the prosecution alleged was inaccurate or misleading. Harry had to admit that Stanworth had performed better than he had expected on Kendrick. However the defence lawyer looked exhausted and beaten. He sat down heavily and slammed his worn briefcase on the metal table. "We've got a mountain to climb," he began.

Kendrick sat on the edge of the Golden Jubilee Bridge, his feet dangling over the brown, foaming water of the River Thames, The day was cold and a chill wind whistled through the concrete and steel cable structure, forcing him to turn up the collar on his thick Burberry overcoat. It was nothing to how cold he felt inside. Even though he had been subpoenaed to provide evidence against his friend, it did not make the thought of his damning testimony easier to bear. The barrister's ruthless, insistent questioning had backed Kendrick into a corner and he had lacked the ingenuity to respond truthfully without implicating himself. There lay the problem. He knew in his heart that he had been too afraid to tell the real truth, because by doing so would have revealed that he was as much an enemy of the State as Harry. He had convinced himself that Harry was going down anyway, so why be dragged down with him? It was logical to act as he did but it did not ease his conscience. That's what this regime did. It forced people into conflict, to make difficult choices that would surely haunt them later. He knew that he had committed an act of extreme cowardice. It was what had brought him to the bridge.

The evening sun broke through the clouds before its final descent on the horizon to the west, the foamy river briefly sparkling in response. In the bright light just before dusk fell, Kendrick could see the length of the river and the distinctive buildings that hugged the riverbank into the distance. To the east along the river stood the Tower of London and the impressive sleek glass tower of the Shard. To the west, almost close enough to touch, was the soaring but severely damaged Ferris wheel of the London Eye, closed indefinitely after recently being firebombed. Further along the river in the same direction was the seat of power, the epicentre of the crisis that had rocked the country. The Gothic buildings of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben had stood for centuries, but rarely had they presided over such tempestuous times. These structures were monuments to the ingenuity and imagination of the architects, engineers and builders of a great city that had once been the heartbeat of a highly influential global empire, much as Rome had been two thousand years before. Of course the Empire had long since gone, and Britain's impact as a global power had waned considerably since World War II. But now the city was rotting from the inside, a victim of the civil strife that had spread like a cancer under Pelham's fascist regime.

Kendrick had served his country with distinction in Iraq, battling through chemical weapons and post-traumatic stress disorder, and subsequently serving the police force for nearly twenty years as a police officer and a detective. The death of his young Irish detective partner Donoghue had hit him hard, but seeing Harry caged in the dock knowing he had contributed toward his inevitable conviction hurt as keenly, a pain as raw as any he had experienced in Iraq. He wondered what all those years of service for his country really stood for? It was surely not to support the hostile environment the nation had become. He grasped at the bottle next to him and took a swig of vodka, the clear liquid burning his throat. He felt truly washed up now, still five years away from his pension, even if the country survived this crisis. Even more than that, he felt desperately alone, no-one to share his shame and guilt. He looked down at the brown, polluted water, now cast in shadow as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. He wondered whether to end it all quickly or whether to let the drinking slowly poison him? His foot slipped and the choice was nearly made for him. He sat there contemplating, his mind growing foggier with each swig from the bottle, numbing the pain of living in a country that forced people into terrible choices. He would decide soon.....

## CHAPTER 14

Dr. Heath gently guided his guests toward the machine where an attendant in a crisp white shirt and epaulettes stood to attention, ready to escort them through the full body scanner. The machine emitted a low thrumming, as if it was purring. Eleanor held back, deeply conflicted, at the mercy of events unfolding before her. Heath, sensing her hesitation, tactfully took her elbow and ushered her toward the machine. "It's okay. This machine has been tested more times than I can count. It uses non-ionizing electromagnetic radiation, just like that found in wireless data transmitters such as your tablet. I can assure you that the risks are negligible."

Still Eleanor hesitated and the faintest flicker of irritation crossed the doctor's features behind his plastic smile. Pelham was ready to go through the scanner when he looked back at Heath and Eleanor and made a decision, glancing at his watch. "Time is moving on Doctor. We need to get going. I'm sure your machine is wonderful but we have a train to catch. Another time perhaps."

Dr. Heath's features looked strained. He opened his mouth to protest but wisely decided against it. "Of course I completely understand. Once again I want to express my gratitude for you honouring us with your visit." He offered some more platitudes about how they were at the forefront of disease control, but the party was already leaving. Only when they were travelling back to Watford Junction in the limousine did Eleanor dare to breathe again.

Pelham reached for the drinks cabinet in the back of the luxurious vehicle. Ignoring his private secretary and the two bodyguards, he focused all his attention on his guest. Eleanor felt the heat of Cathcart's baleful glare. "Drink?" he asked, waving at the small bar that held a decadent array of spirits.

Eleanor shook her head.

"Heath is a dedicated scientist but he does prattle on somewhat."

Eleanor gave a wan smile and nodded. The short car journey passed in relative silence and presently they were back in Pelham's opulent suite on his private train. After they had freshened up Pelham curtly dismissed his bodyguards and private secretary, the latter bubbling with tightly controlled frustration. Eleanor was now alone with Pelham, and the Prime Minister motioned to a soft red recliner that she had not noticed before. He sat down; his left arm draped over the gold-trimmed upper frame and patted the seat next to him.

"Eleanor, come sit down, we have a lot to talk about."

As the train rolled smoothly out of the station in the gathering dusk, they briefly talked about their visit, but inevitably the conversation turned to the trial that dominated the social media.

"Come on Eleanor, now is not the time," he gently chided. "We can talk about Harry Clarke at dinner – if he doesn't put me off my appetite. His fingers gently brushed her leg as she adjusted her position, and as he faced her, his eyes scanned her face intently.

Eleanor squirmed uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. She was physically closer to him than she had ever been, their faces inches apart. Pelham was ruggedly handsome, and the charismatic personality that had charmed the British public into voting for him in droves was legendary. She could sense from his posture and his shallow breathing that he was attracted to her, and for a brief moment she felt a pang of girlish pleasure. It quickly passed, however.

"No," she protested. "I want to talk about him now."

He rolled his eyed and let out a deep sigh. "Very well. Say what you have to say."

"If you allow Harry to be executed the country will slide into anarchy. He is too influential."

"Eleanor, I have no control over the judicial process. We have to allow the law to take its course. The man is a murderer and a terrorist," he replied condescendingly.

"He has fought for the rights of the people not to be incarcerated in deportation camps that are disease ridden and inhumane, and to suffer the misery and indignity of being forcibly removed from this country!" she cried.

Pelham's voice carried a hint of steel. "Be careful Eleanor. You are starting to sound like a left-wing socialist. You signed up to this Cabinet fully aware of my vision, of what we are striving for. This nation will become great again, but you knew it was not going to be without pain. There are hard decisions to be made and the people have placed that responsibility in our hands. I will not let them down." His demeanour became softer and he ran his fingers over her thigh. "It's been lonely since Helen died, but you and I can achieve great things together."

His touch was electric, and she had to remind herself who he was. She snatched his hand away. "Just listen to yourself Lawrence. You honestly believe all this suffering and hardship is worth it! You have moved so far away from what we stood for it is no longer recognizable! This country is on a precipice!" Her voice rose loudly as she spoke and she began to get up. To her surprise his hand gripped her wrist and pulled her back down on the sofa. He was surprisingly strong, his grip like a vice. His expression changed and she looked into his eyes. They were dark and full of passion.

"What are you doing?" she said nervously.

He did not answer but he released her wrist, his hand moving up her stomach and settling on her left breast. His breathing was shallow and the intensity of his gaze left her in a state of paralysis. She tried to brush his hand away but it was useless, and then he leaned forward so that their lips briefly touched. Her whole body tingled and for a moment she could not resist his advances. He was too powerful, and for a fleeting moment her body sagged in submission, while her mind screamed at thoughts of escape. He pushed her roughly down on the sofa and shifted his position so that he leaned over her as she lay there, still unable to fully comprehend what he planned to do to her.

"Lawrence, for God's sake what's got into you?" She struggled to free herself but in one swift motion he forced her arms back and straddled her body with his powerful legs. She was pinned down by his body weight, unable to move.

His reply was strained, almost robotic. "Eleanor you should know by now I always get what I want. Right now I want you."

Eleanor was trapped, her frantic efforts futile against his superior strength. Was he really going to....? She could not even bring herself to think of what he planned next. He was a narcissist and a tyrant, but surely not this? She wanted to scream, but her chest was constricted under his weight and she could merely whimper in protest. He began to claw at her jacket, trying to remove it, a grim look of determination on his face. He shifted his weight slightly to rip off her jacket. With her chest no longer feeling that it was about to be crushed, Eleanor found her voice and screamed as hard as she could.

No-one heard her scream. At that same instant, the whole carriage was rocked by a deafening explosion that sent debris flying in all directions. The shock-wave flung the sofa and its occupants through the air, slamming into the far wall.

The large control screen showed an aerial view of the London Midland rail line from Euston to Birmingham. A solid, dark line indicated the presence of the train. Julianne looked intently at the screen as the train slowed perceptibly on the image. She turned to Chen, the Chinese man's face impassive, transfixed by the screen. She could tell he was desperate for a cigarette, his usual default in high-stress situations. Watching a plan unfold on screen was always difficult because weeks and sometimes months of planning hinged on a specific chain of events. This time was different. They had been given less than forty-eight hours by Chamberlain, and Julianne doubted whether Chen had slept during any of them. His raspy breathing was more than just a legacy of his lengthy cigarette addiction.

"We're nearly at the impact point," he said slowly, his voice filled with tension. Although Chen was a pacifist, Julianne was acutely aware that he was the mastermind of this particular cyber-attack. Their initial plan had been to hack into the London Midland rail transportation monitoring system. This system controlled the switching of railway tracks to ensure that rolling stock moved quickly and avoided collisions. By taking control of that system, even temporarily, and using the coordinates Chamberlain had passed them to locate Pelham's train, they could switch the points so that the track diverted the train into a siding, forcing it to a stop. The train would then be stormed by anti-government forces who would slaughter everyone on the train, including, of course, their main target.

They quickly discovered that the train was too heavily guarded. It had not been possible to summon a resistance cell with sufficient weaponry to overpower the heavy on-board security without a bloody gunfight. They needed to be cleaner, more incisive. Julianne knew that Chen was relieved. He was deeply uncomfortable with the prospect of killing anyone other than their main target. He had therefore spent long hours studying the blueprints for the train that they had traced and downloaded from the 'secure' Ministry of Transportation intranet site. He had found a weak point in the system's electrical power supply, which was controlled by the train's central computer.

The firewalls were poorly designed and it was easy for their best hackers to break into the system and place their 'logic bombs.' By adding a few lines of code to the software that controlled the temperature regulation unit, they could change the operational protocols on the system. Whilst the train was in motion, the new software would cause a power surge in the temperature regulation unit, causing the temperature to escalate rapidly in the electrical circuits. Eventually the electrical power system, unable to cope with the rapid increase in heat, would overload and rupture, causing a highly localized explosion. The challenge for Chen was to locate and ensure that the rupture would occur at a precise location in the system, in the electrical circuits adjacent to Pelham's bathroom. He had found the location on the blueprint and had worked diligently with several colleagues to work at positioning the rupture at the precise point, a delicate balance of location and timing.

Soon they would be able to tell if it had worked. Julianne noticed Chen glance surreptitiously at his watch. His face was drawn with tiredness, eyes red and puffy, the bags under them a dark grey hue. She turned back to the screen and the steadily moving black line appeared to slow down. A tiny ball of light rose from the black line and expanded rapidly for a second before fading and dying. The train stopped and remained motionless. She looked at Chen again and his face broke into a wide smile, exposing his yellowed teeth. She knew from his expression that the plan had worked. Now they would have to wait and hope that they had eliminated their prey.

## CHAPTER 15

Eleanor was unsure of how long she had lost consciousness but it could only have been seconds. She woke to a scene of utter chaos. Her head felt like it had been invaded by jackhammers at full throttle and she tasted blood in her mouth. Her whole body was racked with pain but with effort she managed to turn her head, her neck stiff. Next to her lay the Prime Minister, unconscious and with a deep gash to his head, blood trickling lazily down his face and breathing shallowly. The whole suite had been ripped apart, as if a tornado had spiralled into the room and ravaged its contents. A crackling fire raged at the far end of the room. She quickly realized that the blast had originated from Pelham's bedroom, which was now burning freely. Choking smoke began to fill the room and she heard the faint sounds of shouting and running. Still unable to think clearly, it took a few moments to understand what had happened. She knew however that if Pelham had led her to the bedroom moments before she would no longer be alive.

She knew she had to get out quickly. Heart racing and adrenaline pumping, Eleanor hauled herself painfully to her feet. Her left arm hurt like hell, only matched by the deep throbbing in her head, but otherwise she seemed intact. Her suit was torn and dishevelled from where Pelham had clawed at it like an animal and from the forceful blast that had thrown them against the wall. The sofa was upended and appeared to have protected them from any blast fragments. The underside was ripped apart from shrapnel caused by the explosion and the whole floor was covered in glass and other fragments. She heard urgent voices coming her way and she glanced at Pelham. His body was at an odd angle but his face looked serene. He could have been sleeping if not for the head wound. Her first instinct was to help him, but she hesitated, repulsed by his earlier actions. Eleanor felt for the vial in her jacket pocket. The small metal capsule was intact and so she made her decision.

Scorching smoke continued to funnel in from the blast area. Coughing in spasms, she held her good arm to her mouth and fled through the door of Pelham's suite. Just as she did a half-dozen security personnel burst into the room, shouting urgently and anxiously. They trampled past her, anxious to get into the suite, where thick grey smoke billowed, sending several of them into coughing spasms. One of the guards turned to her and gasped, "Where is he?"

She pointed to the far end of the room, which was now cloaked in a swirling grey cloud. It was clear to Eleanor they had little concern for her welfare. She pushed past them into the corridor where the air was cleaner. She took in deep draughts to purge her lungs of the foul smoke and staggered away from the blast area. The corridor wall adjacent to the suite was a splintered heap of rubble but the blast zone was over a small area, and the outer corridor wall remained intact. She stumbled past the debris, looking for a way outside. The train had screeched to a halt. Through the corridor window she could see blue lights flashing and emergency teams scrambling to reach the affected area. An ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, bounded up to the side of the train, bouncing awkwardly on the uneven surface around the rail tracks.

Eleanor continued to move along the length of the corridor as fast as her aching legs would allow. The taste of blood was salty in her mouth. Her left arm hung loose and was twisted awkwardly. Suddenly, Pelham's private secretary appeared, moving swiftly in the direction of the blast zone. She stopped opposite Eleanor, her usual antipathy toward her replaced by a shocked expression. Eleanor realized that she probably looked a mess but Cathcart merely said in a harsh whisper, "Where's Lawrence?"

Eleanor tried to talk but her voice was raspy. "He's still in there," she croaked, pointing behind her at the devastation. Cathcart pushed roughly past her and hurried down the corridor toward the wreckage.

There was a sudden hiss from above and a freezing cold shower of water sprayed from the sprinklers, instantly drenching her. Eleanor stumbled forward with renewed urgency, the water stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, and then she spotted the carriage doors. With the water still running in rivulets down her face, she tried to force them apart, but she quickly realized they were electronically sealed. Next to the door was a glass panel that contained a silver metal handle for emergencies. She ignored the instructions written in red on the panel above the glass and thrust her right elbow hard against the glass. The thin seal shattered and she reached in and grasped the handle. It was cold and stiff but she pulled down with all her might. The handle succumbed to her pressure and the doors sprung open. A rush of cold air clawed at her body, already chilled by the drenching she had received, but the fresh air rejuvenated her. She staggered outside onto the gravel surface around the track and as she looked back she saw the chaotic activity around the carriage that had suffered the blast. Pelham's carriage. She briefly wondered if he had survived.

Her only motivation was to get away, and remarkably there appeared to be no-one around her. All the attention was firmly fixed on the blast zone thirty yards away, and she staggered forward alongside the train, her feet crunching on the gravel. Everything hurt, but she managed to flex the wrist on her limp left arm. It hurt badly but was not broken, she thought with great relief. She cleared the train unmolested, with no other thought than to get as far away as possible from the carnage.

Eleanor briefly looked back and spotted a gurney being wheeled out from the still smouldering wreckage. On it was a shape covered in a white sheet. Her thoughts spun in a whirlpool of emotion. Surely not? He had been breathing, albeit shallowly, when she had fled moments before. She continued to stare, trying to process this new information and to understand just how she felt. As she watched, a figure emerged from the mob of people and she saw that it was running hard in her direction. A voice cried out urgently and carried in the chill air.

"It was that bitch! She's responsible!"

Eleanor recognized the trim, dark-haired figure of Pelham's private secretary as she moved rapidly closer, her face twisted in rage. She pointed an accusing finger at Eleanor and was joined by one of Pelham's bodyguards. For a split-second Eleanor was paralysed before she turned and bolted. Her chest heaved with the unexpected exertion and a dull pain coursed through her body. Her legs felt heavy and she was not sure how long she could keep it up. On the opposite track running parallel to the train about forty yards ahead a large brown freight train was just starting to pull away. Its movement was slow and cumbersome, its wheels screeching. With no other plan in mind Eleanor hurried for it as fast as her aching body would allow. Her quest was given renewed urgency when a bullet whistled past her ear. Fuelled by her fight for survival, adrenaline pumping hard, she caught up with the slow moving freight train as her pursuers continued to scream for her to stop.

At the rear of the train was a box like structure secured on a platform that allowed for a small walkway surrounded by a guardrail. There was a short ladder up onto the platform, similar to those found in municipal swimming pools. Eleanor surmised that the rear carriage was some type of control box for the railway engineers, and headed as fast as she could for the ladder. Her legs almost buckled in protest, and suddenly the train began to pick up speed. She ran along the tracks behind it, fearing any second a shot in the back would bring her down. She could still hear her pursuers shouting. She knew if she did not reach the train she was as good as dead.

Eleanor was less than three yards from the lifeline of the ladder, but the speed of the rumbling train almost exactly matched her own pace. It was also beginning to accelerate. If she did not act now she would never reach the train. Another bullet flashed by and ricocheted with a spark off the square metal box on the train. It provided the incentive she needed. With all the strength she could muster she lurched forward and reached out for the handle on the side of the ladder. She managed to grab hold with her right arm, but it was almost wrenched out of its socket by the momentum of the train. Eleanor grimly hung on, her legs pumping fast to avoid being dragged along the ground. A firm grip with both hands was needed. She raised her damaged left arm and reached out for the ladder. She clutched at it and grimly hung on. The pain from her arm speared through her body with an excruciating intensity that almost rendered her senseless. Somehow Eleanor summoned the strength to push herself up and plant her feet on the bottom of the ladder. Scrambling up the few rungs, she flopped onto the small walkway, exhausted. A glance behind her revealed her two pursuers chasing hard. The bodyguard was in front, gaining ground quickly, and she saw him raise his weapon again. She desperately scrambled behind the metal box and heard another bullet strike the metal as she found cover just in time. The train was now picking up speed and she peeped out from behind her shield. Her pursuer was still sprinting vigorously but the train continued to accelerate. With a final effort the bodyguard burst forward and leaped toward the ladder where Eleanor had been seconds earlier. For one horrifying moment she thought he had made it, but the momentum of the accelerating train was too great. He stumbled and fell heavily on the gravel, rolling over. He quickly got up and tried one more shot in anger, frustrated that he had failed to reach his prey. Eleanor winced again at the ping of the bullet which cannoned harmlessly into space.

Eleanor lay back on the cold metal floor of the walkway, breathing hard, her tortured body limp with exertion. Presently the iron grey sky turned darker and the cold air began to bite at her. She needed to find shelter on the train. With a huge effort, she dragged herself to her feet and stumbled against the guardrail. The train was now travelling fast and the icy wind whipped at her face till it was raw and dry to the touch. As the train turned a gentle corner, she was able to see along the length of the train from her vantage point at the rear. The freight train extended into the distance, a line of featureless brown metal containers.

There appeared to be no way forward along the length of the train. She was stuck at the rear. She noticed that each container was not completely featureless. A number of narrow slats extended the length of each container at the top. She looked up at the nearest carriage and saw a filthy set of fingers reaching out from it. Shocked, she leaned forward from her platform and pressed her ear against the back of the nearest carriage. Eleanor could hear faint moans coming from inside the carriage. A wave of disgust shuddered through her. She was right about this being a freight train, but she now knew that everything she feared was true. The cargo on this train was human.

## CHAPTER 16

The mood in the courtroom was sombre as Harry was escorted into the cage and his handcuffs released. Judge Advocate Hodgson peered down at him from his raised dais, his eyes cold from behind the thick spectacles. All other occupants in the austere chamber turned to Harry, and he could see it in their eyes. Just like his counsel, they too believed he had a mountain to climb to avoid the inevitable outcome.

Stanworth took his seat, shuffling his papers and fingering his tablet, casting a surreptitious glance across at Harry. They had only been allowed a few minutes conference before the trial resumed and Harry had little idea of his lawyer's strategy. However, after the formalities had been completed, Stanworth stood up and addressed the bench, and when he introduced his first witness Harry gasped.

"Your Honour," he said, "I would like to call my first witness. Unfortunately she is unable to join us in person for security reasons and so I have arranged for a video-link. Your Honour, Julianne Ferguson."

A shudder ran through Harry as he heard her name, and immediately the prosecution barrister was on his feet, his black gown flapping as he gesticulated wildly. "Objection! This is most improper! It is incumbent for any witnesses to be present in person! We have not been told about the witness, and have had no opportunity to prepare!"

Two court administrators wheeled in a wooden stand on which sat a large monitor. The screen was blank. Hodgson observed these proceedings with detached interest. He briefly consulted his associates either side of him and then said, "I will allow it. Please continue Mr. Stanworth."

"Thank you, your Honour," replied Stanworth. The lawyer cast a triumphant glance at his adversary across the courtroom. The monitor burst into life and Julianne's flaming red hair and attractive freckled features filled the screen. Harry thought she looked pale and drawn, but who was he to judge? He didn't look so good either these days. The camera had been cleverly placed so that it offered no indication of her whereabouts, but the dark grey area just visible behind her head was enough for Harry. She was still in the bunker and that brought him a sense of relief. It was unlikely she would be able to save him with her testimony, but Harry appreciated her effort. Despite all that had passed between them, he was glad to see her face.

The prosecution barrister snapped his fingers and his female associate briskly bowed to the bench and hurried out of the courtroom, while Julianne placed her hand on a virtual bible. "I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," she said. Her voice sounded strong and clear despite the tiny delay in the video-link as she gave the oath.

Harry guessed with relief that the video-link was one way, and that Julianne had merely an audio feed. He did not want her to see him like this.

"Miss Ferguson, please tell me about your relationship with the accused."

Julianne talked at length with little prompting from Stanworth, and even Sinclair was muted in his interruptions. She spoke with true candour about their relationship, how they had met while he was still a political correspondent, and how he had tried to valiantly save his marriage after their infidelity had been exposed.

"I don't blame him for rejecting me," she said. "He had a wife and a young boy. I was his mistress, the other woman who did all the running. He lost his family because of me, and all he has ever done is to try to find his way back to them."

Safe in her undisclosed location, she talked about the resistance movement and how they had kidnapped him into their resistance cell in Kent.

"So you were part of that same resistance cell that was crushed by the military?" Stanworth asked.

"Yes I was."

"And what was Mr. Clarke's involvement?"

"It was minimal. We captured him because he had knowledge of the Government's five-year plan. The information and knowledge we felt would prove vital to our cause."

"And what about the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister?"

Julianne's features narrowed. "I want to make this absolutely clear. Harry had nothing to do with that. The mastermind behind that plan was Sean Kelly."

"Ah yes, the infamous Sean Kelly. Tell me about him."

Julianne took relish in exposing every damning fact she could about Sean Kelly, including his role as a domestic abuser. She described how Harry had tried to help her to extricate herself from their complicated relationship. She explained in detail how Kelly had led the resistance cell with an iron fist, not far removed from the dictatorship that subjugated the nation. Continuing in full flow, she explained Kelly's liaison with other resistance cells and how they had developed the plan under Kelly's guidance. There was no question in her mind who was culpable, and by implicating Kelly the inference was that Harry was merely an observer.

Stanworth paused for a moment to remind the three judges that Sean Kelly was also at Belmarsh pending military trial, and his credibility as a prosecution witness should reflect that.

"You would have been better to remind me of that when he was on the stand, Mr. Stanworth," Hodgson said gruffly. "Continue."

"Of course your Honour," replied the defence counsel stiffly. He turned back to the video monitor and asked Julianne about Harry's role in the murder of prominent Conservative M.P. Graham Matheson.

Julianne snorted with derision at the notion that Harry had been involved. "Harry is incapable of murdering anyone. He is a gentle and kind man. I truly believe he was framed."

Stanworth then turned to the circumstances behind Julianne and Kendrick's journey to the West Country to find Harry. Julianne took the court through their search and how they finally found him in the Milford Haven estuary after he jumped for his life off the ship. She wanted to describe in detail what Harry had told her about the horrors that he had witnessed on that ship, but prosecuting counsel curtailed her description by objecting that it was hearsay.

"Stick to the facts, Miss Ferguson," Hodgson admonished her over the video-link.

Under Stanworth's guidance, she carefully described their journey back to London until they reached the point where Harry had shot Kendrick. Even Julianne could not dispute that Harry had done so, and Stanworth did not try to refute this through his questions. However he paused for a moment, and in the silence of the courtroom, he peered intently at Julianne's image in the monitor.

"Miss Ferguson, I want you to remember that you are under oath. Please tell me did Officer Kendrick give Mr. Clarke the gun?"

"Yes he did," she replied without hesitation. Sinclair bristled at the prosecution table.

"And Kendrick gave consent to shoot him?"

"Without question. I was there."

Sinclair was up again. "Objection! Leading the witness!"

Stanworth merely rephrased the question but the result was the same. Julianne's evidence was clear and factual and refuted everything that Kendrick had said about the circumstances, not just of the shooting but of their motivations for finding Harry.

With further prompting from Stanworth, Julianne explained how Harry had been compelled to release the videos of what he had seen and experienced, and how they had resonated with a disaffected public tired of living in fear. "He's not a terrorist," she asserted. "Quite the opposite. He is a man who had the courage to speak up against a brutal regime that he had seen kill thousands of innocent people in cold blood because they did not fit Pelham's racial stereotype."

"Objection!" shouted Sinclair, rising unsteadily to his feet. "This is merely speculation."

Despite the split second delay in the video-link, Julianne continued before Judge Advocate Hodgson could intervene. "There is no speculation about it. The film he posted is genuine. I saw the people in Pembroke. It was genocide. We should be knighting Harry - not putting him on trial as a terrorist. He was one of the last bastions of free speech in this country."

"Proceed," Hodgson intervened.

Sinclair sat down, quietly fuming, his pudgy fingers dancing over his tablet, waiting for his moment to cross-examine. He knew that Julianne was a strong witness for the defence. Her testimony was clear and factual, and she made a compelling case for Harry, particularly in undermining Kendrick's evidence and Kelly's credibility. But she was not objective, and that was where he intended to attack her.

Julianne continued to explain to the court how Harry had seen it as a moral imperative to expose to the world the atrocities taking place in the country. Under Stanworth's gentle prompting she came across as a strong character witness. At the end of the examination-in-chief, Stanworth addressed the bench with a satisfied smile. "No further questions your Honour."

Harry's bitterness toward Julianne faded. It was a considerable risk testifying on his behalf, and she would have surely implicated herself if she was not already a wanted terrorist. He was just glad she was still alive. As she was still in the bunker, it meant that Chamberlain had not closed it down. It had been a strong performance, and Stanworth had surprised him too with his thoughtful questioning. Even so, he wondered just how much difference it would make in the final analysis.

Sinclair rose to his feet and rubbed his hands gleefully as Hodgson addressed him. "Mr. Sinclair, you may cross-examine the witness."

## CHAPTER 17

Sinclair had calmed down enough to appear quite composed as he stood in front of the video screen. Her eyes did not follow his pacing in front of the screen, and that affirmed Harry's suspicion that she could not see the court.

His associate came rushing in breathlessly, gave a short bow to the bench and handed her tablet to Sinclair. The prosecution barrister gave a wry smile as he viewed the tablet before handing it back. He turned to the monitor.

" _Miss_ Ferguson," he began. "So tell us _exactly_ what your relationship is or was with Mr. Clarke."

A hint of irritation was discernible in Julianne's features even through the monitor. "I told you I was his lover."

"And his partner in crime of course. You have already talked about the resistance cell that you kidnapped him into."

"I don't consider resistance against brutal government oppression a crime."

"Oh, but it is Miss Ferguson," Sinclair chided. "It's treason. Isn't that why you cannot be here in person? You're hiding from justice." He turned to the judges for emphasis. "What type of witness does that make you?"

Julianne remained composed. "A very plausible one," she countered.

"I disagree. It makes you a fugitive from justice. You are every bit as guilty as Mr. Clarke for plotting against the State. You should be in the dock alongside him pleading for your life. Any evidence you give is unreliable and tainted."

"That's not for you to decide," Julianne responded acidly. "It's for the court."

"So let the court decide." He snapped his fingers at his associate and she handed him her tablet. He paused dramatically, inspecting the screen. "You haven't been totally honest in describing your relationship with the accused, have you?"

Julianne suddenly looked ruffled. "What do you mean?"

Sinclair glanced at the tablet again before continuing. "Miss Ferguson, you are a member of an underground terrorist movement aimed at infiltrating and attacking government computer networks. You went to Wales specifically to recruit the accused for your terrorist cell. Your claim that Harry shooting Kendrick was deliberate and contrived is fantastical to say the least. We have heard evidence to the contrary from D.C. Kendrick himself. Why would anyone in their right mind agree to be shot? The fact is that you deceived the police officer into travelling there to find him, but you had no intention of turning him over to the police." He paused for effect. "Did you?"

"No I did not but neither did -"

"Thank you," Sinclair cut her off abruptly. "So the answer was no. Because you wanted him for your new terrorist movement. After all you two go back a long way." He continued with barely a pause before she could speak again.

"So tell me what your role was in the plot to kill the Prime Minister?"

Stanworth shot up and addressed the bench. "Objection your Honour. Miss Ferguson is not on trial here."

"Your Honour," interjected Sinclair, "I am merely trying to ascertain the nature of the conduct and activities of the accused whilst in the compound in Kent. I believe that Miss Ferguson's role in those activities is key to understanding that."

Hodgson exchanged glances with his peers on either side. "I'll allow it, but remember Mr. Sinclair that the witness is not required to implicate herself."

Sinclair gave a stiff bow. "Thank you your Honour." He turned back to the screen and waited expectantly.

"I was not heavily involved in the plot," replied Julianne. "Kelly was the ringleader and main contact for the Islamic suicide bombers."

"But isn't it true that Mr. Clarke was brought in, or 'kidnapped' as you suggest, shortly before the attempt on the Prime Minister's life. Are you telling me that was merely coincidental?"

"I'm not telling you anything of the sort."

"So let me fill in the gaps if I may. You recruited Mr. Clarke because of his left-wing sympathies and hatred of a legitimate government, knowing that he had already killed one Minister -"

"Objection!" yelled Stanworth, rising to his feet again.

Hodgson banged his gavel. "Is there a question in there Mr. Sinclair?"

"There is your Honour." He turned back to the screen where Julianne ran a pale hand through her lustrous red hair in agitation. "Is it not the case that you recruited him for the knowledge he had as a political correspondent and for his zealous hatred of the government to help in planning the attack? You did the same several months later when you tracked him down in Wales?"

"That is complete nonsense. Harry had nothing to do with the attack on the Prime Minister."

"Isn't it true that you sought him out twice? Maybe it's not just for his skills as a terrorist. You have already admitted to this Court that you were lovers. You wanted to continue that liaison and you were prepared to go to any lengths to find him. You still love him don't you? Which hardly makes you an objective and reliable witness does it?"

Julianne began to protest but Sinclair brushed her aside. "You, Miss Ferguson are a potential murderer too, quite apart from your partiality. How can you be qualified to judge whether the accused killed Matheson or not? The fact is that you have no idea if he murdered him or not. You are as culpable as each other. If you are his lover then you would do anything to save his life, including lie for him. You are no more than a glorified character witness and a poor one at that." He raised his voice for emphasis. " You're a coward for not being here in person and as much a terrorist as he is. We will hunt you down and bring you to justice too."

Harry could bear it no longer. "Leave her alone Sinclair," he yelled. "You're a bigger terrorist than she is!" He rattled the cage in frustration, his chains clanging against the steel bars. The officer in charge of escorting him hovered threateningly close, waiting for a signal from the bench to intervene.

Judge Advocate Hodgson slammed his gavel down, his face a mask of fury. "Prisoner Clarke. I will not have such outbursts in my Tribunal. These proceedings will proceed with the dignity that this Tribunal merits!"

"Dignity!" Harry fired back. "How can you call this circus dignified? It's a travesty of justice!"

A small but dark vein seemed to pop on Hodgson's forehead as he rapped the gavel again. "Prisoner Clarke. One more word from you and I will hold you in contempt. You will be removed from these proceedings."

Next to Harry the officer slammed his truncheon against the bars where Harry's fingers had been a split second before. A metallic clang reverberated around the courtroom.

Harry backed down under the weight of Hodgson's glare. Stanworth stood up. "Your Honour, may I request a moment to confer with my client?"

"Request denied," Hodgson snapped, banging his gavel again. He turned to the prosecuting counsel. "Mr. Sinclair, when you have quite finished pontificating on what the witness is or isn't, please have the courtesy to ask a question. Now get on with it!"

Beads of sweat broke out on Sinclair's fleshy forehead. "No more questions your Honour."

Before Stanworth could interject Hodgson excused her and the screen went dark. The Judge Advocate peered down at Stanworth.

"Any more witnesses for the defence?"

"No your Honour," replied Stanworth.

"Just as well," he muttered under his breath, still fuming at the interruption. He adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. "We have heard submissions from the Prosecution and Defendants. We will reconvene tomorrow morning at nine o'clock to hear closing arguments, whereupon this panel will reach a verdict."

Hodgson then scowled at Stanworth and addressed him like a naughty schoolboy. "This will be my last warning about your client, Mr. Stanworth. I hold you responsible for keeping him under control. Another outburst like that and you will be joining him in the cells. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal clear, your Honour," Stanworth said reverently. He glared over at Harry with a look that suggested he might want to pull the hangman's lever himself.

They had been granted five minutes to debrief. Harry glared across at his defence counsel. The gloomy cell felt even more claustrophobic than usual as Harry reflected on a disastrous defence.

"What the hell were you thinking of, getting Julianne to testify?"

Stanworth scratched at his stubble in irritation. "The opportunity presented itself and I had no time to consult with you. She was my only witness. I had no-one else. You don't have many friends Harry. I thought we might have the element of surprise. How did I know that Sinclair would find out so much about her? I thought she would be more credible."

"You thought she would be more credible?" Harry repeated in exasperation. "You should have found out more about her. As soon as the prosecution found out about our relationship they had enough ammunition to tear her to shreds, and that's exactly what they did. You should never have asked her to describe her relationship with me. You laid it on a plate for them." Harry wanted to strangle his defence lawyer. His tactical naivety had almost certainly sealed his fate.

"They would have found out anyway. You didn't help yourself with that outburst Harry."

"Don't change the subject," he snapped.

Stanworth sighed. His narrow, slumped shoulders told Harry all he needed to know. His lawyer, the one shield between him and a likely death sentence, had already given up. "It's not over yet, Harry. I'll work on a strong closing argument tonight." He sounded less than convincing to Harry.

Keys jangled and the door clanged open. The beefy jailer escorted Stanworth from the cell, leaving Harry alone to contemplate the inevitable. His thoughts turned to Julianne. He appreciated her attempt to try and compensate for the damage she had done. She had, however, wilted under Sinclair's aggressive questioning, especially when he knew exactly who she was. Harry knew he would not sleep tonight.

Across London, less than two miles away and fifteen metres below ground in the abandoned service tunnels above Westminster Tube Station, Julianne sat alone. She endured her own private hell, tears flowing as she thought of Harry in the dock, fighting for his life. Although she could not see him, and probably never would again, she pictured him in the tiny cage watching others deliberate on whether he should live or die, all totally out of his control. His outburst had not helped his cause, but she was curiously gratified to hear his voice, even if it was raised in anger. They had not broken his spirit.

Her anguish lay with her own failings. She had made a catastrophic error in trusting that weasel Chamberlain, and she had just made another one in testifying. Chen had discovered the existence of the trial from hacking the Ministry of Defence Intranet. They had managed to find out who represented Harry and locate Stanworth on his cell phone without Kessler becoming aware. There had been no time for the defence lawyer to coach her, but she knew that they had no other witnesses. It was always a last desperate throw of the dice, like a gambler trying to recoup his losses in one last throw, but the cross-examination had been brutal. She had naively hoped that the late notice would surprise the prosecution and she could act as a strong character witness for Harry. She wished to convince the Tribunal that Harry was a decent man fighting for a cause.

As it turned out, she had compounded her original error. She had no answer to Sinclair's fierce cross-examination, and had jeopardized whatever strands of defence they had. She could not bear to think that she had effectively consigned Harry to his fate through her testimony. In hindsight, she was too implicated, too involved with Harry to credibly support the defence's assertion that he was not a killer. Her bitter tears of sorrow were as much from self-reproach for her failure on the witness stand as the realization that Harry was surely lost to her forever.

## CHAPTER 18

As the train rumbled slowly through the night, Eleanor curled up, shivering with cold, occasionally drifting into unconsciousness before the cold snapped her awake again. Her body was as stiff as a board and all she could feel of her hands and feet was a painful tingling. It made the dark hours feel like years, and she prayed for sleep if only to escape the freezing conditions. Sleep was no relief, however; it was filled with feverish dreams of a crowd of grey, bedraggled people crying and screaming with anguish, husbands being torn from their families, children dragged away from their mothers.

When she awoke shivering, she could hear the faint moans from inside the nearest container, the desperate cries of people squashed together, forced to stand in filthy, insanitary conditions for hours and probably days. Who knows how long they had been travelling before she boarded the train? The confirmation of what was going on behind the steel walls of the container brought a crushing sense of repulsion to Eleanor. It was mixed, however, with shame and guilt. How culpable was she in this savage dictatorship? She was a Cabinet Minister after all. Surely she could have done something?

Filled with this tortuous analysis in her waking hours, time dragged on for Eleanor. Eventually a watery sun slowly climbed over the horizon. It brought Eleanor a little relief as she was able to survey her surroundings. She stood up unsteadily, her stiffened hands clutching at the cold guardrail, and pain shooting through her legs. Her breath condensed in the cold air, but she felt the slightest hint of warmth on her frozen face as the sun climbed higher.

The night had been the longest she had ever endured. She was weak and exhausted, her mouth dry as parchment, her left arm limp and useless. A wave of dizziness forced her to sit back down quickly, and she surveyed the scene unfolding before her. In the distance the expansive blue of the English Channel glinted in the early morning sun. The long train, which Eleanor guessed was at least a hundred carriages long, trundled along at the summit of a large rolling hill in the South Downs, at the bottom of which stood a coastal town that she knew well. Less than a year ago, it had been a thriving tourist town, and the low-lying white buildings made it seem like an oasis town rising from a Middle Eastern desert. She feared that like so many coastal towns, the town of Brighton had been sealed off by the Army. Now she knew why. As the train descended into the valley, the town disappeared from view, chalk hills rising up sharply on either side of the train as it cut further into the hill. The train began to slow down as it curved around a bend, but the wind that funnelled through the cutting chilled her even further.

As Eleanor sheltered from the icy breeze and tried to retain as much body heat as possible, the train suddenly lurched and began braking sharply. The sudden momentum almost threw her off the metal box but she managed to throw out a stiffened arm and grasp the guardrail, even though she could barely feel the cold metal on her frozen fingers. She hung on grimly, her body pressed flat against the floor, and the train shuddered to a complete stop. For a moment there was silence and then she heard voices; urgent, strained voices, shouting and yelling. They were too clear to be from inside the carriages. The voices were strong and carried across the air. It was rapidly followed by the sharp report of gunfire, and Eleanor crouched further, afraid, knowing how exposed she was. She wanted to clamber down from the control box and run along the track away from the conflict, but she knew her weakened, freezing body could barely move. She was forced to be a passive observer of whatever would happen.

The gunfire stopped and for a short moment, there was silence other than the squawking of seagulls. She cast a furtive glance down the length of the train. She watched helplessly as a large group of people swarmed around the front carriage of the train. There was little movement from inside the train but the crack of gunfire exploded in the air and she saw several people in the crowd collapse. Screaming and shouting filled the early morning air as the crowd dispersed. Most of them dived for cover but a number of them began running along the length of the train towards the rear where Eleanor saw the conflict unfolding. As they came closer she saw that many in the group were armed. They moved like fighters. This was no random crowd caught up in another demonstration, at the mercy of government forces. As they came closer she saw the battle-hardened faces of warriors, scarred by conflict, intent on the task ahead of them. With little resistance from inside the train, those warriors used whatever tools they had in their possession – machetes, huge wire-cutters, mallets and more to hack away at the locks on the carriage doors. It did not take long before the locks on several of the carriages gave way under the repeated blows. As the metal doors swung open, immediately there spilled onto the hard stony ground a tangled, chaotic, seething mass of humanity, the like of which Eleanor had never seen before.

She gasped in horror at the state of these people. They were black with filth, their clothes no better than torn rags, their haunted faces etched with suffering, hollow sunken eyes a testament to their agony. As they fell onto the ground, many failed to get up. She could see that several were already corpses, the lifeless bodies swept along in the momentum of those clinging to life, rushing to escape the claustrophobic confines of the carriage.

The fighters who had freed them pulled the human tide out from the carriages but did little else to help. They preferred to smash up the train, doing so with an intensity and ferocity that Eleanor found deeply disturbing, as if they were purging their rage. She wondered if these trains symbolized Pelham's brutal regime, a vehicle on which they could vent their hatred. She lay low, cowering on the metal control box, deeply afraid. The shouting and screaming, mixed with intermittent gunfire, was getting closer. The baying crowd had nearly reached the carriage adjacent to her and she knew she could not stay hidden much longer. She just prayed they would not recognize her.

That hope was dashed when she was suddenly confronted by a dark, scarred face that peered over the control box where she lay, shivering as much in fear as the cold. Their eyes met and for a second the man appraised her keenly, confused. It was not a kind face, but weary and battle-hardened, the lines across his brow edged with dirt. A deep, livid red welt ran diagonally across his cheek. His straggly grey beard only partly masked the scar, but she could not tell how far it went down his chin. He shouted in a language she could not understand, but it sounded faintly Arabic, and he was quickly joined by others. They were all dressed in heavily worn combat jackets and most were armed. The group swelled to a dozen or so and they regarded Eleanor curiously, unsure of what to do. Then a beefy figure with a shaved head and a tatty green sleeveless vest pushed through the crowd, a Kalashnikov rifle draped around broad, muscular shoulders and a large serrated hunting knife tied around the hip. The small crowd quickly parted until the stocky figure stood before Eleanor, regarding her with an intensity that Eleanor found unnerving. Without warning a stout hand shot out, reached through the guardrail and grabbed at Eleanor's hair, yanking her head forward.

Eleanor yelped in pain. "I know who you are bitch!" Through the blur of pain Eleanor registered surprise. The voice was hoarse, hinting at a life of smoking, but undoubtedly that of a woman, her femininity compromised by the demands of war. Her thick shoulders and arms were heavily tattooed, and her round, pockmarked face was hard, the cold green eyes devoid of compassion. She was clearly the leader because the hostility in her voice swept through the assembled group and Eleanor sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere, unfriendly eyes staring at her.

As the woman pulled harder, Eleanor thought she would pull her hair out in clumps. She tried to prise the hefty forearm from its grip around her hair, but her own hands were still numb and lacked any grip. Eventually the woman let go and Eleanor fell back, but with a nod of the woman's round head, several fighters stepped onto the control box and dragged her down onto the stony ground.

Eleanor cried tears of pain and humiliation as the woman leader stepped on her hand with her heavy combat boots. She bent down and sneered at Eleanor. "I know who you are," she repeated ominously. "I don't know how you got here but I don't really care. I lost my whole family because of your government." Eleanor detected an Eastern European accent, possibly Russian or Ukrainian.

Her comrades moved in closer as if sensing conflict, a number of them alert for any signs that the army soldiers on board had moved out of the protection of the train. The attacking forces had faced only moderate resistance as they overran the train and released its wretched occupants, but intermittent gunfire continued to resound through the cutting. One of the woman's lieutenants, a wiry athletic soldier with the mocha skin of an East Indian, sporting a dirty eye patch, studied Eleanor with curiosity. "Who is she?" he asked naively.

The woman turned to him. "I'll tell you who she is. I've seen her face on social media. She was even on the huge screens in the town. She's a minister, part of Pelham's inner circle." A murmur of surprise spread through the group. She looked back down at Eleanor. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just slit your throat now," she spat. As she spoke she pulled the long hunting knife from its sheath by her ample hip. The steel blade glinted in the rising sun, which was creeping across the narrow cutting. There was no escape. Eleanor was surrounded, at the mercy of this band of warriors. She had heard about the increase in savage attacks by roaming gangs since her government had taken power, but it had been of little interest, more Angus Shaw's area in Homeland Security. She had only seen the statistics and had taken little notice, intent as she was in fighting the camp disease. It now seemed frighteningly real, however, as she peered up at the knife poised threateningly above her head. Then she remembered she had a valuable bargaining chip.

"Please I have something. It's very important."

"What could you have of any interest to me?" the woman soldier challenged, finally releasing her hand.

"Let me show you," Eleanor pleaded. She fumbled inside her ragged jacket and her persecutor raised the hunting knife threateningly. "Slowly, bitch," she warned.

The feeling was returning to her fingers and Eleanor was able to clumsily grip the vial. She laid it out in her palm to the group crowded around her.

"What is it?" someone asked.

"I was given this by a scientist working to eradicate the camp plague. I don't know exactly what it contains but I have a feeling it is vitally important. The scientist took a great risk in giving this to me. It may contain a sample of the pathogen related to the camp disease, or it may even provide a vaccine. Please, I have to have it analyzed. I don't know how long the sample will last. I need you to help me."

The woman grabbed the small cylinder and turned it over between her meaty fingers. "It's just an old metal pill box." She tossed it contemptuously on the stony ground. "This is a fake. You're buying time!" she rasped.

"No, no it's not!" protested Eleanor in a panicked voice. Still on her knees, she reached out for the metal cylinder but the woman blocked her with her chunky legs. Behind them, the fighter with the eye patch picked up the vial and regarded it curiously.

"Tanya, wait," he said. "What if she's right? I lost my wife and child to that damned disease. I'll never forgive myself for not being there when they were taken to the camp. But if this is a way forward against this horrible disease, we have to take that chance."

Now that she knew her name, Eleanor appealed to the woman soldier directly. "Tanya, please listen to me. I know I was in his Cabinet and that makes me culpable. I always tried to do the right thing but that doesn't matter. I'm guilty by association. But this may be a chance to make some amends. I will take the consequences but please don't let your hatred blind you to this chance."

Tanya snatched the cylinder from her compatriot and inspected it closely. "So how about I just take this anyway and kill you now?"

Eleanor struggled to keep her voice even. The woman was volatile, and Eleanor was a symbol of the enemy, an easy target. "I wouldn't blame you, but you will need me. I need to explain everything."

Tanya hesitated, clearly conflicted. She threw the cylinder back at Eleanor, who quickly pocketed it. Eleanor detected a slight softening in the woman's tone. "I'm going to do something that your regime denied to thousands, including my parents. I'm going to give you a chance."

Eleanor felt choked with emotion. "Thank you," she murmured.

They were suddenly interrupted by the sound of gunfire close by and the group quickly dispersed. A round ball came from nowhere and fell among the group, instantly disintegrating and releasing an oily sulphurous cloud of vapour. Those closest to the vapour instantly clutched at their throats, rasping and wheezing.

"Jesus, mustard gas!" screamed one of the dispersing throng, scrabbling to escape the rising cloud. Through blurry, stinging eyes, Eleanor saw several Army soldiers moving threateningly in their direction, guns raised. Tanya hauled Eleanor to her feet with brutish strength. "Come on, before they kill us all!"

Tanya and several of her followers ran along the track away from the soldiers, eager to escape the burning touch of the gas. Eleanor ran with them, half-dragged by Tanya's powerful grip, her chest heaving as they scrambled up a section of the cutting with a more gentle incline. They clambered over a small fence that acted as a border for the rail tracks as they cut through the hill. At that moment a bullet whizzed close by, adding urgency to their retreat. The man with the eye patch cocked his rifle and fired a volley in the direction of the advancing soldiers, who scrambled for cover behind the control box that had been Eleanor's refuge during the night. The temporary relief from pursuit allowed them to view the train and the chaos surrounding it from an elevated position. Eleanor watched in horror at waves of dishevelled, tortured men, women and children of all ages lying dazed and confused on the stony ground surrounding the train. Around them anti-government fighters began to flee as more pellets were hurled at them from inside the train. Several Army soldiers emerged from the train, machine guns spraying indiscriminately into the clamorous throng, sending a number of them crashing to the ground. Eleanor bit back tears at the hellish scene before her, but they had little time to ponder. They stood at the crest of the hill, and before them the grassy meadow stretched out toward a hazy horizon, where the white buildings of Brighton huddled around the blue ocean, sparkling in the bright sunshine. The contrast with the carnage behind them could not have been greater.

"Come on," said Tanya. "We need to make it to the smuggler's boat."

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 4

As the United Kingdom continues to draw international condemnation for its immigration policies and alleged atrocities in support of them, the political landscape is changing. Reports are sketchy on the details of the attack on Lawrence Pelham's train, but the limited social media commentary leaking from the country suggests that the Prime Minister sustained life threatening injuries.

This raises a fundamental constitutional question for the country. If Pelham does not survive, an already highly charged political situation could deteriorate, as conflicting factions seek to fill the power vacuum left behind. Whether this happens depends on the strength of the Ministerial Cabinet and its allegiance to Pelham's philosophies. As is so often the case in such regimes, a great deal will turn on whether the military and the State Secret Police continue to support the new administration. Whatever happens, a seismic change in the political dynamics of the country is likely to occur. Many people would like to see him dead, and the United Nations is monitoring the situation closely, having postponed a debate on a resolution to deploy a peacekeeping force in the country. Kobie Emosi, the Secretary-General of the UN, has advised the world media that, "We are monitoring developments closely and our forces remain on high alert for immediate deployment should the situation in the country deteriorate further."

The irony is that Britain is more in need of strong leadership than ever. If a power vacuum results, various splintered factions could attempt to take strongholds, turning warring factions against each other. Those factions that have until now turned their resistance to a common enemy could end up in a complex and violent turf war as they attempt to seize small areas of control. For example, there are still large pockets of Islamic fighters that had previously waged a war on Britain's streets against primarily Kurdish and Syrian migrants. The latter had fled to the United Kingdom as refugees from the Al-Assad regime and the intense conflict that eventually resulted in his savage downfall about a decade ago. Their entry had sparked a wave of violence as the war fought in the Middle East was transported to Britain's shores, turning large swathes of several towns and cities into no-go areas. The resulting anti-Islamic sentiment was one of the key reasons for the rapid rise of the British National Party, which displaced a humiliated Labour Party as the official Opposition Party in the last election. It also fuelled Pelham's own ascendancy to power on the promise of eliminating the conflict and the consequent radicalization of so many young migrants.

Under the constitution, Pelham's incapacity has paved the way for Giles Chamberlain, the Deputy P.M., to assume interim leadership duties. Chamberlain is a strong advocate and spokesman for Pelham. His combative speech in the aftermath of the attack made it clear that the Army and State Secret Police will not rest until the perpetrators are brought to justice. He pointed out that just as they found and executed the members of the last assassination attempt, they would hunt down the people behind this latest plot, and those responsible could expect the same result.

In Pelham's absence, it is this type of strong rhetoric that could hold the country together, at least temporarily. The question remains for how long? How much longer is the UN going to wait before it intervenes? International pressure has reached fever pitch in the light of the attack on Pelham. If the UN's monitoring role as set out on Emosi's statement is perceived as a failure to act, the Secretary-General's position, already under threat from his handling of the crisis, will be further destabilized.

Speculation continues on whether the attack was linked to rumours that the verdict of the military Tribunal in the trial of Harry Clarke is imminent. It is widely expected that, if convicted, Clarke will face the death penalty. This could spark a fresh wave of violence that might force Emosi's hand. The sight of troops and police firing on unarmed protesters, even shaky footage smuggled from cellphone cameras, is surely something that he would wish to avoid as he fends off accusations of indecision for his failure to act promptly. The clamour for action will be deafening if Harry Clarke dies. Under a watching, waiting world, his execution could be the most high profile the world has ever known.

## CHAPTER 19

The speech the night before had been broadcast live on all the major TV networks and on streaming media. Reaction to Chamberlain's speech had been generally positive, but the Deputy P.M. had a further engagement today he considered far more important. There was no presidential-style cavalcade to take him to this meeting, however. He went alone and under the radar, which was not easy given that he was now acting Prime Minister.

He had asked his ministerial team to provide him with hourly reports on the Prime Minister's condition. Pelham was still in a coma, but he was under the care of some of the finest physicians in the trauma unit at St Thomas's Hospital in Westminster Bridge Road. This fact in itself irritated Chamberlain. It should have been a clean job, with Pelham completely obliterated. Not for the first time the Prime Minister had proved to be tougher than he expected. The willpower and highly developed survival skills that had brought him to the summit of the political arena kept him alive, seemingly against the odds.

It appeared that Griffiths' tactical assault team had not moved in quickly enough to finish the job. He had not yet spoken to Griffiths directly about the incident. It was too risky in the current climate, but reports suggested that at the time there had been some confusion over whether Pelham was alive or not. Griffiths' forces had been instructed not to engage if Pelham was dead. During the period of uncertainty, valuable time was lost, allowing time for the emergency services to arrive first. The assault team had been instructed to withdraw, as an all-out attack would invite a bloodbath. Such an escalation in the conflict would inevitably be traced back to Griffiths and possibly even to him. Pelham had many allies in the military and within Party ranks who would doggedly seek the truth. There had to be nothing that could link the attack on the Prime Minister to Chamberlain.

His faithful driver navigated the light traffic along Victoria Embankment as Chamberlain peered out onto the grey waters of the Thames, lost in thought. The converted taxicab looked like any other London black cab, except for the darkened windows. It had a number of security features that made it Chamberlain's vehicle of choice when travelling the often dangerous streets of London. He did not want to repeat the incident when Pelham's SUV had been attacked by an angry mob south of the river.

On this raw early March day, the city was still recovering from the long, harsh winter, and flurries of sleet whipped around in the turbulent air, reducing visibility and leaving the roads slick and slippery. The converted taxi turned into Middle Temple Lane and followed the road into the tall, imposing and stately Georgian buildings of the Inner Temple. It was an odd place to meet the corporate sponsors, the hallowed halls where so many legal luminaries had cut their teeth. The Honourable Society of the Inner Temple dated back to the 14th Century when it was founded by the Knights Templar. Overseen by Parliament, it was an established training ground for barristers, one of the Four Inns of Court.

They pulled up on the gravel drive outside a large wooden door framed by ornate stone carvings like an entrance to a cathedral. The elegant terraced building had a sign engraved on a gold plate adjacent to the door. King's Bench Walk.

"This is the place," he said to his driver. "Stay here until I return, but be discreet."

His driver tipped his cap in assent and with an athleticism that belied his solid frame, scampered around the side of the taxi to open the door for Chamberlain. As the Deputy stepped out he reached inside his heavy wool coat and herringbone suit, smoothing down the paisley silk tie. There was a heavy brass knocker on the door but he did not need it. As arranged the door was unlocked and he cautiously stepped inside, escaping the turbulent gusts that whistled through the Inns of Court in the winter. The air inside was a little musty, and it reminded Chamberlain of his days at Cambridge, long periods spent in dusty libraries studying books and computer files.

The Deputy P.M. had come a long way since his university days, and today might prove a critical day in the ascent to the summit. It was his second meeting in less than a week with the corporate power brokers, but events had moved quickly. He had laid the groundwork at the first meeting, but he knew that he would need to call on all his skills of persuasion to convince them to support his candidacy. He walked along the carpeted hallway, passing a gallery of paintings that depicted some of the finest legal minds in British legal history. Former judges like Lord Denning and Baroness Butler-Sloss stared back at him. Their eyes seemed to follow and bore into him as he headed down a set of wooden spiral steps into the bowels of the building, where the furnishings and decor were more basic. His descent down two levels brought him to a dark, elegantly framed door.

Waiting outside the door was a figure Chamberlain had seen before. He felt a stab of fear as he saw him. The man was tall and slender, and his eyes were hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses. When the Deputy P.M. looked at him, he saw his own distorted reflection. He wore a dark trench-coat past his knees. His hat was pressed low and the lower face was a dark mass of stubble, occasionally flecked with grey, surrounding thin bloodless lips. Despite his attire, the man carried an air of latent strength. He was the same man who had nearly thrown Griffiths off the top of the Canary Wharf tower when he stepped out of line. Chamberlain knew him as some kind of enforcer for Pelham, but he also appeared to have a dual role as some kind of emissary for the corporate sponsors. Chamberlain looked at him, conflicted. Did he still owe any allegiance to Pelham? Would he reveal this clandestine meeting to the Prime Minister? Maybe his presence was a message for Chamberlain. It left him deeply uneasy.

The figure looked him over and silently frisked him with his tight leather gloves. His voice was a low drawl. "This way." He knocked and opened the door for Chamberlain to enter.

The conference room was expansive but dimly lit, and the long, polished boardroom table stretched into the shadows. Dark figures sat at the end of the table, their faces obscured in the poor light. Chamberlain knew that their attempt to remain anonymous was utter fiction. He could not see them but he knew their names, and although only a delegation of the sponsors was present, he could sometimes recognize their voices. Even so, he had been explicitly instructed not to use their names during their meeting.

Chamberlain sat at the end of the table, facing the shadowy figures. Blue smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling from one of the figures at the table. Chamberlain caught a whiff of the smoke. It smelt sickly sweet, like burnt leaves, the unmistakable aroma of marijuana. The smoker spoke first, his gravelly voice evidence of his long-standing drug habit.

"Thank you for coming Mr. Chamberlain," he rasped. "Congratulations on your speech. The social media seems to like it, which is what really matters these days. I trust that you will not need to look too far to hunt down and bring the perpetrators to justice as you promised?"

Chamberlain detected a note of sarcasm. "That remains to be seen," he said guardedly.

"Yes of course," replied the marijuana voice, clearly appointed as the group's spokesman. "We shall leave it at that."

Chamberlain knew that they would never directly ask him if he had arranged the attack on Pelham and he would never voluntarily disclose that vital piece of information. Politics did not work like that, and he had to assume that everything said was recorded. Officially, of course, these meetings did not exist and there would never be any record of them. Perhaps, Chamberlain surmised, that was why they had chosen such a curious place. Maybe one of them had a barrister friend who could ensure that these high profile captains of industry could meet in the shadows.

The spokesman continued. "The circumstances leave us with a problem. We understand that Mr. Pelham is still alive and therefore technically still the Prime Minister. As long as he remains as such, our negotiations should be with him, not you. It would have been better if the matter had been more conclusive."

Chamberlain knew this was an underhand way of saying that he should have made a thorough job of it. The inference remained unspoken. "I agree," conceded Chamberlain, but the fact remains that Pelham is unlikely to be in a position to provide any form of leadership in the near future."

Another voice rose from the shadows. It possessed a rich, smooth quality, a younger voice but one that carried an innate strength. "You, Mr. Chamberlain, present us with a dilemma. Last week you talked so eloquently about how you could be a useful alternative to Pelham. Personally I have my doubts, and I know I speak for others on this. Yes, we believe that Pelham has become too extreme in his views and his actions. We miscalculated by allowing him too much latitude and the view among many of us is that he must be replaced. But you are the Government's spokesman. Everything you do and say is intimately connected with this regime. How can you possibly distance yourself from the Pelham regime when you are effectively its mind and management? You know the United Nations is threatening to invade the country. The general uncertainty surrounding Pelham's condition may lead to more civil unrest and that will force the UN's hand. How can the international community ever consider you as an alternative? You're tainted Mr. Chamberlain."

Chamberlain was expecting this. "With due respect, gentlemen, I think you have to shoulder some of that responsibility. You allowed Pelham far too much unfettered control, and you gave him the resources he needed to create his vision for the country. You may share his ideals for this nation, to 'cleanse' it as it were, but his methods have alienated the rest of the world. Even our strongest allies have turned against us. I agree, it's only a matter of time before the UN come charging in to liberate us."

"And you will be one of the first on the hit list."

"As things stand that may be true, but none of you will be immune."

A concerned voice rose from the back. "What do you mean?"

Chamberlain instantly recognized it as Matt Lindström, the patriarch of the evergreen Forbes Rich-List family that had made hundreds of millions on developer land deals, more often than not as slum landlords. Chamberlain smiled at the irony. The man could trace his roots back to Sweden, but not recently enough to fall foul of the Minorities Registration Act.

"I will not be the only member of Pelham's administration standing in the dock at the International Criminal Court," he said. "When people are facing long jail terms they will probably do anything to reduce their punishment. Loyalty and fidelity will go out of the window."

The voice turned angry. "Are you threatening us?"

Chamberlain remained composed. "Not in the least. I am explaining the reality of the situation. Pelham's approach has proved to be far too extreme. I can achieve the same goals in a way that will appease the international community and bring stability to the country.

"Gentlemen you have all seen the five-year plan. You remember how the Great Recession nearly destroyed many of your corporations. The Labour Government brought this country to its knees. Based on various economic indices, we were officially ranked as a third world country. I don't need to tell you how humiliating that was for a nation that used to own half the known world. We took over on a tide of protest and we promised a better way. Our commitment was to make Britain a world force again and to restore the purity and the values that made Britain great. The dilution of our people had weakened us from within."

"We remain committed to that. What's your point?" an antagonistic voice shot back from the shadows."

"My point, gentlemen, is that Pelham's methods have been so extreme that it has isolated the country from the international community. We have become the North Korea of this decade. He has lost this country inside and out of it. All of your businesses have suffered badly from the UN trade embargoes. You have been restricted to an internal market for your goods, which is shrinking because of the conflict and the reduced population. The economy has shrunk by nearly thirty per cent. Your own personal fortunes have suffered."

"We endorsed the five-year plan. We knew there would be short term losses. We can afford to see the bigger picture."

"Did you honestly expect it to get as bad as this? Pelham sold you a vision but he did not tell you just how far he was prepared to go. When and if he achieves the five-year plan, the country will be ostracized to such an extent that no-one outside these shores will wish to do business with a UK corporation. A number of you have had to sell your overseas subsidiaries already. Your businesses will never recover."

A voice heavy with skepticism interjected. Chamberlain recognized it as belonging to Baron Alastair Renfrew, the Scottish oil and gas tycoon. He was an outspoken industrialist who the Deputy disliked intensely. "Which takes us back to the original question? You are his deputy and his spokesman. You're synonymous with this regime. How can you ever consider yourself credible?"

"It may take some time, but I can achieve the same goals without the extremism we have seen in the past ten months. This country is like a boat about to tip over in heavy seas. I can steady the boat, offer stability and rehabilitation. I will negotiate an end to the trade embargoes and sanctions and gradually restore us back into the international community. If the UN invades us then everything we have worked for will be in vain. The time for compromise has come."

"Surely we have enough military resources to repel them?" came another voice from the shadows. The tone betrayed his concern.

Chamberlain gave a short laugh. "The morale in the Army and the PIA is at an all-time low. Many of them have not been paid for months. If the UN enters Britain, plenty will probably take up arms and join them."

"What about our air defences?"

"I don't believe the UN will attack by air. A bombing campaign would be too random and likely hurt the people they are trying to protect. History has shown that bombing campaigns have never been successful. Ask the Syrians."

An awkward silence filled the room as the assembly of corporate sponsors considered the implications of a UN offensive. Chamberlain knew that many of these sponsors who had supported Pelham felt that they were in too deep. They had underestimated Pelham's narcissism and the extreme lengths he was prepared to go in pursuit of his vision. Chamberlain had clearly touched a nerve when he referred to the ICC. The sponsors had always relied on their shield of anonymity, but when the UN came knocking, how long could they hide behind their corporate veil? They had financed a regime that had spun out of control and the consequences they might suffer went beyond financial loss. He offered them a chance of a more moderate approach, a chance to cut their losses.

The marijuana smoker blew out a hefty puff. "We've heard what you have to say Mr. Chamberlain. But until the matter with Pelham is – ah – concluded – then our business is with Pelham." Murmurs of agreement sounded around the table and a grey hand pointed to the door. "We'll call you again. You know what you have to do. You're dismissed."

Chamberlain's eyes flashed in anger. He stood up and slammed his fist on the table. "I will be the next Prime Minister of this country with or without you!"

"You need us," the resonant voice of Baron Renfrew fired back from the shadows.

"And you need me, because I can make things very difficult for you!"

Murmurs of concern rippled through the shadows. "We don't take threats kindly."

Chamberlain, having regained his composure, replied in a light tone. "Oh, I'm not threatening you. I am merely explaining the reality. My influence is greater than you think. We have mutual interests but we were also equal partners. If you support me then we will benefit but do not try and undermine me. It will be much better for all of you if you are not my enemy. That's all I have to say." With that he swept out of the room and up the stairs, the shadowy figure nowhere in sight, and his waiting driver whisked him away from Inner Temple.

## CHAPTER 20

It was nearly dark by the time they reached the pebble beach of Brighton. Eleanor had marched with the small rebel group for most of the day, heading toward the town. Although the day had started brightly, dark clouds soon began to roll in. A light drizzle turned into a teeming steady rain, leaving them drenched and shivering before they were able to seek shelter in an abandoned, derelict farmhouse. They waited for several hours before a watery sun peeked through a break in the heavy grey clouds. This was their signal to continue their trek over the sodden ground. Eleanor's whole body trembled with an insidious chill that seemed to gnaw at her bones. Her breath condensed in the cold air and she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

She was relieved to note, however, a slight thaw in Tanya's attitude toward her. The bulky rebel soldier grew tired of bullying Eleanor and her tone adopted a modicum of civility as she realized that her initial assumption of Eleanor as the enemy was misguided. One time she pointed out in the distance a dark, slowly moving grey ribbon set against the backdrop of the rolling sea. Tanya explained in a husky voice that the 'grey' was a huge convoy of people unloaded from the deportation trains at Brighton Railway Station and forced to walk first to the Marina three miles away. From there they were labelled, categorized and families separated, usually children torn from the clutching arms of their parents. Eleanor shed bitter tears as Tanya described how soldiers pulled crying babies and toddlers from their wailing parents and loaded them into trucks that sped away, never to be seen again. Tanya's voice held a rancour that was clearly personal as she described how the convoy was herded along the clifftop road. She explained bitterly how they were exposed to the freezing winds whipping in from the English Channel as they shuffled on for a further ten miles or so to the Newhaven Ferry terminal, where they were processed for deportation.

"Can't we rescue them?" Eleanor said desperately.

Tanya merely let out a sardonic laugh, as if she were brushing off a child's pointless question. "If only it were that simple. The People's Independent Army keep tight control over these treks. We tried to break one up before and got badly burnt; we lost many good fighters that day. We can't get near them. They have strength in numbers and much better weaponry. It would be suicide to try and engage them."

"There must be something we can do!" Eleanor protested.

Tanya turned fiercely toward her, hands flexed over her knife. " _Your_ government has done enough! You cannot tell me that you, a Cabinet minister, were not aware of these atrocities! Her cold green eyes stared at Eleanor with an intensity that chilled her soul.

"Tanya please understand, I knew nothing about this. We were kept in the dark about so much. I realize now how stupid I was. We were merely puppets but were too afraid to ask the hard questions. I can't deny I was a member of his Cabinet and I will take whatever punishment awaits me. I have to bear the consequences, but let me try to make amends. I need to do that." She patted her ragged jacket, checking for the hundredth time that the small vial was there. If it contained what she suspected, it could be her salvation as well as many thousands of others.

Tanya snorted derisively, but her volatile temper subsided for the moment. As they continued trekking, her demeanour took on a reflective air. "I was in one of those death marches," she said quietly. "I managed to escape but not before they took my daughter away. She was four years old and it took three soldiers to rip her from my arms. She may be out there somewhere."

"Jesus, I'm sorry Tanya." It was all that Eleanor could think of to say. The weight of guilt pressed like a huge rock on her chest, making her gasp for breath. She had failed to show the conviction to challenge her superiors, deliberately blinding herself to the terrible truth, as if refusing to acknowledge it would represent some form of self-protection.

Tanya said nothing but her usually hard face softened and her eyes flickered at the memory of her lost daughter.

The mocha-skinned soldier with the eye patch scanned the horizon. "There are soldiers patrolling near the beaches. We need to hurry." The small group had quickly moved on, Tanya occasionally barking at Eleanor to move on. She was the straggler in the group, held back by fear and exhaustion, despite their enforced stop in the derelict farmhouse. "Come on!" shouted Tanya. "You can rest when we reach the boat."

Eleanor's injured shoulder hurt like hell, and one of Tanya's companions hung back slightly and gently took her elbow to urge her on. Eleanor recognized him as the Arabic fighter with the scarred face who had discovered her. He introduced himself as Khalid.

"What happened to you?" Eleanor asked sheepishly.

Khalid gave a broad grin, his teeth brown and uneven. "Oh you mean this?" he said, running a finger along the red, angry line across his face. "I tell Tanya I get it fighting the English troops. Really I get it in a card game. I lose and refuse to pay. They cut me but I get one back. I cut him where it really hurt." He pointed between his legs and threw his head back with a raucous laugh. You don't tell Tanya. Our secret,yes?"

Eleanor nodded dumbly and Khalid stayed with her, steadying her when needed and proving a valuable companion. Any soldiers they encountered were too far away to represent a threat, but the small band stayed vigilant, keeping low and careful not to attract attention.

Now they were at the beach, and the gloomy dusk was upon them. Eleanor's stomach gnawed with hunger, recalling that it was at least thirty-six hours since she had last eaten. She flopped onto the wet sand. Tanya scanned the length of the beach on both sides.

"Stay here," ordered Tanya to the assembled group. "They should be here somewhere." She then loped off into the darkness toward the sea.

As they waited, Khalid explained to Eleanor in his broken English how their small group had been forced to lurk in the shadows and adopt guerilla-style warfare that none of them had been trained or prepared for. Most of them had escaped the PIA squads that had come looking for immigrants to round up and send to the deportation camps. "We quickly learned that camp name inaccurate," he said. "They not deportation camps at all. They death camps. If people not die in the camps because of plague, then they transported on cattle trains to places like Brighton. We realize they not taken to ferry ports to be deported. That was just a – how you say - deception. They never made it off these shores. We witness a mass killing of many hundred people. It shocked all of us, made us realize that Pelham government more evil than we had ever guessed."

Eleanor listened silently as Khalid continued to explain that as a result of this shameful find, they devoted their fight to attacking the cattle trains as they made their tortuous journey into Brighton. They had achieved some success at disrupting the trains, although the PIA was increasing its presence aboard the trains, making their fight harder and increasing casualties. Originally they planned to escort people to smuggler boats, but by the time the train had reached Brighton, people were too weak to make the journey they had just made to the beach. In any event they could only save a handful at most, and the plan to save them had been quickly abandoned. Even if the attack on the train was successful, the occupants, once released were left to their own devices. There was little that their small band could do to help them, and many had perished anyway.

Presently the sound of boots crunching on the stony sand signalled Tanya's return. The other members of their small cadre raised their weapons until they were sure it was their leader. Eleanor found it difficult to adjust to the failing light but saw Tanya wave them forward. "Come on, the boat is this way but we need to hurry. There are PIA soldiers in the area."

Tanya moved quickly back into the shadows and Khalid helped Eleanor to her feet. They followed the heavyset figure along the beach against the sound of gently lapping waves. They jogged along the shore, the black sea breaking onto the beach in white foam that split the gloom. Eleanor heard raised voices in the distance, but they grew closer and there was urgency to those strained voices that she found alarming. She sensed the discomfort of Khalid and his companions, and Tanya turned back to them. "Come on," she hissed. "Move quickly but silently. Another five hundred metres."

Khalid urged Eleanor along, one arm in the small of her back, and the other clutching the rifle draped around his shoulder. The other two companions were immediately behind and they too were alert, their guns raised. Eleanor could not be certain, but she made out a vague shape that broke the white ribbon of the breaking sea. As she moved closer she recognized the shape of a small boat on the water's edge. Suddenly a small but bright light pierced the darkness and the urgent voices sounded frighteningly close. The boat was tantalizingly near but Tanya turned to them and even in the gloom Eleanor perceived her anxiety. "Get down and make no sound!" she whispered harshly.

It was too late, however. From nowhere a bullet struck Khalid's companion and with a shrill cry of agony he collapsed on the sand. Immediately harsh, urgent shouts rang around them.

"Stop where you are. We will shoot to kill!"

Eleanor was ready to give up but Khalid virtually dragged her onward toward the boat, at the same time firing a volley of shots into the darkness where the light had been moments before. Tanya ran back and put her arm around Eleanor's waist so that both she and Khalid were pulling her forward. "Come on," she yelled, any pretence of them not being spotted completely gone. Several shots sputtered in the sand at their feet, and it gave their flight added urgency. The soldiers were firing blind at their group but they were too close. Any second a shot would find its mark. Eleanor heard a shot whizz past her hip and she braced herself for a shot that any moment could injure or kill her. She briefly wondered how much it would hurt, but when the next shot found a target it was not her. Their companion dropped to the floor with a strangled cry and then it was just a trio of them running for the boat. Eleanor felt the blood pounding in her ears, and her legs burned as they dashed toward the boat, their enemy unseen but lurking close. The boat was now fifty yards away and she saw two figures in it waving frantically for them to hurry. A dark figure emerged to cut off their route to the boat and a deep, authoritative voice boomed in the darkness. "Stop now or I will shoot you dead!"

In the darkness the figure was merely a shadow but his rifle glinted in the faint light, and it was aimed directly at Eleanor. It was impossible in the darkness to tell if there were other soldiers. With a wild scream Khalid launched himself at the figure and the two rolled together on the ground, Khalid struggling to grapple the rifle from the soldier's grasp.

"Come on!" urged Tanya to Eleanor, pulling her along. The sounds of the fight between Khalid and the soldier grew fainter but then a shot rang out. Eleanor nearly collapsed but Tanya literally dragged her the final few yards to the boat. Hands grabbed her and hauled her into the small boat and a blanket was draped around her shoulders as she sat down on a narrow wooden bench. The boat was no larger than a rowing boat. Tanya helped the two occupants push the boat out into the dark water, and then they all jumped in and one of the men quickly pulled at the cord. The engine immediately engaged, chugging in the water. On shore they heard angry shouts.

"What about Khalid?" cried Eleanor.

"He's gone," replied Tanya as the engine sputtered and the boat swept out into the blackness. From the shore a shot rang out and plopped into the water just a few feet away. The next one ripped into the top of the gunwale. "Get down!" cried Tanya and they crouched as far into the boat as they could, curling into a ball. The man at the helm worked feverishly on the controls and suddenly the outboard motor gave a high-pitched whirr and the boat accelerated, cutting through the black water, leaving the shore behind. Another shot fizzed through the water but landed twenty feet behind them. The immediate danger passed, they sat up as the boat cut through the water into the void. A cold wind whipped around Eleanor. She pulled the blanket around her, trying to stave off the biting chill, and thought of Khalid. They had been so close to reaching the boat when the soldier appeared and Khalid instinctively jumped at the soldier. The soldier was about to shoot Eleanor and such a close range shot would surely have been fatal. He had saved her life, yet in doing so had probably sacrificed his own. The urgency of their departure had left them no alternative but to leave him behind. Eleanor shivered as she thought of Khalid and his probable fate, adding further weight to her consuming guilt.

## CHAPTER 21

In the darkness, Eleanor could not see the waves coming. The white crest briefly surfaced before it thudded against the boat, sending its four occupants scrambling for balance. Eleanor grabbed at anything she could to steady herself. One big wave and she would be swept overboard. The constant spray from the choppy waters soaked her through, and the way the boat bounced over the rolling sea left her stomach feeling as if it would be wrenched from her body any moment. She closed her eyes and tried to turn her thoughts away from the freezing spray and the constant swell of the boat. She found little comfort there. Her mind tortured her by forcing her to relive Khalid's final moments as he sacrificed himself to get her on the boat. She promised herself that his heroic action would not be in vain. Fingers rigid with cold, she felt inside her wet and tattered suit jacket for the comforting shape of the vial.

After some cursory introductions to the crew members, they journeyed without speaking, each lost in their private thoughts. Only the sound of the straining outboard motor and the rhythmic crashing of waves punctuated the silence. They had no life-jackets, but curiously Eleanor was not afraid. The boat was flimsy and it was surely madness to attempt a sea crossing in such a tiny rowing boat, even one with an outboard motor that sputtered and choked. Yet the helmsman, a wiry Oriental man with a wispy beard whom she knew as Zhou, skilfully guided the boat through the troughs in the waves, minimizing the crashing impact. It often felt as if one large wave might splinter the boat into pieces, but she hung on grimly.

Eleanor looked up, blinking heavily against the salty spray, and in her blurred vision she saw a tiny pin-prick of light in the darkness. "What's that?" she asked, pointing into the black sea. Tanya looked up and uttered a curse under her breath. She waved at Zhou and the helmsman immediately cut the motor. In the ensuing silence, they rocked gently on the swell. There was a small cache of weapons under the wooden seats. Tanya and the remaining crew member, Lopez, a squat Hispanic man, immediately took an assault rifle and holstered the strap around their shoulders. They pointed their guns at the light, which was moving against the horizon, and of more concern was growing larger.

"Stay down," Tanya warned Eleanor. The helmsman kept his right hand on the rudder, and picked up a small hand revolver with his left. The tension in the boat was palpable. Eleanor could hear Tanya's heavy but controlled breathing above the sound of the sea. Her body was rigid, like a coiled serpent ready to pounce. The light grew brighter and Eleanor heard the throaty sound of a large engine.

"Coastguard patrols," whispered Zhou sharply. "They're looking for us."

Tanya and Lopez nodded in assent, their weapons still trained on the light which continued to grow larger.

"Have they seen us?" asked Eleanor anxiously.

"Not yet," replied Tanya. "But if we stay here we're a sitting duck." She made a motion to the helmsman, and his hand hovered over the starter motor, ready to engage. Their conflict was clear. It was not certain that they had been seen, but if they waited too late to start the motor they would be easily caught. As soon as they engaged the motor, however, their cover would be blown, and then it became a full-on pursuit. Zhou was poised, waiting for the signal from Tanya. Her hand was raised, ready to give it. She wavered, but just before she gave the sign to cut and run, the light inexplicably receded. The engine noise began to drift away in the wind as the boat changed direction until it was lost in the blackness of the English Channel.

Tanya waited for what seemed like an eternity before she instructed Zhou to engage the engine. They continued on their hazardous journey, watchful for any further lights that might suddenly appear from the dark waters. An hour passed before Tanya relaxed and stopped scanning the horizon. She sat back on the wooden bench. "We should be safe now. The patrols don't go out this far."

Eleanor shivered as a gusting wind churned up the sea and rocked their boat. "How long?"

"About six more hours," replied Tanya casually.

Eleanor groaned and shivered. She must have lapsed into an exhausted sleep, because when she woke a grey light was forming in the east, and a faint black outline of land could be seen. She was soaked through and shivering with cold, but the sight of the distant shore brought her fresh hope.

Tanya shook Eleanor's shoulder until she was fully awake. "Wake up," she gently chided her. "We are near. A long way south of Calais and quite remote. An ideal place to connect." The boat moved in further until the shore loomed ever closer, and in the burgeoning light the she could make out a solid line of cliffs. The boat moved in closer. The chalky cliffs turned pink when the rising sun burst through the clouds. It had its own innocent beauty and despite the exhaustion that her snatches of sleep did little to assuage, Eleanor found it strangely liberating to be away from Britain's shores.

As the rugged cliffs drew closer, the boat began to slow down and made a turn toward a stony beach where several figures stood waiting. Zhou skilfully guided the boat through the breaking waves, and the boat arced toward the beach. He cut the engine a few yards from shore and the helmsman and Lopez jumped into the waist high water and pulled the boat onto the beach. Tanya stepped out and helped Eleanor onto the beach.

Eleanor glanced at the figures, eight of them in total. It seemed an overly large welcoming party, and she noticed that they were all in uniform. All but one wore familiar looking peaked caps, but it took a moment to understand.

The only member of the group not in uniform was a gaunt figure whose long trench-coat accentuated his height. The man looked at Eleanor, his searching grey eyes briefly appraising her, and then glanced at Tanya, who gave the merest nod. In turn the man flicked his eyes at a number of the black figures, and they immediately pounced on Eleanor. As two men held her, one of them wrenched her arms behind her back and snapped on a pair of metal handcuffs. A sharp burst of agony ripped through her injured shoulder and she screamed loudly, tears welling in her eyes. Another held a dirty black hood and bundled it over her head. She quickly realized her assailants were the _Gendarmerie,_ the French police.

Her voice was muffled as she protested. "How dare you, treating me like a common criminal!"

    "Vous êtes pas criminel de droit commun!"

Tanya helpfully translated for her. "He says you are no _common_ criminal."

The way she emphasized the word 'common' deeply concerned Eleanor. "Will you come with me?" she pleaded to Tanya.

"My job is done." She spoke rapidly in French. Eleanor guessed it was to the tall man in the trench-coat. Her French was poor but she heard something about _paiement,_ and then she was gone. The French police led her up the beach onto an area of hard ground, and she heard the sound of several idling cars. Someone pushed her head down and guided her into a car and she sat in the back seat, her left shoulder still throbbing with agony. Her back also ached badly from the discomfort of sitting with her hands forced behind her, but she was strapped in and felt a heavy weight get in beside her. The dark cloak over her head was suffocating and she began coughing in spasms. Her distress was ignored by the figure beside her. Within seconds the car was in motion and she felt it speed up rapidly. The roar of the speeding car was drowned by the strident blaring of sirens as the car raced along what she assumed was a motorway.

Over the din the figure next to her spoke. His accent was heavy but his English was precise.

"Do you have it?"

"Have what?"

"Don't play games. Tanya told me you have the vial."

"Yes I have it. Please take off this cloak. I can hardly breathe. I'll suffocate."

The voice was cold. "I will take that risk. You're expendable. The vial is not."

"Where are you taking me?"

"That's not important now."

"I need to get this vial to the right authorities."

"You need have no fear of that. I will make sure it gets into the right hands. I want to see it."

"I can hardly get it for you like this can I?" she responded emphatically.

"Then tell me where it is."

"Don't you dare touch me! I will retrieve it when you begin treating me with the dignity I deserve."

The sarcasm in her fellow passenger's voice was obvious, despite his French accent. "You mean the same dignity your government afforded the immigrants who were put in deportation camps and left to die from disease? Or the ones you put on the trains and separated from their families before they were exterminated?"

Eleanor felt like hyperventilating and the pain from her twisted shoulder seemed to grow in intensity. She knew he was right, and she had no reply. The pain and suffering she had endured in the last few days was nothing to the terrible atrocities that so many of her country's people had faced because they were not truly 'British.' She said nothing, but unseen tears welled in her eyes.

Her fellow passenger decided not to pursue the issue. "Just so long as you have it," he said.

They continued in silence for another hour. Eleanor's thoughts were filled with horrible visions of what they might do with her, parading her as a symbol of Britain's repressive regime. She could not blame them, but she wanted so badly to explain that even though she served on the Cabinet, she did not support the awful crimes perpetrated on behalf of the government. She would have her say, but for now she hoped and prayed that the vial and its contents would lead to a vaccine for the camp plague. She decided that was far more important than her own fate.

Finally she could take the hood no longer. Her chest was constricted and heavy with the effort of breathing through the hood. "Please," she gasped in a muffled voice. "Can you take it off now? I'm suffocating."

She was met by a stony silence before the voice replied. "We are almost there."

"Where are we going?"

"We are taking you to a police station in Chambourcy, north-east of Paris." The man next to her must have pulled out his cellphone, because he began talking rapidly in French. Then he transferred effortlessly back to English again. "They are waiting for you."

"Who?"

"You'll see."

It was obvious that Eleanor would not be able to get any more from her fellow passenger. The sounds of traffic grew louder as the city came alive, and presently she felt the car slow down. The sirens, which had blared intermittently through the journey, finally ceased. Eleanor was bundled out of the car, still hooded, and felt herself taken into a building that seemed empty and cavernous. She heard the dull throb of air conditioning as their party walked down what must have been a long corridor that appeared to slope downwards. Their boots clicked and echoed on the hard floor. Still blinded, her other senses worked overtime, and the overriding smell was of disinfectant. It was the type of sterile stench she recalled from her visits to her elderly mother years before. The memory of her long deceased mother caused a renewed flood of guilt. She had rarely visited in the final months as her political career pursued an upward trajectory and the time available to visit her diminished. For what purpose? That career was over and she could only guess at her fate. She vaguely wondered if Pelham was still alive, and hoped that maybe he wasn't. His demise would surely put an end to this madness.

She guessed that she was surrounded by at least six officers, but when she was guided into a cold, barren, windowless room, all but one disappeared. The remaining officer unlocked her handcuffs, took off her hood and quickly left her alone. She took in a deep draft of air as she looked around the drab interrogation room, dark, featureless walls and bare cement the colour of rancid porridge. The sterile air made her cough violently. She rubbed at her wrists. They were sore and chafed and her left shoulder was frozen. Trying to move it was agony and it hung limply by her side. She studied herself in the long mirror on one side of the wall. She knew that the other side was a viewing gallery but she no longer cared. She looked pale and haggard, her eyes dulled from pain and exhaustion. She had always prided herself for looking young for her age, even if she could never consider herself glamorous. Maybe that was why Pelham had been drawn to her. She appeared to have aged a decade in the last few days.

Without warning, the steel door to the room swung open. The last thing she expected was to see a familiar face, one that rolled back the years.

"Hello Eleanor," he said.

## CHAPTER 22

The private clinic was under heavy armed guard and a cordon of vehicles had been placed around the building, a large detached Colonial style house in an upscale street in Garston, a northern suburb of Watford. Vehicles surrounded the building and all of the clinic's patients had been hastily moved so that its new arrival became the sole patient. The clinic's owners had little choice but to comply, and all of their considerable resources and medical technology had been devoted to keeping their one remaining patient alive. No-one moved in or out of the building. Even the doctors and nurses had been ordered to remain on site, not allowed to leave for their home and families.

The patient had been transferred from the trauma unit at St Thomas's Hospital, where they had barely kept him alive. His medical team, after long consultation, decided to move him to the clinic to avoid the media. The transfer had been a difficult logistical exercise, requiring absolute secrecy and no compromise to his medical care. Only when he was convinced that Pelham could survive the journey did his Chief Physician allow the transfer.

When he had been taken in less than twenty four hours before, the prognosis had not looked good. The Prime Minister had suffered multiple fractured ribs, a punctured lung, trauma to the head and neck as well as severe contusions and lacerations from flying shrapnel. They had worked around the clock to clear swelling on the brain and remove a small blood clot that was forming. They had placed him on a ventilator and treated the multiple fractures through surgery, putting in steel pins at strategic points to prevent further collapse of the chest cavity. Fortunately for Pelham, he had not suffered any direct damage to the vertebrae, and it did not appear on first diagnosis that he would suffer any long term paralysis. Indeed, his body had shown remarkable powers of survival, its reaction to the trauma nothing short of miraculous. The steely will that had carried him to such elevated levels within the fierce circle of politics was at work in repairing his body. He was unconscious throughout, and the tube running from his mouth fed him the necessary nutrients to sustain his damaged tissue.

The cardiograph measured his slow, rhythmic heartbeat. His head was heavily bandaged and the face was unrecognizable. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin shredded and scarred. Nurse Conlon, the duty nurse, studied the monitors and wrote on her clipboard. She slightly adjusted the saline drip that ran in a long tube through Pelham's forearm. As she did so her peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the lean, impassive black-clothed figure in the corner. For once the security guard had dispensed with his tinted glasses in the low light. It exposed his low brows knitted together, giving him a thuggish appearance. He was watching her like a hawk, scrutinizing her every movement for signs of suspicious activity. The directive had been clear. No-one, either security or medical staff, was allowed to be alone with Pelham.

As she studied the monitor, the smooth rhythm of the cardiograph was interrupted. The sine waves measuring each heart beat increased in intensity, moving faster and higher. Presently a low, constant beep emitted from the machine. The security guard looked at the nurse, his eyes registering concern.

"Get a doctor, quickly," she said to him.

The guard, who the nurse guessed was no older than twenty-five, revealed an edge of panic in his voice. "I can't leave my station."

The nurse raised her voice impatiently. "Can you afford to let him die just because you were following orders? Will that hold up at your court martial?"

The guard, clearly conflicted, paused for a moment and then ran out the door. Within seconds a doctor came rushing in. The figure on the bed became restless and his eyelids fluttered, the head lolling to one side so that the tube in his mouth was stretched. Seconds later a flurry of doctors barged into the room in a panicked effort to attend to the Prime Minister. The private suite was the largest in the building, but it suddenly felt cramped to Nurse Conlon.

The heart monitor slowed to its previously rhythmic pulse and the ventilator that supported his breathing returned to normal, the attached pump expanding and contracting. Slowly he regained consciousness, and his eyes struggled to focus. He tried to speak but the sound that came from the back of his throat was an inaudible gasp. Nurse Conlon, irritated by all the doctors flapping around without any real sense of purpose, produced a glass of water. She raised it to his lips and gently held his head up to avoid him choking.

"Gently does it sir," she said soothingly. "Take your time."

He gulped at the water until it was finished and lay back, exhausted by the effort. He closed his eyes and at first they thought he had lost consciousness again. However he snapped them open again and stared at the group of medical staff clustered around his bed. One of the doctors, a balding middle-aged man wearing a heavily stained white lab coat, shone a light into his pupils. The Prime Minister blinked furiously. "Pupils dilating normally and excellent muscle reaction. Very encouraging," the doctor announced proudly to his colleagues, as if the patient's recovery had been solely down to his care. He held up three long digits with his bony wrist. "How many fingers?"

The Prime Minister's voice was hoarse but this time more audible. "Three," he croaked. He motioned for more water and Nurse Conlon dutifully attended to him. He grew visibly stronger and tried to prop himself up. "Easy sir, not too quickly," said the nurse. "Do you remember what happened?"

The balding doctor's double chin quivered with indignation. He scowled at the nurse, as if only he was entitled to ask that question.

The Prime Minister's eyes clouded over and then recognition flashed across his features. "Yes...I remember," he said, his voice growing in intensity. "Get out all of you," he rasped. "Get me Ramsey."

A ripple of concern passed inaudibly through the throng of doctors. Someone asked, "Who's Ramsey?" as they began to slowly shuffle out. Nurse Conlon herded them out. "Come on, you heard the Prime Minister," she cajoled them. "Get out!" Gently pushing the back of the nearest white coat, she forced them to exit the room, which had become quite suffocating.

The duty nurse heard a couple of physicians muttering as they shuffled out. "Does he mean Ted Ramsey? That's Adam Griffiths' Chief of Staff. Why would he ask for him?"

Presently only the young security guard remained in the room with the duty nurse, and she nodded to him. He flashed his dark eyes in recognition and spoke quietly into his lapel microphone. Within ten minutes, during which time Pelham returned to full lucidity, Ramsey appeared. Conlon knew his reputation as a bulldog, and he had a face to match. His eyes were too close together and his face was puffy, with a permanently sour expression. His patchy stubble, a poor attempt at a goatee, added to his generally unkempt look. His silver hair was so short it stood upright like bristles, making him look bald in a certain light. Ramsey was muscular and squat with a thick neck. He would not have looked out of place as top billing at a prize fight in Vegas, she mused.

As Ramsey marched in he gave Nurse Conlon and the security guard an acidic stare. The guard instantly got the message and led the nurse by her elbow from the room. Ramsey was an exception to the rule, and the two of them waited outside in silence, neither interested in making polite conversation. Nurse Conlon knew the reputation of Pelham's bodyguards. They protected him, yes, but they hurt people in the process. Her job was quite the opposite. She tried to make people better, even if it was not necessarily the people that needed it most. Working at a private clinic was far more lucrative than the public sector. She could never survive on the paltry wages that came with working in the chaotic remains of the National Health Service.

Her reverie was interrupted by Ramsey barging out of the door, grim-faced. He rudely pushed past them and as Ramsey did so, Nurse Conlon thought she heard the Prime Minister call out in a rasping voice, "You know what to do."

Leaving the clinic, Ramsey pushed brusquely past the security cordon. A town car pulled up near the building, closely watched by snipers on the surrounding rooftops. Ramsey got in and immediately pulled out his tablet. He pressed a button and a transparent Perspex screen rose between him and the driver. Satisfied that the driver could not hear him as they negotiated heavy traffic, he dialled the number. Waiting for it to connect, Ramsey reflected on his brief conversation with the Prime Minister. Pelham was in bad shape, but Ramsey was convinced he would survive. He had been mortified that the tight security assigned to protect him had failed so spectacularly. That failure would not be without consequences, and it provided an opportunity for Ramsey. He had shown his loyalty when others had derogated from their duty. In such cases it was often an inside job and Ramsey had voiced his suspicions to Pelham. He was in a privileged position to know. Pelham had been incandescent with rage, even if his battered body was unable to exhibit his true feelings.

The call connected and a hoarse voice answered. "Yes?"

"It's Ramsey. Are you secure?"

The voice on the other line expressed exasperation. "Yes of course. It always is."

"Good," replied Ramsey. "I have a job for you."

"I'm listening."

Ramsey explained briefly what was to be done. When he had finished the voice on the other end sighed heavily, as if pondering the request. "It won't be easy, not in the current climate."

"I never said it was easy. It's a direct request from the Prime Minister. Are you up to the job or should I be looking for someone else?"

The husky voice was dismissive. "Of course I'm up to it. Don't even doubt me. Consider it done."

"Good." Ramsey disconnected and sat back, looking out at the street flashing by. Things were about to change.

## CHAPTER 23

The stage was set and Harry knew that he was the unwilling main attraction in this demented circus. That was how he considered this whole farce of a trial. It was his defence mechanism against the inevitable fate that awaited him. His hopes had been slim to start with. This was, after all, a political trial. Governments rarely allowed dissidents to walk free from political crimes. History had demonstrated that countless times, from the Romans to Joan of Arc to Mandela to the show trials in the former Communist bloc countries after the collapse of Communism. In the type of society that now existed in Britain, the notion of an independent judiciary was a fallacy. He was convinced he would follow those courageous souls who had fought bravely for freedom and justice, only to be extinguished as victims of a brutal and oppressive State. It did not matter that he had an incompetent court-appointed lawyer. It only added to the fiction that there had been due process.

Any doubts Harry might have harboured that he had somehow misinterpreted these proceedings were dispelled when he reached the dock. The guard followed the usual procedure, only releasing his handcuffs when he was secured inside the cage, and he looked through the bars into the courtroom. There were more people today, no doubt eager to witness the drama of today's verdict. However, it was one particular individual that caught his attention.

The sight of Adam Griffiths in the all-black attire of the People's Independent Army brought back unpleasant memories of his encounter with the leader of the nation's secret police. He thought of the deal he had rejected that had brought him to this moment. A picture of Byron flashed into his mind. His son probably looked quite different from the innocent child he had last seen. The boy had no doubt been through so much, not least the death of his mother. He would likely be an orphan soon, not that Harry had been around much to be a true father. Harry silently prayed that the boy was alright, but the truth was he had no idea. This monster had made oblique threats against Harry's son if he did not renounce everything he had stood for. The sight of Griffiths sickened him, and the wiry figure stalked the courtroom in a predatory fashion.

Griffiths presently sat down on one of the benches just as the court usher announced to the court, "all rise." The assembly of people stood up with the exception of Griffiths, who nonchalantly and resolutely stayed glued to his seat as the panel of judges shuffled into the room. They took their seats on the raised dais and Harry studied Hodgson's expression. The Judge Advocate looked disturbed as he spotted Griffiths. The Head of the PIA sat with his arms folded, a steady gaze trained on Hodgson, one side of his mouth upturned in a fixed, twisted smile. Hodgson surreptitiously glanced at each colleague either side for support, but their alabaster faces betrayed nervousness too. Griffiths' mere presence had changed the whole dynamics of the room. Hodgson tore his gaze from the sneering soldier and addressed the court, his voice a little unsteady.

"In the matter of _R v Clarke,_ you have heard the submissions from prosecuting counsel and from defence counsel. Today we will hear closing arguments first from the defence, followed by prosecuting counsel, before this panel retires to consider its verdict. I will ask that whatever transpires in this trial, all parties conduct themselves with the dignity deserving of this court. That particularly applies to you Mr. Clarke." He cast a withering glance over at Harry in a poor attempt to impress the intimidating visitor.

Harry understood the dynamics all too well. As Judge Advocates they were employed by the Operational High Command, the combined military forces led by Conservative hardline Chief of Defence, Sir Terence Harding. The People's Independent Army and the State Secret Police fell outside this framework, and therefore Griffiths had no direct authority over Hodgson and his cronies. Harry was well aware from the research for his broadcasts that Griffiths and Harding shared similar philosophies and had held several high level meetings. They shared a common interest, the protection of the State, and this meant that Griffiths was effectively Harding's agent. The wrong verdict and the judges would likely suffer grave consequences. Griffiths was here to ensure that, implicitly or otherwise, they followed his direction.

Stanworth stood up and coughed loudly. "Your Honour, is it not the usual legal procedure in criminal trials for the prosecution to presents its closing arguments first? The Court of Appeal decision in the case of _R v Jamal_ demonstrates persuasive argument that there is potential for the defendant to be unfairly prejudiced if the prosecution has the final say in closing arguments."

Harry had to admit he was impressed. He recalled the case from his reporting as a political correspondent. It was a case that drew significant political attention six years earlier. It involved the principle of indirect intention to commit murder, whereby the CPS, afraid the defence would do enough to persuade the jury not to convict of first degree murder, requested the trial judge to allow them to present their closing arguments last. The judge agreed and the CPS secured a controversial conviction. The Court of Appeal subsequently quashed the conviction and ordered a retrial.

Hodgson was in no mood for a legal lesson. He glowered at Stanworth over his half-moon spectacles. Harry was not sure how much of it was a show for Griffiths. "Mr. Stanworth, I am well aware of the _Jamal_ case," he said condescendingly. "If you had bothered to analyze the facts more closely you would recall that the case was a criminal trial in the Crown Court before a jury. In case you forgot, this is a military Tribunal. My fellow advocates and I are unlikely to be swayed by such trivial matters as who goes first. May I remind you also that this is _my_ Tribunal, and I can choose whatever order I like." His harsh words resounded around the courtroom.

Stanworth, suitably admonished, meekly replied, "Of course your Honour."

"Good. Let's get on with it shall we? Mr. Stanworth. Please present your closing arguments."

Stanworth paced the room as he addressed the bench in his summation, only occasionally glancing at the people sat in benches behind him. He studiously avoided the scowling gaze of Adam Griffiths, but Harry could tell that the man's presence rattled the lawyer. Harry had discussed with his counsel what they would say, even though there was little more than scraps of information to support Harry's case. Stanworth reiterated Harry's innocence and the fact that there was no specific forensic evidence that could link Harry to the crime.

The defence strategy was to paint Harry as a patriot not a traitor, someone who had broadcast his messages out of genuine concern for the state of the nation. He attacked the testimony of Maxwell and Kendrick on the basis that their testimony was tainted by self-interest. He studiously avoided reference to Julianne's testimony, which had been ripped apart by Sinclair. The only time he mentioned her was when he attacked Sean Kelly's testimony. Stanworth asserted that Kelly was motivated by pure hatred because he perceived Harry to have stolen his girlfriend. Considering his lawyer's failure to cross-examine Kelly, that claim carried little weight. He ended by cautioning the Tribunal not to make Harry a 'martyr,' which could further inflame tension on the streets. Harry had to admit that Stanworth's arguments were articulate and structured, but the judges looked unimpressed. He even noticed Hodgson yawn during Stanworth's impassioned plea for justice.

During Stanworth's oration, Harry threw glances at Sinclair, surrounded by three lawyers, all of whom were scribbling furiously and handing him notes. The prosecutor rolled his eyes theatrically when Stanworth made a point, trying to catch the judges' attention whilst doing so. He fidgeted in his seat, anxious to get up and hold court. When Stanworth was finished, he gave a slow, sarcastic clap. Hodgson was about to admonish Sinclair when he caught Griffiths' eye. The PIA leader stared at the bench like a laser and Hodgson merely called a short recess.

When they returned, Sinclair raced as fast as his stubby legs would allow to the area in front of the gallery, standing before the judges on their raised platform. This was his arena of performance, where he was most comfortable. His demeanour was confident and composed and he smiled engagingly at the three judge advocates before him. His introduction was pretentious, exaggerating his words and movements, playing to his audience like a Shakespearean actor. His voice was deliberately grave as he catalogued the charges, leaving the Tribunal in no doubt of their severity. He then continued by attacking Stanworth's closing arguments.

"I would like to address the Tribunal on a number of issues that my 'esteemed' colleague Mr. Stanworth supposedly brought to your attention. There are a number of inaccuracies in his claims. He mentioned that the testimony of Bernard Maxwell and D.C. Kendrick was motivated by self-interest. That is, with all due respect, complete and utter nonsense. Mr. Maxwell has no incentive to implicate the accused. He is already serving time in prison. He is hardly going to be let out is he? What could he possibly hope to gain? As for D.C. Kendrick, I heard nothing to suggest that he was anything other than an honest police officer trying to bring a criminal who had escaped before to justice. Our police do an excellent job in keeping law and order, even more so in these difficult times, yet this terrorist-" he pointed theatrically at the cage containing Harry - "this terrorist shot him as he escaped. He shot a member of our esteemed Order Police, someone who had served his country with great distinction in Iraq, one of our nation's military heroes." He paused to allow the gravity of his words to sink in.

After his dramatic pause, he continued. "Mr. Stanworth claimed that Sean Kelly's testimony was tainted by hatred because of the prisoner's amorous attentions towards Julianne Ferguson. This Tribunal cannot seriously believe that. While Mr. Kelly may also be in prison pending military trial, his evidence was clear. The prisoner boasted of killing Graham Matheson and he was the architect behind the plot to kill the Prime Minister at Wembley. He may not have been the one wearing the suicide vest, but he is just as guilty as Faisal Khorasani, and we all know how the courts dealt with him don't we?" He gave a conspiratorial smile to the bench as he referred to the young Muslim boy who had been hanged for his part in the attack. It was a clear sign of encouragement for the Bench to take a similar approach. Harry felt that Sinclair would have winked at the judges in less austere circumstances.

"The fact is that Kelly's testimony was damning but truthful, to the extent that the defence had nothing to cross-examine him with. They had nothing to rebut his testimony. Yes, we heard from Ms. Ferguson that Kelly was the mastermind behind the assassination plot. However, let's consider Julianne Ferguson's credibility shall we? As a witness for the defence, she did wonders for the prosecution case. We can conclude from her testimony that Julianne Ferguson is the prisoner's partner in crime, a key player in the terrorist plot to assassinate the Prime Minister. In fact they were so close as criminal partners that she travelled all the way to Wales to recruit him for her new terrorist cell, deceiving D.C. Kendrick in the process.

"She then has the audacity to tell us that Harry Clarke would not kill, he is a gentle and kind-hearted man. To her that may be true, but she is hardly an objective witness is she? As a terrorist herself, what's to say that she has not killed through her actions? That's the irony of people like Clarke and Miss Ferguson. They cherish those who are close to them but do not give a second thought to the lives they ruin or terminate through their diabolical actions. They are sociopaths and narcissists in the worst sense."

He turned to the cage and pointed a pudgy finger in Harry's direction. "We know from his undignified outburst that the prisoner still carries a candle for Miss Ferguson. They have worked together to destabilize this country. They, and people like them, need to be obliterated from the face of this earth. Based on the evidence, I respectfully contend to the Bench that there is only one verdict you can possibly render on all counts. The charges are of a severity that only one punishment can satisfy."

Sinclair finished his last sentence with a final flourish. With cheeks flushed red from the effort of his oration, he tottered back to his seat looking highly pleased with himself.

Stanworth immediately stood up. "Your Honour, given the circumstances in the _Jamal_ case, may I respectfully request the opportunity of a rebuttal argument?"

Hodgson glanced at Griffiths as if for guidance and then peered disparagingly over his spectacles at the defence lawyer. "No, you may not," he said dismissively.

"But your Honour, prosecuting counsel always has the benefit of a rebuttal argument when they go first. Surely-"

Hodgson cut him off quickly. "Enough Mr. Stanworth. May I remind you that this is because the burden of proof beyond reasonable doubt rests with the prosecution. You have no such burden. Also, you seem to have forgotten once again that this is a military Tribunal, not a Crown Court. Motion denied." He banged his gavel to end the discussion and then cleared his throat before addressing the gallery. "This Tribunal will now retire to consider its verdict." Hodgson picked up his tablet and with his two associates shuffled toward the side door as the Clerk announced "All rise."

Harry was allowed to wait in the cells with Stanworth, but the defence lawyer was poor company. He looked weary and beaten, as if he himself faced conviction. He pulled out a linen handkerchief and wiped his greasy face. His eyes were dull as he said candidly, "It's not looking good."

A heavy silence passed between them. Harry wondered if Stanworth was expecting to be consoled, to be reassured that he had done the best job he could. If so, he was disappointed. It was Harry facing a possible death sentence, and his lawyer had crumbled against a seasoned veteran. As Harry looked around the grey confines of the holding cell, he wondered whether he would ever see another sunrise or feel the breath of a fresh summer breeze again. Until now it had not really struck him that he was fighting for his life. He knew it of course, but perhaps through some subconscious defence mechanism, he had not tackled the reality of the situation. Now that the verdict was imminent, his subconscious mind could no longer protect him from the inevitable. A sick feeling of fear rose from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. They sat there is silence for an eternity, all the time Harry fighting the urge to vomit.

He caught his breath and his legs felt like hollow cardboard as the usher appeared outside the bars of the holding cell, a serious look on his face. "The Judge Advocates have completed their deliberations. It's time for the verdict."

## CHAPTER 24

"Francois, I cannot believe it is you!" She got up and moved to hug the lean Frenchman with the wavy hair and round Lennon-style spectacles. Several of the officers remaining in the room moved to stop her and she hesitated. The Frenchman waved them away. _"Laisse nous!"_ he snapped at them. They sheepishly departed, leaving them alone in the interrogation room. Eleanor knew that they were not completely alone. She glanced at the mirror. How many of them were looking through the observation window, she wondered. Even so they embraced like the old friends they were.

"It is good to see you Eleanor," he said in faultless English. "It has been a long time."

"Too long," replied Eleanor. She recalled the handsome aristocrat from her days as a member of the European Parliament, nearly ten years ago. Francois Bouchard had served a term as one of the French representatives, and they had enjoyed a special friendship, despite their fifteen-year age gap. If only it had been more special, she thought ruefully. She studied the face she knew so well before. He was as stylishly dressed as ever, in tight black jeans with a mustard belt, and a burgundy low neck cashmere sweater topped off with a paisley cravat. His face remained youthful and still registered the inner strength he displayed in his debates and orations. It was ruggedly good looking, with just a hint of stubble. Only a few lines around the temples, and a hint of grey at the fringes of his dark brown hair betrayed the passing years. "You haven't aged a bit Francois."

He smiled, but his hazel eyes registered sadness. "I wish I could say the same Eleanor. You look as if you have been through a lot of...trauma. He turned to the mirror and snapped his fingers. Within seconds an officer entered the room carrying a large glass of fresh water for Eleanor. "I would offer you something stronger but in the circumstances that might not be wise."

She gulped thirstily at the water and it rejuvenated her. "What is this place?"

"It is an anti-terrorism unit, which covers a diverse range of activities with one objective in mind. To prevent future terrorist attacks. Some of the brightest minds in the country operate from here. It was created after the Paris attacks by Islamic State in 2015. Despite robust border controls and tightening of security around key areas of vulnerability, the biggest fear was the threat from within. People already living in the country that felt marginalized and were easy prey to radicalization. So we created a surveillance operation unlike anything ever seen in Europe before. It took a number of years and billions of euros to complete. We could not hide that from the taxpayers, but we don't advertise the surveillance aspect. Like most westerners, the general public in this country expect us to counter the terrorist threat but are the first to protest at any slight erosion in their civil liberties. They want, as I believe you say in Britain, to have their cake and eat it." He gave a short laugh and his even teeth shone white in the muted light.

Eleanor drained her glass. "So why did you bring me here?"

Francois rested his hands on the cold metal table between them. "One of the main concerns after Paris was that future attacks could come from chemical or biological weapons. Islamic State were well funded and their tentacles seemed to spread far and wide. We did not underestimate their capability in that area. A key part of what we do here is to act as a bio-tech facility designed to test and defend against such attacks. So that is why we brought you here." He produced a pair of skin tight rubber gloves and snapped them on, and held out a gloved hand expectantly. "Do you have it?"

"You mean this?" She reached inside her tattered jacket pocket and produced the small vial. "You're a little overcautious Francois. But then you always were as I recall. It is perfectly safe."

She smiled flirtatiously, but as he turned the small steel cylinder in his hands, his expression was serious. "Is it really what you claim?"

"I have not made any claims. In truth I don't know what it contains. All I can say for certain is a number of people have sacrificed a lot to get me here. Is it a vaccine for the camp plague? I have no idea, but it was handed to me at the research lab where they were apparently engaged in seeking a vaccine."

"We need to get this tested immediately." He glanced toward the mirror and raised his eyebrows. On this unspoken signal an officer stepped into the room and Francois handed the cylinder to him. The officer quickly left, holding the vial like a hand grenade with the pin released.

Francois returned his gaze to Eleanor, and his hard expression unnerved her. "They brought me here because I act as the UN liaison with the French government for the unit, but more especially because I know you. I regret to say this Eleanor because you and I go back a long way. It is my duty to inform you that the United Nations intends to arraign you for trial in the International Criminal Court. You will be brought to the Court to be informed of the charges. You won't be taken to the Hague. They have set up a special panel for the initial hearing. I should tell you that your full cooperation with the authorities will stand you in favour against any sentence the Court imposes."

Eleanor's eyes lowered. "I guessed as much. I will cooperate. I want to see Pelham's regime fall as much as you do. It really isn't what it looks like from the outside."

Francois's voice carried a note of sympathy. "I never thought for a moment that you would be a willing participant in the horrors we have heard about. My opinion doesn't matter. You're a Cabinet Minister and therefore at the heart of it. You will have plenty of opportunity to plead your case. In fact Mr. Emosi has travelled to Paris especially to see you. We need to know everything so the UN can make an informed decision on whether to send a peacekeeping force."

"The Secretary-General is here?" exclaimed Eleanor.

"Yes, your escape, or whatever you like to call it, has aroused international attention. Emosi has been under a lot of pressure to pass a resolution to enter Britain. This has been a real test of his leadership. He has come under much criticism for his handling of the crisis. He is rapidly coming to the conclusion that the UN needs to intervene before the crisis escalates further. Your evidence will hopefully give him the information he needs to propose action once and for all."

"I will help in any way I can. Anything to bring down that narcissist."

"It may not save you from a very public trial Eleanor," Francois warned.

"I will take whatever is coming. I have seen too much."

Unexpectedly, Francois reached out and squeezed her hand affectionately. "It really is lovely to see you again Eleanor. I wish it was in happier circumstances."

She felt a tingle of electricity as his hand caressed hers, and she smiled coyly.

"You've been through a lot Eleanor. Let's get you cleaned up and rested. We have an important meeting with the Secretary-General this evening."

Eleanor woke up refreshed in the holding cell. As she was technically under arrest for crimes that had not yet been formalized, it had been too much to expect Francois to furnish her with a hotel room. She suspected the facility had many grand and luxurious apartments within its vast internal structure. However, she was grateful to have a warm shower and a decent meal before she was escorted to the cell with its foldaway metal bed. She had flopped down exhausted and instantly fallen into a dreamless sleep. In a flash, or so it felt, she was woken by a gentle tapping on the bars. Still groggy, she got up and cleaned her face in the plastic corner sink. The cold water revived her and she looked up to see Francois. He had that serious expression that unnerved her. "Are you ready? We need to meet the Sec-Gen right away. The verdict on Harry Clarke has come in."

## CHAPTER 25

It was late afternoon, but it was impossible to tell in the windowless courtroom, and the subdued wall lighting looked even more sombre than usual. It matched the atmosphere in the courtroom as people filed back in to take their seats in preparation for the verdict. Harry was brought up to the dock and he could sense numerous pairs of eyes trained on him as his guard locked him in the cage. He noticed Griffiths stride in and take his seat, smiling broadly, and an impotent surge of hatred ran through Harry's veins. Again he stayed resolutely in his seat as the Judge Advocates filed in and the assembly rose to stand in unison.

When everyone was seated, the Court Clerk, still sporting his wrinkled pin-stripe suit, addressed the bench where the three Presiding Officers watched him stony-faced. He coughed loudly as he consulted his tablet. "On the first charge, that of the first degree murder of Graham Matheson on the night of June seventeenth last year, contrary to common law; Judge Advocate Hodgson, how does the Tribunal find the defendant?"

Hodgson cast the merest glance in the direction of Adam Griffiths, whose eyes burrowed into the lead Judge Advocate. Hodgson turned his steely gaze at the cage that housed Harry. His face carried no expression but the eyes under his bifocals were cold, and Harry knew even before he had uttered a word.

"Guilty."

Murmurs spread across the group of people and Harry felt the blood drain from his face. The Court Clerk waited for silence and continued. "On the second charge, that of high treason and seditious activities designed with the intention of overthrowing the State, contrary to the Treason Felony Act 1848 as amended by Special Instrument 2024/13 under the Emergency Regulations. Judge Advocate Hodgson, how does the Tribunal find the defendant?"

Hodgson did not hesitate. "Guilty."

The Court Clerk continued. "On the third charge, that of colluding to assassinate the Prime Minister Lawrence Pelham contrary to common law and the Treason Act 1351; Judge Advocate Hodgson, how does the Tribunal find the defendant?"

"Guilty."

The clerk continued to read in a flat, emotionless voice the slew of other charges against Harry. In each case the result was the same.

When the final verdict had been rendered, the courtroom fell into a hushed silence. All eyes were focused on the man sitting in the middle of the raised dais. He took off his spectacles and wiped his brow. Harry wanted to yell out that the Tribunal was a circus, but he could not find the words to break the silence.

Finally Judge Advocate Hodgson put his bifocals back on and turned to Harry. "Prisoner Clarke, this Tribunal has found you guilty on all the charges laid before you. It is my duty to inform you that this Tribunal has the full range of penalties available to it. Therefore we will immediately move to pass sentence."

Hodgson gave a swift bang on his gavel and fiddled with something in front of him, unseen by the gallery. He then continued in a severe, formal tone. "Based on the evidence presented, the Tribunal finds that there are no mitigating factors to support you. Neither have you shown any hint of remorse for your actions and the devastating impact it has brought to this country. Prisoner Clarke, it is the opinion of this Tribunal that you are a dangerous terrorist. It is also of the view that you are beyond rehabilitation. The Tribunal therefore has been left no choice but to impose the ultimate penalty available to it under the law."

He left the words hanging for a moment as he fiddled again at his desk. With slow deliberation he picked up what looked like a black skull cap and placed it loosely over his head.

"Prisoner Clarke, I sentence you to be executed by firing squad, such execution to take place at sunrise within seven days, at the discretion of the Belmarsh Prison Warden."

Harry's legs sagged and he collapsed heavily to the floor of the cage. Stanworth bellowed out. "We would like to file an appeal."

Hodgson waved him aside. "This is a military Tribunal Mr. Stanworth. There is no right of appeal."

"Then we wish to appeal for clemency!" Harry's lawyer persisted.

"Mr. Stanworth," replied Hodgson as if he were lecturing a child. "Under the new constitution, appeals for clemency against the death penalty go directly to the Prime Minister's office. Given the nature of his crimes you hardly expect to receive clemency do you?"

A general hubbub arose in the courtroom as the implications of the sentence sunk in. Harry was half dragged out of the cage in handcuffs, but he was too beaten and weary to resist. As he was taken down, he noticed Griffiths smiling broadly. Just before Harry was jostled out of the courtroom, he saw the PIA leader give a friendly salute to Judge Advocate Hodgson.

## CHAPTER 26

Adam Griffiths prided himself on the fact that he had never used bodyguards, not even now when his public profile was so much higher. He reasoned that a sniper could take him out at any time whether he had a bodyguard or not. He always wore a bulletproof vest just in case, although he was still vulnerable to a head shot. It was a calculated risk. In a situation of close proximity, he was confident in his scrapping and survival skills. He also had the warm comfort of his coveted Smith & Wesson 460XVR Revolver with its extra-long barrel, the most powerful handgun in the military. It rarely left his side, and its .460 Mag cartridges could blow a gaping hole in a charging elephant. The gun was his insurance policy, offering security and peace of mind. It could also be highly persuasive when needed.

He had always despised Harry Clarke and resented the fact that he had evaded two of his agents. Now Clarke's days were numbered. Hodgson had done the right thing, but Griffiths had attended just in case. The old legal warhorse was well aware of the consequences if he failed to convict. Clarke was one political prisoner that could potentially damage the State, but soon that problem would be eradicated. In this social media age it was impossible to make Harry just disappear, and government forces needed to brace themselves for a reaction to his death. He had issued instructions to his commanders in the PIA to stay on high alert. His message to them was clear. Any protest or demonstration against Clarke's death, no matter how small, was to be ruthlessly quashed. They had authority to use all force necessary, and that included lethal force.

Griffiths considered the events of the last few days. The landscape was changing rapidly. The attempted assassination of the Prime Minister had failed. Not a complete failure. Whether he could recover sufficiently to resume office was unclear. The longer Pelham was absent, the more likely the balance of power would shift away from him. Griffiths had tied his mast to Chamberlain. Though he detested the man intensely, he did not fear Chamberlain in the same way as Pelham. The Prime Minister had an intensity and ruthless streak that chilled even a seasoned veteran.

Griffiths also had to reluctantly admit he had been persuaded by Chamberlain's overtures. The Deputy could achieve the same end result with less extreme measures. More importantly, he appeared to have the tacit support of the corporate sponsors, concerned over the devastating effect of Pelham's policies. Or so Chamberlain claimed. Griffiths remained frustrated at his lack of direct access to the corporate sponsors.

Either man represented a considerable risk. Pelham's dogmatic approach was driving the country to ruin. The rank and file in his empire were suffering. Many of his soldiers had not been paid for weeks. Discontent was rife throughout the PIA and even the more traditionally loyal SSP. It had spread quickly and could easily morph into a rebellion if enough of them refused to accept the situation any longer. A more moderate approach might ease the sanctions on the country and restore some balance. The same goals could surely be achieved in a different way. At least Chamberlain offered that alternative, a willingness to negotiate and make concessions. He was confident that he had made the right choice, but in the current fragmented political climate it was impossible to be certain.

He turned the collar of his grey lamb's wool winter coat against the bitter wind and looked up the Strand for his car. Traffic was heavy on this arterial road, the rush hour starting early. He cursed his driver anyway, but as he looked west toward the elegant campus buildings of Kings College he saw a black town car weaving its way skilfully through the traffic, attracting a few blasts on the horn from frustrated motorists. The car pulled rapidly into the small lay-by outside the courts, nearly running over Griffiths' foot. He stepped back, ready to give his driver a tongue-lashing when a tall, familiar figure stepped out from the rear passenger seat. The long charcoal trench-coat and dark sunglasses sent a chill down his spine, as he recalled the last time they had met at Canary Wharf.

The mysterious shadowy figure held open the car door. "Mr. Griffiths, if you don't mind." It was more of an order than a request and Griffiths stood there for a moment, conflicted. "Please," the figure added with a touch of impatience. "Don't worry, I can hardly throw you off a building here can I?" The taunt aroused his ire but reminded Griffiths of what this man was capable of. He decided to get in, and the driver quickly pulled away, cutting into the traffic winding its painful way along Fleet Street. The dark-clothed man sat next to him, and they continued in silence for several minutes until the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral rose up over the nearer buildings. The man nodded at the heavily damaged summit, the wrecked cupola virtually hanging off the larger main dome. The larger dome itself had sustained gaping holes from mortar fire.

"It's a symbol of the strife this country has endured since Mr. Pelham came to power," the man said finally. "You know I represent the corporate sponsors. They have grown deeply concerned over the turn of events. They are not prepared to tolerate the country going down its current path. Sweeping changes are needed." He paused, waiting for Griffiths to respond.

"So what are the corporate sponsors proposing?" Griffiths replied finally.

His fellow passenger rubbed his square chin thoughtfully. It gave him an almost intellectual air, mused Griffiths. "We need to accept that the country is not yet ready for Pelham's extreme brand of leadership. Our international standing has been greatly diminished, and the business interests of those I represent have suffered greatly. It seems the social experiment is not working. Radical solutions are required."

Griffiths felt discreetly for his gun, the reassuring weight pressing against his thigh. "How radical?"

"Maybe a change of leadership is required but that does not necessarily mean at the very top. The sponsors remain behind Mr. Pelham but they have grown disillusioned. The work they have financed and supported is too valuable to allow the rebellion against his policies to succeed. I am not just talking about the insurgents on the streets. It is the more insidious threat of mutiny from within that concerns them. Their tentacles reach far and wide. They know things that perhaps you think they don't know."

"What does that mean?" Travelling in the town car with this dangerous emissary made him nervous. He looked out at the battered buildings flashing past. The car had escaped the choking traffic and was heading rapidly out of central London in the direction of the Docklands.

"It means that the sponsors value loyalty. This attempt on his life was not in the interests of their plan. A number of those responsible for his near demise have been appropriately dealt with."

The car continued to speed along the A13 east of the city and joined the East India Dock Road.

"You have been indiscreet Mr. Griffiths," continued the shadowy figure next to him. "Making tactical errors in this political climate can prove costly. Loyalty is a quality more highly valued than ever, especially when it is in such short supply."

"Don't challenge me on my loyalty!" snapped Griffiths with all the indignation he could muster. It didn't sound convincing even to himself. He shifted nervously and felt again for his gun. He could not get to it easily. The shadow man would intervene before he could release it. What the hell did they know?

The figure next to him said nothing, just a slight curl of his thin lips. Griffiths wanted to ease his frustration by ripping off the sunglasses and seeing who this person really was. The car inexplicably turned off the main road and slowed down as they reached the urban wasteland of Tower Hamlets, near the Blackwall Tunnel. It was a place where Griffiths had organized many demonstrations as a senior member of the British National Party and latterly as a leader of FREE. This urban project epitomized so much of what was wrong with Britain, with its fractious melting pot of nationalities coexisting in a fragile detente, surrounded by urban decay. He had used this area as a focal point for his incendiary speeches, a symbol of modern Britain that fuelled his provocative language.

The car turned onto a large patch of waste ground, where twisted weeds and bracken stubbornly grew between stinking garbage, broken bottles, used syringes and other detritus of human existence. This open patch was surrounded by pitted grey walls heavily stained with graffiti, beyond which stood dark brown concrete tower blocks. The whole place felt bleak and apocalyptic, even more so by the absence of people.

Something felt badly wrong. "Why are you taking me here?" he demanded.

His fellow passenger offered only that same thin-lipped smirk. "This area is where you came to prominence. I think it is rather fitting."

"Fitting for what, for Christ's sake?"

"You'll see," came the cryptic reply. "A lot of these people and their relatives have suffered badly under the PIA. They may not fit our ideal of Britain's future, and eventually they will be forced to leave or die when Pelham's five-year plan is complete. At least these people understand loyalty. They stand together and fight. They will not stab each other in the back and plot the downfall of those they claim to support like Roman senators."

The car bounced over the rocky, uneven waste ground and gently came to a halt. "We cannot say the same of you."

Before Griffiths could reply, his passenger turned in the confined space and launched a stinging punch to his face. Griffiths felt his nose virtually explode and blood filled his mouth. He doubled over in shock and humiliation and reached for his gun, blood dripping over the leather upholstery. He swung it round but it was too late. His tormentor and the driver were already outside the car. He tried to step outside but the car door was firmly locked. He swung the gun at them, snarling in anger and prepared to fire.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a muffled voice from outside. "The glass is bulletproof. If you fire from inside, the bullet will just bounce around and more than likely hit you." The figure in the trench-coat turned away, unconcerned that inside the car Griffiths was waving his gun frantically. Griffiths saw him speak into his tablet before he turned back to him. "You should be receiving a welcoming party fairly soon. Insurgents from neighbouring tower blocks have been alerted to your presence. They know who you are. Many of them have close family members who have died in the deportation camps that your people administer. You might be needing that gun because they are well armed and have a score to settle. I would love to film this for posterity but it's probably time we got going. I understand they are a bloodthirsty mob and might not be satisfied with just one slaughter."

Griffiths hammered on the window and shouted in desperation. "Let me out. Pelham will kill you for this!"

The shadow man gave an almost rueful smile. "I doubt that very much." He and his companion began walking away, and then Griffiths saw them. At first only a few of them funnelled out from the buildings, walking slowly and deliberately toward the car. Then more began streaming out, joining the rest until a large crowd moved menacingly across the waste ground. Griffiths pulled on the handles and banged the car window with his gun using all his strength, but to no avail. He was trapped inside the car, and the mob was moving closer. He saw they were armed and they looked angry. He reached for his tablet to make a desperate call, but failed to get a connection. As the mob moved closer they began chanting in a language he could not understand, but which was undeniably hostile. He waved his gun but they marched on undeterred.

"Jesus help me!" he cried, knowing in his soul that he had scorned those who turned to religion in desperate moments as his men ruthlessly eliminated them. As they surrounded the car, angry, snarling faces peered in and the mob began pounding on the roof and windows. It would be hypocritical to expect any mercy. He pictured himself being dragged from the car and ripped to shreds, and that was when he emptied his bowels.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL EARLY MORNING MARCH 6

The world has reacted with shock over the verdict against Harry Clarke, the talisman in the fight against Pelham's oppressive regime. News of his impending execution was swiftly followed by fierce condemnation from world leaders and statesmen observing with despair the rapidly unfolding events. This is another flashpoint in a country riven with strife since Lawrence Pelham became Prime Minister. Reports suggest that Pelham is conscious again and out of danger, although his recuperation may take some time. No-one has yet claimed responsibility for the attack on his train, and military police are still sifting through the wreckage for clues.

It was the shattering news of the death sentence for Harry Clarke, however, that brought protesters pouring onto the streets. The verdict and punishment were announced in a low key broadcast on State controlled social media, but was quickly picked up by independent sites acting in defiance of the Government ban on unauthorized web traffic. The suppression of social media was always an experiment doomed to fail; it is simply too diverse and disparate to control entirely, and the broadcast turned viral within minutes.

This prompted an outpouring of anger and protest across scores of cities in the U.K. While the outraged rhetoric from world leaders has been expressed on television, Twitter and Facebook, they are only words spoken from the safety of a remote location. It was the actions of thousands of protesters chanting his name in all the large urban areas that truly spoke to how Harry Clarke's resistance had resonated with ordinary people, and not just those threatened with deportation.

This act of rebellion in defiance of martial law banning large assemblies of people is all the more remarkable because of its source. It has not come from the many armed insurgents waging war against government forces, but rather from ordinary unarmed people simply fed up with this government. The measured broadcasts made by Harry Clarke, whilst quickly curtailed by his arrest, proved highly influential. He did not rant and threaten the leaders. His broadcasts resonated with the public because they were apparently factual, informative and lacking in any political bias, other than the desire for a democratic government. The public understood the personal risk he was taking by making these broadcasts, a risk that had now materialized.

In cities across Great Britain, as people took to the streets to protest, the PIA and the Order Police were quick to react. They called on demonstrators to disperse, threatening reprisals for failure to comply. Those reprisals were swift and brutal, with tear gas being thrown into the crowd, swiftly followed by rubber bullets. In Leeds a protester claimed that live rounds were fired at fleeing protesters. There are reports of a number of deaths across the country, although reliable information is difficult to obtain from the State Ministry of Information. Independent reports claim that in Birmingham, scene of one of the largest gatherings, the PIA and the Order Police moved in with riot shields and brutally beat down anyone in their path. Fighting and rioting has continued through the night, and is still in progress.

Surprisingly there has been no response from the government to the latest round of violence to hit the nation. Neither Lawrence Pelham nor his usual spokesman, Deputy P.M. Giles Chamberlain has spoken either about the sentence or the resulting wave of protests. The decision leaves Britain further isolated from the international community as the clamour for politicians to take action has become a crescendo. The International Criminal Court, the ICC, has declared that the military trial and resulting verdict is unconstitutional, and a breach of procedural law. They have filed a motion with the Lord Chancellor, Arthur Hammond, but any chance of success is reliant upon the notion of an independent judiciary.

The United Nations has declared an emergency session over the latest crisis and many commentators are speculating that if Britain goes ahead with the execution as planned, the UN will be left with no choice but to deploy a peacekeeping force on British soil. So far they have resisted doing so because of the fear of an escalation in hostilities, but the current situation is clearly untenable. The execution of Harry Clarke in defiance of a global outcry, and apparently against the wishes of their own people will surely force Emosi's hand. It is the biggest test to his leadership he has faced during his long tenure, and we can only speculate as to how events will unfold.

In an apparently unconnected event, there are unconfirmed rumours that Adam Griffiths, the Head of the PIA and the State Secret Police, was caught in the middle of one of the protests in Tower Hamlets. Reports suggest that he attended the final day of Clarke's trial, including the verdict and sentencing. How he ended up in Tower Hamlets, a place in which he has quite a history, has baffled journalists. It appears he did not survive the incident. An eye witness claimed that he was pulled from a car and literally torn to pieces by a vengeful, savage mob. If true, the impact on the PIA and the State Secret Police will be profound but unpredictable, creating more instability in the current regime.

## CHAPTER 27

When Harry was brought to Death Row immediately following the trial, he found that the special super-maximum facility was quite different from his previous accommodation. He remained at Belmarsh Prison, where his sentence was due to be carried out, and the facility was like a prison within a prison, a maze of concrete blocks and endless steel doors. However, he noted with great irony that he was no longer in solitary confinement. Not completely, in any event. The filthy cell they threw him into had a small dirty window near the ceiling at one end. The steel door opposite also had a narrow, opaque window and, at the bottom, a slit for the guards to slide trays of food. Very little could penetrate this cement box. Except sound. Death Row at Belmarsh was a noisy place, punctuated by constant yelling and taunting and clanging doors. The racket never ceased, a contrast to the ghostly silence of his interrogation cell. Occasionally the dull thud of prisoners being beaten and the screams of nearby prisoners descending into madness drifted into his cell.

The constant din reverberated through his brain as he sat there pondering his fate, understanding how the mental health of Death Row prisoners could deteriorate very quickly. He tried to block the noise, curling up on the steel bed with the thin mattress and pulling the soiled blanket over him. It was getting late but he had no concept of time. They had confiscated his watch long ago, and he could only guess the hour. A guard passed by his cell and his strident voice resounded through the cavernous two-storey facility. "Quieten down you criminal piece of shit," he bawled at them.

He slammed his baton against the steel doors as he passed each one and the sound echoed around the enclosed space, bouncing against steel and concrete, nowhere to escape. Every sound was like that, distorted and magnified, assaulting the eardrums until you prayed for a silence that never came. Within that din, a closer sound, a harsh whisper, invaded his consciousness.

"Harry, Harry!" came a disembodied voice.

Harry did not answer at first, but the gravelly voice persisted. Its deep resonance sounded familiar, but it was hard to tell in the tumultuous background din. "Harry, it's me!"

Harry finally decided to answer. "Who are you?"

The voice gave a mild rebuke. "Shh, not so loud. If the guards catch us talking they'll punish us."

"Who is this?" Harry kept his voice lower.

"It's Bernard."

"Bernard?"

"Yes the one and only Bernard Maxwell. I'm still alive and kicking, but stick around for status updates." He paused. "Sorry, just my gallows humour. Anything to stay sane in here."

An ear-splitting scream pierced the general ruckus, sending a chill down Harry's spine. "Jesus what was that?" he said.

Maxwell gave a snort. "Oh you'll get used to it. You'll hear worse than that in your time here."

"I don't expect to be here that long," replied Harry.

Maxwell's tone became melancholy. "I'm sorry old friend."

"For what?"

"For testifying against you. They double-crossed me. Offered me a plea bargain if I testified against you. My sentence commuted to life imprisonment in a cushy open prison. They made it sound very appealing. You have to understand Harry, I was desperate. I don't want to die. I was weak and it was the easier option. I'm a coward Harry. I hope you can forgive me."

Harry felt a flood of compassion for the former editor of the British Guardian. "There's nothing to forgive Bernard. I should be asking for your forgiveness. If I hadn't come to you with that damn document you might still be free." Harry recalled the day as if it were yesterday, when he had approached Maxwell to put the government's five-year plan in his newspaper. A disc containing the secretive plan had been given to him by Graham Matheson and the former M.P. had paid for it with his life. Harry discovered that soon after he approached Maxwell the British Guardian had been shut down and the editor taken into custody.

"Nonsense man, do you really think they would have let me continue publishing the Guardian? It was only a matter of time. Granted, your bloody five-year plan accelerated the process." He gave a hoarse chuckle. "To be honest, I think they kept me alive to testify against you. They have no reason to let me live anymore."

He was interrupted by another prison guard striding across the narrow passageway between the cells, swinging his baton. "Keep it down you filthy scum," he shrieked. He gave one swift swing of his baton against a steel cell door further down from Harry's unit and then disappeared in the gloomy light. Maxwell waited before continuing.

"I'm scared Harry. I think I might be next. We're right next to the execution yard. If you prop up your chair against the window you can see where they carry out the firing squad. I've heard a number of executions since I've been here. Even watched one, but I was too sickened to repeat the experience. Just the noise of the guns sends a chill down my spine."

A metallic throb reverberated around the facility and abruptly the whole place was plunged into suffocating blackness.

"Lights out," said Maxwell, just to continue the conversation. "I hope you're not afraid of the dark!"

Harry could barely see his hand in front of his face. Even the tiny window at the top of the cell brought merely a diffuse glow, unable to penetrate the inky blackness. The background din of prisoners quietened down, punctuated by the occasional raucous shout.

"How long have you been in this hellish place Bernard?"

"Too long old boy. Around four months since the end of my trial. I'm a veteran here. That's the problem."

"How have you survived it?"

"Good question. I miss my bloody cigars that's for sure. The thought of spending years in this concrete box would drive me to suicide. Unlike our friends across the pond they try and keep the number of prisoners down by executing quickly. It makes it look better on the stats. Britain doesn't have a huge number of people on Death Row like the States, who keep people in there for years suffering mental agony whilst their appeals are being exhausted. Maybe a quick execution is more humane. It avoids all that useless hope."

Harry shuddered. It was cold in the cell and the noise in the facility had gradually subsided. He felt his way through the pitch black and found his cot with the thin blanket. He lay down and his thoughts turned to Byron and then Tamara, as they often did in moments of deep personal crisis. He said a silent prayer, mourning his dead wife and the son he would probably never see again, but mercifully sleep came quickly.

Harry woke abruptly from a bad dream to the sound of terrified screaming. It felt as if it were in his cell, a sound of raw terror so shrill that it cut right through him. At first the startling sound was unrecognizable, but was followed by the familiar gravelly voice of Maxwell shouting. "Get off me, I'm innocent. Please!"

It was still dark, but gloomy rather than pitch black. Harry heard the signs of a struggle and Maxwell began blubbering. "I don't want to die!" Other prisoners woke up with the commotion and began shouting and wailing until the facility was a cauldron of noise. Maxwell's tormentors stayed silent but dragged the helpless editor out of his cell. He was too weak to resist. Harry watched through the food slit and saw him being dragged effortlessly away by two heavyset prison guards, screaming at the top of his lungs. "For God's sake have some mercy!" Harry heard him say before Maxwell's panic-stricken voice was lost in the general hubbub. The tension and excitement around the facility was electric as the prisoners realized what was about to happen. Some jeered but most just howled in protest.

Harry remembered what Maxwell had said the night before. Trembling, he pulled the rickety wooden chair to the far wall and stood on it. The small window was at eye level and he could just about see into the execution yard. It was not yet sunrise, and the yard was still enveloped in a dull grey light which gradually grew brighter as the dawn emerged. A number of men dressed in Army fatigues were lined up in the yard and all carried rifles. Maxwell was dragged into the square, still yelling his innocence, sending a chill down Harry's spine. A prison chaplain shuffled serenely behind the struggling group. He muttered into his Bible, occasionally making the sign of the Cross.

Harry craned his neck for a better view and saw Maxwell tied to a post and blindfolded. The former editor continued screaming for mercy but the six blank-faced men standing opposite him mechanically raised their rifles. A seventh man stood further back, unarmed but adjacent to the soldiers, directing them to take aim. Harry could not watch. He turned away, the sound of Maxwell's piercing screams rising above the frenetic din. Suddenly the air was split by the thunder of a half-dozen rifles firing in unison and the screaming was abruptly extinguished.

For a second, a shocked silence rippled through the facility and then the racket continued, louder and more intense than before, permeated by fear of who would be next. Harry began shaking uncontrollably and collapsed on his cot, gasping to prevent himself from hyperventilating. He shook with fear and exhaustion and a deep sense of sorrow for his deceased friend.

## CHAPTER 28

It was still dark outside, and under the flickering light of a small kerosene lamp, Dr. Hilary Warnecki pulled back her untidy blond hair into a ponytail as she prepared for another shift. She had turned her office into a makeshift home, adapted to support Byron. The boy was fast asleep, snoring softly under a pile of shapeless blankets, only his brown hair peeking up over the covers. Her own dirty mattress lay next to him, but they found comfort in each other. It helped on these cold winter nights just to know that he was next to her. It was only six a.m. and another long day beckoned. She would let him sleep for a while. The roll call was not for another hour. She caught herself in the broken mirror and noticed the dark shadows under her deep blue eyes. The skin around them was puffy and for a second she wondered if she had finally succumbed to the camp plague. Working so close to infected patients, she surmised whether she, like Byron, was somehow immune to the disease. The deaths continued unabated, several a day on average, yet Dr. Hilary had somehow remained healthy, in part to her rigid protocol and a critical pair of Snap-On surgical gloves.

Very little news ever reached the deportation camp, situated just south of Salisbury. The camp was its own self-contained community of misery, effectively cut off from the outside world. The internees were not allowed cell-phones or tablets. Even Dr. Hilary had her use strictly regulated and scrutinized. Every so often the Chief Camp Administrator Barry Sullivan, a man she deeply despised, ordered that her tablet be inspected to ensure that she was not accessing 'seditious material,' as he liked to phrase it. Even when she accessed external websites for medical research purposes, he interrogated her harshly; constantly suspicious that she was engaged in some covert activity.

Dr. Hilary turned on her tablet and the glow of the screen cast ghostly shadows in the tiny enclave. Sullivan was even more suspicious of her in the current climate. Tensions were already running high in the camp after several recent incidents of violence by the soldiers in charge. They had lost their discipline, and Sullivan was a weak leader, more interested in ensuring that his liquor supply was unaffected in the current troubles. Allied to unconfirmed rumours that the government's plan was failing and UN intervention was likely, a mood of rebellion was spreading across the imprisoned population. The only reason there had been no outright insurgency was because most of the prisoners were too beaten and exhausted to fight.

The soldiers were heavily armed, but the mood of despondency was clear in everything they did. It was obvious to Hilary that they fully expected the UN to liberate the camp in time. Even Sullivan had implied as such. Hilary suspected that Sullivan would be the first to flee and leave his men to face the wrath of the liberators. He had probably packed his bags already, she reflected bitterly.

They had, however, been saying that for a while, and every day that passed was another day in which innocent victims of this despotic regime succumbed to cold, disease, fatigue or malnutrition, or a combination of these factors. Although it was early March, the long, harsh winter showed no signs of abating. The internees were suffering, poorly protected by the makeshift wooden huts from the incursion of the icy wind and snow. She hoped for Byron's sake that they would be rescued soon. The boy had become withdrawn since the violent incident at the roll call less than two weeks ago. He barely spoke to her, and he had almost ceased his bedside visits to infected patients, where he offered soothing words and sympathy. She was anxious to ensure that he not lose hope, but there was little positive support she could offer him. He clearly still grieved for his mother, Tamara, and the news of his father's high profile trial had clearly caused him further pain. She knew she could never replace Tamara, but she worried for Byron like a mother. He was the child she could never have.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft chime from her tablet. She glanced at it and cursed in irritation as she saw it was a summons from Sullivan asking to see her immediately. She wanted to defy him, by keeping him waiting, but it would be a small, hollow victory. Knowing that she would be needed in the hospital soon and wanting to be there when Byron woke, she wrapped her shawl around her and stepped out into the cold early morning air. Her sandals crunched on the snow as she headed toward the farmhouse, deliberately looking away from the black tarpaulin that flapped gently in the icy breeze. There would be another funeral pyre today, where the bodies underneath the tarpaulin would be dumped unceremoniously into a large adjacent pit. A cursory service would be given by a chaplain who had recently arrived to honour the dead. They did not even receive that before the chaplain arrived.

Sullivan was waiting for her in his office in the farmhouse, a brown liquid in a small tumbler on his desk. He had started early this morning, she thought. She only ever saw him in his office or occasionally at the roll call. He had never been near the field hospital.

The Chief Camp Administrator adjusted his thick spectacles and motioned for Hilary to take a seat. She addressed him in her usual terse manner. "I don't want to take a seat. I'm busy and unless you've summoned me to tell me I can have all the supplies I want then I'm not really interested in what you have to say."

Sullivan wiped his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief and his bloodless lips crinkled into a forced smile. "Dr. Hilary, charming as always. No, I haven't come to tell you that. Things are difficult, for all of us, myself included."

"My heart bleeds," retorted Hilary with heavy sarcasm.

Sullivan ignored the jibe. "Even so, we continue as we are. Despite what you may have heard, there is absolutely no indication that the UN is coming. I've heard the rumours floating around the camp. I know my men have at times lost discipline and I will be the first to admit that their morale is low, but I want these rumours quelled. They are destructive to everyone. If the deportees have false hope it could be damaging. As a medic you should know that."

"What do you expect me to do about it? I'm just a medic trying to keep my patients alive with precious little resources."

Sullivan clasped his hands and looked up at Hilary, still standing. "Doctor, you have more influence than you give yourself credit for. People look up to you. You're like an angel in the midst of -" he struggled for the right word - "confusion."

"I will do everything I can, but in return I need your assurance that you will keep your men in check and severely discipline anyone that resorts to violence." Her probing eyes targeted him like lasers. "Do I have your word?"

Sullivan let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes, you have my word."

Hilary was not convinced. Sullivan's expression and body language was telling. She was certain he would turn a blind eye to the violence as he usually did.

Sullivan hesitated before continuing. "There is something else. I strongly suggest you sit down for this."

His tone had turned deadly serious and she complied, her mind racing. "What is it?" she asked anxiously.

"It relates to Byron. I know that you have looked after the boy, taken him in. At the risk of sounding condescending, you have done a great job. But you ought to know that last night his father was sentenced." He paused for a moment, leaving her hanging. "He's been sentenced to death."

Dr. Hilary gasped in shock. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle her cry, and Sullivan sounded almost genuine when he added, "I'm really sorry." She collapsed into the chair and Sullivan scratched at his patchy salt and pepper beard awkwardly.

"When will they carry out the sentence?"

"I don't know but it was a military court. They will probably act quickly. I would guess within the week."

She stared down at the floor, letting the news sink in. In truth it was not totally unexpected, but Byron would be devastated. The boy's spirits were already low and he had become physically weaker, often refusing the meagre food supplies they had. The rations had already reduced over the winter. Sullivan had explained to the camp that it was the result of overseas sanctions, but Hilary knew he had retained the best food for him and his men. The shock could send the boy into further decline and she feared greatly for him.

Without another word, she bolted out of his office and strode back to her tiny room in the field hospital. Byron was stirring, reaching out to her. He gradually gained consciousness as he realized she was not there and he sat up, rubbing his tired eyes, trying to focus. He looked up at her and noticed her haunted expression. "What is it?"

"Byron it's about your father. I-I have some news." She needed to tell him now and get it over with. She knew that the longer she waited the more likely her courage would fail her. If he found out by other means and realized that she already knew, he would hate her, and she could not bear that.

He blinked furiously, a characteristic sign that he was still waking. It was one of those idiosyncrasies that she found so warm about him. Her heart leaped out to him as she looked up innocently to her. "What about him?"

"He was on trial for plotting against the State. They sentenced him to – to death." She could barely look him in the eye as she said it.

At first his face showed no reaction. His lip quivered and he flopped back down onto the messy sheets and curled up into a ball. He lay there for a few seconds, taking in this shocking information, and then unexpectedly lashed out. "Why the hell should I care? He was never much of a father to me. He's never been around!"

She didn't answer but felt overwhelming sadness and compassion for him. She knew he did not mean that. His body suddenly became wracked with sobs. She sat next to where he lay and gathered him up in her arms and they held each other tight, needing no further words. His tears soaked her lab coat but she held him silently, unable to find any words of comfort. As she patted his back soothingly, she wondered again what the future held for Byron. All she knew was that whatever happened, she wanted to be there to protect him.

## CHAPTER 29

Officially he did not exist. He was paid extremely well, but a review by the Auditor General would find no record of such in any government or corporate disclosure documents. The services he provided were not those that lent themselves to transparent reporting. He was not sure if all his employers even knew his name. They certainly never referred to it. He was to all intents and purposes invisible. That was how they liked it and it suited him just fine. He recalled once that one of them had uttered "McKenzie!" when they issued him with instructions. The culprit had been quickly admonished by the other corporate sponsors. It didn't matter. A name was just a label. It neither defined who he was or what he did for them.

'McKenzie' was a former elite special forces soldier in the Special Air Service, the fabled 'SAS.' He was trained in hand-to-hand combat, endurance and survival, tactical assault manoeuvres, weapons and sniper patrols, and much more. The combination of intense training and experience in hostile field environments had made him an accomplished assassin, but he considered himself far more versatile. He was also a strong negotiator. He had honed his skills in some of the most dangerous territories in the world, including the Middle East, mainly Yemen, and a number of Muslim dominated countries in West Africa. During his time in Nigeria, he had been able to secure the release of a number of soldiers and civilians from Boko Haram, an unprecedented achievement. He gained a positive result from an extremist organization that rarely returned its human bounty, preferring to sell them as slaves or to consign them to a grisly death. He had used the skills he learned in the SAS to great effect in numerous risky assignments abroad.

His six years in the SAS had been complemented by several more years as an operative for the Secret Intelligence Service known as MI6. Working in partnership with MI5, the Security Service and GCHQ, Government Communications Headquarters, its role was multifaceted. It gathered foreign intelligence to inform government decisions aimed at combating terrorism, preventing and resolving conflict and protecting U.K. military forces deployed overseas. While MI6 was designed to navigate risks to the nation's security, military effectiveness and economy, it did so by working across the globe on counter-terrorism operations. In the last five years, as the U.K.'s economy, and with it its international influence, contracted sharply, the overseas focus had shifted to a more insular approach. That transition had accelerated under Pelham's tenure, where the emphasis was on supporting the Secret Police in its continuing fight against local insurgents.

His career in two of Britain's most covert organizations had qualified him well for his current role as an emissary for some very powerful employers. He was articulate and educated, able to use tact and discretion where necessary, and to kill without hesitation when the situation or his employer's wishes demanded it. He was a shadowy figure who rarely drew attention to himself, but with a ruthless streak that made him a highly valued asset. He considered himself unique.

McKenzie preferred to work alone. He trusted only himself to get the job done, but more importantly to do so quietly and without a fuss. Although several of his targets had been high profile, such as Graham Matheson, and more recently Adam Griffiths, the circumstances made it impossible to trace back to him. He had particularly enjoyed watching from afar how Griffiths had been pulled out of the car by an angry mob and literally torn apart limb by limb by a frenzied mob. Griffiths was a nasty piece of work, reminding him of some of the worst terrorists he had encountered as a SAS soldier and mercenary. A sociopath with a scant regard for human life other than his own. McKenzie had wanted to finish him off at Canary Wharf back on that hot summer day last year, but his instructions had been to frighten him into obedience, not to murder him. That had come later.

McKenzie glanced at his watch. One in the morning. It was cold and draughty in his hiding spot, but it was the perfect place to engage his target. The quarry had engaged several bodyguards recently, as if he understood that times were changing and his personal safety was not guaranteed. McKenzie, however, liked to stay ahead of the game. He had remained one step ahead, tracking his movements. There were only two times when he was truly alone, at least in the sense that his bodyguards or 'security assistants' as he liked to grandiosely call them, were not present. That was when he visited one of his concubines, usually housed in an apartment that he had financed or sequestered through his high level connections. There was nothing that his target could not secure, and his taste for glamorous women was well documented in government circles.

The other time that he was truly alone was now. McKenzie had used his considerable surveillance and investigative skills to discover what the Deputy Prime Minister did when he took his surreptitious walks to the ancient forgotten chapel in Westminster.

McKenzie knew about the cyber resistance force. Chamberlain had mentioned it at the last meeting. Although McKenzie was outside the room, he had taken the precaution of placing a micro-transmitter inside the chamber at the Inner Temple. He listened and evaluated everything that was said. It might come in useful one day if he had reason to blackmail any of the sponsors. However, until recently he did not realize Chamberlain had the cyber resistance force under his control. Using surveillance skills he had developed during ground missions in Syria and Iraq, McKenzie had tracked the Deputy's movements and discovered the location of the bunker. It was an underground movement in more ways than one. Chamberlain disappeared through a metal grille set in the stone floor near the ruined altar of the chapel, and usually did so alone. He returned to the surface via the grille, suggesting it was the only entry point to the bunker, and jogged back to his Whitehall office or his residence at Admiralty House, usually during the hours of darkness. At this point his 'assistants' were not around. That made life easier, not because McKenzie was concerned by them. He hated having to kill needlessly. He might be an assassin but he still had a conscience.

McKenzie glanced at his watch. Chamberlain rarely spent more than fifteen minutes underground. He was probably claustrophobic, a feeling McKenzie could identify with. It was the one pervasive weakness he possessed, the one thing that could terrorize him. Many years ago, he had been captured by Taliban forces in Afghanistan and placed in a dark hole that was so cramped he barely had room to breathe. His only source of survival was a tiny air flow and small rivulets of mountain melt-water that ran down the wall that he could just about reach to lick. They buried him alive in this manner for ten days before he was rescued by fighters loyal to a local anti-Taliban warlord. It took all his mental training to survive, but ever since he had been terrified of confined spaces.

He heard the magnetic buzz of the grille and he became alert, checking his pistol, ready to pounce into action. The grille opened and the Deputy P.M. peeked over. Seeing that the chapel was clear, he climbed out, continually looking around.

He was dressed in a heavy wool coat to stave off the winter chill. A scarf and beanie hat masked his face and head. Seeing that the chapel appeared empty, he unwrapped the scarf and paused by the derelict altar, his breath condensing in thick clouds as he exhaled from the exertion of climbing. He checked the grille to ensure it was fully closed and pulled out a cellphone from his coat pocket.

That was the signal for McKenzie to make his move. He stepped out of the shadows, his pistol aimed squarely at Chamberlain's head. "Good evening Mr. Chamberlain," he growled. With his free hand he beckoned. "Hand over the phone."

Chamberlain froze wide-eyed with shock but quickly composed himself. As he passed his phone over he smiled amiably. "Ah, of course we met at the Inner Temple. Our glorious Prime Minister's hit man."

McKenzie found his coolness unnerving. The politician was staring down the barrel of a high-powered Glock handgun capable of splattering his brains on the cold stone floor in a split second. He should be begging for mercy. "Quite the opposite. I represent whoever pays me the most and at present that's the corporate sponsors. You do not have their support. It would have been much cleaner if you had eliminated Pelham."

The Deputy gave an ironic laugh. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you don't," replied McKenzie sarcastically.

"So now you're here to eliminate me?"

It was McKenzie's turn to laugh, which he did very rarely. "No, but I have your attention. The sponsors sent me with a message. Pelham is incapacitated for now but he still has influence, and while he is under round-the-clock security there is no way to finish the job, not even for me. The country is on a knife edge now and the sponsors are growing increasingly concerned. You are perceived to be as culpable as Pelham. You have a significant credibility problem. However your overtures to the corporate sponsors recently were apparently quite persuasive."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they may be prepared to support your candidacy as successor to Pelham. Call it the lesser of two evils. But there are two things you must use your executive powers to prevent if you are to win their support."

"And these are?" said Chamberlain, now quite intrigued.

"Firstly, Harry Clarke. You've seen the protests over his conviction. Of all the crazy things Pelham has done it seems that this one has caused a tipping point. If you allow him to become a martyr the country will slide into anarchy and violence. Not even the PIA or the Armed Forces will be able to control the masses if he is executed."

Chamberlain nodded in agreement. He knew that further violent protests were inevitable.

"Secondly," continued McKenzie, "if that does happen, it will accelerate UN intervention. Whatever you do, you must prevent the UN invading the country. Everyone stands to lose – you, Pelham, and most importantly as far as I am concerned, the people who pay my wages. You have shown yourself to be quite persuasive Mr. Chamberlain. It's probably what got you where you are in the first place. Use that skill to convince the UN to stay away from these shores. Tell them to leave us to sort our own problems."

"You appear to have overestimated my powers and authority. I don't know if I can achieve that. Saving Harry Clarke will be in direct defiance of Pelham for a start."

McKenzie was dismissive. "That's your problem. How you do it is up to you. It's time for you to show action not just words."

"I need to meet with the Cabinet. I cannot act unilaterally."

McKenzie rolled his eyes, hidden by his dark glasses. "Come on Mr. Chamberlain. Don't take me for a fool. You and I both know that the Cabinet ministers are just puppets. There isn't an ounce of backbone between them."

"How the hell did you know I was here anyway?"

McKenzie almost smiled, another rarity. "You're a creature of habit. I'm surprised that your bodyguards aren't more diligent. A hat and scarf is not going to disguise you on your little sojourns from Parliament or Downing Street, even late at night. If it was the will of the corporate sponsors I could have fired this gun. Their views may change and if you and I meet in different circumstances then I will not be so restrained. Just so you know it would have made no difference if you had security with you. I will reach you if I need to, but I'm hoping for your sake that I don't have to. You know what you have to do." He tossed the cellphone back to Chamberlain. "Remember a lot of powerful people are depending on you. Don't let them down."

Before Chamberlain could reply, McKenzie slipped out of the chapel and was gone, leaving Chamberlain standing alone, his head swirling as he considered the message from this mysterious emissary.

## CHAPTER 30

The following morning Chamberlain was summoned to meet Pelham at the private clinic in Garston. Security was extra tight and the Deputy was accompanied by his own men. He had a strong feeling that after Griffiths' demise, he might be next on the hit list. He could not think of anything that connected him to the attack on the train, but then the same could be said for the former PIA leader. The mysterious emissary for the corporate sponsors had hinted that he was somehow involved, and even the sponsors had inferred as such.

It left him in a deeply compromising situation. The chance to remove Pelham from the scene had come and gone. There was no way he would get a second chance. The Prime Minister's security was so tight that even he suffered the indignity of a full body search before being granted access to Pelham. Access was granted to Chamberlain only, and not his own security team. However, when he entered the private medical suite, Pelham was sitting up in bed. His two thugs lurked in the corner of the room, watching the Deputy like a hawk. Chamberlain's eye was drawn to their holstered weapons. He was vulnerable.

He tried to convince himself that Pelham would never be so blatant, even if he knew the truth. He approached the Prime Minister and smiled weakly. "Lawrence, it's good to see you. I apologize it has taken me so long to visit, but there was much to do in the wake of this heinous attack. They tell me your recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. I feared the worst when I heard what happened. We _will_ find the people who did this."

Chamberlain had to admit that Pelham did not look like a man who had been hanging onto life by a thread four days earlier. His head was still swathed in bandages, face and neck ribboned with cuts. His upper body had a steel frame supporting it, looking a little like scaffolding. The chest was still heavily bandaged and he was still hooked up to a saline drip. His breathing was laboured and shallow, a legacy of his punctured lung, but he was off the ventilator, a staggering testament to his stubborn will. His voice was still scratchy, more of a hoarse whisper.

"Giles," he gasped. "Good to see you." He tried to straighten up further and groaned with the effort, and Chamberlain gently pulled up the pillow to support him. He could feel Pelham's bodyguards watching him intently. Pelham dismissed them curtly with a nod of his head, and they were alone.

"We can speak freely this way," said Pelham. He sipped at his water and his voice grew stronger. "They nearly got me this time Giles. I will not allow that to happen again. Things are moving fast and I need your support more than ever. The cowards who attacked my train have only served to strengthen my resolve. We must not allow our plan to be sabotaged. I will eliminate all our opponents and crush everyone who stands in our way."

Pelham sipped at his water again, exhausted by the effort of his passionate outburst.

Chamberlain replied. "Lawrence, I couldn't agree more. The criminals who attacked you are on borrowed time. I can assure you of that."

"Can you?" countered Pelham, peering at him with characteristic intensity.

"Of course," replied Chamberlain quickly, a little unnerved. It had always been difficult to tell when Pelham was hiding information. Much of his rapid advancement through the political ranks had been predicated on using information as a weapon to suit his ambitions. He was often tactical in who he provided information to, and it had served him well.

"Whilst I'm here recovering you have to continue the work. We must not falter or let these criminals slow us down. We continue to take a hard line on insurgents and step up the fight to eliminate them. I will not rest until every single one of them has been rooted out from their rat holes." He paused for a moment, lost in thought. "We need to move quickly to replace Griffiths. Any perception by the insurgents that the PIA or Secret Service is suffering a power vacuum could be seized upon. His death was tragic but I cannot help thinking that he was the author of his own misfortune. The problem with Mr. Griffiths is that he had a higher opinion of his status than he was entitled to."

Chamberlain nodded silently. Griffiths had been a key player in planning the logistics for the train assault. He was convinced Pelham had ordered Griffiths to be killed. Even from his hospital bed he wielded plenty of power, but just how much did he know of the plot and what were his sources? Chamberlain knew he would have to watch his back. He could no longer afford the foolish sojourns he made the previous night. The mysterious enforcer who accosted him could easily have been working for Pelham. He had been exposed. He had to ensure not to let his guard slip.

Pelham continued. "Killing Griffiths and nearly killing me sends the wrong message. It gives the insurgents hope. We need to appoint Harding in his place. He can coordinate our military. It may be an interim measure but his reputation speaks for itself. He's the type of figure we need right now. We continue with even greater intensity than before."

Chamberlain considered this instruction. The Chief of the Defence Staff, Sir Terence Harding, led the Operational High Command, comprising the Army, Navy and Royal Air Force. His thirty years of Army field experience and ultra-Conservative views made him the obvious choice, with a significant caveat. "Lawrence, I'm concerned that this would result in too much military power concentrated in the hands of one person. Controlling the PIA and the State Secret Police as well as the High Command could leave us vulnerable."

"Nonsense," snorted Pelham derisively. "Harding is totally loyal. He is the type of strong character we need to keep our service personnel in line."

Pelham's tone left no room for debate. Chamberlain had to agree that Harding had been one of the most loyal servants to the regime. He was ruthless, with a heart of stone, and probably the right person to lead the continuing fight against the insurgents. However, Chamberlain needed to be wary to ensure that Harding's promotion did not encourage him to be too ambitious. "Lawrence, I know that Harding is committed to eliminating all opposition, but we cannot be certain how loyal the PIA forces will be to him. Griffiths commanded the respect of the men because of his origins as a member of FREE. Many of the PIA members will remember their skirmishes with the Army when FREE first demonstrated actively nearly ten years ago, and the new Labour government at the time deployed the Army against them. Many of them will remember Harding very well, and not with any affection. We need to try and calm things down for now."

Pelham shifted in his bed, pulling at a catheter inserted into his arm. He cursed silently at the sudden sharp pain. "How do you propose we do that?" he challenged.

Chamberlain took a deep breath. "Lawrence, we cannot execute Harry Clarke," Chamberlain said.

The Prime Minister glared fiercely at his Deputy. "Why the hell not?"

"Lawrence, the situation is too volatile. If Clarke is turned into a martyr it will have huge repercussions. The insurgents will fight even harder, and it's not certain that all the military forces under Harding's control could stop them, especially as so many of them have not been paid for a while. Clarke has popular support, and even our supporters have some degree of sympathy for his plight. If we put him to death we risk losing the support of the people who put us into power in the first place. Once there is dissent in our own ranks, our whole framework will start to crack."

"Then we use Harding's forces to crush any dissension more ruthlessly than before," replied Pelham bluntly. "Anyone that opposes our will, whether they are supporters or otherwise, are eliminated."

"It's not as simple as that," protested Chamberlain. "The United Nations are waiting in the wings. Any further escalation in hostilities and they will not hesitate to send a peacekeeping unit across the Channel. You execute Harry Clarke and they will invade us."

Pelham's face turned a deeper shade of pink and the electrocardiograph beeped quicker at his elevated heartbeat. "You tell Emosi," he began morosely, "that if his forces take one step on our shores, I will release the camp plague across Europe. He is far too weak. He will back down if we threaten him."

Chamberlain could not help but raise his voice. "Lawrence, listen to yourself," he began. "This is the most volatile period we have faced whilst in power. This is a time for tact and diplomacy. We are facing an enemy not just on our shores but overseas. We have been ostracized by the world community. The sanctions are killing us. We need to negotiate or we face a rebellion from within as well as action by the UN. It's time for an olive branch or we will eventually be forced to relinquish power."

Pelham coughed and spluttered and gulped some water. The electrocardiograph was beeping wildly. "I never thought I would say this Giles, but you've lost your nerve," he rasped, wishing to shout but unable to. "You tell me to listen to myself. I demand the same of you. I agree we are at a critical stage, but if we are to see through the five-year plan that you were an instrumental part of creating, then now is not the time for foolish concessions. Now is the time to demonstrate our strength, to show the world that we will not be stopped."

He slammed the empty glass down with as much force as his weakened body could muster, and glared at Chamberlain with undisguised contempt. "Maybe I made a tactical error in appointing you as my Deputy, Giles. I thought you had the stomach for a fight. Surely you didn't believe our plan would be easy to implement did you? I expected more from you than to cave in at the first sign of pressure."

There was a polite tapping on the door. A nurse peeped her head in with a concerned look on her face. "Is everything alright?" she said meekly. "I heard a commotion."

Pelham turned to her with a face like thunder. "Get out," he rasped loudly.

The nurse quickly pulled back and closed the door.

"I see you haven't lost your form Lawrence. Still terrorizing the staff around you," said Giles, trying to inject humour into a tense situation.

"Yes and don't you forget it. Do not undermine me Giles. You know what happens if anyone stands in my way," he said ominously, eyes burrowing into his Deputy. "I may be in a hospital bed but my influence is undiminished." Pelham picked up his tablet as if to emphasize the point. "You follow my instructions to the letter or I will know about it. Clarke's execution goes ahead. It will send a message to those dissidents who think they can beat us. They will end up in a noose or firing squad. And remember to tell Emosi what is waiting for him if he tries to meddle in our affairs. Now, leave me in peace." Pelham turned away and began tapping at his tablet in a dismissive gesture.

Chamberlain, knowing that he was excused, hastened out of the room, his thoughts whirling. The attack on the Prime Minister had left him more entrenched in his approach than ever. Pelham was mired in his own paranoia, and Chamberlain feared for his sanity. He was still a strong a leader, able to bully and manipulate at will, but he had clearly lost the ability to rationalize. He failed to see the bigger picture and his approach could spell disaster for the country. From the day he had taken office Pelham had been drunk with power. Whilst Pelham and Chamberlain agreed on the ultimate objective of the five-year plan, their approach to achieving it had always been radically different, resulting in conflict. Although there was mutual dislike, there had always been a healthy respect that had gelled them together and supported their tenure.

That trust had been eroded with the discovery of Pelham's subterfuge, typified by his relationship with the corporate sponsors. Even they had lost faith in him. As he stepped into his town car to be driven back to Parliament, he considered his options. The sponsors were Pelham's power base, and he had a great opportunity to get them on his side. To do so would not be easy, and it would also mean openly defying the Prime Minister. He reflected on what had happened to Griffiths and convinced himself that his demise was no coincidence, coming so soon after the attack on Pelham. How much did the P.M. know? He might already have Chamberlain in his cross-hairs. The man was paranoid and his threats were never empty.

One thing he was certain of, however. He considered himself a patriot, and he knew what he had to do. Carrying it out, however, would prove extremely dangerous.

## CHAPTER 31

The Palace of Nations, completed in 1938, is one of the most architecturally impressive buildings in Geneva. Originally built for the League of Nations, it has been home to the United Nations in Europe since 1946. Its complex array of white stone buildings built in the classic style constitutes the second-largest building complex in Europe, after Versailles. The complex is over six hundred metres long and houses nearly three thousand offices. Located in Ariana Park, the building overlooks Lake Geneva and on clear days the view of the Swiss Alps is stunning.

Not today, thought Kobie Emosi, the UN Secretary-General. Threatening grey clouds had rolled in off the lake and sat over the building complex like a dirty, soiled cloak, and a deep rumble of distant thunder suggested the possibility of more snow flurries. The ground was white and the air crisp, but Emosi was glad to be inside the cavernous, brightly lit interior of the UN Security Council Chamber.

The United Nations Security Council, as one of the principal organs of the UN, was charged with maintaining international peace and security. It could issue international sanctions and authorize military action through Council resolutions. It usually met at its administrative headquarters in New York, but had recently met in Geneva. This was because of the proximity of one of its most pressing problems, the British crisis. The UN Security Council had spent much time observing and debating the humanitarian and political crisis unfolding in Britain in recent weeks. Ironically, prior to its expulsion last year, the United Kingdom had been one of its five permanent members, along with Russia, China, France and the United States. The Council also had ten non-permanent members elected on a regional basis.

Kobie Emosi considered himself to have one of the most stressful jobs in the world. Like his hero Kofi Annan, Emosi rose to the position of 'world moderator' (as Eisenhower described it) from Ghana, but with a vastly different background to Annan's aristocratic upbringing. Emosi was raised on a small farm but quickly showed huge academic potential. His family raised just enough to send him to university where he gained a first class honours degree in applied health sciences. A posting with the World Health Organization quickly followed. His intellect, tact and diplomacy from a young age had served him well in the often fractious world of international politics.

His hair was now nearly white, but his features remained strong and youthful. Emosi's tall frame remained lean and wiry, conditioned to many long childhood days outside on his parent's farm. He was a trendsetter too. His white goatee had been copied all over the world by young and old alike, particularly in Asia and Africa. After being named Time Magazine's 'Person of the Year' two years ago he had assumed the mantle of a world elder statesman. As a result he recognized a deep responsibility as a peacemaker in a troubled world. Today, he felt like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The task of peacemaker was like an impossible goal. During the first quarter of this century, the world had experienced more upheaval and conflict than at any time in the history of mankind. There were so many problems clamouring for the attention of the United Nations that its resources were stretched too far. The situation in the Middle East and particularly Syria, which had created the largest refugee crisis in history; the continuing rise of Islamic fundamentalism, its twisted jihadist indoctrination fuelled by social discontent, able to spread its perverse message across the world through social media; the ongoing tensions between the nuclear superpowers, China, the United States and Russia, often at loggerheads over how to treat renegade States such as North Korea and Somalia. This in itself made the debates difficult, because of their status as permanent members of the Security Council.

It was not just a difference in political and religious ideologies that created the conflict. In his own continent one of the greatest threats was climate change caused by mankind's greed and pillaging of the planet's precious resources. More people than ever in the continent had little or no access to clean, fresh water, resulting in the insidious spread of disease. He predicted that water would become far more valuable than the diamond mines that caused so much strife and misery in Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. This was particularly so as the population continued to climb steadily, mainly in the developing world.

As politicians like himself tried to navigate this treacherous minefield of conflicting interests, the rise of social media had created unprecedented pressures on them. Every move or comment he made was scrutinized by the social media platforms, tweeted and Instagrammed and dissected through critical, sarcastic and biting comment. It was the price of democracy and of technology.

Despite these pressures, he yearned to be re-elected when his tenure soon expired. The U.K. problem had thoroughly tested his resolve, however, primarily because of its unique nature. As a highly developed industrialized nation, it had traditionally been part of a western-style democracy. None of the control issues that plagued developing nations and those with a history of autocratic regimes had applied to Britain, and indeed most European countries in living memory. Yes, Great Britain had suffered greatly during the Great Recession of 2018-2020, accelerated by 'Brexit,' their acrimonious divorce from the European Union, but so had most countries worldwide. Despite severe austerity measures at the height of the recession, it still retained the ability to feed its people. An extreme right-wing Conservative Party that humiliated the incumbent Labour government at the polls as it swept to power had quickly established an oppressive dictatorship.

The regime led by Pelham had proved completely intransigent to UN pressure. The crippling sanctions and trade embargoes must have decimated the country. It was difficult to get accurate reports from the country's State controlled networks. Yet the UN had been accused of trying to starve the country into submission, hurting the very people it was trying to help. On the other hand they administered food aid drops. These missions were fraught with danger, carried out clandestinely under cover of darkness, at risk of being intercepted by British air forces.

Emosi had tried to engage in dialogue with Pelham but he had rebuffed all of his overtures, refusing all dialogue until all sanctions had been lifted. It had led to a diplomatic stand-off in which neither side was prepared to back down. Throughout these tense negotiations, Emosi was constantly criticized in the social media for his failure to act as the humanitarian crisis unfolded. He did not want his first and possibly last term as SG to be defined for him standing by as the worst genocide since World War II - eclipsing Rwanda and Serbia – was perpetrated on his doorstep.

Dispatching a peacekeeping force was the only reasonable option but Pelham had advised that any incursion on British shores would be considered an act of War. The problem for Emosi was that Britain still had one of the strongest military forces in the world. They would prove a formidable adversary. The last thing the world needed was for the UN to be dragged into a bloody war, costly in terms of resources and lives, with no guarantee of a quick resolution.

Emosi had spent many sleepless nights pondering this problem, but the events of the last few days had potentially forced his hand. They had stood by too long, and they had to act now. As he took his seat at the front of the large chamber, the clamour from the various representatives of the member states died down. The large room had two areas. The immediate area was a large ring-shaped table around which sat the designated representatives of the fifteen Member States. It looked like a huge wedding ring, but allowed all the representatives to see each other. The remainder of the room was set up like an amphitheatre, consisting of their assistants, interpreters, clerks and carefully selected journalists. The rows of curving desks reminded Emosi of the many boring lectures he attended as an undergraduate. He was now the lecturer sitting in the hot seat, and this evening's session was anything but boring. He cleared his throat as he adjusted the microphone at his desk. Whatever they decided today would have huge repercussions, not just for Britain, but for the credibility of the United Nations. The wrong decision today could signal the beginning of the end for this international body. The world was watching and waiting expectantly.

## CHAPTER 32

The Presidency of the UN Security Council is held by each of the members in turn for one month, following the alphabetical order of the Member States names. It was customary for the incumbent President to set the agenda and open the debate. Following this long established tradition, the Angolan representative Mr. Paquete called the meeting to order at seven-thirty. He explained in perfectly enunciated English the purpose of the meeting and the adoption of the agenda.

"This meeting," he began, "is to consider the report of the Secretary-General on the threat to international peace and security posed by the renegade State of Great Britain; and the range of options available to the United Nations in countering this threat. In accordance with Rule 39 of the Council's Rules of Procedure, I invite our esteemed Secretary-General Mr. Kobie Emosi to address the meeting. I now give the floor to Mr. Emosi."

Emosi looked over the assembled throng. It was his time. "Thank you, Mr. President for this opportunity to brief the Security Council on my second report to the Council on this matter; this report on the totalitarian dictatorship of Great Britain is submitted pursuant to UN Security Council Resolution 2835 passed in October last year. You may recall the Council unanimously adopted a range of sanctions and made every effort to seek and engage in constructive dialogue with the ruling Party to find a diplomatic solution.

"Paragraph 83 of the resolution requests the Secretary-General to provide an initial strategic level report that demonstrates and reflects the gravity of the threat posed by Britain. In response to this I deployed a technical field assessment. The assessment mission analyzes and assesses the overall security, political, military, humanitarian and human rights situation on the ground, and the implications of undertaking a field operation. Based on the findings of this assessment mission, I have made a number of recommendations in my report. Esteemed members, this report was provided to you prior to this meeting and is on your tablets. I do not propose to go through the report in detail, but wish to highlight some key points."

Emosi paused and carefully studied the expressions on the faces of these high-ranking diplomats from around the planet.

"The emergence of this new totalitarian regime creates a significant threat to the security and stability of the region. It has divided the European Union on how to handle the issue. Journalists have coined the phrase the 'British crisis' but it is much more than that. We have evidence that the regime has committed appalling human rights abuses. This includes the systematic imprisonment of citizens deemed to be immigrants under a spurious law passed last year with the direct goal of identifying and targeting people whose origin lay outside of the country. This medieval law is in direct contravention of the UN resolution on the equal treatment and non-discrimination of overseas settlers.

"Furthermore, the terrible conditions that these people have been forced to endure has drawn comparisons with the Middle East refugee problem. The internees have suffered poor shelter, lack of decent food and clean water and many have been forced into slave labour. This includes women, children and the elderly. Disease is rife in the camps and the mortality rate is as high as any of the Syrian refugee camps from the last decade.

"Of even greater concern, and fully highlighted in my report, is the cruel treatment and ultimate extermination of these camp dwellers. Families have been torn apart and transported by cargo train and cattle trucks to ports across the country on the pretence that they were being deported by sea. We know that those boats never arrived at any overseas port. Our fears that families were being systematically exterminated first surfaced when we viewed the video made by the underground resistance group and fronted by Harry Clarke. The veracity of the shocking footage in his video could not be proved. As I said, no boats have ever made it to overseas ports and the conclusion drawn in my report is that those taken from the camps have been killed. This makes it the worst case of genocide in over eighty years."

There was little reaction from around the table. They had read his report, hastily prepared for the meeting over the last couple of days. The envoy for Cambodia pressed his fingers into his bony forehead and closed his eyes. His country knew all too well the devastating impact of a government at war with its own people.

Emosi continued. "As with many renegade States in the past, obtaining a complete picture is often very difficult. Even those few that have escaped Britain are unable to fully describe conditions inside the country. This is primarily due to the State taking direct control of all media and social media outlets. The flow of information has been strictly controlled and as a result the data flowing from the country has been spasmodic and unreliable. Most of it is propaganda perpetrated by the ruling military and of very little probative value. I have made several overtures to the Prime Minister to allow us to install a non-military monitoring unit in the country. These and other concessions have been rejected outright by Mr. Pelham. His government is not prepared to come to the negotiating table. Their failure to engage in any form of dialogue also makes it difficult to obtain reliable information.

"What we do know is that the Prime Minister rules by force, using a combination of military and paramilitary forces supported by Secret Police who have rounded up alleged dissidents, most of whom have simply disappeared. There is, however, one dissident who was too high profile to simply disappear." He paused for effect and scanned the delegates around the large table.

"I have mentioned him before. Harry Clarke is in many ways a symbol of the continuing insurgency against Mr. Pelham's regime. He has recently been tried, convicted and sentenced to death by a military court. Our intelligence suggests that his execution is imminent. Our assessment is that despite the vast military resources at his disposal, Prime Minister Pelham has failed to quell the insurgency. Mr. Clarke's martyrdom would likely lead to a violent reaction and an escalation in the ethnic and civil conflict, leading to countless more deaths of innocent people. I strongly believe that we, the United Nations, cannot idly stand by and let that happen.

"There is one more element that I fervently hope will persuade you to stand with me on this issue. I would like to introduce you to Eleanor Beaufort, who until recently was a Cabinet Minister in Mr. Pelham's government."

A murmur rippled through the assembly of representatives around the table, and Emosi could see journalists tapping at their tablets further back in the amphitheatre section of the vast chamber. "I have invited Ms. Beaufort to provide the Security Council with direct testimony. Ms. Beaufort if you would be so kind as to address the Security Council."

Eleanor Beaufort looked nervously around the table of international dignitaries. Her left arm was in a cast and rested limply on the polished surface. She had no notes to prompt her but she did not need it. "Mr. Secretary-General I thank you. Dignified members of the Security Council I am most grateful for the opportunity to address this forum. To my eternal shame I served as recently as last week as a senior Member of the British government. My role within the Cabinet was as Secretary of State for Health. As part of Mr. Pelham's inner sanctum, it would be natural to believe that we were fully aware of every act that the Government perpetrated. I want to assure the Council that this simply was not the case. I am not saying that I, or other members of the Cabinet are not culpable. I – we - were guilty of burying our heads in the sand, lacking the courage or conviction to stand up to Mr. Pelham. We did not want to believe it was really happening. We did not wish to endure the same fate as several colleagues who had challenged the Prime Minister and chose to ignore the facts in front of us. It was the easier option."

She paused momentarily. "We were utterly wrong and acted like cowards. As Secretary of State for Health I became aware of certain facts about anthracis hemorrhagic fever, the so-called 'Camp Plague.' Despite the claims made in the video by Harry Clarke, we never truly believed that the disease was artificially created. As much as we expressed concern over the direction the country was headed, none of the Cabinet truly believed that our own leaders could perpetrate such an atrocity.

"I was permitted to visit the research facility where the Prime Minister assured me that the biochemists were working around the clock to find a vaccine for the camp plague. I believe it was a carefully staged illusion. I was able to smuggle what I now know to be a sample of the disease. This was passed to UN scientists in Paris to work at finding a cure. It became apparent that the research facility I visited was not involved in fighting the disease, as I was led to believe. It was where the disease originated."

Emosi stepped in to explain. "The vial that Ms. Beaufort smuggled out of Britain has been fully analyzed by our own pathogen control research team. It is a highly complex compound of bacterial pathogens. The disease is highly sophisticated and robust, able to survive in the very harsh environments that we have subjected it to in our laboratories. It is strong and virulent but the genetic patterns of the pathogen prove conclusively that this disease is synthetic – man-made. May I respectfully remind the Members that this Council voted not to proceed with military action at its last meeting. If the view of the Council has changed then that will be reflected in the vote. I need hardly remind you that under Article 27 of the UN Charter, Security Council decisions on all substantive matters require the affirmative votes of nine members. A negative vote or "veto" by a permanent member prevents adoption of a proposal, even if it has received the required votes."

Beaufort continued, describing in more detail how she had been stonewalled by her own government in trying to find further information about the disease and conditions at the deportation camps. She described how she was refused access to the camps to assess the situation for herself, being forced to rely on the tainted reports of the Health Protection Agency for her information. She also described the climate of fear that radiated at the heart of government, perpetuated by Pelham, who held complete authority not just over the executive branch of government, but also the legislature and the judiciary. It meant that he had unfettered control over Parliament, able to create and pass laws and enforce them through the courts.

"Mr. Pelham is in my opinion, almost universally loathed, but he has ensured loyalty in key power positions, especially in the military. To really challenge him requires a degree of collaboration. This is in itself difficult because he has created such a climate of fear and mistrust, not just among the Party faithful, but also among ordinary people. He has encouraged spies and informants; his regime relies on them. Even family members are not immune. He has encouraged people to snoop on their neighbours and even their friends and families, with the promise of reward for apprehending an insurgent. He has made it impossible to trust anyone, and this makes organized opposition very difficult to muster."

Beaufort continued. "There is opposition of course. I was there when they tried to assassinate him." She motioned to her damaged left arm.

"Who are _they?_ " asked Mr. Paquete.

"I cannot say precisely. Much of that information was kept from us. Pelham wanted us to believe that the only opposition was a minority of left-wing zealots opposed to real progress. He insisted that they represented no threat and that the security services had complete control. It was part of his propaganda machine. I believe that the level of organized opposition is much greater than he would have us believe. Two assassination attempts in less than a year suggest that they are a real and present danger. They came very close last time. I count myself lucky to be alive." She paused, sipping at a glass of water as she vividly recalled that recent trauma.

"When I was smuggled out of the country I came across some of those people who were part of the resistance movement against Pelham. They are passionate and defiant and they will never give up the fight. They are not anarchists or terrorists or any other label that Pelham would like to pin on them. The people I met are ordinary people who have lost families, friends and loved ones. They have been forced to fight for their very survival. Many have weapons and they are a determined group. Pelham's forces will continue to find them difficult to suppress. You only have to look at the disturbances in towns across the country to see the real strength of feeling against Pelham. There is a covert civil war being fought across the nation. Resistance fighters are hitting targets and being forced into hiding again to plan the next surprise attack. The imposition of martial law has forced them underground. I believe that he has few real supporters among the British public. He remains there not because of popular support, but because of the military power he has amassed."

"Mr. Emosi made me aware that Giles Chamberlain called him to negotiate terms that would avoid a peacekeeping force being deployed in Britain. I understand that Mr. Pelham is still hospitalized after the recent attack. It doesn't surprise me that the Deputy is looking to profit from the situation. My advice to esteemed Members of this Council is that whatever overtures Mr. Chamberlain has made should he assume control, he cannot be trusted. Mr. Chamberlain has stood shoulder to shoulder with Pelham in perpetrating the worst atrocities. In my opinion he does not represent anything other than more of the same."

Mr. Gonzalez hit his buzzer. "So what are you proposing to the Council?"

Beaufort paused and her eyes swept across the group of delegates around the table. "There is no doubt in my mind. The situation has deteriorated to such an extent that there is only one option. I urge this Council to take action now. You absolutely must vote to invade Britain. The people need you. If you don't there will be blood on your hands."

A buzz of chatter passed around the circle. Kobie Emosi stood up, his tall, athletic presence more imposing than ever. "Members of this Council, the eye witness evidence presented by Ms. Beaufort is irrefutable. It is urgent that we send a peacekeeping force to Great Britain immediately. I believe that we have procrastinated for too long. If Harry Clarke is executed and the country slides into an all-out civil war before we intervene, our forces will land in a quagmire. It will be impossible to stabilize the country. Any further delay will be catastrophic."

## CHAPTER 33

"Prisoner Clarke. Get up! Now!"

Harry stirred from his half-sleep as the grating bark of the prison guard invaded his brain. He staggered out of his metal cot as three beefy guards poured into his cell and hauled him to his feet. It was still dark, and he squinted at the harsh flashlight that flickered over his face. The commotion woke several occupants from nearby cells and soon a baying sound reverberated through the block as prisoners became aware of what was about to happen. Some began banging on the metal door and the noise gradually rose to a crescendo as Harry was handcuffed and pulled from his cell. Still not quite sentient, he put up little resistance, but a rising panic gripped him as his awareness kicked in. He vaguely thought that, contrary to when Maxwell was taken, he did not see a priest. Was this it?

His panic quickly subsided and he felt strangely numb as they pushed and jostled him out of the cell block. He knew it was coming and his mind seemed to calmly accept the situation, as if it was a detached observer looking in. Harry allowed himself to be propelled forward. The heavy iron door to the cell block clanged shut, cutting off the baying sounds. He was in a long corridor, and as Harry and the guards moved forward, harsh fluorescent lights overhead switched on automatically. The harsh yellow light hurt his eyes and the buzzing sound from the lights rattled around his brain. As he woke fully, his senses were keener and the handcuffs rubbed painfully against his wrists. The guards either side had a vice-like grip on his arms and there was no conceivable possibility of escape. They exited through several more heavily barricaded doors down a seemingly endless concrete corridor before they arrived at another door with a small window. He guessed that behind that window was the prison yard. It was still dark as they headed toward the door.

To his surprise, however, they did not reach the door. They bundled him through a side door into a small utilitarian room with pitted walls. The room was painted the same dark grey as the heavy rain clouds that often descended on the city, clearly designed to look as sombre and depressing as possible. A guard released his handcuffs and seated him on the metal chair. It was the only furniture in the Spartan room, other than a small desk and curiously enough a telephone. It was an ancient black land-line telephone, with a receiver and push buttons. It belonged in a museum, thought Harry, but as the guards exited the room one of them said, "When it rings answer it."

He was suddenly alone in the windowless room. He heard a lock turn, but at least he was able to move around freely. The small room was like a football field compared to his tiny cell. He peered at the phone curiously. Its sudden, strident ring startled him and he grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Prisoner Harry Clarke I presume?" said a tinny voice on the other end.

"Who is this?"

"I'm assuming you don't wish to die, so I have a proposal for you. I can prevent that happening." The voice carried an authority that suggested to Harry he could do just that.

"What proposal?"

"Harry, I'm disappointed you don't recognize my voice, but then I gather they only have an ancient museum piece for a phone in the death row block. Still it's been a while since our rendezvous at Parliament."

"Giles Chamberlain!" spat Harry, his anger rising at the mention of his name.

"Well done Harry. I see that prison life hasn't affected your memory," replied Chamberlain in an amused tone.

"What the hell do you want?" Harry snarled.

Chamberlain turned more serious. "It's not what I want Harry. It's what you _don't_ want. I understand that the courts no longer set an execution date for death row prisoners. There is too much risk of protests and appeals and tiresome last-minute petitions for clemency. They leave it to the prison authorities. This means that one morning you will be dragged from your cell and executed before anyone even becomes aware. Just imagine going to sleep every night wondering if the next time you are woken it is by prison guards dragging you to the execution yard. I'm quite certain that you probably don't even sleep at all, jumping out of your skin at every movement or noise in the cell block. I can spare you from all of that."

"I'm sure you will have that feeling someday if there is any justice in the world."

Chamberlain gave a short, bitter laugh. "Harry, there isn't as you well know. You're a political pawn, a way of applying pressure. That does not mean you won't be executed. It is Pelham's stated intention to have you executed and sooner rather than later. It seems....somewhat personal to me."

"So if I'm going to die why are we even talking?"

"Because I can spare you from being executed."

Harry could not hide the scepticism from his voice. "If Pelham is determined to murder me, what power do you possibly have to stop him?"

"Times are changing Harry. A changing of the guard if you will. Pelham has been weakened by the recent attack. He is more vulnerable than at any time during his leadership. His support is dwindling. The paramilitary forces that prop him up are tired of not receiving their wages and barely having enough to eat.

The only reason he is still in power is that no-one in his inner circle is prepared to challenge him. The first person who does will prompt a flood of challengers, and eventually his whole regime will fall like a house of cards. The next attack on Pelham may be successful. He cannot afford to let his guard down for a second."

"Neither can you," Harry retorted.

"That may be true," conceded Chamberlain. "But I am pragmatic enough to know when our time is nearing an end. Pelham is obsessed with retaining power at any cost, no matter what the damage to the country or to his grand vision. I can take Britain forward in a new direction. I represent a better way."

Harry gave a bitter laugh. "Even if that were true, why are you preaching to me? According to you I could be dead in twenty-four hours."

"Indeed you could," agreed Chamberlain. "That's why you need to listen carefully. The international community is sick of Pelham as well. The UN forces are on the ground and headed to London. I have the power to release you, but there are conditions. I'm assuming you don't want to die?"

"What conditions?"

"You may not realize quite how influential you are Harry. Despite the news and social media restrictions, your trial and verdict was worldwide news. It has provoked unprecedented condemnation. You're a symbol of the tyranny that Pelham has unleashed on the country."

"He didn't do that on his own Chamberlain. You were right there by his side. You're as culpable as him."

"This isn't about me. My point is that I have the power to have you released. I can save you from the firing squad, and in doing so you can help me topple Pelham. Isn't that what you want?"

"Why would I fight against one murderer just to join another?" Harry snapped.

Chamberlain could not disguise the irritation in his voice. "I'm not a murderer Harry. According to the military courts, that label belongs to you. Think carefully Harry. This offer expires when we stop talking."

"You may not have pulled the trigger personally, but your hands are awash with blood. Every bullet and every camp death bears the stamp of your regime."

"You're not listening to me Harry!" snapped the Deputy angrily. He tried another approach. "Your son is suffering Harry. He needs you. Don't you want to see him again?"

"If you ever touch my son I will kill you!" Harry blurted.

Chamberlain regained his composure. "I can see I've touched a nerve. You shouldn't make threats you cannot possibly deliver on. You'll be dead and the fate of your son will be in God's hands, or better still, in mine. Remember that."

Harry breathed hard just to avoid smashing up the phone. "I want to see him."

"You will have the opportunity. If I can I will even have him released, but not until we defeat Pelham and I am in power. You endorse me on social media and support my negotiations with the UN. I will even allow you to release some more propaganda videos, in support of me of course. When I'm in power you will be reunited with Byron, but not before then. I need you to focus on the task before us. There will be lots to do."

"I don't want to be associated with a war criminal. I will be selling out on everything I have sacrificed."

"For what purpose Harry? You are going to die and the Conservatives will remain in power. You will have achieved nothing, and your son will lose his father just like he lost his mother. Think about it Harry. If you cannot do it for yourself do it for Byron. Surely you owe him that."

Harry was conflicted. A picture of Byron as a five year-old learning to ride his bike popped into his mind. His son was laughing playfully as his little legs peddled hard, the wind tugging at his dark hair as he swept along leafy Victoria Park. Harry and Tamara ran behind him, urging him on. It was one of those special moments the three of them had shared as a family. It was a reminder of happier days, even though at that point their marriage was under strain. He missed Tamara so much, but he missed Byron even more. Harry knew that he would never be able to look the boy in the eye again if he helped Chamberlain. Eventually it would kill him, perhaps more slowly and insidiously than the fate that awaited him in prison, but just as terminal. The boy was brave and he would survive. "I'll take my chances with the UN."

Chamberlain sighed heavily. "You are making the worst mistake of your life, what's left of it. Even if by some chance the UN take control, it will be too late for you. I can't stop your execution, but my conscience is clear. I gave you every chance Harry."

"Your conscience will never be clear!" Harry shouted.

"I really thought you were more astute than that. We could have achieved a lot together. Goodbye Harry."

The line went dead and Harry stared blankly at the old-fashioned receiver. The door opened and the prison guards surrounded him to take him back to his cell. What the hell had he done?

## CHAPTER 34

A cool, fresh breeze ruffled Emosi's thinning hair as leaned on the wooden balcony of the luxurious Geneva apartment in the manicured grounds of the Palace. The day was clear and crisp, and the bright morning sun had already set the white peaks of the French Alps on fire. His thoughts, however, were preoccupied by the furious debate from the night before.

He yawned heavily, still tired from the late night. The Security Council had debated passionately into the early hours. The majority had been swayed by his appeal and the evidence of Eleanor Beaufort. Of the fifteen delegates, they had secured the necessary nine votes in favour. It was the second hurdle, the need to obtain the support of the permanent Members, which had proved the difficulty. The Russian Federation and the People's Republic of China had voted for action without hesitation.

France had wavered, their delegate Pierre Touraine expressing concern over the UN forces operating mainly out of French bases. He was worried how this would affect the long-term relations with its previously active trading partner. He was also anxious about the threat of refugees from across the Channel landing on their shores. The memories of the migrant problem from the Syrian conflict were still fresh in everyone's minds. The irony was that this time they were heading _away_ from the 'promised land' of the United Kingdom, not using Calais and other French ports as a stepping stone to reach it. Under pressure from his peers, Touraine finally relented, assured by promises from Emosi that the tactical deployment of forces from the French mainland would be subject to full consultation with the ruling Socialist government.

That left just the one remaining permanent Member required to vote in favour. Great Britain still had some allies left in the western world, more as result of past association than for any collaboration with the existing regime. The United States previously blocked the proposed deployment of any peacekeeping force. Their delegate Todd Rosenberg had refused to yield, but the representative for Indonesia, the largest Muslim country in the world, loudly reminded Rosenberg that it wasn't his citizens that were suffering.

The American diplomat protested that such an accusation was a gross generalization and the debate became quite heated. The Indonesian delegate taunted Rosenberg concerning the impeachment of a President in the recent past, referring to an administration that political commentators globally had ridiculed as a 'train wreck.' The American had looked ready to overheat as he angrily protested the comments. It threatened to derail the resolution until Emosi intervened. He had seen too many sessions fail amidst a barrage of accusations and mutual antipathy. Eventually the United States had reluctantly relented. Rosenberg voted in favour of the resolution with a caveat. "You damned well better get this right, Mr. Secretary-General," he said in a typically brash manner.

The resolution was passed and Emosi could not help but agonize over the outcome. Already the social media was portraying it as Emosi's decision, as if the Secretary-General himself had declared it unilaterally, without discussion or compromise. He knew where this was headed. If things went badly wrong, the Press would need their scapegoat, and he had been skilfully set up to take the fall. Of course, if the mission was a success, the Press would see it as a UN decision. That was how things were done. It was now out of his control. They had exhausted the diplomatic avenues, and Emosi knew that if military action failed, the clamour for Emosi to fall on his sword would be deafening.

His tablet beeped and his diplomatic envoy within the peacekeeping forces came on the line. The Portuguese diplomat's swarthy face shimmered into view. Dark hair wild and tousled, he shouted over the roar of the choppy waters and billowing wind. Emosi saw behind him the heavy swell of the English Channel, its navy blue waters rising up and down like a roller coaster. It made him feel nauseous just watching it. "Sir, our forces are twenty miles off the coast, headed to Dover. Our second battalion is heading for the south coast by Folkestone. We have yet to be engaged."

"Okay Rúben. Contact me when you land."

Emosi sat on the balcony chair and leaned back heavily. The cool morning air chilled but refreshed him. He had slept badly, thoughts of the rapidly evolving events spinning around his brain, all the possible permutations coalescing in a psychological maelstrom. He thought about the chilling message he received from Giles Chamberlain. The Deputy had pleaded with him not to 'invade' the country. He promised Emosi that things were changing. He was on the verge of succeeding the injured Prime Minister but would need more time to manipulate the political machinery. When he did so, he would be more a more conciliatory and moderate leader. He made overtures to Emosi about working with the United Nations to restore democracy when he became Prime Minister.

Chamberlain also warned Emosi that since the attack on Pelham, the man had become even more dangerous and unstable. He retained the loyalty of the military forces, and while he kept control of these forces, he retained full power. This meant that he would deploy those forces against any incursion. The issue that really sent a shiver down his spine was Chamberlain's next comment. "I met with him this morning at the private hospital. He told me that if the UN step foot on British soil he would release the camp plague across Europe. I truly believe he is insane enough to do it. I'm even more convinced that he is capable of doing so. I've seen what this disease can do. It destroys everything in its path. We have managed to contain it within the deportation camps but if this disease is released into the general population it will spread like wildfire. You will be responsible for the worst pandemic since the H1N1 influenza. Millions of people will die under your watch." He finished with the thought that had rattled through his mind ever since. "Will you be able to live with that on your conscience?"

The thought of the disease which Eleanor Beaufort had described so explicitly in her address to the Security Council had haunted him since their conversation. He had no idea if Pelham's forces could carry out his threat, but how far was he prepared to gamble? He had not informed the Security Council of the threat. He feared that to do would persuade them to stand down when urgent direct action was needed. The irony was that the vote had still been close and only his impassioned plea had persuaded the U.S. delegate to vote in favour of military action. They had agreed to hold back the air forces, but a battalion of fighter jets capable of hitting strategic targets was stationed at Vélizy–Villacoublay Air Base southwest of Paris, on standby should the situation escalate. Emosi had oversight and ultimate accountability if peacekeeping efforts failed, but it was his responsibility alone if Pelham carried out his threat to release the disease.

A team of specialists in bio-terrorism were working in the quarantined laboratory in Paris where Beaufort had surrendered the vial. It was remarkable that she had smuggled the small metal cylinder across the Channel to France. Had she known its true contents, she would probably have dropped it like a scalding hotplate.

The vial had contained a live sample of the bacteriological pathogen and the team were working around the clock to find some form of vaccination against it. They had informed Emosi just how virulent the pathogen was. Although the pathogen was not airborne, it would have to be ingested or transmitted through bodily fluids, it had the potential to turn into an epidemic if its infection rate reached critical mass. Emosi had pressed them to calculate what that critical mass would be, but the message was clear. If released into the general population, it would spread quickly and just as Chamberlain had promised, countless lives would be lost. The Deputy's threat was not an idle one.

The thought of Pelham releasing the pathogen terrified him. It also added another dimension to the problems facing the UN peacekeeping forces on their way to the country. They would have to screen any refugees for signs of the disease, and this would be a huge logistical exercise. Their intelligence suggested that it had been confined to the deportation camps, but could they truly rely on that information? The pathogen had to be contained within mainland Great Britain, and that would involve some difficult choices.

Perhaps, he lamented, the Press would be right to make him the scapegoat this time, but if this operation went wrong, that would be the least of his problems.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 9

Thirty-six hours have passed since the first detachment of the UN humanitarian relief operation landed on the south coast of Britain. Their arrival was of little surprise, and they were closely followed by a flotilla of boats hired by journalists from the world's media. The bigger surprise was that they were not immediately engaged when they entered British waters. The strength of the British Army and Navy is well documented, and estimates suggest that military forces under Prime Minister Pelham's control have increased by half.

However, the relative peace of entry onto the mainland was only a temporary respite. The UN army, in their distinctive blue helmets and green camouflage uniforms, amassed on the beaches at Dover and Folkestone with a diverse array of armoured vehicles. They drove onto the sands from vehicle carriers that pitched onto the surf. It was a difficult logistical operation but UN forces were mobilized quickly and efficiently, under its rapid reaction protocol. The welcoming party soon arrived in the shape of British soldiers patrolling the two port towns, but they were no match for the highly trained UN battalion. The soldiers put up a token resistance, with a number of shots fired, but the incursion was able to move forward with zero casualties.

Included within the UN task force are a number of investigators looking for evidence of war crimes. Initial reports suggest they found evidence of atrocities in the port area, but the UN media spokesman was reticent in providing further details. There are unsubstantiated reports that a container ferry loaded with corpses was found moored in the harbour. As UN troops move further inland, the commanders leading the incursion have no idea what they will find. UN personnel have been briefed to expect conditions that will test their psychological well-being. The initial phase is to make conditions relatively safe for the next wave of UN personnel. The second wave will include emergency medics, trauma counsellors, logistical support staff and technology experts. Most importantly, it will also include specialists from the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, flown in from its base in Stockholm; and a team from the bio-tech facility located in the anti-terrorism unit outside Paris. UN forces have been instructed not to engage any deportation camps until these personnel are in place to enter the camps alongside the soldiers.

The UN is seeking to discover and collect evidence of war crimes, which leaves them with an inevitable conflict. It is difficult to carry out this function and simultaneously liberate the country. That inevitably means many of the perpetrators will never be brought to justice. The UN has rarely been welcomed as liberators. They potentially face a hostile enemy not just from government forces but also from independent factions, many of which are apparently well armed.

Some of these independent factions are not rebels fighting a common enemy. Many of them may actually support the government. Intelligence briefings provided to the UN Operations Team have warned that there are likely to be a number of splinter groups sympathetic to government policy. These groups, originating from the nationalist and ultra-right-wing parties that were gaining traction as the Labour government wilted, have allegedly taken control of large inner city areas in major conurbations. They have embarked on their own reign of terror against opposing ethnic groups. When UN troops engage armed groups, they have no way of knowing if these groups will extend a welcome hand or a rocket propelled grenade. UN forces have been briefed to expect hostile fire.

The UN convoy consists of troop carriers, utility support vehicles, mine resistant tanks, Humvees and various armoured fighting vehicles. Although it possesses a considerable array of field artillery, this large convoy is highly exposed and liable to ambush from RPG's and anti-tank missiles. Individual soldiers are vulnerable to sniper fire at any time. Although the convoy is heading for London, there is a significant risk that the campaign will descend into a long and drawn-out standoff, the nightmare scenario for the UN Secretary-General wants. He has described the mission as primarily humanitarian, not political, although the restoration of the rule of law is a stated objective. The Secretary-General has labelled the liberation of the heavily vilified deportation camps as the key objective of this campaign.

It is unlikely to be a short mission. Given the breakdown in infrastructure, reaching the furthest parts of Britain could take weeks or even months. The mysterious camp plague exacerbates the problems for the UN. The disease is rampant in the camps and apparently highly infectious. Testing internees for the disease is risky and daunting. The other question is what do they do with the people they liberate? The UN has mooted setting up temporary UN controlled refugee camps, but that has drawn criticism that the UN would be merely moving them from one internment camp to another.

By Saturday evening the convoy had reached Ashford in Kent, encountering only sporadic resistance, where they saw the first evidence of the unrest in British cities. The arrival of UN forces has unleashed a tide of protest previously suppressed by the military. Pitched battles between the protesters and the police lasted throughout the night, as the UN stood on the sidelines. How far is the UN's pragmatism likely to extend in support of the bigger picture? The conduct of the UN is under the microscope.

Further complicating matters is the Harry Clarke verdict and the possibility that he may be executed in a few days. This is likely to unleash a fresh wave of fury that UN forces may be stretched to contain. The mission has all the potential hallmarks of a humiliation for the UN. It is on the face of it a no-win situation for Emosi, whose personal reputation is surely at stake.

## CHAPTER 35

As the UN convoy rumbled along the potholed roads of the British countryside, Rúben Pinto sat in an armoured Humvee peering out of the tiny side window. He was on the most important assignment he had ever carried out. His job was to record and document evidence of atrocities and human rights abuses discovered by UN peacekeeping forces in the United Kingdom. He reported directly to Emosi, who would turn the evidence over to a United Nations investigative panel. That special panel consisted of three judges reporting to the UN Commissioner for Human Rights. The Commissioner in turn would pass that evidence to the war crimes tribunal that would inevitably follow.

It was a bureaucratic process, and it usually took many years for the perpetrators to come to trial. Rúben thought of Radovan Karadžić, the Bosnian Serb politician who was convicted of war crimes, genocide and crimes against humanity over twenty years after they were committed. The trial itself lasted nearly six years. Victims of these brutal regimes rarely saw justice because of the lengthy trial and investigative process. If his political career offered him the opportunity, improving the trial process would be one of his first priorities.

The rain was teeming down, running in rivulets down the window. It made progress slow and arduous on the poor roads. They were just outside Maidstone, where satellite images had indicated that the first deportation camp was situated. They would undoubtedly encounter many more on their journey. The first one, however, was a crucial test of the resistance they were likely to face, and would help to structure future strategies. The soldiers around him were on a state of high alert, scanning the area for any signs of trouble.

Rúben cast his mind back to one of his first missions as diplomatic envoy nearly ten years before, when the UN had entered formerly ISIS held territory in Northern Iraq. One of the biggest threats was when the occupying forces fled. They would often leave the way ahead littered with landmines. Ahead of them was a truck specially adapted with an Aardvark Flail System used to clear these landmines. The System was made of high tensile steel, and fully armoured to withstand a landmine blast, yet the danger remained. The battle tanks and armoured combat vehicles would not survive a direct hit by a landmine. Neither would their occupants. The Humvee he sat in would likely be disintegrated. Rúben and his fellow passengers were well aware of the risk of travelling in the convoy. They were in hostile territory. They only had to consider the events of the night before in Ashford, when they had been ordered to stand down and avoid the rioting. As a politician he knew it was for the greater good, but he also knew that Emosi was probably taking some severe criticism back in Geneva.

It seemed peaceful enough now, but that could change any second. They had a fearsome array of large caliber artillery systems, and the tank sitting behind the Aardvark truck had sophisticated surveillance equipment. It could flush out enemy weapons using thermal imaging technology and infrared from up to a kilometre away. It was a sophisticated form of defence, but Rúben knew well enough that a well-aimed strike from a rocket-propelled grenade could penetrate the toughest hull. The attack would be over in mere seconds. He wondered how many of the soldiers around him actually knew. Any moment your life could be obliterated in the blink of an eye, the only evidence that you existed a gory mess of skin, bone and entrails mixed in with twisted, charred metal. He shook his head to dispel such horrifying thoughts. The Corporal sitting opposite him, a young African lad barely eighteen, looked at him with concern.

"Everything okay Mr. Rúben?" the lad enquired.

"Yes, yes fine," he stammered.

The lad smiled, showing an even row of perfect white teeth. "It's okay to be scared sir, but we'll protect you."

The lad spoke as if he were a veteran. If only he knew what Rúben had experienced in previous UN missions, but at least he meant well. Rúben gave a weak smile. "That's good to know."

They were interrupted by the Humvee grinding to a halt, and the soldiers cocked their rifles, ready to spring into action. The unit commander, Captain Taylor, a wiry, rugged looking New Zealander with intense green eyes, ordered his men in a low drawl to be ready. He clambered out of the vehicle, waving his gun in each direction against a surprise attack, and loped forward to the front of the convoy. He was back in less than a minute.

"Checkpoint ahead, but it's been abandoned. Stay alert men. We're getting close to the first camp."

The convoy resumed its slow journey, passing a few abandoned farmhouses, some of them burnt out and derelict. Although the countryside was quiet, everywhere Rúben looked he saw evidence of conflict. Wrecked and smouldering cars littered the roadside, some of them with charred bodies still inside. In the distance, heavy black smoke billowed into the iron-grey sky from a local village. Rúben had seen this type of scene many times. It was indicative of the collapse of the nation's infrastructure. It seemed all the more inexplicable because it was a country that had once been so powerful on the world stage.

They were about ten miles outside Maidstone when the convoy stopped again. The unit commander spoke quietly into the radio mike attached to the lapels of his flak jacket and then turned to his team. "We go on foot from here. Stay low and stay close." Rúben put on his UN beret and adjusted his own jacket as he followed the soldiers out onto the damp, hard ground.

The group spread out and joined the larger group walking either side of the vehicles. Rúben felt they were exposed, but there was little cover except that provided by the UN vehicles. One side of the road had open fields, but the other side was dark forest on ground that sloped steeply upwards. He estimated around one hundred and forty soldiers. Another contingent had arrived in Folkestone and was also making its way to London, and the two groups represented the first wave of occupation. Reinforcements would inevitably follow, when the level of hostile opposition was clearer, but Rúben was concerned their unit would be badly outnumbered in battle.

He hardly had time to complete his thought when a desperate shout came from several soldiers near the front. "Attack two o'clock!" shouted one. Rúben looked up to see a large van engulfed in flames come barrelling down the slope toward the convoy. It went crashing into a Humvee near the front of the line, crushing a number of soldiers. Several others were caught in the inferno and staggered blindly in a ball of flame, their burning limbs flailing in agony. Nearby comrades bravely wrestled them to the ground and rolled them over, beating out the flames until they twitched and lay still, their torso smoking. In the ensuing chaos, the soldiers were vulnerable, caught by surprise, at least for valuable seconds. As they struggled to regroup, a wave of sniper fire rained on the soldiers, taking out several of them and forcing the rest to dive to the ground.

Rúben hit the hard tarmac and rolled just as a bullet tore up the tarmac inches from his head. He scrambled along on his stomach, reaching for the only weapon he had; his smartphone. The soldiers dived for any cover they could find, any thicket or hedge to conceal themselves, as shots rang out. Rúben, crouched on the floor, fingers trembling, began recording the scene on his phone. Members of the Canadian Medical Assistance Team, the designated medics for the mission, jumped out from the safety of the armoured vehicles and rushed to treat the injured. Rúben was impressed by their bravery, tending the injured as bullets flew around them.

"Covering fire!" yelled Taylor at the top of his lungs. The UN squad, despite being scattered by the sniper fire, quickly found its discipline and commenced a systematic round of firing into the woods where the unseen attackers hid. This was quickly followed by a number of grenades tossed into the wooded area. The ground shook with a barrage of percussive explosions. Rúben filmed the trees and soil being ripped up, and bodies hurled through the air by the blast. It was the first sight he had of the enemy. The firing from the trees ceased. The UN squad assembled quickly and continued their volley of shots and grenades into the dark woods. They moved forward as a unit into the woods, ruthlessly hunting their attackers who were now on the defensive. Rúben got up and began to follow them into the woods, but as he raised his phone to film one of the soldiers blocked it with his hand. "No film please."

Rúben was surprised but complied, and merely observed the unit as they swept through the woods, eliminating anyone they found in their way. They soon cleared the area and Rúben saw a few dark figures in the shadowy woods fleeing the UN offensive. Several soldiers pursued the fleeing figures through the woods, firing in short bursts from powerful assault rifles. Rúben saw a number of them drop to the ground.

The unit quickly regrouped around their fallen colleagues, helping the medical teams carry the injured and dead into the mobile infirmary set inside a large UN truck. Taylor addressed them, paying tribute to their fallen comrades and expressing a determination not to sway from the mission but to remain vigilant. He spoke in short, sharp, clipped tones. "We will liberate this country, and we will wipe out any terrorists who stand in our way. These cowardly attacks will never stop us. Today is not over. We move on and we liberate the Maidstone deportation camp. We can only guess at what we may find there. The only thing we can be certain of is that it will not be pleasant. Expect further armed resistance. Remember our fallen comrades this day and do not show any mercy. There will be civilians in the battlefield. Our enemies may choose to hide among them. Be prepared to shoot to kill but be aware..." he glanced over at Rúben. "The world is watching us."

The convoy soon moved on slowly, and within half an hour they had reached their destination. It was not hidden away in some dark surreptitious corner. It was there in huge capital letters and Rúben just had to photograph it. Emblazoned against the darkening grey sky the large metal sign announced their destination – MAIDSTONE DEPORTATION HOLDING FACILITY.

## CHAPTER 36

Outside the stark, high walls of Belmarsh Prison a crowd had already gathered. They could not get too close to those walls because of the imposing steel fence topped with razor wire encircling the perimeter of the huge prison. It circled the outbuildings, including Woolwich Crown Court, forcing the assembly onto the nearby Western Way. Although the rain had relented for now, the skies remained heavy with the threat of a further deluge. The ground was littered with puddles and muddy in parts. Some people had boots and heavy winter coats to stave off the bitter breeze that swirled between the buildings like mini-tornadoes. Many of them held candles, others had cellphones or tablets to use as lights. There were even a few entrepreneurial hawkers selling street food and cheap alcohol.

It reminded Craig Henderson of a stadium rock concert, when the closing ballad was played and the crowd swayed in unison, lighting the dark like fireflies. It was a long time since he had been to a rock concert; in fact it was a long time since he had done anything except lose nearly everything he had. The last ten years had been more a process of survival than actual living.

A small group within the body of the crowd began to gently sing. It sounded to Craig like a mournful hymn, and more voices caught the song. The melancholy refrain spread quickly and soon the whole crowd was humming along, swaying to the rhythm. Craig did not recognize the melody but it sounded like a funeral dirge. It was highly appropriate given the reason they were all assembled here in breach of curfew.

The rumours had been flying that tomorrow morning Harry Clarke would be executed inside the high prison walls. He felt he had to be here, and he had nothing else to do. Clarke and his broadcasts had, for a brief time, represented hope that this totalitarian regime could be overthrown by exposing what they really were. Although their vitriol had been aimed at immigrants, even people like him, an Englishman born and bred, had suffered greatly under this regime. They had been denied basic freedoms, and the sanctions had further devastated an economy that was still recovering from the Great Recession.

Craig had lost his job and at sixty-two, there was little prospect of finding work again. There were no jobs around, and his pension was decimated. He had worked hard all his life, never straying too far from his native East End of London, but the future looked bleak. Clarke had the courage to speak out, while people like Craig had been silenced by the threat of reprisals if they ever tried to challenge the Order Police; or worse still, the paramilitary organizations that had sprung from the nationalist parties he despised so much. One of the weapons the government used to keep the masses compliant was lack of information. Clarke had made the world aware of the scale of Pelham's atrocities, and Craig, like so many others, had been shocked and appalled that a government he had helped to vote in was capable of such action.

He had done little other than try and stay invisible and out of trouble, and hope that others would depose the Conservatives. A few outspoken friends had abruptly disappeared, and his courage had failed him. The guilt of inaction gnawed at him, as if his pacifism had somehow perpetuated this terrible regime. He tried to assuage his guilt by telling himself that he had a disabled wife to consider. Cathy would be lost without him, and this was a society where the weakest did not survive.

Coming here at least felt like he was doing something in order to show solidarity. He had seen and lived through so much turbulence in his six decades. He had lived through numerous recessions, none as hard as the last one; he remembered the miner's protests and the poll tax riots in the eighties. He had been arrested at one demonstration. There had always been threats to society, be it the IRA as a kid back in the seventies, the Communist menace during the Cold War, or the constant terrorist threat posed by Islamic State and affiliated religious extremists. The insidious danger of unprovoked attacks on innocent people designed to create a climate of fear had fuelled the rise of right-wing nationalist movements. They had always been there, throughout the Thatcher, Blair and Cameron years, but had grown exponentially under the feckless Labour government of Wallace Bentley.

Their message had resonated with ordinary people frustrated by the failure of the authorities to counter them. Combined with Labour's mismanagement of the economy, these conditions provided a fertile breeding ground for organizations such as FREE to recruit disaffected youth. The volatile atmosphere and antipathy between disparate groups had created the perfect storm for Pelham to sweep to power. Craig had voted for change and he had got it, only not in the way he had hoped for.

He spotted a few police officers milling around at the edge of the gathering, but surprisingly few. The numbers were swelled by people drifting in, usually on their own or in small groups. Craig even saw families together, despite the imminent curfew. He glanced at his phone. Five minutes to curfew and these people were going nowhere. He locked eyes with a middle-aged man and his young son, no more than ten.

"Good evening," he said politely.

The man acknowledged him and the boy fixed him with an engaging smile, his round face framed by thick black curly hair. The pair reminded Craig of himself and his own son Connor twenty years before. Connor was grown up now and living in Canada. Best place for him, he thought ruefully.

People began unfurling banners that they waved enthusiastically in the air. Placards appeared, bobbing up and down in the throng of people. All of them raged against the injustice of killing Harry or protesting against the totalitarian State. The police officers at the edge of the crowd became more agitated, and Craig spotted a few of them talking in lapel microphones. That was not a good thing. The crowd had stopped singing but there was a buzz of conversation. The air was punctuated by isolated shouts of "Death to Pelham!" "Out with the fascist murderers!"

The air was electric, the tension growing steadily like a living force. Craig had an uncomfortable feeling. He looked over at the man and his son. They were both chanting and punching their fists in the air. More and more people were joining the gathering, and Craig noted that the police presence had increased too. Several of them had riot shields and batons, others carried Tasers. They had not made a move yet but the chanting and singing was growing in intensity. There was a sense of unity and purpose to the crowd as they mourned someone who many regarded as a folk hero. Craig scanned the faces in the crowd, a mixture of sorrow and defiance, some of them downright irate as they shouted and waved their banners.

Craig decided he had had enough. He was not an activist, he had only come to show solidarity, but there was a sense that the passion in the crowd had escalated too far. Surely the police would intervene before long. It was time to go before the situation got out of control. Cathy would be waiting. She had never been able to sleep without him.

He shuffled his way to the edge of the gathering, but to his dismay the police had formed a solid ring around the crowd, cutting off his exit route. He moved back into the crowd and tried a different way out but the result was the same, no chance of escape. He fought to calm his nerves, but his body had tensed rigid. He knew that cold feeling of fear all too well. It reminded him that he was not a courageous man.

In an instant his worst fears were realized. In the gathering darkness, he peered toward the end of the street, yearning to be in the relative safety outside the police cordon. From between the buildings a black wave of soldiers fully dressed in combat gear came charging toward them. Some had riot shields and batons, others held Tasers and rifles. The line of police standing between the soldiers and the crowd quickly stood aside, leaving the gathering unprotected against the onrushing soldiers.

Panic quickly spread through the crowd and the air filled with cries of fear. People stampeded away from the black wave, pushing hard to get past the ring of police. The police cordon held firm, striking randomly at the desperate people to beat them back. A sickening crack of broken bones and cries of terror filled the air. With the police allowing no escape, the soldiers waded into the crowd and began slashing anyone in front of them with batons and beating others with rifles. Craig saw the electric blue flash of Tasers being used, and the air crackled like a thunderstorm. He saw a lad no more than eighteen jerk like a marionette before falling to the ground to be trampled underfoot. In the chaotic, frenzied surroundings Craig desperately tried to push past whirling bodies struggling to avoid blows raining down on them. Through the resounding din he heard a tinny voice through a megaphone. "This is an illegal protest. You are all under arrest!"

It felt to Craig that the police and soldiers were not interested in merely making arrests. People were falling all around him. The ground felt slick and he looked down with horror to see patches of dark liquid slowly flowing along the ground. He desperately tried to remain standing, buffeted by people collapsing to the ground, trying to avoid any black figure close by. He glanced up and spotted the man and his son. The man grasped his hand firmly but the boy was wide-eyed and frightened, unable to comprehend the violence around him. As Craig watched, a black figure grabbed the boy and tore him away from his father. The man struggled with all his might to keep hold of his son, but a heavily armed soldier jumped on him and forced him to the ground with a series of savage blows. The boy's shrill scream pierced Craig's brain and set off an unconscious reaction.

As the boy was being dragged away, Craig fought his way through the crowd with single-minded determination. He quickly reached the boy and grabbed him by the arm, trying to wrestle him from the grip of the soldier. His strength seemed to come from within and the boy kicked out to reach him. Craig could hardly believe his own capability, but everything he did was purely instinctive. A barely perceptible flash of a time when he saved Connor from almost drowning many years ago popped into his mind. It was one of the few times he could recall acting in a way that was less than cowardly.

Craig almost had the boy and then a sharp whack to the head sent him spinning away. He clawed desperately at the child but he lost his grip as he fell. The ferocity of the next blow temporarily blinded him, and when his vision returned in a blur, the boy was gone.

A soldier pinned him down with his knee on the blood-soaked ground and another struck his head. He was dizzy and disoriented, bile and vomit forming in his throat. Just before he passed out, he thought, almost with a sense of satisfaction, that for once in his life he had shown true, selfless courage.

## CHAPTER 37

Rúben looked up at the depressing sky where the rain had at last relented. He took out his phone and took a picture of the Maidstone camp sign against the backdrop of roiling gun-metal clouds. He had a feeling this photograph would become an important, even iconic image in the UN catalogue when the inevitable scrutiny of the UN operation followed.

After a short briefing, the soldiers assembled as a unit outside their vehicles and checked their weapons. Rúben saw a few of them pacing around like lions on the prowl, talking in hushed tones and taking a quick smoke before the party set off. The severe casualties from the ambush had rattled them, he could tell.

At a signal from Captain Taylor, they marched forward resolutely, alert for further trouble. Several snipers flanked the group, ready to pick off anyone that attempted to engage them. At the front of the convoy rumbled a UN armoured tank, its huge turret slowly sweeping the immediate area in a small arc. The soldiers were sandwiched between the tank and the remaining vehicles.

They marched down the approach road from the sign without incident. The party quickly reached the camp entrance, a high metal gate with a stack of heavy concrete blocks on either side. It was surrounded by razor wire and broken glass, but appeared abandoned. At a signal from Taylor, the thick metal turret swung round to face the entrance, and then unleashed an explosive charge that shook the ground like a tremor. The massive concussion ripped the concrete, glass and steel into a twisted, shattered mass of fragments. The tank rolled forward on its caterpillar tracks into the camp, flattening the debris. The soldiers quickly followed and fanned out over the slick, muddy field, guns poised.

As they jogged forward, Rúben followed behind them, following strict instructions from Captain Taylor not to stray into the line of fire. Further ahead was a line of wooden huts set in long uniform rows. The gloomy sky added to the despondency of the camp. He was mortified to see that the camp appeared empty. Maybe it had already been abandoned and they were too late. He got his answer soon enough.

From nowhere a rain of bullets sent the soldiers diving to the sticky, cloying mud. There was little cover to protect them other than their protective combat gear, and Rúben saw a number fall to the ground. The bullets stopped abruptly and the unit took the opportunity to sprint toward the nearest hut as fast as the clinging mud would allow them. Suddenly a huge fireball lit up the darkening sky and Rúben saw that it came from a nearby hut. In the harsh, flickering light, the assailants emerged, sprinting away from the huts and firing aimlessly as they did so.

Staggering to his feet, Rúben grabbed his phone and with shaking hands recorded the chaotic scene. Another hut erupted in a huge fireball, swiftly followed by another. The air soon crackled with heat. Figures continued to sprint away from the huts into the growing darkness, black against the yellow-red glow from the fires that were burning fiercely. Rúben counted as many as fifty people fleeing the carnage. A contingent of soldiers rushed after them, snipers taking down several with precision shots.

Rúben stayed back and filmed the UN soldiers as they reached the nearest hut. The heat was intense and Rúben's eyes stung badly. Then he heard something that despite the raging fire chilled him to his very core. It was the shrill scream of people trapped inside the building.

"Get them out of there!" He shouted to no-one in particular. He barely heard his own voice above the roar of the conflagration, but the soldiers had heard the screams too. There was little they could do. The fire drove them back, and they had no equipment to fight it. The huts were extremely long, but the fire was spreading rapidly along their length. The soldiers sprinted around to the end of the hut and were able to break through into the locked building. A flood of screaming, panicked people spilled out, coughing and spluttering, escaping the fire before collapsing on the wet ground.

There were too many people for the soldiers to help, and they could do nothing but wait before they could enter the building. In each hut that burned it was the same scene. By now the sky had turned black, but the hellish pyre revealed the shocking truth to Rúben's lens. These people were barely alive, gaunt, hollow faces atop skeletal frames, ragged clothes hanging off them. Rúben continued to film with fascinated horror as the field became littered with exhausted and beaten bodies, relieved to escape the scorching horror that so nearly engulfed them. They wheezed and broke into rattling coughs, trying to expel the choking smoke from their lungs.

They were the lucky ones. Rúben perceived something that he had experienced only once in his lifetime. Nearly a decade ago, he accompanied a UN convoy that pursued soldiers from the March 23 Movement in the African bush during the Congo War. The rebels completely destroyed the villages in their path, setting fire to every building and hut they encountered. It was the acrid stench of burning flesh. The sickening smell made Rúben want to heave the contents of his stomach, but he was compelled to keep on filming. The atrocities they witnessed today would bear testimony to a regime that allowed genocide to flourish.

Many UN soldiers were able to reach inside each building. Braving the fierce heat and spreading fire, they were able to carry out a number of limp bodies and lay them on the ground away from the huts. Through his radio headset Rúben heard Captain Taylor yelling at his soldiers to focus only on those that appeared alive. He also mobilized the medical teams in the vehicles waiting at the edge of the compound. With the danger of flying bullets averted, they ran with their medical kits to where survivors lay sprawled on the ground. The medics faced an overwhelming task, as did the soldiers. There was no way to put out the fires in the huts. All they could do was try and rescue as many as possible. Rúben witnessed them carrying out frail children as well as men and women. Some of them were motionless, possibly overcome by the choking, billowing smoke. Even the soldiers were forced back and they could never hope to rescue everyone. It was an impossible task, and decisions as to who to bring out from the burning huts were instantaneous life and death decisions. There was no room for hesitation. Rúben wanted to dive in and help but Captain Taylor had warned him of his role.

The UN convoy did not have the resources to quell the flames, so the three long huts continued to burn fiercely, the fire spreading rapidly through the wood construction. They began to collapse inwards and within fifteen minutes each of the three huts set alight was no more than a burnt out shell. Rúben saw a number of charred bodies in the flaming wreckage. There was no-one left alive in the buildings. The medics diligently attended to those who had survived the carnage, but now they were on the cold, muddy ground without shelter.

A number of soldiers went rushing after the fugitives, but the majority, following commands from Captain Taylor, entered those huts that had not been set alight. Rúben followed one of the units into the nearest hut, and he was sickened by what he saw. It was like moving from a sane world through a portal into a world of horror and chaos. The first sense that assaulted him was the stench. The smell of death hung in every pore of the building. It pervaded the senses until it clung to them. Rúben's gut wrenched and he gagged. The young African corporal who had promised to protect him was not so fortunate. He staggered to one side and vomited on the filthy floor.

Rúben and the soldiers shone their bright flashlights along the length of the building. The vast open hut was lined along each side with makeshift cots, bunks, mattresses and blankets in a chaotic array. Lying on top or huddled under them were countless survivors that were so weak and malnourished that they were hardly able to walk or even move. Joints stuck out like bulbous growths from which stick thin limbs protruded. Most hardly had the strength to rise, barely skeletons covered in skin. Under some blankets it was hard to see if there was anyone at all, but as soldiers pulled the blanket aside, they saw children with pot bellies and sunken eyes looking up, frightened and cowering, as if the soldiers were about to strike them.

As they walked through the middle of the hut, careful not to step on huddled blankets on the floor, they encountered hundreds of people in the same miserable state, clinging onto life. Some were too weak to even brush off the flies that landed on them. They just lay there, staring up at the soldiers. Those hollow, expressionless eyes were like deep black pits of suffering, stripped of their humanity. As Rúben progressed further down the hut, the stench became more powerful, and he had to pull his neckerchief over his face to avoid puking. He heard the low drone of flies buzzing, not just one, but seemingly an army. Along with several soldiers, he shone his flashlight toward the source of the buzzing, and then he saw it.

Stacked high like firewood in the far corner was a pile of corpses so high that they almost reached the ceiling. The air above the corpses was black with flies, which buzzed maniacally around the pile in a feeding frenzy. Some were bloated and almost unrecognizable as human beings. The skin had turned a grey-green colour, lined with a patchwork of purplish-blue. Rúben's stomach lurched but he managed to pull out his phone and record the grotesque scene. It took an effort of will to remember why he was here, and as he scanned the terrible scene before him, he felt hot tears of anger streaming down his face. Despite the poor light, he could see the trauma on the faces of many UN soldiers forced to bear witness to the atrocious conditions. Rúben knew there was little that could be done for most of the inmates. They were too close to the edge. There was no way they could be transported, and it would take too long for a sustained medical presence to arrive on the ground to save them. Some of the soldiers were weeping. Rúben had seen a lot in his time with the UN but many of them were rookies on their first field mission. They did not deserve to see this.

Rúben could stand it no longer. He took his pictures and staggered out of the hut to escape the shroud of death that enveloped the place. The cold air outside carried with it the sting of scorched earth and smoke, and Rúben broke out coughing. It was a minor inconvenience relative to the horror inside the hut. He heard Captain Taylor on the radio yelling at a number of soldiers congregated around the field hospital. "Do _not_ enter the hospital! That is a directive. If you do you will not be allowed to leave."

Rúben heard a young soldier protest, his voice cracked with emotion. "Sir, we have to help them. We can't just leave them."

Captain Taylor's voice was hard. "That is precisely what we are going to do Corporal. That is a direct order."

The young corporal was sobbing. "Captain, please! They're dying in front of us!"

Captain Taylor was in no mood to tolerate a challenge to his authority. "Listen to me soldier," he barked savagely. "You take one foot in that hospital and I will shoot you myself, and then send a court martial to your family!"

The soldiers moved on from the field hospital. Rúben shuddered to think what they might find there, and was secretly relieved that they would not be forced to find out. They were casualties of war. He knew, however that his chronicling of these momentous events would not be complete if the world failed to see the effects of the camp plague. He looked around, camera poised and lingered outside the hospital. The soldiers were occupied and he found himself suddenly alone. Over the entrance was a crude Red Cross sign, the only real indication that this was the camp hospital. There was a large tarpaulin draped across the entrance. He pulled it aside to reveal a battered wooden door. He was about to go in when a firm hand grasped his shoulder.

"Sir, I can't let you do that," a gentle but deep voice breathed behind him. "You'll put all of us at risk." He turned to see a tall, dark soldier, his craggy features and sharp eyes lending him an air of quiet authority. Rúben recognized him as Lt. Mgwebi, one of Taylor's most trusted soldiers. Rúben nodded silently as the South African laid a muscular hand on his shoulder and coaxed him away, but Rúben's insides churned with a simmering rage; not just at the outrage that had been committed here, but at his UN bosses.

Rúben was relieved to escape the horror of the camp as they retreated to the relative safety of their vehicles. It was the middle of the night. Captain Taylor had already contacted UN headquarters to mobilize a medical task force. Rúben knew that it was too little too late for most of those poor unfortunate people in the camps. Many were already close to death, and the small on-site medical team were overwhelmed with the scale of the task that faced them. Rúben considered it a hopeless endeavour, made even more lamentable by the bitter choices the medical team were forced to make. Deciding who had the better chance of survival meant consciously allowing others to die, a choice no human being should ever have to make. With the UN declaring the skies over Britain to be too dangerous for air support, the UN medical support team could take several days to reach the camp. How many more of these atrocious camps had been set up throughout the country? The thought of it sent a chill through him.

The convoy was stationed outside the camp, and Rúben took a walk in the chill night air, suddenly feeling claustrophobic inside the vehicles. He was still simmering with anger when he hit Emosi's number on his tablet. He did not care if the Secretary-General was sleeping or not. It took a while before the line connected but when Emosi answered he was alert, as if he had been up for hours. Rúben could not hide his anger.

"Why didn't you tell us!" he exploded.

At the other end Emosi let out a long sigh, paused, and said at length, "We had to make a tough decision Rúben."

"You sent us into the firing line. Half the soldiers are traumatized by what they have seen tonight. You should have warned us!"

Emosi paused again, considering what to say. "Rúben, I know your emotional at the moment, but you know how this all works. We briefed Captain Taylor thoroughly on the mission parameters. To be honest we were not sure exactly what to expect but I've been getting the reports. I understand that conditions are even worse than we expected."

"We needed to know!" Rúben shouted.

Emosi struck a conciliatory tone, "Rúben, if we told the soldiers what it was like, most of them would not have volunteered. You have been in plenty of war zones. We don't know what we are up against until we get there!"

"You had a briefing from a Government minister for Chrissake!"

"Even Eleanor did not know how bad it was in the camps. She has seen the pictures but she admits she never actually went inside one."

"What about the field hospital?"

"There is nothing we can do for them. They are beyond help. We had to make some tough choices to do the right thing. We cannot make any mistakes and allow the disease to be brought back to Continental Europe."

"We need back-up urgently. We got attacked from nowhere tonight. We are sitting ducks out here. One coordinated attack and we could be decimated."

Emosi's voice was sympathetic. "I am doing everything I can within my diplomatic powers, believe me Rúben. Like I say, we underestimated just how bad conditions were, not just in the camps. It is imperative we keep pushing on. The situation in the camps is precisely why we need to liberate the country as soon as possible. Keep doing your job, Rúben. Document everything you see. What you provide will be compelling evidence of crimes that Pelham and his regime will be accountable for. We are already making arrangements at the International Criminal Court, but this is a long way from over. Keep me posted. What you provide in the coming days will be of the utmost importance. I have complete faith in you."

Rúben's fury subsided and he rang off, walking aimlessly along the rutted path where the vehicles were stationed. He had been at the heart of some dangerous situations in his field work as a UN envoy, and witnessed some terrible conflicts. His job had taken him around the globe, but rarely had it landed so close to home. A deep sense of melancholy settled, like an anvil weighing down his heart. Somehow this tragedy was different. He had seen the rise of right-wing extremism in his own country, but never like this. If it could happen in Britain, what about other European countries. Many of them had suffered the same rise in nationalism. He shuddered, not just with the chilly air.

## CHAPTER 38

It was a cold, damp morning in the execution yard at Belmarsh Prison. Officer Wayne 'Chokeslam' Barrett stood in the yard alongside four other guards. His nickname was earned from the way he subdued prisoners using the famous wrestling move by grasping their neck, lifting them up and slamming them to the floor. Wayne hated the nickname, but he considered himself a tough guy. Two hundred and twenty pounds of sinuous muscle honed for two hours a day in the gym. At least it used to be two hours. Most of the gyms had closed down now. No-one really worked out anymore. They had more pressing concerns, like finding enough to eat. The last thing people wanted to do was burn precious calories.

He noticed his own bulky biceps had become a little softer recently. He yearned for the long lost days of being a doorman at Bar Rumba nightclub in London, when he was probably at his physical peak. That was some time ago. He had worked for nearly ten years at the prison, and had developed a reputation for being able to quell trouble from aggressive prisoners. His strength and martial arts training meant he could usually take them down, sometimes with a struggle for bigger screws. One thing he had not signed up for, however, was execution duty. He had restrained plenty of over-zealous prisoners in his own unique way but killing?

Unfortunately the prison authorities had given them little choice. Do it or you lose your job. He could not afford that, so they had trained him at the shooting range to prepare for his task as one of the fusiliers today.

The prison authorities had taken over the Croydon Rifle and Pistol Club. The Vietnamese owner had been sent to a deportation camp and it had lain empty until they moved in. They used a high caliber Browning rifle using mannequin dolls to simulate the effect of shooting a person. Their trainer, a former SAS sniper, had instructed them to aim for various parts of the body. One round would be a head shot, and then he would be instructed to aim for the heart, and even a round aiming for the kidney. He trained them how to achieve the most accurate and lethal shot, and judging by the state of the mannequins after, they had done precisely that.

He had not appreciated the level of skill a firing squad required, but this would be the first time he would use it in a 'live' situation. He smiled to himself at the irony. Not 'live' for too long if they did the job correctly. The fact of having four other fusiliers was a little comforting. For each of them, whether they fired or not would not affect the outcome, and therefore they could not truly say they had killed another person. He wondered whether the often quoted rumours of one executioner having a blank cartridge were true. He highly doubted it, but if so he fervently hoped it was his. He would never know.

He waited with the others, all of them silent, lost in their own thoughts. Several of them puffed on a cigarette or stronger, blue smoke curling into the cold early morning sky. He did not partake. Filthy habit, he thought. It would never work with his training regime.

They had been told that the object of their firing squad today was an extremely 'high profile' prisoner. He was not aware that Belmarsh Prison had such a thing, but when they brought out the prisoner he realized it was true. The prisoner was remarkably composed. Although he was shackled, with a prison guard on either side clutching his underarm, he did not struggle or panic. A thought flickered through his mind. What would he be like if that was him? Probably begging for mercy. He shuddered and shook his head to dispel the thought. Focus, he said to himself. He glanced over at the others and they were making their final adjustments to the rifles, checking the mounted scopes set above the gun barrel. A few of them caressed their weapon and raised it, simulating the shot they would shortly make.

The guards positioned the prisoner in the kill zone. Behind the prisoner was a large steel plate which absorbed any bullets that did not strike him. Wayne casually observed that the plate had deep red marks splashed like paint across its silver surface. His first execution would be the iconic Harry Clarke, a vocal dissident of the Pelham regime. He wished it wasn't Clarke in their sights today. He had a grudging admiration for the man. He had shown a level of courage and conviction in his beliefs that few matched. Most people, himself included, accepted things, as bad as they were, because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. Protesting against conditions quickly gained you a reputation as an outlier. Ostracism was quickly followed by the dreaded late night pounding on the door. You had to choose your friends and enemies very carefully in order to stay on the right side of the fence.

The Warden suddenly appeared and the executioners, including Wayne, stood to attention. He hated Warden Hanrahan, a short, squat man with a rotund face and jowls that made him look like a bloodhound. His ghostly white features made his red-rimmed, wolfish little eyes stand out. The guy insisted on wearing a Stetson as if he were a Warden at some correctional facility in the mid-West desert, like an extra from The Shawshank Redemption. Jesus, they didn't make films like that anymore, he thought ruefully. Wayne was convinced that underneath that stupid brown hat was a shiny bald head, but he had no idea, because he had never seen him without it.

Although he looked like a bad-tempered overweight schoolboy, the Warden had the power of authority and he manipulated it to his advantage. Wayne had to take orders and be nice to him, otherwise Hanrahan could make life very awkward. He had a vicious streak in total contrast to his benign, faintly comical appearance. Wayne knew the Warden enjoyed the executions most of all. He was looking especially pleased today as he paced up and down the five men, inspecting their weapons. He squinted at each with those small, bloodshot eyes.

"Men, you have an important task today. This is not any prisoner. Today we execute the most high profile terrorist we have in our fine institution, a scourge on our society."

Was he really a terrorist? Wayne thought he had merely made anti-government videos and somehow beaten the Internet ban to broadcast them internationally. However, what did he know?

Warden Hanrahan babbled on. "You need your focus today. Remember your instructions – each of you need to aim for your designated organ. Let's make this clean and quick. We don't like to keep the prisoner waiting." He chuckled at his own joke, his breath wheezing and condensing in the cold morning air.

The five fusiliers moved into position and Wayne checked his sights. He had been assigned the heart, which meant a precision shot to the chest, slightly left of centre. He raised his scope and peered through, giving him a magnified vision of the prisoner. The guards were just beginning to tie a blindfold around him, and to one side he spotted the priest, open bible in hand, his mouth moving wordlessly. Presumably issuing the last rites, thought Wayne. He positioned the cross hairs on the scope to exactly where he would shoot on command, and then lowered his gun. That was the practice. They had been through the drill many times. In a few moments Hanrahan would give the signal to raise and aim. They would need to hold that aim as Hanrahan counted from five down to zero, at which point they would discharge their weapons simultaneously. At least it would be quick.

He glanced over at the Warden. The man looked around and waved theatrically, and Wayne followed his vision. The morning air was still, and the yells and catcalls carried from the cells. Hanrahan was saluting to them, enjoying the moment, taunting them by crooking his finger like a gun at the cell walls. Any one of them would be next. Wayne felt faintly nauseous and hoped that Hanrahan would just get on with it, but the Warden was intent on stretching out the drama. The calls rained down, boos and insults, sheer hatred emanating from within thick concrete walls.

Hanrahan waved a little more until even the guards surrounding Clarke became agitated. He decided it was time and those guards moved away, not trusting the executioners. The priest had finished his invocation and closed the Bible. There was nothing even God could do for Harry Clarke now, not in this life anyway. The prisoner was alone, bound and blindfolded, and Hanrahan raised his arm to give the signal. Each fusilier unlatched their safety catch and raised their weapon. Wayne trained his scope on the heart. He struggled to prevent his hands shaking as Hanrahan began the countdown. "Five, four-" Suddenly his tablet beeped incessantly, interrupting him and he quickly glanced at it. His pudgy face went pale and he took the call.

Wayne bristled impatiently. What could be so important as to interrupt this moment? Hanrahan was no more than five yards from them. His face became more ashen, if that was possible, and Wayne heard him mutter subserviently, "Yes Mr. Prime Minister, of course." The call ended and the Warden scowled at them, his face lined with humiliation. "Stand down men."

At first, they did not understand. Wayne began to protest but Hanrahan abruptly cut him off. "I said stand down!" The group lowered their weapons and the Warden stormed over to the guards. They released the blindfold on the prisoner, who blinked repeatedly, bemused that he was not yet dead. Wayne saw Hanrahan talking to the guards, his chubby arms gesticulating wildly, and then the guards led the prisoner away. The five fusiliers looked at each other, unsure what to do. One of them just walked off and lit up a cigarette. Wayne put the safety catch back on his gun and wandered away, relieved that he would not put his target practice into use, at least not today.

## CHAPTER 39

Everyone was perfectly pleasant about it of course, but Eleanor Beaufort knew that she was being detained. The fact that she had a sumptuous room with a balcony overlooking the Swiss Alps, able to come and go within the spacious grounds, did not hide the reality of the situation. It mattered little however; her primary focus was to provide as much information and support as she could to her putative jailers. She played a key role as part of the operations team that had set up office in one of the many vast conference rooms at the Palace of Nations. Eleanor was gratified to have the ear of the UN SG, a man she greatly admired and respected.

In the cool early morning air, birds flitted about in the huge cedar trees that dominated the Palace grounds. The gardens were beautifully manicured, hosting rows of tall flags from Member States, exquisitely carved white clay sculptures and colourful rockeries complete with tiny burbling waterfalls. Eleanor could have spent all day wandering the gardens, but next to her Emosi paced around like a caged tiger. The deep frown and worried countenance betrayed his agitation. His horn-rimmed spectacles did little to hide the tired wrinkles around his eyes. A line of grey stubble framed his dark features, lending him a rugged look. He had clearly not slept last night, but neither had she. The news filtering from the field units inside the country was not encouraging.

"Our intelligence suggests that Pelham has left the private clinic and retreated to Chequers," he said, as they walked a narrow path that led into a large grove.

Eleanor sighed, disappointed. "He always was a survivor."

"Why would he have gone to Chequers?"

"That's his centre of operations, where he flees to in times of crisis. Very few of us ever got to visit there. Whatever goes on at Chequers is highly secretive. All I know is that when his leadership faced challenges, which was often, he would disappear for days, issuing commands through Chamberlain or his assistants. I suspect he has gone there to regroup, and decide how to deal with the UN incursion."

"It didn't take him long to do that. He has threatened to release a cloud of hemorrhagic fever over Europe unless we pull back. We have the Vélizy–Villacoublay Air Base on black special alert with a directive to shoot down any plane that leaves UK airspace, military or commercial."

Eleanor nodded sombrely. She knew that the alert meant a high level of preparation for a potential attack with no definite time-frame for when it would occur.

Emosi paused, wiping glistening drops of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "Is it all rhetoric Eleanor? Can he do it? _Would_ he do it?"

"Would he do it? I believe so, yes," answered Eleanor. "He is ruthless enough to do whatever it takes to stay in power. "Can he do it is more difficult. He has the backing of the military forces, including the Royal Air Force. He could easily galvanize the RAF by convincing them they were on a mission to defend the country. Our RAF is a formidable unit. Whether his lab can manufacture enough of the fever to disperse sufficient quantities to start an epidemic is doubtful. I would like to think our Prime Minister is merely making empty threats to restore his pride."

"I can't take that chance Eleanor. The situation is even worse that we thought. We can't allow ourselves to get entrenched in a civil war. Our peacekeepers have to move in and liberate the people quickly. This was never meant to be a continuing operation, a couple of months at the most."

Eleanor turned to him, a fervent look in her eyes. "You have to destroy the Watford facility. That is where they are creating the disease. I heard some nasty rumours that they are also carrying out inhumane experiments on people. I have no idea if it's true because they supervised us closely when I visited. We have to end their suffering. Targeted air strikes if necessary."

A mottled brown squirrel scampered across their path and clambered with lightning speed up a nearby cedar tree. Emosi followed its movement, considering his next words. "You said yourself Eleanor, the RAF is formidable. There will be no air strikes."

"But surely we have to attack first? Yes they are formidable, but do you have any choice? The situation in the camps is more horrible than even I imagined. There are camps like that all over the country. It will take months for UN forces to liberate them. The world is watching us Kobie. We have to strike quickly or we will get dragged into a quagmire."

The UN Secretary-General sighed heavily. "My instructions are clear. Whatever action we take, we must not put mainland Europe at risk of an outbreak. Until we have more information about Britain's air capabilities, and more importantly their ability to disseminate the disease as they claim, I cannot sanction air strikes. We have to be patient Eleanor, even when our first instincts are to go marauding in."

"Have the scientists made any progress at finding a vaccine?"

"It's too early yet. Again we have to be patient. First indications suggest that the disease has been manufactured using a variant of the anthrax bacillus. My scientists tell me it is a highly virulent pathogen. It's extremely difficult to create an effective antibiotic agent. They have been working with derivatives of the anthrax vaccine, but part of the problem is the relatively long incubation period. Any tests they conduct could take weeks for the results to emerge. Until we have a vaccine, launching a pre-emptive air strike is out of the question."

Eleanor paused, considering how to phrase her next request. "Kobie, what will become of me when this is all over?" She studied his face but he looked distant, his eyes turned toward the mountains cloaked in wispy clouds.

"I can't say Eleanor. Some things are out of my hands." He gave a thin smile. "There is a lot to redeem you. Delivering the vial was very risky. It took a lot of courage."

She waited for more but then he fell silent. She was about to press him for further assurances when his tablet beeped and he fished it from his jacket pocket. They stopped walking as he reviewed the message. His face creased with confusion and he looked earnestly at Eleanor.

"What is it?"

"Pelham was not the only one who went to Chequers. Harry Clarke was due to be executed this morning. I thought this might be confirmation. Only he wasn't. He was released from prison and Pelham has Harry with him."

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 11

The UN incursion is in its first few days but has already made some disturbing findings. The UN team encountered limited resistance but sustained a number of casualties on the road to Maidstone. The first camp liberated just outside the town revealed some traumatic discoveries. A number of troops who took part in the rescue operation were visibly distressed as they recalled the horrifying conditions witnessed in the camps. One soldier, a veteran of the Syrian conflict stated that conditions were worse than anything he had seen in Middle Eastern refugee camps.

A team of UN observers has been dispatched to Britain to catalogue the atrocities and gather evidence for future trials. They have been warned to expect inhumane conditions. The question arises as to what can be done for the internees of these camps. Many of them are so malnourished that only immediate and long-term hospital care can save them. Others are too far gone even for that. The sheer logistical difficulties involved in trying to save these people are too great for UN resources on the ground. They have been forced into an intolerable situation. UN ground forces have been ordered to move on toward London, where they expect to face fierce resistance from the PIA and other military forces loyal to Pelham. This means leaving behind the camp survivors. The added complication is that some may be carrying traces of the anthracis hemorrhagic fever or 'camp plague' as it is more colloquially known.

The UN convoy was under strict command to avoid the field hospital where infected prisoners were allegedly being treated. While a vaccine is still being sought, these people are beyond hope. Releasing internees from the camp could have unintended consequences. The irony is that their imprisonment meant that the disease was relatively contained and less likely to spread to the general populace. It is impossible to tell if those people released from the camp were infected, as the incubation period is estimated at around seven days. However they are considered susceptible individuals by the UN's own medical team. It is another reason why UN forces have had to make the heart-wrenching decision to effectively quarantine and deny treatment to newly released internees. Despite the round-the-clock work of the bio-tech facility in Paris, little is currently known about the transmission rate. However, the risk of the disease spreading is too great to take chances.

These circumstances have piled pressure on the UN Security Council to increase the number of ground troops and consider air strikes. They are due to call an emergency meeting of the Council to discuss the crisis and consider exactly that. It is expected that the UN Secretary-General will face some tough questioning over his handling of the mission so far. The UN convoy has faced limited resistance but has been the target of a number of sniper attacks, as well as a number of skirmishes with small pockets of local militia. This has not stopped the convoy from moving forward relentlessly on to their intended target, but has garnered criticism that the UN convoy is far too exposed to such surprise assaults. One UN insider anonymously revealed that "based on what we have seen so far, Emosi is being far too patient. We need to get in there and bomb the hell out of Pelham's army."

While that provocative sentiment may reflect the prevailing mood at the UN, the Security Council is likely to be divided on the issue. The unknown factor is how credible Pelham's threat is to launch a succession of dirty bombs and infect mainland Europe with the camp disease. The strength of Britain's air forces was recently demonstrated when a succession of Royal Air Force jets carried out a fly-by of the UN convoy. In a tense game of cat and mouse, they did not attack directly, but flew close enough to ensure the convoy's anti-aircraft missiles were locked and ready to engage at the first sign of outright aggression. An offensive move by either party would have escalated the situation into all-out war. Instead the RAF jets bombed a road about three miles north of the convoy, slowing it down for many hours as a new, longer route was calculated.

This simmering conflict will cause the UN some grave concerns. Deploying air strikes would be an open declaration of war, and the question is whether the UN is ready to play such high stakes. One of its key concerns is the impact on the general population. The UN is anxious not to heap further suffering on a subjugated populace already feeling the harsh effects of severe economic sanctions against the country. Emosi commented strongly that he does not wish innocent men, women and children to be caught in the cross-fire. However, to an extent they already are. It is difficult to predict civilian deaths since Pelham's imposition of martial law, but there are many fragmented factions fighting this war on the streets. There are reports that in some cases people have been used as human shields. It is inevitable that there will be significant civilian casualties. Emosi further stated that the UN's campaign is about liberation not war.

The U.K.'s leaders continue to refuse to engage in any form of dialogue with the UN, except to declare the incursion a "breach of sovereignty." It leaves the UN peacekeeping forces walking a tightrope, constrained by orders not to attack, but only respond to threats. They remain vulnerable, at the mercy of the political chess happening around them.

Meanwhile, in an extraordinary development, reports suggest that the high-profile political activist Harry Clarke was not only spared execution but was released from prison and apparently taken by Pelham's staff to join the Prime Minister at Chequers. One can only speculate at what the P.M. has in mind for Clarke, an outspoken critic of the regime and long-time nemesis of Pelham during his time as a political correspondent. Commentators suggest this move has changed the political dynamics of the current situation. Only time will tell how those dynamics play out.

## CHAPTER 40

It had been several days since Chamberlain had spoken to the Prime Minister. Since Pelham had dismissed him from the hospital room there had been no communication. From his hospital bed, Pelham had ordered that Parliament be suspended when the UN landed on UK territory. Chamberlain had no idea what was behind Pelham's strategy. Equally he was perplexed as to why Pelham had released Clarke. It was deeply unsettling, especially when he had been so dogmatic about executing him. Chamberlain had been unsuccessful in getting Clarke to renounce his views and fully expected that he would be executed. The news of his release was perplexing enough, but then his operatives had advised him that Pelham had decamped to Chequers and taken Clarke with him. There was too much he didn't know.

Trotting along the dark streets toward the resistance cell bunker, trailed by two bulky assistants, he played over the meeting with the corporate sponsors earlier that day. They had greeted him coolly, making it clear that he had failed on both counts. Clarke's execution had been cancelled through Pelham's intervention, not his own. He had failed to halt the UN incursion. Lindström and his cronies had castigated him for his failures. The opportunity to take control while Pelham was hospitalized had passed, they said. The real power base remained with Pelham. He had to admit they were probably right. The situation was not promising, but the sponsors represented his only real hope of salvation.

It was if the negotiating perspective had subtly altered. Suddenly he needed them more than they needed him. Pelham's remarkable recovery afforded them renewed options. They had reiterated to Chamberlain that he was too tainted to be a viable successor, especially since the revelations regarding the deportation camps. Chamberlain countered that the relentless progress of the UN team presented considerable danger to them. If they reached Pelham, he would not hesitate to implicate the sponsors to save his own skin. The horrific findings of the last few days would bring their own culpability into sharp focus, and with it the chance of severe retribution. He could use the resistance cell to sabotage the UN incursion, or at least undermine their ability to proceed quickly. He had no idea if it was possible, but it was one of the few cards he had left to play, and it sounded plausible.

Leveraging on that promise, he had conceded that he might be tainted, but argued again that he still represented a viable alternative to Pelham. His intelligence suggested that the UN was not prepared to engage in dialogue with Pelham. They would be more likely to do so with him. He could at least position himself to negotiate with the UN and possibly persuade them to scale back their intervention. It would allow some latitude for the nation to address its problems internally. The sponsors had been divided. The fear that Pelham had gone too far remained pervasive. Several of them expressed dismay at the level of atrocities the Prime Minister had committed. They had inadvertently bankrolled some heinous crimes, deceived by a persuasive Prime Minister promising a return to greatness. Several had pointed an accusing finger at Chamberlain, maintaining that he must have known of the conditions in the camp and the manufactured disease. Some of those sponsors had originally come from overseas and seen these atrocities committed against fellow countrymen.

Chamberlain had strenuously pleaded his ignorance of such crimes, arguing that Pelham had deceived him too. That was partly true, and he had promised that if he were installed in power he would seek to repair the damage done to the nation. He promised that the involvement of the corporate sponsors would remain confidential. The group had remained unconvinced. In any event, they argued, their influence was limited. To gain a true foothold on power would require the support of the army. With Griffiths removed, and Pelham having turned to fervent and long standing loyalist Sir Terence Harding, Chamberlain considered his options. Harding would need to be eliminated if Chamberlain were to stand any chance of seizing power. He had once again left the meeting with two key objectives, neither of which he had any idea how to achieve.

The magnetic entrance clicked open and the Deputy P.M. athletically clambered down the ladder, hoping that Kessler's team would provide him with the answers. It felt like desperation, but his options were closing rapidly like locked doors in a burning building.

Mason greeted him upon arrival in the cramped, low lit corridor, his craggy face creasing into a subservient smile. "Everything is under control here, Sir. We await your orders."

"Thank you Mason," replied Chamberlain dismissively. "Where's Kessler?"

"He's in his office planning an attack on the Grangemouth crude oil refinery."

The sealed hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss and the Deputy stepped into the main control centre. It was a hub of quiet, controlled activity. Operatives sat hunched over their computer screens and tablets, avoiding eye contact with Chamberlain and Mason. The soldier's brutal slaying of Hayashi was still fresh in their minds. The main screen displayed a schematic blueprint of the processing unit which reduced the sulphur in the unrefined crude oil. The plan was to hack into the software that controlled the flow of materials into the crude distillation unit. This would affect the desulphurization process, resulting in oil with too high sulphur content, and useless for its intended purpose. Chamberlain knew that Baron Renfrew had a significant stake in the refinery. Chamberlain had ordered strategic cyber-attacks on businesses owned by the corporate sponsors as additional leverage. The Resistance cell was his ace in the pack. It made his argument more persuasive if he could promise an end to the disruption they faced.

Chamberlain strode into Kessler's small office, followed closely by Mason. Two bulky troops waited outside the cramped office. Kessler sat at his desk, huddled over a tablet, engaged in deep conversation with Chen, who was crouched next to him. Kessler looked up at the Deputy's arrival. His mouth turned up slightly in the merest hint of a smile, but his expression betrayed a mix of contempt and hatred.

"Ah, Chamberlain, an unexpected pleasure," he said laconically.

"For me too Anatoly," Chamberlain retorted. "There's been a change of plan."

Chen stood up against the pitted wall and his dark-ringed eyes regarded the Deputy P.M. suspiciously.

Kessler leaned back in his chair. "In what respect?"

"I need you to sabotage the UN convoy."

Kessler let out a sarcastic laugh. "Impossible," he replied flatly.

Chamberlain's face twitched with barely stifled irritation. "Why is it impossible?"

Kessler stood up, and his tall frame exceeded Chamberlain's by several inches. Behind the Deputy, Mason tensed, running his hand along his rifle. "Because the UN convoy carries some of the most sophisticated cyber defence capabilities ever created. We would have more chance of success trying to sabotage a NASA rocket."

"Your team has hacked into just about everything," replied Chamberlain with grudging admiration. "Why the hell can't you hack the UN?"

"We're not miracle workers. There are some things we just cannot break into."

"Or won't."

Kessler did not rise to the bait. "That's irrelevant because it is just not possible," he said calmly, standing squarely against Chamberlain, enjoying his height advantage.

Chen, also standing, chimed in. "It's impossible, Giles. Their intrusion detection and prevention systems are impossible to breach. The network security is state of the art and we risk exposing ourselves if we try and break in. If anything is hacker-proof, it is the UN fleet."

Kessler and Chamberlain stared at each other like two prize fighters for a few seconds before Kessler broke into a wide smile. He grabbed his lint brush and lightly brushed his spotless navy blue suit. "Now if you don't mind I've got work to do."

As Kessler turned away, Chamberlain gave the merest flick of his eyes to Mason. In an instant the bulky soldier grabbed the Czar by his suit lapel and pressed a rifle to his throat, jabbing it hard at his Adam's apple. Kessler choked and spluttered as Mason used his weight to push him out of his office into the main control room.

"Not the bloody suit!" Kessler protested breathlessly. Chamberlain smiled to himself. Touching Kessler's suit was an unforgivable transgression.

"Shut up," snarled Mason, tugging even harder. "Get on your knees." He forced Kessler to the floor, the rifle aimed at his head. Several soldiers surrounded Kessler. The commotion forced the operatives from their machines and they just stared vacantly at their boss, anxious but too scared to intervene.

"You shoot me and this place goes under," spat Kessler.

"I said _shut up!_ " snarled Mason with an animal look of hatred. He swiped Kessler on the forehead with the butt of his rifle, causing a small gash from which blood dripped slowly down his face.

Chamberlain placed a restraining arm across Mason's chest. "Enough!" he warned him. Mason turned to the Deputy as if he was going to be the next victim, but his raw anger quickly dissipated.

Chamberlain turned to Kessler, whose expression showed his distress as blood dripped onto his suit. "That's not quite true Anatoly. You have trained these people well and I'm confident the resistance cell will continue perfectly well without you. If there is one thing I have learned during my many years in politics, it's that everyone is expendable. We have a perfectly good replacement."

Two soldiers dragged Chen by his arms into their little circle. The slender engineer put up no resistance as the soldier roughly pushed him next to Kessler at gunpoint. The Czar looked up at his colleague standing over him. Then an extraordinary thing happened. One of the soldiers handed Chen a small hand revolver. Chen took it with trembling hands, a bewildered expression on his face.

"Mr. Chen," began Chamberlain. "You're a pacifist by nature, yes? I know the thought of killing another human being fills you with abhorrence, but what if it was kill or be killed?"

Mason turned his gun from Kessler and aimed it at Chen's temple. "Put the gun to Kessler's head," he ordered Chen fiercely. Chen, still shaking, slowly complied.

Chamberlain's tone was cool. "This _is_ an interesting situation. You know how volatile Mason can be. Remember Hayashi. He does not share your values Mr. Chen, particularly with regard to the sanctity of human life. He is itching to pull the trigger, so think carefully about what you say next. Can you sabotage the UN convoy?"

Chen stood silently, gun shaking, his tufts of thinning grey hair damp with sweat. Mason pushed his rifle harder against his temple and cocked the safety catch.

"I'm waiting Mr. Chen," said Chamberlain, a nettled edge to his voice.

Chen hesitated before folding. "Yes, we can try."

Chamberlain clapped sarcastically. "Bravo, that's the spirit," he said condescendingly. "In that case you're in charge. Now shoot Mr. Kessler please."

"What?" replied Chen, astonished.

Mason poked Chen hard with his rifle. "You heard him," he spat.

Kessler looked up at his colleague, his eyes pleading and full of fear.

"I can't!" said Chen, his voice unsteady.

"Come on Mr. Chen. It's you or him. Call it the survival instinct. We would all be prepared to kill if we were in mortal danger. Even you. Believe me, with Mason's gun at your head, you _are_ in mortal danger."

Mason's bloodless lips parted into a perverse smile at what he perceived as a compliment.

"You'll kill me anyway!" cried Chen.

"I promise I won't. That's the whole point, Mr. Chen. Sabotaging the convoy gives me negotiating leverage with the UN. You kill Kessler and you become indispensable. Call it a promotion if you will." Chamberlain gave a haughty chuckle. "In fact I was thinking about offering you a post in my new government as head of counter cyber-terrorism."

The tense stand-off was interrupted by the hydraulic hiss of the sealed hatch. It swung forward and Julianne nonchalantly strode in. Ignoring the tense situation, her eyes lit up when she saw Chamberlain. She trotted over to him, wrapped her arms around him and planted a full, deep kiss firmly on his lips.

Chamberlain, taken aback, initially pulled away, but she grasped him firmly around the back of the neck. She pressed hard with her fingers to pull his head back so she could reach him, kissing him again. Everyone stood and watched, some even raising a smile, and it seemed to ease the taut atmosphere.

"That's for saving Harry," she gushed. "I want to thank you properly later," she continued flirtatiously.

Chamberlain, still stunned, did not contradict her. "Julianne," he gasped, extricating himself from her firm grip, "I wondered where you were."

Mason coughed loudly. "Sir, we were just about to kill Kessler," he reminded the Deputy P.M.

Julianne, still clinging to Chamberlain, turned to Mason. "Giles is not a killer. He is a wonderful, compassionate man." She turned back to Chamberlain and kissed him salaciously again.

Chamberlain didn't want to disappoint Julianne. "We need Kessler and we need Chen. I also need your assurances that we can break into the UN convoy."

Kessler, still on his knees, spoke first. "We'll give it our best shot."

"Thank you for your understanding, Anatoly. You have forty-eight hours." He glanced over at Mason and the hard-faced soldier scowled like a delinquent schoolkid. He snatched the gun from Chen, irritated that his entertainment had been spoiled. Kessler rose unsteadily to his feet, mopping his temple which slowly dripped with blood.

Chamberlain turned to Julianne with his best media-friendly smile, exposing his even white teeth. "Now Julianne, let's see just how grateful you are for my showing clemency to Harry?" He took her by the hand. She let him lead her out through the hatch with a smile that was bright but just a little forced. As she left her eyes flashed briefly at Kessler. The Czar knew that she had done what was required. The device she had placed at the back of his neck had taken many months of secret research. It was a tiny but ultra-sticky micro-transmitter. The sticky polymer they used literally melded to the flesh, interlocking and fusing with the skin at a molecular level. It used the same principle applied when the skin heals after an injury. The cells found their opposing partner by 'sniffing' each other out. The membranes adhered to each other with enormous plasticity, acting like a molecular Velcro.

The micro-transmitter they used was a result of Kessler's studies in nanotechnology. The device was millimetres in length; hardly visible except as a tiny spot that even on close examination looked like a slight indentation in the skin.

Given their limited access to materials, secured through dangerous clandestine missions above ground, it was an extraordinary engineering achievement. Just as importantly, it was a strategic tool that would allow them to track Chamberlain wherever he happened to be. He was not quite sure how he would use that information as yet, but he was confident it would alter the balance of power somehow.

## CHAPTER 41

"Am I a prisoner here?"

Pelham pondered the question, looking across at Harry Clarke. Other than the Prime Minister's usual sentries perched silently in the corner, they were alone in the sumptuous drawing room at Chequers. The room had hosted many famous dignitaries in the hundred plus years it had been the country residence of the incumbent Prime Minister. From the sparkling chandelier to the spectacular portraits of previous inhabitants and its tasteful cream decor, the room was a tribute to a glorious imperial past.

The early morning sun streamed in, its tepid warmth magnified by the tall lattice windows. It made the large room bright, shining on the dusty volumes of thick legal texts on the bookshelf at one end.

"It depends on how you phrase the term. It's not Belmarsh."

Harry considered that answer. They had allowed him to clean up. He had taken a proper shower, and for the first time in months felt faintly human again. They had even given him a crisp new suit to replace his orange prison-issue jumpsuit. The mystery was why he was here in the first place. They had dragged him out into the cold courtyard at Belmarsh Prison a little more than forty-eight hours before. He had heard about people making peace with God, and calmly going to their deaths. He had been far from that. He had been absolutely petrified, not just with the prospect of death, but with the terrible realization that he would never see Byron again.

The farcical judicial system had robbed him of everything that made him human, and the fact of going to his death as an inadvertent martyr was cold comfort. Then suddenly he had been sprung from prison, not over a wall or through a tunnel, but out through the front doors in full view of the prison officers. As he did so they stood aside like some ceremonial guard of honour, although there was definitely pent-up anger in Warden Hanrahan's fleshy scowl. They had driven him directly to Chequers where, in time, his nemesis was waiting for him.

"I want to see my son."

Pelham gave a condescending smile, but his eyes were cold. "Be patient Harry. We have work to do first."

"Not before I see my son," persisted Harry.

Pelham gave a deep sigh and banged his fist on his hand-crafted polished oak desk, sending a pot of pens flying. "You're in no position to make ultimatums Harry. If it wasn't for my intervention they would have dumped your body out with the trash by the afternoon. I could just as easily send you back."

"I doubt you did it out of compassion," shot back Harry.

"Whether I did or not is irrelevant. I'm a politician and I take advantage of opportunities as they arise. Your situation presented me with an opportunity. You were found guilty of some very serious crimes against the State, and a death penalty was the only option. For whatever reason your rantings gained some degree of resonance. I had the foresight to recognize that having you eliminated would be counter-productive to my tenure as Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister reached for an inhaler and gasped painfully as he sucked on it. The combination of a punctured lung and broken ribs had clearly left him weak. Harry had been told about the attack on the drive to Chequers from the driver, who had probably paid for his indiscretion. He found sympathy impossible, but had to admit the visible lacerations on Pelham's face and neck looked raw and painful. It rendered him more vulnerable somehow.

"Exactly why am I here?"

The P.M. took a deep breath and put down his inhaler. "I seem to have an image problem, much of which is down to you and your illicit broadcasts. Having you executed was damage limitation. You're much more useful to me alive. You can remedy the harm you caused. I want you to make some more public broadcasts, only this time renouncing the broadcasts you made. For whatever reason, you appear to have the credibility I need."

Harry gasped at his audacity. "What the hell makes you think I would ever do that?"

Pelham rubbed his temples, squinting. His face looked drawn and haggard. "Because you don't have a choice. All I have to do is click my fingers and you could be taken out of here to endure a slow and painful death. You would be wishing you were back in the firing squad because what I could do to you would be far more excruciating. Death would be a mercy."

Harry fought to control the tremor in his voice. "But you've already told me I'm better off alive than dead."

"Yes, as long as you cooperate." The angle of the sun had slightly altered so it shone on the desk. Pelham got up stiffly, hobbling to the window like an old man, and adjusted the blinds. "Of course we have other ways of persuading you to help us." His fingers played over his tablet. "How long is it since you've seen Byron?"

Harry was momentarily dumbstruck. His mind raced as he struggled for an answer. There had been a time when he had counted every single day. One day he had inexplicably stopped. The thought suddenly flooded him with guilt. He would have become a teenager now. "I d-don't know," he stammered. "Nearly a year."

Pelham smiled, more a grimace, and handed him the tablet. On it was a still photograph of one of the deportation camps. He touched the still with his finger and the image coalesced into a short film. The misery and degradation of these open prisons was plain to see, and at first Harry was bemused. Then the images moved to the camp field hospital, where rows of dying patients lay in makeshift camp beds in a soporific state. Some of them wailed and cried out as if they were at the threshold to the gates of hell. From the far end a figure emerged onto the screen.

It took Harry a moment to recognize the boy. It was Byron alright; he knew the curves of his face, the shock of luscious auburn hair he had inherited from his mother. Yet he looked more different than Harry had ever imagined. He was a little taller, but thinner, more gaunt. Not even the camera could hide his disposition. He looked somehow mature, more serious, as if adolescence had passed him by. His eyes had a haunted look, as if he had seen things that no thirteen year-old child should have to.

The film stopped with Byron in the foreground, and Harry just stared at his son, his insides knotted.

Pelham took the tablet back. "He's alive and well Harry and he's waiting for you. I understand that conditions are quite tough in the camps. My operatives tell me that he is working in the field hospital at Salisbury. He's a very brave boy, working so closely with that terrible sickness. What's to say he doesn't get exposed to it and die a horrible death like his mother? Every day he is in there surely increases his chances. You can take him away from all of this. All you have to do is make the right choices."

"You wouldn't harm him?" said Harry through gritted teeth.

Pelham waved his hand dismissively. "Of course not Harry. I'm deeply disappointed you would even consider that. I'm not a monster. Many terrible acts have been committed in my name and with your support I intend to set the record straight. I will not allow the United Nations to invade and overrun our country, especially while I still represent the people. My speech at the weekend will unify this country."

"Are you so blind that you could still believe that? Under your leadership this country has suffered beyond measure. I've seen first-hand the effects of your policies."

Pelham sat back in his high leather chair and clasped his fingers. He assumed a scholarly air. "What you think you have seen may not reflect the reality. You need to look at the bigger picture. I agree that there has been some bitter medicine to swallow. The country was already suffering severe ailments when I took over. I represent the politics of rage and frustration. I never said it would be easy. Consider where this country was when I took over."

Pelham pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking over his next words. "Wallace Bentley's Labour government had steered this country to the brink of financial ruin. In the eight years they were in power, our National Debt increased to 200% of our Gross Domestic Product, the worst since 1950. We were at real risk of defaulting on our debts, and inflation had spiralled out of control. We were held economic hostage by China, Russia and the Asian economies. No wonder the UN Secretary-General described us as a third world country. That's what we had become."

"How does that justify anything?" interrupted Harry.

Pelham gazed at him earnestly. "Think Harry, you lived through this. Bentley's mismanagement destroyed lives. We suffered a huge spike in evictions, closely followed by suicides. Young British families were being cast out on the street, while the tide of migrants continued unabated. Our infrastructure could not sustain the flood. Many middle class people were cast into poverty as the unemployment rate continued to rise. Crime and social decay followed. The people needed a strong hand."

He paused, gazing intently at Harry. "People were fearful, but mainly angry – angry at a feckless government that botched the negotiations in our messy divorce from Europe. They were fed up of the tide of immigration. We had lost our identity. My constituents constantly complained that English was often a second language in our schools, minority British children relegated to listening to the Koran in Arabic for large parts of their school day. Through the machinery of political correctness we were robbing our next generation of British children the opportunity to build a strong education. No wonder the brightest were leaving these shores. People were tired of a broken system and a feckless Labour government that could not stand up for itself on the world stage."

Pelham took a breath, his face reddened by the passion behind his oration. He sucked noisily at his inhaler. "Damn stupid thing," he cursed. He found his stride and continued.

"Our people lived in fear. You remember the attacks on Paris, Brussels, Istanbul, Madrid, Nice, Berlin, Manchester, Venice and more. The list goes on. People were tired of being afraid to go to the theatre, concerts, nightclubs, sports events for fear of the next suicide bomber. No-one knew when the next attack was coming." He paused, breathing heavily.

"In more and more places people became a prisoner in their own homes. It's no coincidence that the rise in serious crime correlated with the steep rise in immigration. These people had a complete lack of respect for the police, committing crimes under their noses. So what does Labour do? They arm the police. All it served was to motivate gangs to locate guns through the illicit underground market. There were more gun battles in the street, making some of our urban areas like war zones. The statistics don't lie Harry. We have had more mass shootings than any time in our history since the police were armed. Everyone has heard of Hungerford because it was the first one. But now it seems they are every other week. How many terrorists are home grown, radicalized within their communities, micro-societies that never wished to integrate, hating the country in which they now spend their lives?"

"Your fascist policies made that divide even greater, made the hate burn even fiercer," countered Harry.

Pelham tapped his chin, considering Harry's comment. "It was too late by then. The cancer had spread too far. I had to cut out the tumour before it killed the patient."

Harry thrust forward from his seat. The security guards twitched and began moving in. With one raised finger Pelham sent them back into the corner, where they hovered, ready to pounce. "Is that what you think integration is? A cancer to be cut out?"

"That's the whole point Harry, it's not integration. Our immigrants never integrated."

"That's because successive governments never allowed them to."

"I disagree Harry. Labour used people's taxes to make it easy for them to integrate. They took our welfare and our health service and our generosity, but they never took our culture. It was a conscious choice they made. Some of those societies even had their own local law, like the Sharia law in many Muslim enclaves. Our police, even the armed ones, were afraid to venture in. We can't have people practice a different law to the law of the land."

"Your policies are driven by hate and intolerance," argued Harry.

Pelham merely sat back and gave an ironic smile. "Maybe they are Harry. Hatred of the society that Britain has become, hatred at how British people have become second class citizens in their own country. I am intolerant of the local council that refuses an application for a new Christian church. Yet the same council rushes through approval and funding for a new mosque – because the council leader is a Muslim. Yes, the scourge of political correctness and corruption is all around us. I could not bear to see our country 'go down the toilet' as I think you so colourfully put it in one of your ill-informed tirades. I could not bear to see London turning into a slum, with rats the size of small cats crawling out of the sewers. Britain has become one of the most polluted and overcrowded countries in Europe. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Surely not the systematic mass extermination of countless immigrants? Is anything worth that sacrifice?" said Harry, his tone rising as he recalled that first shocking discovery.

"What you think you saw -"

"I know what I saw!"

Pelham raised his voice over Harry's. "What you think you saw is not an accurate representation of the bigger picture. In any case I would not expect men like you to understand. In life and politics there are often difficult decisions to be made. Decisions that are uncomfortable, that are radical but necessary for the greater good. It takes men of true courage and vision to make those decisions, to accept the collateral damage in pursuit of the bigger picture."

He stood up, knuckles face down on the desk and peering down at Harry, his face twisted with outrage. "Only true leaders like myself are resolute in the face of revulsion from lesser people who bury their head in the sand because they do not have the courage to make hard decisions. They ask people like me to do it for them and then people like you tell the world I'm a monster!" He hobbled to the window, peering out onto the large patio overlooking the extensive gardens, still bathed in brilliant sunshine.

"So to answer your original question, yes you are a prisoner and you are here at my sufferance. Your broadcasts were irresponsible in the extreme. You inflamed tensions and put the lives of thousands of soldiers and civilians at risk. Your task is damage limitation – to publicly admit that the revelations were not true and the footage you took was faked and designed to pressure the government."

"I can't do that!" he protested.

The Prime Minister fixed him with a steely gaze. "Oh I think you can Harry – especially if you want to see Byron again."

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 12

The UN peacekeeping forces have made remarkable progress in recent days. Their distinctive blue helmets have been a welcome feature on the streets of Britain. Following initial attacks in Kent at the start of the campaign, as they made their way from the South Coast, UN forces have encountered only muted resistance. In most cases, when they have encountered groups of soldiers, those soldiers have been disorganized and ill-equipped. Many have dropped their arms and fled or surrendered. This has made progress faster and easier.

In fact, many soldiers have offered to bolster the UN ranks by offering to fight with them against UK forces. Some have claimed they have not been paid for months, they are hungry and demoralized. Others have claimed they don't really understand what they are fighting for any longer.

With resistance waning, Emosi has taken the opportunity to secure a quick resolution by engaging UN peacekeepers in a pincer movement at various key locations further north. Battalions have been landing on the coast of Blackpool and Bristol in the west and Norwich and Skegness in the east. It has represented a huge increase in the number of troops deployed. However, in all locations only small pockets of resistance have been encountered. In many towns and cities, people have welcomed the military vehicles as liberators. They have cheered them on like a homecoming party as the vehicles paraded down the streets.

Not all of the response to the UN has been positive, however. Social media has been littered with stories of UN peacekeepers being heavy-handed and treating captives with brutality. This has placed even more pressure on Emosi, already reeling from fierce criticism he received regarding camp internees. UN soldiers do not have the capacity to provide medical treatment and have been forced to refuse humanitarian aid and abandon the internees they liberated.

Those that have surrendered have been interrogated, with information being the key currency. The UN needs to obtain that information quickly, leading to accusations of coercive methods, up to and including torture, to extract information. They have then been forced to release those same people, leaving them free to complain, parading injuries they claim were sustained in UN custody.

Part of the UN mission is to record and catalogue what they find. The horrific discoveries at the Maidstone deportation camp have been duplicated in many other camps. However, the atrocious conditions are not confined to these camps. The chaos caused by the Government's oppressive policies, military clampdowns and sectarian war have ravaged many formerly beautiful towns. Many people are severely malnourished, frail and weak, exposed to bleak, wintry conditions. Access to medical supplies is virtually non-existent, and besieged residents have nowhere to hide. Whole sections of cities have lost electricity and other basic services. Indeed, the lack of sanitation is an acute problem, and it is only a matter of time before there are outbreaks of typhoid or cholera.

There have been pockets of fierce resistance, particularly in the industrial zone just north of Watford. This is rumoured to be the site of the research facility that allegedly created what is now confirmed to be a synthetically manufactured disease. The facility is a key strategic target, as demonstrated by government forces trying to protect it. The UN forces are in a race against time to liberate this facility, as the implied threat from Pelham remains. Whilst he remains in control of the facility, there is a chance he could attempt to release the pathogen over Europe. It has been one of the biggest pressure points for Emosi. With the French bio-tech team apparently no nearer to a vaccine, this raises the stakes considerably for Emosi. The British military forces have created a type of exclusion zone around the facility, much as they did in the ports.

European air forces remain on high alert, with Britain declared a no-fly zone. Any planes attempting to leave mainland U.K. remain at risk of being shot down. It is likely the safest defence against the spread of the pathogen.

As UN forces continue to make inroads, and the Watford facility becomes a highly sensitive political issue, the burning question is what Lance Pelham is planning. He has not been seen in public since before the recent assassination attempt on his private train. Sources suggest that he is based at his rural headquarters at Chequers. The grounds around the huge country house are crawling with heavily armed PIA soldiers patrolling the perimeter. UN forces have not yet received a command to engage Chequers, but they are closing in. It looks increasingly likely that Chequers will be pivotal in the struggle for control.

## CHAPTER 42

As he read the reports coming in on his tablet, Lance Pelham felt his blood boil. He could have personally strangled every last one of his field commanders. They seemed to have wilted under the UN incursion. Stories had flooded in of soldiers dropping their arms and fleeing, or worse still, surrendering. He began to wonder if it had been wise to get rid of Griffiths. Whilst the former extremist held delusions of grandeur, he had at least possessed some degree of competence. As a former leader of FREE, he also had credibility and respect among the members of the PIA. Pelham had promoted his Chief of Defence Staff, Sir Terence Harding, to replace him. In the light of recent events, that seemed a lamentable decision.

His eye was drawn to a solid glass paperweight and in sudden pique he picked it up and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the large mirror hanging over the ornate marble Victorian fireplace. With a deafening high-pitched clang, the mirror shattered into thousands of tiny pieces that tinkled over the wooden floor. His private secretary rushed into the room, her face registering a combination of shock and concern.

"Is everything alright Mr. Prime Minister?" she said breathlessly.

"Yes of course it is," he replied savagely. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Geraldine Cathcart's eyes flicked toward the broken mirror. "Yes sir," she replied meekly.

Pelham suddenly glared at her with an intensity that made his assistant quiver with apprehension. "Geraldine," he began, "you really are a complete bitch. You strut around like you're somebody important just because you're my assistant. You're predecessor was a thousand times the person you are and a hell of a lot easier on the eye."

"But Prime Minister," she said, her voice breaking, "I've always been so loyal -"

"Shut up!" Pelham interrupted savagely. "I could just snap my fingers and you would be finished. Do you hear? Now get Dr. Heath on my tablet and get out of my sight!"

For a second Cathcart just stood there frozen. Her solid, slightly sour but perfectly manicured features registered deep shock, mixed with hurt and betrayal. "Yes, Prime Minister," she choked, tears welling up and wetting her mascara. She almost ran out of the door and gently shut it behind her.

Pelham stared at the closed door. His cruel rant at Cathcart made him feel slightly better for a moment, but it could not hold back the deep sense of melancholy that pervaded him. She had it coming, he thought, but it only masked the real reason for his vitriol. He missed Rachel desperately. She had been vibrant, intelligent, beautiful and a creative lover. Rachel had betrayed him of course, and left him with no choice. That did not assuage his sense of guilt, or the deep sense of loss whenever he thought of her. They could have made a great future together once Helen was gone.

His thoughts turned to Helen. She had been for many years a loyal wife but she had brought her demise upon herself. His plans for the country were too important to allow her to stand in his way. She had not just threatened divorce. That was understandable. She had threatened to expose him in connection with the death of Rachel. She had crossed the line and could put everything he had worked for in serious jeopardy. He could not allow that to happen. It had been a long time since he had felt anything other than resentment toward Helen. He had barely thought about her in the weeks since her death. The story had led to a frenzy on the social media, whereas Rachel's accident had barely made the Twitter feeds. No-one truly understood that it was Rachel he really pined for.

The beep of his tablet jolted him back to the present and the thin, gawky face of Dr. Christopher Heath appeared. The half-moon spectacles balanced on the end of his bulbous nose nearly fell as he gave a sycophantic but strained smile. "Mr. Prime Minister, good morning."

"No it isn't," he chided him. "Is your facility secure?"

"Yes it is sir. Your forces have done a wonderful job of protecting us. We understand that the UN forces are knocking at the door but I have been informed that we can hold out indefinitely."

"Good."

"I want to let you know our work continues on as before. Whatever is happening around us, our transhumanism project is too important to abandon."

"I'm counting on it. Are the vials ready?"

Heath hesitated, and seemed to shrink from Pelham's screen. "Yes sir, they are ready for use."

"Excellent. Have them ready for collection. I will have my representative collect them."

Heath rubbed his brow nervously and his voice nearly cracked as he spoke. "What do you need them for?"

Pelham was taken aback by the question. "What the hell do you think?" he snapped.

Heath drew back, conflicted, taking off his spectacles. His eyes were wide with fear. "I-I can't let you do that," he said in a husky voice barely above a whisper.

Pelham was stupefied at his audacity. "What did you say?" he growled.

This time Heath replied with more conviction. "I can't let you do that."

Pelham's first instinct was to explode at the scientist's temerity but he fought to remain calm. "Why ever not?" His voice carried a chill.

The scientist hesitated again. "Because there is enough to cover the whole continent of Europe. It is so toxic and infectious it will cause an epidemic."

"That's the idea, Heath," replied Pelham as if explaining first grade math to a child.

"I'm sorry sir, I can't be part of that."

It's not a request _doctor,_ " growled Pelham with barely suppressed fury.

"It will kill thousands, Mr. Prime Minister. In God's name don't make me do this," Heath implored him.

Pelham was adamant. "Your instructions are clear, Dr. Heath. Your team manufactured this pathogen for a purpose. We're about to realize that purpose. Do not defy me Heath. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I expect you to follow through. Have them ready for my representative in twenty-four hours."

"But sir I -"

" _Just do it!_ " Pelham severed the connection and immediately contacted McKenzie. No picture emerged, the former SAS operative made that a policy, but his deep, resonant voice was unmistakable. "Yes, Prime Minister," he drawled.

"Can you get into Heath's facility?"

"I can get in anywhere," he replied arrogantly.

"Good. Time is of the essence. The facility is under siege and it is only a matter of time before UN forces break through. I estimate twenty-four hours. When they do they will find the vials. I need them first as leverage. You may find that Dr. Heath is less than cooperative. He may need to experience your own unique brand of persuasion to give up the vials. After he does he is no longer of any use to me, do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Prime Minister. Just one question. Have the corporate sponsors sanctioned this strategy?"

Pelham could not hide the intense irritation in his voice. "Leave the corporate sponsors to me. I've paid you enough for your loyalty. You follow my instructions. I want those vials in your hands and delivered to Chequers by the end of the day."

## CHAPTER 43

Giles Chamberlain was becoming increasingly desperate. Sitting in the back seat of a nondescript BMW on the way to Chequers, he glanced ahead at his driver, who fixed his eyes on the road like an autopilot. The driver had remained dutifully silent throughout the journey, but that suited Chamberlain just fine. He was too lost in his thoughts to speak. His options were closing rapidly, his supporters drifting away as if he suddenly reeked of failure. People did not want to be associated with the losing team. He understood that perfectly well, but this was far from over.

He thought of Julianne, a welcome diversion from his otherwise broody thoughts. Their lovemaking the previous day had been wilder than ever. It had been passionate, highly physical, almost brutal. She had clawed at him, pleasuring and hurting him at the same time, trying to assert her dominance. Chamberlain was not sure if their rough sex had been fuelled by love or hate. She seemed to oscillate between the two, but it was incredible anyway. She was a welcome distraction to his dark mood.

Since then however, matters had turned against him, almost imperceptibly, but nevertheless with sobering certainty. The Resistance had failed to break into the UN convoy, a failing that Kessler would pay dearly for. He preferred to leave that to Mason.

Indeed the UN had made rapid progress and were now in control of several key positions in the country. They were converging on Chequers and the Prime Minister had summoned him to the country residence several days ago. He could not leave it any longer, or Pelham would be convinced that the Deputy was plotting against him. He knew that Pelham still had the support of the military forces, and not even Chamberlain's security team could protect him if Pelham put a price on his head. He had to be more subtle, to work from within. The rest of the Ministerial team was already encamped at Chequers like a bunch of renegades under siege.

The support of the corporate sponsors had been integral to succeeding Pelham as the leader of the country. Without them his dream of becoming Prime Minister was fading rapidly. This was now about damage limitation. It was quite apparent from recent events that the UN was asserting its control of the country. Surely the end of days for Pelham's regime was rapidly approaching. However he had his list at the ready. The corporate sponsors would regret their lack of vision in failing to support him.

He brightened a little as he thought about his skills. He had got this far through an amazing degree of tenacity and force of will. He had an uncanny ability to always land on the winning side. It might take a while but the winners in this arena were obvious to him. He could yet prove useful, but only from within. That was why he had answered the summons from Pelham.

On their journey they had to negotiate a PIA checkpoint and several detours. At the checkpoint, Chamberlain's driver had skilfully negotiated their onward journey without revealing the identity of his important passenger. It was the only time his driver spoke during the whole journey.

Chamberlain shielded himself behind dark glasses and pulled up the hood on his jacket. It was a purely precautionary measure. These days it was not certain whether soldiers would embrace him as a leader or shoot him as a traitor. The military forces were too fractured and divided to be completely sure. He wished to avoid attention to himself whichever side they were on, but presently they were able to move on. They made two detours to avoid possible conflict. One was a band of marching thugs armed with pickaxes, baseball bats and an assortment of other skull-crushing weapons. They blocked the A40 near Gerrards Cross, marching ominously, looking for someone to fight with. The BMW's occupants had no choice but to turn around and take a detour away from the simmering hordes.

The second detour was even more urgent. In the failing daylight, they landed almost in the centre of a melee between rioters and police in Chorleywood, south-east of Chequers. Flares and firebombs flashed among a haze of tear gas as the police, brandishing riot shields, tried in vain to quell the commotion. "Get us out of here!" yelled Chamberlain. The driver needed no prompting and spun the BMW round, nearly striking a group of fleeing protesters. He veered off and soon the conflict was a distant disturbance viewed through the back windscreen.

Four hours and several detours later, they arrived at the expansive, sweeping grounds of Chequers. It was dark by the time they arrived, but the grounds were a hive of activity. It felt to Chamberlain as if half the army had decamped here. They swarmed around the grounds, forming a tight cordon. There were tanks, Humvees and armoured personnel carriers patrolling the area. Anti-aircraft missiles were trained on the dusky sky in case of a surprise air attack. Heavily armed soldiers patrolled in pairs. It felt to Chamberlain that they were preparing for a last stand. Long before it reached the perimeter, the vehicle was stopped. The driver quietly explained their mission while a dozen soldiers surrounded the vehicle, their weapons trained on the BMW. This time Chamberlain could not hide. They ran him through a facial recognition scanner and saluted stiffly when they realized who their esteemed occupant was.

There were several such checks before they reached the huge mansion, where Pelham's assistant greeted them. Geraldine Cathcart smiled thinly but her eyes were cold. She escorted Chamberlain through the hallowed, gilded halls of Chequers, portraits of previous Prime Ministers staring down grimly at them. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floors of the narrow corridor that ran past the kitchen and appeared to lead to a dead end.

Chamberlain knew exactly where it led, and as Cathcart flicked the switch to reveal the metal elevator doors, he pondered his choices. Just how much did Pelham know about Chamberlain's clandestine activities? Cathcart silently guided him into the elevator for the short ride to the underground meeting room. The Deputy had been in the room several times. He knew that its acoustic insulation, designed to withstand any surveillance, was used primarily for top secret meetings, often those the Cabinet never got to hear about. In a fleeting moment of fear, he thought that Pelham could shoot him down here and no-one except his sycophantic assistant would ever know. He shrugged it off as irrational thinking, but he had to admit he had no idea how Pelham would greet him.

He was soon reassured when Pelham shook received him warmly, a broad grin on his scarred face. He handed his Deputy a large Bourbon. Chamberlain took off his hooded jacket and draped it over a nearby chair as Pelham appraised him carefully. They settled into the comfortable Queen Anne style chairs, at odds with the stark, functional decor. Chamberlain noticed that he still moved with an odd gait. As he sat down he noticed a walking cane resting against the chair. Pelham looked haggard, as if he had not slept for days.

Once they were settled, his smile disappeared like the flick of a switch. "Where the hell have you been?"

Chamberlain sidestepped the question. "You're looking better Lawrence," he lied, sipping at the Bourbon.

"All of the Cabinet is here. We need a Council of War first thing tomorrow."

Chamberlain gave a heavy sigh. "Lawrence, we cannot bury our head in the sand any longer. While you and the Cabinet have entrenched yourselves here, I have been assessing the situation. Our military forces have failed to achieve any sustained resistance against the UN. Our only viable route is to negotiate. We may even be able to stay in power with certain concessions."

Pelham gave an ironic laugh. "I can't believe I'm hearing this Giles. After everything we have worked on together, the sacrifices we have made to make this country great again. This was our grand project. You have always been my ally. I chose you as my deputy because I never once believed that you would lose your nerve."

Chamberlain's face flushed and he loosened his tie. "It's not about losing my nerve! Wake up Lawrence!" he shot back. "We cannot possibly hope to achieve our five-year plan in the current climate. The international community will not allow it. The UN will banish us from power. Even the corporate sponsors have lost faith in the plan."

Pelham's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you know about the corporate sponsors?"

Chamberlain coughed defensively, realizing he had said too much. "Oh, come on Lawrence, the corporate sponsors are the biggest open secret in our regime."

Pelham leaned forward, his posture rigid. "Maybe so, but how do _you_ know they no longer support us?"

Chamberlain hesitated slightly. "While you and the Cabinet have been holed up here, I've been gathering intelligence. It does not look good."

"You didn't answer my question," Pelham pressed him. "Have you spoken to them?" His voice became low, threatening. "You're holding out on me, aren't you? I always wondered whether I could truly trust you."

Chamberlain gave a nervous laugh. "Nonsense, Lawrence, of course you can. We have come too far to give up now." His tone betrayed a lack of conviction which Pelham detected immediately.

"These are dangerous times. You never know who to trust. But these are the times when we need to be the strongest, to eliminate any opposition in the pursuit of our goals. No-one said it would be easy but you are either with me or against me. Which is it?" Pelham's glare was unwavering.

Chamberlain waved his hand casually. "With you of course, Lawrence. I always have been."

Pelham continued to scrutinize Chamberlain relentlessly. The Deputy knew too well the intensity of Pelham's body language around the negotiating table. He could virtually melt the opposition with the ferocity of his expression. "I call the shots Giles. You follow me without question. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Well of course Lawrence but-"

"Then we release the disease."

Chamberlain, sipping at his Bourbon, suddenly choked, sputtering saliva mixed with his drink on the lush carpet. "Lawrence, that's outrageous. Do you know what would happen if you did that? The corporate sponsors would never sanction it. Neither would the Cabinet. At the very least we will need an executive order for such drastic action, and the Cabinet will never agree."

Pelham's tone was dismissive. "I'm not interested in what the Cabinet think. Neither am I prepared to answer to the corporate sponsors, particularly as you seem so certain of what they want. You've forgotten where the true balance of power lies. The corporate sponsors may think they have more power merely because they have provided us with financing, but they can only advise. I have the final say. Not them, not the Cabinet. They answer to me, and so do you. This is not up for negotiation. It is our last roll of the dice. If they do not immediately withdraw their forces, I will release the vials with or without your support. I have the Royal Air Force primed and ready to fly."

"Lawrence, you can't do this," urged Chamberlain. "The UN will shoot down those planes as soon as they leave British airspace."

Pelham casually sipped at his Bourbon. "I'm prepared to take that risk."

"And what about the pilots who will die?"

"They signed up to serve their country, to protect us when called upon. We are at war Giles. When the UN forces invaded our territory they engaged upon an act of war. They must be prepared to suffer the consequences. What choice do we have?"

Chamberlain had a desperate edge to his voice. "To negotiate for Chrissake! Innocent people who had no part in the UN's decision to invade us will die if you release that pathogen. You know how powerful and virulent it is. If an outbreak occurs in the general population it will spread like wildfire."

Pelham smiled, baring his teeth like a hyena. "That's the point. This has gone beyond negotiation."

Chamberlain paused, appraising Pelham carefully. The wicked animal grin and the glint in his eye suggested a degree of pleasure at the thought of taking the action he was proposing. He would actually _enjoy_ murdering thousands more innocent people, just as he had enjoyed the genocide he had wreaked upon his own country. Pelham was descending into madness, an irrational leader who still had the might of the military to support him. He had created in less than a year in office a complex police state exquisitely structured so that its rules of hierarchy meant every person followed orders from their immediate superior without question. The State, under Pelham's direction, had become self-perpetuating, any dissent from within swiftly quashed.

Yet Chamberlain had helped to create this structure. He was as culpable as Pelham. He was merely following orders too, but his culpability went far beyond that. While he had never murdered anyone by his own hand, he had helped to create and flawlessly execute a system that had eliminated countless thousands of people. He had blood on his hands too.

Chamberlain knew that his dream of leading the country would never materialize now. He had to limit the damage. There was only one thing he could do, because Pelham had fallen over the edge.

After an awkward silence Chamberlain merely replied. "So be it Lawrence. I will gather the Cabinet for a briefing tonight."

Pelham leaned forward and clapped his hand on his Deputy's shoulder. "I knew you would see sense Giles."

When his Deputy had left, Pelham sat back in his comfortable chair and rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. He had work to do. The corporate sponsors had clearly betrayed him, and he would have to decide how to deal with them. He always suspected that they lacked the conviction and courage to see it through, but they had been generous if self-serving benefactors. Not only had they become surplus to requirements, but it seemed they were plotting against him. However, he had more immediate priorities.

The anteroom blocked all outside communications, so he took the elevator to the first floor and reached his private chambers. As if on cue, his tablet beeped and he reached for it. The flat, static voice of McKenzie came through the speaker. "I have the vials."

"Excellent. Did you have any trouble."

"No more than expected Mr. Prime Minister."

"What about Dr. Heath?"

"You don't need to worry about him. He's taken care of."

"You really are a mercenary McKenzie," said Pelham roguishly.

"Thank you sir. I got there just in time. The UN is in control of the facility. They won't find what they're looking for."

Pelham had outbid the corporate sponsors using their own money to ensure that McKenzie stayed loyal to him. The man was financially set for life, but would prove useful in the testing days ahead. "Good job. I will send you the coordinates for the vials. You must deliver the vials to my contact. Time is critical. Once you have completed that, there is another problem I would like you to take care of. It's a little closer to home so you will need to make your way to Chequers."

"Understood sir."

He rang off and immediately called Ramsey. The conversation was short. "Monitor Chamberlain's communications and report back to me. I want to know everyone he is in dialogue with and what's been said – calls, instant messaging, social media, anything."

Ramsey was brusque. "Consider it done," he said.

"Oh, there's something else I need you to arrange," replied the Prime Minister.

## CHAPTER 44

In the dark, twilight hour just before dawn, agonized moans ran through the Salisbury deportation camp as inmates began to stir. Even though Spring was just around the corner, the nights and morning were still bitterly cold and the snow refused to melt. The daily humiliation of the roll call was about to commence and Dr. Hilary Warnecki got ready to carry out her daily inspection of the inmates.

If it was at all possible, the conditions in the camp had worsened in the last few weeks. Together with Byron and her nursing team, they continued to fight valiantly but pointlessly against the odds. The camp plague was virulent enough and would have killed most strong, healthy people. The daily influx of people that arrived in her overcrowded field hospital were nothing like that. Weak and frail even before they contracted the disease, their immune system had been weakened by near starvation and the insanitary conditions they were forced to live in.

Worse still, the supplies of antibiotics had dried up, despite her continued entreaties to Sullivan that the rate of infection was increasing, putting everyone in severe danger. The Camp Chief Administrator had been unmoved by her pleas, and merely made lame excuses that the supply network had been interrupted by the UN incursion.

It was typical of Sullivan to cast blame on anyone but himself; even so Hilary was still stunned by his audacity of blaming the UN. He had every reason to fear them, of course. The UN was closing in and he knew they would probably liberate the camp. The whispers flying around the inmates suggested the UN was literally on their doorstep. Sullivan's men were ill-equipped to fight them. For far too long their only enemy had been weak, defenceless civilians. The camp guards had taken every opportunity to brutalize their captives, like a prize fighter itching for one more fight before being forced into retirement.

Hilary was also acutely aware that, in addition to the lack of medical supplies, there was also less food. As it was the inmates were on a starvation diet, and the cases of malnutrition she had to deal with had increased severely, particularly among the children.

She was well aware of incidents of inmates fighting for food, while the camp guards looked on like it was some form of perverse entertainment, taking bets on who would collapse with exhaustion first. She felt it herself, a constant gnawing at her stomach, as if her tissue was starting to turn in on itself. It permeated her every waking moment, and often her dreams, so that sleep became interrupted and she woke up more exhausted than when she fell asleep. Food became an obsession when it was absent, and its absence fuelled the desperation of those trying to stay alive. They clung to the hope that if they could somehow survive another day, it was one day closer to their liberation.

Hilary woke up every morning just wanting to give up and cry at the futility of trying to save lives ravaged by the disease. She adjusted her mask in the small cracked mirror. She really ought to stop looking at herself. Her face felt tight and she looked haggard. Hilary was finding it ever harder to be strong for Byron.

Thinking of the boy, she gently pushed aside the small curtain to his sleeping area in a snug alcove next to her supplies cabinet. Byron was snoring gently under a messy pile of sheets. She touched his shoulder and gently shook him, and the boy's eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning Byron," she said soothingly. She preferred to let him sleep through the dreaded daily roll call, especially as it was so cold again, but the camp rules did not permit it. He stirred and groaned and rose stiffly, yawning deeply and shivering. He smiled thinly at the doctor, and stretched out. Hilary valued this moment, because it was just about the only peaceful part of the day where she was alone with the boy. Sometimes he was open and talkative, other times less so, but it was an important part of their relationship.

Outside of their tiny sanctuary, behind the temporary curtains, Hilary suddenly heard shouting from the hospital ward. She heard the shrill voice of Nurse Clements. "You can't go in there!" Hilary heard her say. Then the nurse gave a stifled grunt as if she had been struck. In that instant, their morning peace was shattered as the curtain was ripped aside and in burst five soldiers. They rarely entered the field hospital, treating it like some form of leper colony, and they wore grotesque, bulky gas masks that muffled their voices. As they trampled through the tiny office area, one of them grabbed Hilary. Even through the bulging frog-like lenses, she could see his probing eyes, wide with a mixture of hatred and fear. "Where's the boy?" he said in a muffled shout.

Before she could answer, two of the soldiers spotted Byron cowering in the corner and they pulled him to his feet. He thrashed around, kicking wildly, but they quickly subdued him with a few sharp punches to the stomach that sent him in a spasm of coughing, and half-carried him out to the ward, his feet dragging on the floor.

"Leave him alone!" screamed Hilary, her vision clouded by tears of frustration at her inability to protect the boy. The first soldier merely pushed her away and she stumbled backwards. A surge of pure hatred unlike anything she had ever felt before in her life shot through her like a bolt of electricity. She grabbed his gas mask, and with a strength fuelled by rage, ripped the mask off and spat in his face.

"You bitch!" he screamed and slapped her hard across the cheek. The acrid taste of blood filled her mouth as she fell to the floor, knocking a cabinet of vital medical supplies over, its contents spilling out.

She held her face, blood oozing between her fingers from a deeply split lip, and glared up at him. "You realize that any transmission of body fluids is enough. I think I may be infected so you will be too." She regularly tested herself, and her last test yesterday continued to show the all-clear, but he didn't need to know that. The soldier stared at her with a malevolence mixed with fear. He quickly donned his mask, as if replacing it quickly could somehow counter the infected spume.

"I should kill you now!" he breathed.

"I wouldn't if I were you. It's a seven day incubation period and you will need my help then."

He raised his hand to strike her again but decided against it and fled the hospital to join his colleagues. Hilary immediately sprang up and raced after them, screaming. "Leave the boy alone! Where are you taking him?" The group of soldiers ignored her as they headed for the main farmhouse. She spotted Sullivan at the door waiting for them, scratching his mottled pepper beard in agitation. She ran as fast as her weak, unsteady legs would allow, the exhaustion rattling through her body.

"What the hell are you doing with Byron?" she shouted in a rasping voice to the Chief Camp Administrator. Sullivan's thin face merely twisted in a grimace, and he looked away from her.

"I'm talking to you!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.

Sullivan merely motioned to his men to move things along. Before she could reach them, they roughly loaded Byron into a caged truck that was idling outside the entrance. They quickly locked the cage down and clambered into the cab. The truck pulled away with a throttled roar.

She ran after it but even as she did, she knew it was a futile gesture. Byron looked back at her, pressed against the cage and yelling something inaudible. He had a frightened expression, desperate for her help while realizing how powerless she was. Hilary's tears began to flow and with hollow legs she marched back to Sullivan, who turned away, heading back to his desk.

"Where are you taking him?" she yelled fiercely.

Sullivan merely shrugged, his poker-face expression inciting more fury within her.

"I asked you a question!" she screamed, whirling him around to face her. Sullivan allowed her to do so and they stood face-to-face, her features contorted with rage and tears.

"I don't know," he said calmly.

"Liar!" she screamed.

"Doctor, I was ordered to take him out of the camp as soon as possible. They come from the highest authority. Apparently some government operatives are picking him up. We were asked to rendezvous with them early this morning. That's all I know."

"You allowed him to be taken!"

"My orders were clear. I had no choice doctor."

She grabbed him by the lapels on his army fatigues. "Tell me where they are taking him!"

He pushed past her to reach his desk but she followed closely. "I told you I don't know. They ordered me to get him out immediately, that it was an emergency. They said no more than that." His voice rose a little, adopting a threatening tone. "You have a roll call to do. I suggest you get on with it."

Hilary wanted to beat him with any weapon she had, but instead she fled back to the hospital, sobbing hard with frustration and fear for Byron.

An hour later, when she had finished the roll call, working through the humiliating process like a zombie, she turned her thoughts to what they planned to do with Byron. At least he was not here, but where had they taken him? She was still perplexed by that question when the morning routine was shattered for a second time. Sullivan had set up an early warning system that resembled air raid sirens. The strident blaring suddenly filled the air, and the whole camp erupted in confusion. As Hilary ran out to see the commotion, camp guards were sprinting toward the camp entrance, holstering and loading their weapons. Inmates who ventured out and got in their way were trampled and beaten down by the guards, intent on reaching the camp entrance quickly. Hilary hung back but followed the guards from a safe distance. The crack of rapid gunfire filled the air, followed by the boom of a large explosion that shook the ground under her feet.

She staggered and nearly fell but steadied herself and continued, the commotion centred on the camp entrance, which she observed at a distance. As she watched, the huge barriers buckled and snapped with a screech of grinding metal. A huge tank burst through, its armoured shell deflecting gunfire that rattled it from all angles. Its turret spun crazily and fixed upon a group of soldiers who were spraying machine gun fire at the tank. A blinding flash erupted from the turret cannon and the soldiers evaporated in a haze of yellow flame, leaving the ground charred and smoking where the soldiers had stood.

The United Nations had arrived.

## CHAPTER 45

Emosi had been receiving constant reports of progress from Rúben Pinto, his diplomatic envoy. Rúben had meticulously documented the chaos they encountered at each stage of their journey. Sitting in his office late at night, his tired face illuminated by the soft glow of his reading lamp, he thought about the conversation they had just had. Rúben had described the liberation of the Salisbury deportation camp, encountering conditions not unlike the other camps. His unit was now circling back to join other units that were descending onto Chequers, the Prime Minister's country residence. The power elite of Pelham's regime were holed up here, continuing their struggle to hold onto power. Reports suggested that Chequers was strongly defended by government forces. It would take considerable resources to break through, and Emosi agonized that the battle would be fierce. He hoped it would prove to be Pelham's last stand, yet the regime continued to control hostile forces, severely hampering the progress of his military forces.

Emosi knew that his term as UN Secretary-General would be defined by the events happening in the U.K. The UN had sustained notable losses during a number of violent skirmishes, and they ran the risk of being dragged into a quagmire in some parts, where heavy fighting had taken place. At times it was impossible to tell just who they were fighting. There were too many sectarian factions and complex arrays of divided groups. The UN had to move ahead with their plan, but it was clear the regime was prepared to dig in and stubbornly resist. There would be no dignified surrender. Emosi was deeply concerned that Pelham might possibly add bio-terrorism to his list of crimes. UN forces had finally broken through the defences at the Watford government research facility which, according to Eleanor Beaufort, was the source of the manufactured pathogen.

However, when the UN quelled all resistance and stormed the facility, they found it had been completely devastated from within. The laboratories had been smashed apart, and the corpses of scientists, still in white coats spattered with dried blood, lay scattered throughout the huge building. The UN tactical unit had ventured further into the bowels of the facility and discovered a number of underground levels. In these dark, forbidding levels, the team had uncovered compelling evidence of human experimentation. Like the scientists, the victims of these brutal experiments had been slain, and there was no-one to attest to the gruesome activities. There had been no time to remove any evidence, so the stark, dead scene that the UN team encountered was testament enough to what had taken place here. He had yet to see the images, but he was not looking forward to it.

The UN team included two specialists from the Paris bio-tech operation who were able to test and confirm that no trace of the pathogen could be found in the surrounding area. In other words, no booby-trap had been laid for the UN team, at least not as far as the disease was concerned. The fact of seeing no trace worried Emosi. The release of the pathogen remained a highly viable weapon in Pelham's armoury, particularly as a suitable vaccine had eluded the French scientists.

He continued to work through the stack of reports on his tablet, finding it difficult to tear his thoughts from the British crisis. It was hardly as if the U.K. was the only trouble spot in the world. There was plenty more to keep him occupied, but he kept coming back to Pelham. It was apparent from the recent incursion that he would never surrender or even negotiate. For a narcissist like Pelham the thought of negotiating with the enemy was alien to his nature.

Accordingly, when his tablet beeped he was taken aback to see the origin of the call. He slid his finger across his tablet and the image of Giles Chamberlain, the Deputy Prime Minister, appeared on screen. His normally cultured persona was decidedly absent. He looked edgy, continually looking to either side, his voice intense. "Is this line secure?"

"Giles, good evening, what a pleasant surprise," said Emosi in his best diplomatic voice.

Chamberlain's tone suggested he was in no mood for any levity. "Is the line secure?" he repeated emphatically.

"Yes it's secure."

"Good. I need to warn you that Pelham is planning a biological attack. I don't know the details but I know he has the pathogen you've been looking for. He retrieved it before you reached the Watford facility. Kobie, he has gone crazy. I want you to know that I was not part of this. I hope you'll remember that when the time comes. I want to help. I have just one condition."

"It doesn't sound like you're in any position to set conditions Giles," retorted Emosi shrewdly.

Chamberlain ignored the jibe. "I'm messaging to you a list of thirty individuals, business leaders, entrepreneurs, industrialists, wealthy philanthropists. It's encrypted. Before I do I want your guarantee of immunity from prosecution."

"After everything you've done? That's beyond my power Giles."

"At the very least this disclosure should be considered a huge gesture of mitigation."

"Okay."

Emosi's tablet beeped and he keyed in the encryption password to access the message. He looked at the list. Most of them were well known business figures, most of them eminent in their field. They were capitalist through and through. Indeed many of the names he recognized as exhibiting far right-wing sympathies. Most, however, were highly respected individuals whose spectacular achievements in business had earned their reward. If there was one common bond that this diverse list had, it was that they were all exceptionally wealthy.

"What am I looking at?"

"A list of thirty of some of the wealthiest men and women in the country."

"I see that," snapped Emosi impatiently. "What's the significance of the list?"

Chamberlain's tone was edgy. "You don't think that Pelham stayed in power on his own merits? He has been bankrolled by this syndicate from day one."

Emosi rubbed his temples as he scanned the list again. "Some of these people have business interests that extend far beyond British borders. They have global reputations to consider."

"Of course they do. Hence the need for secrecy. These people have been operating in the shadows, attracted by Pelham's ideology but too Fabian to be publicly associated with it."

"And yours."

"My what?"

"Your ideology. As far as I am concerned, whatever atrocities have been committed by your government – and we are finding more and more every day – you are equally culpable as Pelham."

"I suspected you would think that. Hence my condition. I am putting myself in considerable danger by giving you this list. An attempt to make reparation. I can see the writing on the wall. I'm hoping that this will count in my favour when we are held to account for our actions."

"How do I know the list is genuine?"

"You have my assurance that it is."

"I will need to investigate it, of course. No doubt these businessmen and women will deny any involvement. I may need further evidence to take this further."

Chamberlain's exhausted sigh was audible through the tablet. "I have given you what I can. You investigate properly and you will find your evidence. I am going to be a marked man if the sponsors find out I passed the list to you, and let's face it there are very few of us who know about them. You investigate with discretion and make sure I am protected first."

"I can't offer any guarantees."

"I guess that's the best I'm going to get. But be warned that Pelham has fallen over the edge. He has the resources and an incentive to launch a biological attack. I have to go."

The strained face of Giles Chamberlain immediately disappeared from his tablet. Emosi sat stunned, his eyes flicking over the list again. He would direct his legal team to investigate immediately. More importantly, if what the Deputy had said was true, Europe would need to brace itself for a biological attack.

He glanced at the time. Even so, his personal assistant answered his call immediately on the fourth call, her sleepy voice greeting him as professionally as ever. She was used to his late night interruptions to her sleep. "Sorry to wake you Dahlia. We have a situation. I need you to call an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council for eight o'clock this morning. And get Francois Bouchard. Tell him he will need to advise his contacts in government to instigate first level precautionary containment protocols for the designated cities within airstrike distance of the United Kingdom. Finally get me the Commander of the Vélizy–Villacoublay Air Base. We need to upgrade to an amber alert and have the fighter jets ready to fly tonight."

When Chamberlain severed the call, Ramsey took off his headphones. Sitting in a darkened control room in the bowels of Chequers, he had recorded the whole conversation. It confirmed the Prime Minister's worst fears. Ramsey's fingers danced over his tablet and Pelham ghosted onto his screen.

"Yes Ramsey?"

"Sir, you were right about Chamberlain. You need to listen to this."

"Okay, send the file over. What's the outcome?"

"Sir, he has warned the Secretary-General that a biological attack is imminent. Also, the corporate sponsors have been compromised. Emosi has their details."

"Jesus, he had to go and do it," gasped Pelham. "Stand by for further instructions." Pelham's face disappeared before Ramsey had a chance to respond. He sat back in the dark room, hands behind his shoulders, smiling wryly. He knew he had done a good job exposing the Deputy. Pelham never forgot those who showed him true loyalty.

## CHAPTER 46

The deadline was about to expire and Mason relished the thought of doing something he had been prevented from doing previously. Before Chamberlain left the bunker his instructions to Mason had been explicit. If the resistance cell had not broken into and sabotaged the UN's cyber defence network within forty-eight hours, then Kessler was to be executed. He flicked the dial on his wristband and the tiny computer flashed the chronometer. It showed forty-seven hours and fifty-five minutes. Getting out of here would come as a relief to Mason. He was sick of being underground while so many of his soldiers were under the sky, engaged in proper combat; fighting insurgents or more likely, the UN's invading force. There were only a few soldiers left in the bunker, as the cell had put up little resistance and were not perceived as a threat. Most of them were skinny, pale nerds he could squeeze the life out of with his bare hands. He was keen to see the back of this place as quickly as possible.

Mason was irritated at Chamberlain's subsequent failure to issue further instructions. He had not responded to Mason's string of messages, so it was time for him to exercise executive authority. In the absence of further conflicting orders, the original orders still stood. That was the rule on the battlefield. His powerful rifle was slung across his shoulder like some security blanket, but he holstered a small handgun as he made his way to the operations room. The small gun was more effective. The assault rifle he used on the Japanese guy had caused a mess when he had blown a hole in his chest. Everyone had got splattered with blood in the confined space. Better to use a smaller handgun, cleaner and equally effective with an accurate head shot. It would be an easy kill.

The hydraulic door hissed open and he stepped into the control room just as his chronometer beeped to signify forty-eight hours. He immediately brandished the small handgun as a number of faces looked up from their monitors to glance at him. He loved the fact that most of them showed abject fear on their faces every time he entered. Being feared gave him a form of adrenaline rush that few things could master, an actual kill being one of them. He could already feel his body chemicals flowing in anticipation.

"Where's Kessler?" he barked at no-one in particular.

A few operatives buried their heads in their monitors, afraid to lock eyes with the army Captain. They knew what Mason was capable of. Yi Chen was sitting at one of the monitors and he got up to face Mason.

"Why are you asking?" he challenged Mason, hanging back out of striking range.

"Don't play games. You know why I'm here, Mr. Chen."

Chen started to protest, but a throaty voice from the inner office carried through. "It's okay Chen, I know exactly why Mason is here."

Mason gave a satisfied smile, more like a grimace. "You knew I would be, Kessler. The deadline has expired. Have you stopped the UN?"

"Of course we haven't, Mason," fired back Kessler, exasperated. "We told you already it was impossible."

Mason was in no mood for compromise. He had secretly hoped that they would not succeed. "Then you know what that means Kessler." Mason stroked his gun for effect, his long fingers caressing the silver steel barrel. He was focused on Kessler and failed to notice Chen silently slip away.

Kessler's shoulders slumped and he suddenly looked exhausted. "Look Mason, I know you think you've got to do this but can I ask one thing?"

Mason broke out into a harsh laugh, like the yelping of a hyena. "I suppose it is a tradition to give the condemned man a last request."

"Thank you. Please don't shoot me in front of my people. Can we take it outside the bunker? The tunnels there are quiet. We can get it over and done with quickly. They don't have to see anything."

Mason enjoyed hearing the submissive, pleading tone of his captive. For him the power over life or death that he wielded was the ultimate high. He could sense the other man's fear. It was a beautiful thing to behold just before the kill, like the anticipation of sex during foreplay. He pondered the request carefully. "No," he said finally. "I would like to kill you here, so everyone can watch. I'm a reasonable and compassionate man. If anyone wants to leave they do so now, but I might just use them as target practice." He laughed menacingly.

No-one moved, the atmosphere tense and expectant. All eyes were on Mason, who was enjoying the performance. He casually released the safety catch on his revolver. As he did so, he took his eyes off Kessler for the merest second. It was enough.

Kessler launched a solid punch to Mason's square jaw. The man barely flinched, but he stumbled back. Kessler raced to the doorway, gaping open where Chen had left it. A red mist descended on Mason. He let out an animal howl and fired toward Kessler's fleeing figure. The noise exploded around the chamber, sending operatives diving for cover. In his anger, Mason's usual precision was compromised and Kessler disappeared into the darkness. Furious, Mason sprinted after him through the hatch into the dark passageways outside.

A slight feeling of claustrophobia hit Mason in the suffocating gloom, a contrast to the subdued but comforting light inside the main bunker. Kessler was nowhere to be seen. Mason had no choice but to stop short and compose himself, his prey temporarily out of reach.

"I'm coming for you Kessler!" he shouted, but his voice merely echoed, bouncing off the glistening walls of the passageways. He was met with only silence. Mason pulled out a flashlight and made his way along the narrow path. He was poised and ready to react, knowing his quarry must be close. The flashlight bounced off the clammy walls, arrowing through the blanket of gloom. Overhead a network of rusty metal piping and ducts ran along the passageway. They dripped water slowly but steadily onto the rock floor, making it slippery. The path suddenly turned at right angles, leading to a longer tunnel, which presently opened out onto the storage area of the bunker. As he passed the raised steel platform, Mason spotted piles of cardboard boxes and discarded equipment. Some of those boxes were the remains of UN food parcels. Most had been ripped open and their contents spilled onto the floor.

A fleeting black shape scurried along the floor and was lost in the shadows. No doubt the rats had eaten most of the food. It gave Mason an idea. When he finished off Kessler he would drag him here to be finished off by the rats. A fitting tribute, he thought. Where the hell was he?

In the mercurial gloom, he continued past the platform into the tunnel down a set of metal steps toward a tiny passageway that led off from the main corridor. The tunnel narrowed so that it was barely wide enough to squeeze through. Mason felt the slow cold drip of water from overhead pipes on his head, his anger dissipated into a nagging concern. Would he be able to find his way back in this labyrinth? He kept going and presently emerged into a small chamber, from which two tunnels radiated off into the darkness.

His initial high at the thrill of killing had begun to subside. He berated himself for his uncharacteristic lapse in professionalism. He should have been ruthless, but had hesitated and allowed the bastard to get away. He shone his flashlight into the left tunnel and the diffuse beam of light was swallowed up into the blackness. God knows what was down there. Suddenly a larger fleeting black shape appeared in the void. It had to be Kessler! Instantly Mason fired off a volley of shots blindly into the darkness, and raced down the tunnel after his prey.

The noise of the shot reverberated in the narrow tunnel with an intensity that nearly burst his eardrums. He holstered the revolver, its cartridge spent, and pulled out the assault rifle in its place, feeling its comforting weight. The rifle had its own flashlight which played along the narrow tunnel as he galloped down it. The black shape had gone but he sensed that Kessler was close by. Ahead the tunnel began to taper outwards and he slowed down as the tunnel widened into an open area. He swung his rifle in an arc and saw the figure darting through the shadows. He raised his rifle, about to shoot, but in the light of the weapon he realized he was too slow. Kessler was taunting him and Mason felt his temper rising. He would make sure Kessler suffered before he died. A single shot to the temple was too quick. Anger driving him on, he raced in the direction the figure had hurried to, rifle cocked and ready to shoot. Without warning a pair of hands emerged from the darkness and shoved him hard. He lost balance and staggered backwards. Suddenly the ground gave way and he fell.

Scrabbling futilely to hold onto anything in the darkness, he dropped heavily and awkwardly into black water. It was barely a few inches high, and below it a concrete base. An intense burst of agony originating from his right leg ran through his body, almost sending him into unconsciousness. There was no such mercy. As soon as he fell he knew it was bad. The leg was twisted unnaturally and as he shone the light on the injury, the sight of his exposed, blood-soaked tibia bone sent him into spasms of retching. The pain was more intense than any wound he had received on the battlefield. As blood flowed into the dirty water, his senses became aware of a new sensation beyond the unbearable pain. The stinking, fetid stench of the sewer in which he sat with a compound fracture to his leg, and with no way out.

He wanted to sleep, to block out the pain, but using all his military training he fought to stay conscious. He knew that if he didn't alleviate his situation immediately, he would be stranded here. He had to take action quickly. Above, in the darkness, he became aware of faint voices and he shone his rifle light upwards. He had fallen about twelve feet.

"I think he's incapacitated. Be careful he doesn't shoot up at us." Mason recognized the oriental twang. Chen, the Chinese guy. Another more familiar voice responded. "They'll never find him here." It was Kessler. His face emerged briefly in the hole that Mason had fallen through, but the pain had dulled Mason's senses. He was far too slow with his weapon. "Will you help me?" he pleaded. "My leg's broken and I'm losing a lot of blood."

The voice that came back was harsh, guttural. "Why the hell should we help you Mason?" said Kessler. "You were about to kill me in cold blood. We also have a score to settle for Hayashi."

"I was just following orders," shouted Mason, his voice bouncing off the walls. He ripped off a sleeve to turn into a tourniquet for his leg. The pain had subsided slightly but his leg had started to go numb and he felt noticeably weaker, as if his energy was slowly seeping away. Mason knew he had already lost too much blood. "For Christ's sake, don't leave me here, you're better than that Kessler."

Ironic laughter drifted down from above. "No, I don't think I am. We have a lot in common Mason. Like you, I'm a ruthless and callous sociopath with little remorse for my actions. Like you I have no respect for human life. That sewer is the right place for you. Be careful, the rats down there are pretty big, and once they smell your blood they're going to come running."

A chill of fear coursed through Mason's weakened body. With all the energy he could muster he screamed back up the hole. "You can't do this! When I get out of here I'm going to dismember you alive!" His words tumbled into the void and the only sound remaining was the soft tinkling of the fetid water running around him. His tormentors had already gone.

Mason had been complacent, thought Kessler. Most of his soldiers had gone above ground to fight against the UN, leaving only two young and inexperienced boys to guard the bunker while Mason went to execute him. They had been ordered to stay together while he was away, so when Chen had raced into the bunker crying out that their leader had severely injured himself, they raced to the rescue, following Chen back out into the dark labyrinthine passageways.

Chen had emerged about forty minutes later, smiling broadly, offering a rare glimpse of his yellow teeth. "Not terribly bright boys," he merely said.

Kessler smiled. He knew exactly what Chen had done. With his encyclopaedic knowledge of the passageways around the bunker, it would have been easy to lead the two soldiers down a blind alley. He could quickly slip away into the darkness before they could react and shoot their guns into the void. Now Chen had returned, the bunker would be sealed, blocking off any access for the soldiers to return. There was a route to the surface but it was doubtful they would ever find it. They could wander for months before stumbling across the correct route. Kessler felt a twinge of guilt but quickly dismissed it. They were casualties of war.

Later, as evening approached, Kessler was working in his office when Julianne appeared at his door. She looked intently at him. He had seen that look on her face before and it instantly caught his attention. He followed her into the main control room where she bent over a large monitor. By her shoulder Nikolai was hunched over the controls. "Get it up on the main screen," she instructed Nikolai.

As Kessler walked over, Nikolai's hands flew over his tablet and the image on his monitor was projected onto the large screen. Their tiny remote-controlled drone was, according to its GPS coordinates, hovering over the Buckinghamshire countryside. It tracked the path of a figure that was crashing through the snowy woodland, its sense of urgency suggesting a hot pursuit. Kessler was fixed on the screen. As the drone swooped lower, a familiar face came into focus, green and distorted under the night vision camera. Its distinguished features were further twisted by the effort of running and what appeared to Kessler to be a genuine and profound fear. No wonder Julianne had sought his attention. Everyone in the operations centre had stopped work and gazed intently at the large screen, following the drama unfold like a movie.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 14

UN forces are now moving toward Chequers with a renewed sense of urgency following the raid on the Watford facility. When UN forces finally broke through the determined resistance of government troops, they found the research facility had been completely dismantled. Most of the equipment had been destroyed, and sources suggest that no trace of the bio-manufactured disease could be found at the facility. If the pathogen had ever been there, then great lengths had been taken to remove any traces. However, they apparently found some evidence of horrific human experimentation.

Pelham, openly defiant even as his array of forces is being devastated on the ground, has continued to dial up the rhetoric. He has scoffed at the raid on the facility, claiming it to be a cutting edge medical research facility that would take medical care to the next generation. He accused the UN of being primitive and backward thinking, claiming that the UN annihilated the facility. This is contrary to UN reports stating it found the facility already destroyed when their forces broke through.

The war of words has escalated with Pelham's continuing threat to deploy RAF fighter jets to 'defend our territory' as he phrased it. NATO fighter jets stationed at Vélizy – Villacoublay Air Base near Paris are on amber alert, ready to engage any British incursion into European airspace. The UN has remained tight-lipped regarding the attempts of the Paris biochemists studying the pathogen. One unconfirmed source suggested that the sample size was too small, which limited the ability to undertake multiple testing in the elusive search for a vaccine. This has made European Union politicians nervous. Although no-one can be certain that Pelham has enough supplies of the pathogen to launch an effective attack, they cannot assume he is bluffing. His incendiary rhetoric makes it a clear and present danger.

The UN is now in control in large parts of the country, with several more deportation camps liberated in the last few days. The shocking scenes first encountered at the Maidstone camp have been repeated at each camp, placing heavy psychological pressure on the UN soldiers. In most cases, they have been hailed as great liberators. This has been countered by accusations of heavy-handedness and brutality, particularly in their treatment of captured soldiers. The problem for the UN is two-fold. Whilst the objective of the mission has been humanitarian as well as military, the UN has been totally overwhelmed by the conditions it has faced. Firstly, the medical needs of released prisoners is far in excess of the resources the UN has at its disposal. The mortality rate among freed internees is too high to be politically acceptable, with accusations that the UN have abandoned prisoners once they have released them. Secondly, the issue is what to do with the captured soldiers. The UN is already overstretched and does not have the resources to contain these prisoners. In many cases they have had to confiscate their weapons and turn them loose, causing anger from many quarters that war criminals are being allowed to walk free.

With Pelham cornered, the focus is on physically removing him from power. UN lawyers are continuing their work of preparing the indictments and reserving time at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. As more evidence emerges, the list of charges increases. The main focus is firmly targeted on Chequers, and the UN convoy is closing in. It is a matter of hours before they reach the grounds, where they expect some fierce resistance from hard-line supporters of the Pelham regime.

In related news, a UN spokesman issued a statement revealing that arrest warrants have been issued for thirty UK based industrialists and businessmen. The list was not made public but the spokesman says that they are 'wealthy people who have bankrolled Pelham's corrupt ideology and will be held accountable.' One tabloid has already described them as the 'Dirty Thirty.'

As forces close in, Pelham has indicated that he will shortly give a keynote address to the British people from his sanctuary at Chequers. With UN tanks rolling in, there is intense speculation that the speech could represent his last stand.

## CHAPTER 47

What a bunch of spineless cowards, thought Chamberlain contemptuously. The emergency Cabinet meeting the evening before had yielded exactly what he had feared. Even as Pelham's regime imploded around him, his Cabinet remained as obedient as lapdogs. They were still intimidated by his ferocious temperament, which was growing more irascible by the hour. Pelham had gone off the rails, yet his Cabinet continued to follow and nod sheepishly at his every direction, too afraid to challenge even as he brought them in as co-conspirators in a disastrous plan.

When he revealed his plan to launch a biological attack on the European mainland, scrambling RAF fighter jets for an all-out offensive, there were concerned murmurs, but no-one stood up to challenge him. Admittedly, he had raged on about the need for unity, and that loyalty was paramount in such testing times. His threat to eliminate anyone who betrayed him clearly silenced the politicians around the table. Pelham perceived dissent as a betrayal, particularly in his current state of mind. His personal security team, standing ominously in the shadows around the large conference room, added credence to his threat.

Chamberlain had largely remained silent during the meeting. There was no point getting himself killed by speaking up at the meeting. Unlike the cowards on the Cabinet, he at least had done something tangible. The UN was on its way and he needed to stay alive until they got here.

Sitting in his darkened bedroom on the third floor, curtains drawn against the world, doors and windows locked and bolted, his tablet suddenly glowed. He picked it up and as he scanned the contents of the message, his face reddened in anger. Emosi had jumped the gun, he thought furiously as he read about the indictments against the corporate sponsors. The media article did not name the sponsors, only that there were thirty. It was enough. Pelham would know it was him, and just as ominously, so would the corporate sponsors. Emosi had hung him out to dry. His chances of staying alive until the cavalry rounded the hill had just diminished greatly. Chamberlain had burned his bridges. As if to illustrate the point, his tablet beeped again. An instant message, its source hidden, but the message was loud and clear. It simply said. "They're coming."

Suddenly panicked, Chamberlain looked around him. He thought he could hear urgent footsteps on the sweeping staircase to the second floor. He peeked through the curtains outside and in the fading twilight saw a solid line of soldiers camped around the perimeter to the grounds. There was no sign of the UN. His chances of survival in the house were slim. He switched off the light and blinked rapidly against the sudden darkness, his eyes adjusting to the gloom outside. He spotted something he had not noticed before. An ancient oak tree towered over the east wing of the house, where he was situated. One large, gnarled branch wound its way toward the building where the branch passed close below his window. He debated whether to make a jump for it but decided it was just too far. Climbing trees was part of a vanished childhood. He had kept himself fit over the thirty years since, but he dismissed the idea of this escape route.

An urgent rapping on his door sent his heart into his mouth. It was loud and insistent. He turned to the branch again. Jesus, it looked a long way down and he would have to leap onto the branch. No choice. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, he opened the window completely and scrambled onto the ledge, crouched in the frame. The knocking grew into a loud thud and raised voices carried through the locked door. Before his courage failed him, he leaped from the window frame and flew for a second before landing heavily on his stomach, knocking his breath away. He immediately slipped down and clawed at the branch to get a grip, struggling hard to wrap one arm over the branch. With a huge effort he managed to haul himself up so that he sat astride the branch, trying to get his breath back. The branch was below the eye-line of his room, and he could not tell if the intruders had burst in yet. He knew better than to wait too long.

Fortunately the ancient trunk had sprouted a myriad of branches. Breathing heavily, his rib muscles sore from the initial impact with the tree, he was able to carefully pick his way down the tree. A tetchy old owl hooted at him, irritated by the invasion to its personal space, but any hostility of the human kind was comfortingly absent. When he reached the lowest branch, the sky now completely dark, he had a ten foot drop to the ground. He swung down to hang on the branch, his arms screaming with the effort of the unexpected gymnastics, and then dropped to the ground, bracing his knees against the impact and rolling on the soft ground. He felt an inexplicable elation at his hasty escape, as if he were on a boy's own adventure. He had no plan other than to get away from Chequers. That would mean getting past the huge detachment of soldiers guarding the grounds, waiting for the enemy.

Chamberlain moved forward stealthily in the dark, detecting no sign of pursuit. He looked behind and saw the brightly lit, sweeping facade of this stately Gothic mansion rising into the night sky. There appeared to be little activity from inside the building, even though most lights had been turned on, bathing the manicured lawns in front of the house in a soft yellow glow. Chamberlain stepped to the side of the lawn into the shadows, skirting along the gravel path. He could not avoid the vast array of soldiers and weaponry. Many stood around their vehicles of war smoking and chatting idly. He walked boldly up to the closest detachment. As they suddenly realized a stranger was in their midst, their rifles snapped up and pointed at Chamberlain.

"Don't move," shouted one of the soldiers in a gruff but nervous voice. Chamberlain stopped and raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. The soldier looked about nineteen, still no more than a boy. His voice cracked with tension. "Who the hell are you?"

Chamberlain gave his best media friendly smile, his white teeth a contrast to the gloom. "Giles Chamberlain, Deputy Prime Minister."

There was a nervous chorus of 'oohs' from the group, and several of them dropped their weapons, but the soldier asking the questions remained firm. "Got any ID?"

"Of course," said Chamberlain breezily, handing over his Parliamentary Pass.

The soldier glanced at it and quickly handed it back. He looked contrite. "Sorry, sir, can't be too careful."

Chamberlain flashed another broad smile and said, "It's quite alright. You're doing a fine job. You can help me out if you wish to. What's your name?"

"Of course sir, anything. The name's Private Wainwright."

"Well Private, I need you to escort me out of Chequers past the battle lines. I have important business to conduct. I need you to take a vehicle and drive me. Can you do that?"

Private Wainwright hesitated for a moment, but then replied, "Absolutely, sir." He ran off and commandeered a small open top jeep, spinning round on the damp grass. "Where do you need to go sir?" he asked, motioning for the Deputy PM to sit in next to him.

Chamberlain duly obliged. "First we get out of Chequers." Then he added. "If anyone comes looking for me, you have my permission to shoot them."

The pair left some quizzical glances behind them as they sped off. Wainwright drove his VIP passenger around the assembly of tanks, jeeps, missiles and rocket-propelled grenades to the edge of the grounds. Soldiers stared at the odd couple as they passed, but no-one engaged them. It was quieter and darker out there, the sprawling mansion diminished to a thumbnail by distance.

Private Wainwright said nothing, focusing on the driving, too afraid to question why the second most powerful man in Britain was leaving the sanctuary of Chequers. Chamberlain watched him out of the corner of his eye. The boy's jaw was set and his muscular frame was rigid as he drove, ignoring the cold wind that whipped through his hair.

The Army had been ordered to protect the old mansion house at all costs. Fleeing the compound did not make sense, but Chamberlain was not about to enlighten him. At some point the boy would have to be dispensed with, but he had not thought that far ahead as yet. He needed to engage the UN forces that were making their inexorable way toward Chequers. They easily passed through the checkpoint at the perimeter. Chamberlain merely flashed his identification card and the soldiers raised the barrier, saluting stiffly as the jeep passed. They were now in the Buckinghamshire countryside, and the black shapes of tall trees were silhouetted against the inky sky, lit only by a thin crescent moon. The headlights from the jeep pierced the darkness, and Wainwright skilfully steered the jeep around the curves and twists in the road. Eventually he plucked up the courage to ask a question.

"Where do we go from here, sir?"

"Keep driving Private. I'll direct you."

Chamberlain sat back and relaxed, shivering against the cold wind. His escape from Chequers had been remarkably easy. The tip-off had bought him valuable time. He had no idea who passed it on but it had been potentially life-saving.

As they turned a corner, the road opened out but Chamberlain saw a dark shape leaning against the retaining wall. It looked odd and as the jeep drew closer, a bad feeling that something was not quite right chilled him. The figure moved and a glint of metal sparkled in the silvery moonlight.

"Get down!" yelled Chamberlain, ducking down as far as he could. Private Wainwright was not so attuned to the danger, and his slower reaction time was fatal. The bullet pierced his skull and he instantly slumped at the wheel, causing the jeep to lurch out of control, spinning crazily. The driverless jeep slammed sideways into the wall and screeched along the stone, sparks flying from twisted metal. Chamberlain, still crouched, was buffeted and slammed against the inside of the jeep like a rag doll. The friction with the wall slowed the vehicle enough for him to hurl himself out. He hit the tarmac road hard, impact pain coursing his body, and rolled into a ditch. Immediately a shot was fired in his direction, but the ditch provided good protection and the bullet slammed harmlessly wide into the undergrowth.

He stayed put for a second, hoping that his assailant would move on and lose sight of him. His body was rigid with the bitter cold and a sense of mortal terror. The jeep jack-knifed onto its side, tossing the inert, lifeless body of the soldier onto the road, and it lay there, wheels still spinning. The noise from the engine died as it stalled and it became curiously quiet. Chamberlain hardly dared to breathe. Even his condensed breath could give him away.

The relative silence was shattered by a raised voice from his attacker. The familiar deep voice sent a chill through Chamberlain as he realized his chances of survival had diminished greatly.

"I know you're out there Giles," growled McKenzie. "You can make it easy for yourself. The Prime Minister's instructions were to bring you in alive – if possible. Given recent events, the corporate sponsors may not be so forgiving. Who do you think sent you the tip? You're an easy person to track."

The voice carried in the stillness and as Chamberlain lay there in the freezing cold ditch, his body scratched and bruised, he tried to calculate how close McKenzie was. Too damn close! A few steps and he would see him in the ditch. There was no time to think. He had to act. Heart pounding, he leaped out of the ditch and hurled himself at the black figure just yards away. McKenzie let out a dull cry as he was knocked hard to the ground. The gun fell out of his grip and clattered away on the tarmac. With the benefit of surprise, and having winded his enemy, Chamberlain scrambled to his feet more quickly than his adversary. He sprinted for the cover of the dense woodland. In the darkness he would surely have slammed into a tree had it not been for the snowy ground. The white ground seemed to almost glow, lighting his way. As his boots crunched on the icy ground, he ran hard, his breath coming in short gasps and condensing around him. He knew that he was at the north side of the mansion, heading toward the village of Ellesborough. The woods eventually would open out onto flat farmland before he reached Missenden Road. He would be exposed at that point, so he needed to get some distance between him and McKenzie.

Glancing quickly behind him as he crashed through the brush, he saw nothing. For a fraction of a second he allowed his body to relax. The lack of focus was costly as his right foot snagged on a protruding tree root. He was sent crashing to the ground, and rolled heavily, knocking the breath out of him. The barbed undergrowth tore at his clothing and a wave of exhaustion suddenly took hold. He forced himself gingerly to his feet. A crashing sound behind spurred his aching legs on. Chamberlain also heard a faint buzz overhead. McKenzie had recovered and was not far behind.

He had to get to the road, but he had no idea what he would do after that. At least the woods provided some element of cover. It was now a desperate run for survival. He knew well enough what McKenzie was capable of. A trained killer who would not hesitate to take him down.

As if to reinforce the idea, he heard McKenzie shouting behind him. "Give it up Chamberlain. You run and I have to kill you. I bring you in and Pelham might just spare your life."

Chamberlain kept running, the undergrowth dragging at his heels, the adrenaline powering him forward. The snow on the ground lit his way but it also provided direction for McKenzie. A bullet whistled past him and splintered the bark of a nearby tree with a dull thud. Jesus, McKenzie was closer than he thought. His legs screamed at the lack of oxygen but Chamberlain never let up, fuelled by fear and the will to survive. He kept running hard, spotting the edge of the forest ahead as the tree density began to thin out. Ahead was a farmer's field that he needed to skirt along before reaching the road. There were houses by the road. He had no idea if any of them were occupied, but it was something to aim for. He gasped for breath, his chest heaving and tight in the frigid air.

He slipped on a wet patch of melting snow and lost his footing. The ground gave way as he tumbled downwards, spinning out of control. He clutched desperately at the undergrowth to halt his fall, but he had too much momentum, and the grass just slipped through his fingers. Suddenly he had landed, and he felt as if he had been stabbed in a thousand places at once. The freezing cold water that immersed him was excruciating, and his limbs began to freeze instantly. It was not deep enough for him to go under, and so he quickly pulled himself out. His body was heavy and hypothermic, his muscles stiffened by the trauma of falling in the large stream. His soaking clothes acted as a drag and, despite the cold, he tore off his suit jacket. Somehow he forced his cramping muscles up the other side of the ravine. He had not fallen far but his body was shaking hard and his energy felt as if it were seeping out like a leaky boat.

He glanced back and the black figure of McKenzie approached the ravine from the other side. Chamberlain kept moving, wheezing heavily, until he broke out of the woods into a farmer's field. He was more exposed here and kept to the dirt track that ran alongside, sheltered on one side by large hedgerows. He did not know how long he could keep going; his body screamed at him to flop on the ground and rest, but he forced himself to push forward in the dark. It was less than a kilometre to the road, but he was slowing down. McKenzie must be catching up, he thought. Taking another glance, he saw the black shape of his assailant sprint out from the wood. The figure paused momentarily and then resumed sprinting toward Chamberlain. He knew McKenzie had spotted him. Another bullet whizzed by, and Chamberlain urged himself on, his legs protesting at the herculean effort. Despite his panic, he perceived that same low distant buzzing emanating from above. It sounded like a drone. In the pale moonlight he spotted the dark ribbon of the road up ahead. It grew closer and closer as he kept running hard, chest heaving with fear and exhaustion. The road was close now, not far at all. Fifty metres.....thirty metres...

Suddenly a lacerating pain exploded in his calf. The agonizing intensity was unbearable, like a hot poker pushed through his leg to the other side. He immediately collapsed to the floor, clutching his leg, torturous screams hurled into the night. Chamberlain tore his trouser leg apart to survey the wound. Blood seeped heavily from it, the skin ripped away to reveal raw tissue and bone. Chamberlain heaved and gagged, trying not to vomit at the sight of his mangled leg. The bullet had missed bone but the muscle was too damaged for him to continue. It took only a few more seconds for his assailant to catch up with him.

"You should have listened," said McKenzie, breathing hard as he reached the prone figure of Chamberlain clutching his leg on the ground. "If there is one thing that Pelham hates, it's a traitor. You probably know that better than I. You have been more than just a traitor. You have sold not only the Prime Minister down the river, but worse still, the corporate sponsors. I can tell you that they are very angry and want you liquidated. Executing you now may be doing you a mercy. These people have long memories and any retribution they inflict on you is guaranteed to be slow and extremely painful. They've seen the ISIS videos."

McKenzie reached into the pocket of his heavy cashmere overcoat and pulled out the gun, still smoking faintly from the shot that had felled Chamberlain. He aimed it squarely at the Deputy's head.

"You don't have to do this," gasped Chamberlain, teeth gritted through the pain.

"Oh, but I do Giles. You left us no choice. You played off my employers against each other. They pay me well to protect their interests. Now get on your knees."

"I can't move!"

"On your knees!" shouted McKenzie savagely.

Chamberlain struggled painfully to comply, dragging the useless leg that had turned the snow around him an angry red. "Listen to me, McKenzie. This regime is over. I took the pragmatic approach. We have to do a deal with the UN or we will all be facing the rest of our lives in jail. Including you. Once the UN take control of the country the corporate sponsors will be held accountable."

"Yes, thanks to you," said McKenzie bitterly, the gun still aimed unerringly at his prey's head.

"Pelham is finished. He's lost his mind. He cannot make rational decisions. He will take you and everyone else with him. Come with me and salvage what you can from this mess. We can meet the UN together and plead our case."

McKenzie's tone was contemptuous. "I never surrender. Only cowards do. Don't try and convince me that you were in this for anything or anyone but yourself. Now, any last words?"

The faint hum of a vehicle could be heard on the nearby road but it barely registered in either men's consciousness. McKenzie pulled back the safety catch on the trigger and straightened his arm. Execution time.

## CHAPTER 48

The live streaming video feed from the drone's night vision camera was, despite the lack of ambient light, surprisingly clear. The assembled group watched the images projected onto the large screen intently. The drone had been programmed to stay within twenty metres of the tracking device, keeping an altitude that varied between twenty and thirty feet. This provided a panoramic view of the landscape, whilst remaining focused on the central figure wearing the tracker stuck to his skin. Its zoom camera occasionally zoomed in on his face.

There was silence as they observed the figure crashing through the woods, clearly being pursued.

"Let him die," said Kessler matter-of-factly, his face a blank mask.

"No, we can't," protested Julianne. "Chamberlain is too valuable. If he's in the hands of the UN it will undermine Pelham's regime far more effectively."

Kessler turned to Chen, who nodded in affirmation. "Julianne's right," he said. "We didn't put that tracker there just for him to die on us. It's far too expensive."

Julianne reinforced the point by admonishing Kessler gently. "You're being too emotional. We need to think strategically."

"But his goons just tried to kill me!" objected Kessler.

"Quit whining. You're alive aren't you?" Julianne fired back. "More than Giles will be if we don't help him this second."

"Have we been able to hack into their internal communications system?"

Nikolai, listening to their conversation, leaned back in his chair, and arms behind his head, nodded nonchalantly. "They have a highly sophisticated encryption system. Not sophisticated enough," he declared smugly. "I was able to break their code and read a number of messages passing between the different convoys around the country. They are closing in on Chequers. The place is surrounded. They are literally hours away."

"Too late to save Chamberlain," noted Kessler, with heavy irony.

"Maybe, maybe not. When we hacked the system we didn't just read their messages. We were able to post our own," explained Julianne.

"Jesus you compromised our anonymity!" yelled Kessler, his voice rising.

"Not at all Anatoly," replied Nikolai casually. "The UN communications network is a closed system. It does not allow outside messages, it only receives messages from other units in the same network. As we had already hacked into the system we could use one of the units like a proxy server to relay our message to the UN. The message would appear to come from the unit currently based in Lancashire, but it came from us. The message preserved our anonymity but we were able to engage in active dialogue with the main convoy. They put us onto the UN's diplomatic envoy, Rúben Pinto. He knows exactly where Chamberlain is. We opened our channel to share the live drone feed with them."

Kessler whistled, clearly impressed. "It's Mr. Kessler to you. So what you're saying is that they are looking at exactly the same images as we are?"

"Even better _Mr. Kessler,_ " replied Nikolai with faint sarcasm, while Julianne smiled broadly. "They even know the coordinates on the tracker attached to Chamberlain."

Kessler mulled this over. "So what do we do now?"

Julianne decided to answer. "There is nothing to do but watch and wait."

The assembly watched in silence as they observed the figure they knew to be Chamberlain tumble down a small ravine and scramble up the bank on the other side. It then broke out into the open fields, closely pursued by a dark figure. The drone rose higher and the picture panned out so they could see that the pursuer was edging closer to Chamberlain. Suddenly they saw the first black figure drop heavily to the floor. The drone moved in closer.

"He's been shot!" screamed Julianne. The other figure soon caught up to Chamberlain and they seemed to converge on the screen. Whatever happened, the pursuit was over.

The Humvee trundled along the road north of Chequers. Heavily armed as it was, the Humvee was still vulnerable to enemy fire. As they approached closer to the base of Pelham's operations, the chances of an attack increased considerably. Rúben understood how dangerous this mission was. When they had received the hacked messages they had initially dismissed them. They appeared to come from a UN convoy further north. The messages were repeated and urgent, and it soon became clear that the messages were credible. Of course there would be an enquiry into how the UN's communications systems had been breached again. It was nothing new, thought Rúben. The US National Security Agency had done it, the Russians had too, but these messages were undoubtedly British in origin.

The messages had been passed to Rúben as the diplomatic envoy, and he had immediately contacted Emosi, who had given the order to proceed. Captain Taylor had been furious, considering the mission far too dangerous.

"I'm not risking my men on a war criminal!" said the Unit Commander, his Kiwi accent even more pronounced by his terse nature.

Rúben gently reminded him that this was not a request and so the Captain, fuming, selected six of his finest soldiers, a skilled driver and five with sniper experience. Rúben joined them, and the Humvee had sped on ahead as an advance party. The main Unit was only five miles out in any event, but camped out as they awaited further reinforcements.

Sitting alongside the driver at the front of the Humvee, Rúben watched the live feed from the drone on his tablet. Access had been granted to him by the hackers, and he knew time was of the essence. It was critical that Chamberlain remain alive; he would be the key witness in the prosecution against Pelham, and could testify that Pelham was planning a biological attack on Europe. At present he was being chased into the woods north of Chequers.

"We've got to go faster!" he yelled at the driver.

The Humvee's engine roared as they accelerated down the dark road on the outskirts of the small settlement north of Chequers. A large rodent jumped across the road, its glassy eyes caught in the headlights. Tyres screeched as the driver sought to avoid it, and the creature tried to scurry away. Rúben felt a bump on the vehicle's chassis which barely slowed its progress. He glanced at the driver. The ruddy-faced Filipino's visage was a mask of pure focus.

They were close to the target, but as Rúben glanced at his tablet again, he saw the running figure suddenly collapse to the ground.

"Chamberlain's down!" he yelled at the driver.

The driver merely glanced sideways for an instant and pressed even harder on the accelerator, the engine racing. As Rúben watched in horror, a dark shape sprinted up to the prone figure of Chamberlain and stood over him. He might as well be watching a movie, helpless at the outcome, as if it was already preordained. Suddenly the Humvee swerved to the side of the road and ground to a halt under the cover of a large bush. In an instant the sniper team jumped out from the back and spread out around the edge of the bush. They were at the edge of the field, and the figures were barely thirty metres away. Rúben's movie had suddenly become a live action event. Rúben tossed his tablet in the passenger seat as he exited the Humvee.

With smooth and disciplined precision, the snipers trained their rifle sights on the standing figure. Rúben knew they had one chance and they had to take it quickly. One of them, a young Peruvian soldier, said to Rúben. "Sir, I have a clean shot. Do I take it?

"Is it a head shot?"

"Affirmative."

Without hesitation, Rúben said, "Take it."

Chamberlain grimaced in pain as McKenzie stood over him. He knew there was more pain to come and then it would be over. He had mentally resigned himself to death, but McKenzie hesitated, as if to enjoy those salacious moments just before the kill. Maybe he was taunting Chamberlain, prolonging his agony, enjoying the spectacle of his suffering. He knew that he had snared his prey. The chase was over and the end was inevitable. Chamberlain's life did not flash before him, as it was apparently supposed to in the moments before death. Instead he felt a calm acceptance wash over him, as if his psyche had detached from the damaged body that lay injured on the snow, blood still seeping. An overwhelming surge of guilt swept over him. He had done some terrible things on behalf of Pelham's regime. Whatever his motivations and belief that he was working in the best interests of the country, he accepted that countless people had suffered and died because of his actions. Perhaps he deserved to die. Maybe that was why, now that the time had come, he no longer had the strength or will to fight it.

"What are you waiting for?" he said bitterly. "Get it over with!"

"Are they your last words?" taunted McKenzie. "Don't you think that when they make the documentary of your life, you might instead give your audience an impassioned speech about how you did what you did for your King and country? I'm most disappointed. Very well."

He aimed the gun squarely at Chamberlain's temple. The Deputy dropped his head, eyes closed, braced for the fatal impact.

Chamberlain heard a dull thud and a groan and his body juddered as if reacting to a trauma that did not arrive. He waited a few seconds before he opened his eyes, and when he did, it was hard to believe them. McKenzie was motionless on the ground, his lifeless eyes fixed in a glassy stare. Thick viscous blood pooled around his shattered cranium, slowly oozing over the snow like a red blanket.

He looked up and saw five soldiers sprinting toward him. Three had rifles drawn, but two others carried a stretcher. Another man, a dark, swarthy figure also dressed in army fatigues but clearly not a soldier, followed behind them. "Giles Chamberlain," he began, looking over him dispassionately. "Under the jurisdiction granted to me by the United Nations and under international law, I am arresting you on suspicion of crimes against humanity. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say will be taken as evidence in later proceedings. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Chamberlain gasped.

As the man with the heavy Portuguese accent spoke, another soldier handcuffed him before he was gently loaded him onto the stretcher. One soldier took each corner as they carried him toward a waiting vehicle. The remaining soldier pointed a gun at his head. He heard the Portuguese speak into his lapel. "We need a medic ready." The accumulated pain and loss of blood finally became too much and he drifted into blissful unconsciousness.

## CHAPTER 49

They brought Harry to a special room in the bowels of the vast mansion house. It was a small concrete chamber, like a bunker, sparsely furnished and solitary. Harry could easily imagine someone being brought here and completely forgotten. Pelham took one of the stark metal chairs and motioned for Harry to take the other one. Only a small aluminium desk separated them. Harry glanced at the thick metal door they had entered through. Pelham's two guards stationed themselves there, while the two bruisers who had manhandled Harry into this room melted discreetly into the corner.

Although the room was just a concrete box, it had one strange feature, a long dark window that ran along one wall, rather like the windows seen in police interrogation rooms. It was curious because it looked so out of place.

"Harry," began Pelham, smiling amiably, "I have something to show you."

"Why have you brought me here?" he demanded stonily.

Pelham continued to smile, but his eyes were cold and hard. "Don't you recall our conversation? You were desperate to see your son. I always promised you that I could help. You just have to follow my lead." He shot a glance at one of the guards and suddenly the dark glass was flooded in light, revealing a small room beyond. The room was bare except for a small stool in the middle. On the stool, blinking hard against the sudden influx of light, sat a teenage boy. He looked straight through the glass and Harry's heart leaped into his mouth. He immediately got up and pressed himself against the window. Several guards moved in but Pelham shot them a warning glance to leave him.

"Byron!" shouted Harry at the top of his lungs.

The boy did not react, merely staring blankly into space, right through Harry as if he were a ghost.

"He can't see or hear you," said Pelham casually. "Thickened Plexiglas is completely sound-proof and absorbs all shocks like a sponge."

Harry ignored him and hammered on the window, yelling to Byron, but the boy was still looking right through him, his gaunt face registering confusion. Harry wanted to smash the glass and reach out to comfort him. The poor boy was skinny and looked ill. His face had lost the round, healthy shape that had made him such a handsome child, his dark features reminiscent of his mother's sultry beauty.

"Take me to him!"

Pelham joined Harry at the window, peering at the boy, arms behind his back in a scholarly fashion. "He's a good looking boy, although camp life must have been hard for him. Of course I will take you, just as soon as we figure things out. We have less than two days to my speech on Sunday. It is going to be the most important address of my administration. You can be an integral part of its success. You do what I ask and Byron gets his father back. It's as simple as that."

"What if I don't help you?"

Pelham scowled and gave a deep sigh. "Come on Harry, do you really want me to answer that? I know how much you love your son. Never had time for children. Lady Helen would have made a terrible mother."

Harry turned to Pelham, struggling to control his rage. He wanted to pummel the Prime Minister's arrogant features to a bloody mess. His security team sensed it too – he could feel the heat from their stares. They were as alert as coiled springs, scrutinizing him closely, ready to pounce at any sign of aggression to their boss. "You didn't answer my question," he spat.

"Oh but Harry I did," he answered coolly. "Do you really need me to spell it out?"

"I want to see my son!" snapped Harry.

"Then help me on Sunday!" Pelham fired back.

"Give me back my son!" he screamed. His face was inches from the Prime Minister's, and his eyes radiated hatred. The security team moved in closer, anxious for the nod from Pelham so they could let loose on the prisoner.

Pelham merely glared back, unblinking. "If you don't help then you have your answer. I can't torture you Harry. We've been down that road. You're one of the most stubborn and resilient people I have ever met, and you have a level of support that makes you dangerous. Too dangerous to make you a martyr. But I know you love your son. Perhaps the greatest cruelty of all isn't the suffering we face. It's having to witness the suffering of the ones we love most."

He nodded toward the boy behind the screen. Byron sat there motionless, his face a mask of confusion. "How long do you think you can stand there with your principles, while you watch your son suffer a slow and agonizing death, crying out for his father to save him? You'll have a front row seat of course, just a few feet away behind this glass. We'll tell him that you're here watching him, and he will know even as he suffers that all it needs from you is to raise a hand to make it stop. How precious will your principles be then?"

Harry could restrain himself no longer. He lashed out, but Pelham anticipated it, moving quickly to dodge the fist. Harry could only cut a glancing blow to the edge of his jaw. It was enough to send Pelham, fragile as he was from his injuries, spinning to the floor. Immediately the four security men surrounded Harry. Two of them grabbed each arm and held him in an iron grip while a third grabbed his hair and yanked his head upward till Harry thought his neck would snap. The fourth swung his fist back and slammed it repeatedly into his stomach.

Harry felt the bile rise to his throat, on the edge of passing out. His ribs felt as if they would cave in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pelham rise to his feet, gingerly rubbing his jaw. He waited just a few more seconds, observing the beating that Harry was getting, before he raised his hand. "Enough!"

His security thugs immediately complied and Harry dropped to the floor, coughing and spluttering. His organs felt as if they had been liquefied through a blender. He lay there, gasping for air, each breath a painful inhalation for his battered lungs and bruised ribs.

Pelham stood over him, still rubbing his jaw. "That was so unnecessary, Harry. You really need to exercise more self-control." His voice adopted a steely tone. "Now I'm going to ask you again. Are you going to renounce your speeches on Sunday or are you going to watch your son die painfully just before you suffer the same fate?"

Harry didn't answer for a moment, still trying to capture his breath.

"Alright, I'll do it," he said in barely a whisper.

Pelham bent down a little. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I said I would do it!" Harry gasped.

"Excellent. Now we're finally getting somewhere. You made the right decision Harry. One thing people can rely on is that I keep my promises. You'll get to be with your son after all."

The security men hauled him up and dragged him out of the room, but Harry stole a backward glance at Byron, still sitting on the chair behind the screen. His soul was in turmoil – his son was so close and yet so far.

## CHAPTER 50

At eight-thirty sharp, the Cabinet shuffled into the large ornately decorated conference room, summoned by their leader. The crystal chandeliers had been turned on and the velvet draped curtains closed. Pelham was already seated in his large high-backed leather chair, and he peered at them contemptuously as they took their assigned seats around the large walnut table. He looked pale and tired, his posture rigid and tense. No-one dared to look him in the eye. They noted with curiosity that this time there were no security agents in the room. Pelham was alone.

The Cabinet had been decimated in recent months, rocked by several resignations and the defection of its sole woman member, Health Secretary Eleanor Beaufort. It soon became apparent to the assembly that there was another notable absentee.

No-one questioned it of course, even though Pelham had wilfully kept them in the dark. However, as soon as they were seated, tablets in front of them, Pelham brought up the issue. "I know you are wondering where Giles Chamberlain is. These difficult days are the times when we need to be at our strongest. These are times that distinguish the bravest from the cowards. Giles Chamberlain proved to be the latter. He has shown his true colours, not just as a coward but as a traitor and enemy. I discovered last night that he committed the ultimate treason and surrendered to the United Nations. He is now in their hands, no doubt spreading lies about our administration. He has betrayed every single one of you."

There were some concerned murmurs around the table. The Lord Chancellor, Secretary of State for Justice, the Right Honourable Arthur Hammond, rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was its usual cherubic red, as if he had already raided the Chequers considerably well-stocked wine cellar earlier that morning. "Prime Minister, what does that mean for our current strategy?" he said, slurring the word 'current.' He sat down heavily, his leather chair creaking under the severe strain.

"It means, Arthur, that we proceed as planned, with more determination and focus than ever before. We muster our forces and we show strength in battle. We will not allow the UN to take over our sovereign country. They committed an act of war and are waiting outside our gates to remove all of us from power. If this is to be our darkest hour, then we face it together. It's not just about military strength. We've suffered many damaging allegations against our government, and have not been granted the opportunity to respond. Weaker minds will have accepted these allegations without question. The international media knows this and has manipulated people in this country in an effort to undermine our support. Our challenge in the days and weeks ahead is to win back hearts and minds that may have been turned by the lies perpetrated by the international media. We need an audience on the international stage. Tomorrow I will be making a keynote speech. By my side will be someone guilty of more lies and inaccurate propaganda than anyone."

Baron Edward Young, the Old Etonian Chancellor of the Exchequer, twirled his salt and pepper moustache. "Who?"

"Harry Clarke."

The Baron, emboldened by the absence of Pelham's security team, let out an ironic guffaw. "He's here at Chequers?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, and he will be joining us in the media room when I make my broadcast. He will refute the accuracy of his previous transmissions. His followers will realize that they have been supporting a false ideology."

Stewart Mills, the Employment and Pensions secretary, stood up, his tall, wiry figure an imposing presence. "Mr. Prime Minister, I have no doubt that Mr. Clarke remains influential, even though his last broadcast was several months ago. But the evidence collected by the UN is more overwhelming than any statement he makes. What can Harry Clarke's presence possibly achieve? I have no doubt that the United Nations have more than enough evidence to indict all of us."

Pelham leaned back in his high leather chair, looking pensive. "Sit down Stewart, you're making me nervous. You may be right that the UN is collecting evidence. The fact is that they invaded us in breach of every international treaty you can possibly think of. I don't doubt that a large part of their reasoning was based on the transmissions that Clarke distributed. They reached an unacceptably large audience. I intend to make sure that his rescission reaches an even larger audience. Remember we are fighting a propaganda war. Our administration has been unfairly vilified and we need to balance the debate."

A loud harrumph! erupted from the end of the table and the members turned to the diminutive Minister for the Environment, Darren Pennington. His small build and thoughtful features gave him the look of a college professor. He had the high brow of an academic, and the same scholarly demeanour. His sandy hair had been thinned by middle age, but his round hazel eyes still reflected his youthful vigour. They were at times playful, full of humour, and at other times serious and penetrating. He rarely spoke during Cabinet meetings except when called upon to present his report, but his rare contributions often proved incisive and perceptive.

"What if they are not lies?" he speculated, gazing at the Prime Minister down the table.

There was an audible gasp from other members of the assembly, but Pennington's gaze was unwavering. The Prime Minister was slightly taken aback, unaccustomed as he was to such open challenge, but he gave a perfunctory smile. "Of course they're lies Pennington. Are you completely stupid? This whole campaign against us has been based on a savage attack on our ability to govern. We have been vilified and ostracized from the international community. The UN sanctions have nearly crippled us, because we had the temerity to decide that we were going to take decisive action to take our country back."

The Environment Minister began to protest, but Pelham quickly cut him off. "Enough Pennington!" he barked. He stood up, still a little unsteady on his feet, and glowered at his Cabinet with a visceral intensity. "I will not tolerate dissent. It's critical we stand together. If anyone decides they want to follow Giles Chamberlain out of the door, then leave now."

The room was silent and no-one moved. "I didn't think so," said Pelham, still standing. "We don't have room for traitors here, there is too much work to do. I'm perfectly realistic about our military prospects. I am receiving regular briefings from Harding. You have it on your tablets. You know we have sustained heavy losses and the UN is preparing for an assault on Chequers. However, our Chief of Defence has not proved completely useless. We have scrambled our jets at RAF High Wycombe and RAF Marham and they are ready and waiting. All it needs is an Executive Order to launch those jets."

Hammond understood the inference. He cleared his throat and addressed his colleagues. "Which means it needs to be signed by you as Prime Minister and another senior member in the government, ideally the Deputy, but not necessarily."

"Precisely," nodded Pelham in agreement.

Hammond's voice carried a tremor but he no longer slurred his words. "An Executive Order to launch jets that would release a cloud of anthracis hemorrhagic fever, the camp plague, over continental Europe. A disease manufactured in our laboratories that has killed hundreds of thousands in our deportation camps, where the survival rate is minimal. We would be murdering thousands of innocent people."

Pelham's scarred face turned a shade deeper, but he kept his voice level. "Arthur, may I remind you that we are at war. It is our only hope of salvation, the only way to force the UN's hand. I intend to use it as leverage, nothing more. If innocent people die, it will be because of the UN's intransigence and failure to negotiate. I have and always will be open to dialogue around the table. As you know, Secretary-General Emosi has remained defiantly opposed to any form of dialogue."

"Sir, we refused to allow a UN inspection team onto our territory," piped up Pennington. The Prime Minister glared at him as though he was walking a very thin line, but he merely said casually, "That was different."

Silence fell around the table. "So who is prepared to sign the Order with me? Who has the courage to stand up and be counted?"

The eleven men around the table, all that remained of the Cabinet, looked down in unison at their tablets, unwilling to meet the P.M.'s icy gaze, hoping it would not fix on them. It was the elephant in the room they had feared. Even in the present authoritarian climate, where Pelham exercised almost complete control, the constitution had to be observed. They knew he had gathered them here for this purpose. Even Pelham knew that Harding would not act without a second signature.

As the continuing silence weighed like a heavy blanket, Pelham chose his cohort. "Baron Young," he began amiably, "I know you're capable of seeing the bigger picture. You may have the honour of signing this Order with me."

Baron Young stood up, stroking his moustache and smoothing his immaculately tailored pinstripe suit. "Sir, I respectfully decline," he said flatly.

"That is not an option," Pelham shot back angrily.

Baron Young remained standing and took a deep breath. "Mr. Prime Minister," he began in typically aristocratic style. "We've followed you loyally, perhaps foolishly, to the point where this country has suffered one of the worst humanitarian disasters this century. Under your administration, our nation has suffered political, social and economic turmoil that has brought us to the brink of ruin. As a member of your inner circle, I hold myself partly accountable for failing in my duty. I'm prepared to answer to the UN for that and take whatever is coming, because I damn well deserve it, if only because I lacked the courage to stop this hell!" His voice rose, strengthened by his own surge of passion. "I will not sign your Order! Never!"

Pelham was speechless, but his face turned crimson. Baron Young gathered his papers, picked up his tablet and looked around for support. In a carefully orchestrated movement, other members of the Cabinet did the same, until they all stood and faced their leader. "What the hell are you playing at?" Pelham said finally in a strangled voice.

"It's over," said Mills. He threw a glance at the Prime Minister, who had risen to his feet, propped on a cane. "Get back here now!"

No-one replied, but Pennington merely shook his head ironically. They began to shuffle out skittishly, troubled by the enormous symbolism of their actions, but comforted by the solidarity of their colleagues. Before they could reach the exit to the conference room, six of Pelham's security guards filtered in and blocked the entrance, their bulky arms folded defiantly, as if daring anyone to attempt to pass. Their blank faces did not fool the Cabinet members. They had witnessed the violence these thugs were capable of inflicting. The assembly, led by Baron Young, shrank back. Several of them turned to Pelham with terrified expressions. All eyes were on the Prime Minister, waiting for his next move to end the tense stand-off. He paused, lost in thought, the moment hanging as if frozen in time.

Finally, time resumed its forward motion. When he spoke, Pelham's voice was heavy, defeated. "Let them pass," he said simply.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL MARCH 15

With the United Nations preparing the groundwork to oust Laurence Pelham from power, reports indicate that the Prime Minister is preparing a live address to the nation. It is widely anticipated that he will accede power and place himself in the custody of the UN. This is the fervent wish of the international community, and it would certainly make the situation easier for the UN Secretary-General, Kobie Emosi.

Lacking any form of cohesive leadership, the nation's military forces have melted away under sustained assault from UN forces. Territorial domination has been far easier than even Emosi or his generals could have predicted. Most of the deportation camps and the horrors within have been liberated, although the threat of an outbreak of the so called 'camp plague' remains high. Most camps have been placed under strict quarantine. With no vaccination yet available, the infected souls languishing in camp field hospitals remain as casualties of this violent regime.

The remaining substantive military opposition is now perched on the doorstep of the Pelham regime's last stronghold, Chequers, the country residence of the Prime Minister. As things stand it would be relatively easy to remove Pelham by force. With the power base that supported him, the regular Army, the PIA, the Order Police and the State Security Service, effectively emasculated, his authority to govern is derived merely from the democratic election that swept him to power. While Pelham's regime is hanging by a thread, Emosi would prefer that Pelham steps down voluntarily. A forcible removal raises a number of uncomfortable issues for the Secretary-General, not just legally. There is a strong likelihood of an outcry from the international community. A forced coup would certainly change the way the UN is perceived.

If Pelham voluntarily accedes power, it would be easier to engineer a smooth handover to a moderate pro-UN politician. However, Pelham's previous conduct suggests that he will not give up his power voluntarily. In any event there is likely to be a temporary power vacuum when Pelham is gone. The irony is that this will require UN forces to be more vigilant than ever, vulnerable as they are to attacks from isolated groups seeking to gain an advantage from the political chaos.

UN forces have meticulously recorded and catalogued their findings, and the evidence of a brutal regime is mounting. A team of lawyers from the International Court of Justice in the Hague is reviewing this evidence and preparing indictments against not only Pelham, but a number of figures within the Conservative Party. Those individuals who supported his regime, that were instrumental in overseeing the atrocities carried out in the name of the State, will stand trial alongside Pelham. One of those individuals is already in the hands of the UN, currently in transit to France, recovering under the watchful eye of UN field medics. Giles Chamberlain's testimony as a key prosecution witness is likely to be damning. No doubt Pelham's defence team will argue that his evidence is tainted by self-interest, given the slew of charges he is likely to face.

The other key players in Pelham's regime, but equally culpable, are the wealthy industrialists and businessman who bankrolled his administration, seduced as they were by his promises of radical change. The list of corporate sponsors has yet to be publicly released, but reports indicate that a number of arrests took place last night, with promises of more to follow. Rumours are circulating that they include Matt Lindström, the property magnate and Baron Alastair Renfrew, the oil and gas billionaire.

Everything is converging toward what will no doubt be a historic speech from Pelham, irrespective of the outcome. As sporadic violent clashes continue to test UN resolve, the epicentre of the power struggle is currently quiet. Emosi is waiting to see the outcome of the planned national address by Pelham. This in itself has prompted a storm of criticism on social media, as Pelham's threat to release the deadly camp plague over Europe remains a danger. Although the French bio-tech team have declared that they are 'very close' to finding a vaccine, it remains uncertain as to Pelham's capability to carry out his threat. While most airbases in Britain have been neutralized, it is perfectly feasible that Pelham could initiate a surprise attack. In his current situation, he has effectively nothing to lose, which makes him more dangerous than ever. Air defence forces remain on high alert, but the waiting game has caused some consternation.

The UN Security Council is due to meet shortly to discuss the crisis. Top of the agenda will undoubtedly be the timing of the final push to ensure that Pelham relinquishes power. They need to achieve this with minimum bloodshed, but also before his aerial forces have any opportunity to launch air strikes against Europe. Unquestionably, Emosi's reputation, and perhaps even his continued tenure as Secretary-General, will be sealed one way or the other in the next few days.

## CHAPTER 51

Sunday morning dawned with the first hint of spring. Ice and snow still covered large shaded areas within the grounds of the famous mansion, stubbornly refusing to melt. Where the sun warmed the frozen ground, the snow retreated and the expansive lawns became green again, like a rebirth from the long, cold winter. Until the last couple of days, those same lawns had been occupied by an array of tanks, RPGs, anti-tank missile launchers and various other heavy weaponry. The military personnel who manned these sophisticated weapons had been preparing for a last stand in support of the dictator who ran the country. Hidden away as he was in the bowels of the huge mansion, their leader had refused to come out to address them, perhaps concerned at the possibility of another assassination attempt.

Discontent had spread among the ranks, fuelled in part by the non-existent wages they had constantly been promised but which never materialized. Their zealous generals had demanded that they protect a leader they had never met, because that was how the hierarchy worked. A soldier never questioned the ideology of the person they were fighting for. They were expected to go blindly into battle, and lay down their lives for something they hardly believed in.

Limited as these soldiers were to accessing social media, the news they received was reduced to hearsay and speculation. The news was not good. Pelham's forces were being overrun throughout the country. The UN forces waiting on the fringes of the large country estate were vastly superior to the infantry assembled on the grounds of Chequers. Discontent had turned to dissension. A trickle of soldiers deserted their post. The first had been shot as a traitor, but the soldier ordered to kill the second deserter had refused. He had thrown down his weapon and joined his compatriot. With only the highest ranked officers getting paid, the Corporal had turned a sympathetic blind eye. They were in the same position. Soon the trickle turned into a flood, until the infantry had been decimated and those in charge had little choice but to plan their own escape.

The UN forces breached the grounds of Chequers with no resistance, and occupied the lawns once held by Pelham's army. They now waited there, anxious to receive the final order to end Pelham's government.

From his fourth floor bedroom, Lawrence Pelham peered at the plethora of UN armoured vehicles that formed a steel ring around the mansion. The casual observer would never know anything was wrong from studying him. His demeanour was relaxed, his expression one of detached amusement. He scanned his tablet, but that only confirmed what he already knew. With the UN in control of vast swathes of the country, his administration was effectively toothless. The paramilitary forces that had propped up his regime had been overthrown or surrendered. His five-year plan was in shreds less than a year after he had taken power. His only leverage against the UN, the threat of launching the RAF jets, had disappeared during the mutiny of the Cabinet. He had allowed them to leave. To do otherwise was senseless, and now they, like Chamberlain, had thrown themselves on the mercy of the UN.

He regarded himself in the full length mirror. His pinstripe suit was immaculate, underneath a crisp Jermyn Street shirt framed by a red twill tie. His brogues were so shiny he could see his face in them. Missing his usual luxury of a make-up artist before going on air, he studied the face peering back at him. It was pale and drawn, and the scars around his neck stood out in angry purple. He was a wounded leader, fighting for his people.

Flicking over his tablet once again, he mentally rehearsed his speech. The live broadcast to the nation was scheduled for eleven, less than thirty minutes away. He smoothed his jacket and as he did so, felt the cold, hard steel in his inner pocket, his insurance policy. A reverent knock sounded at his door, and he opened it to the squat, bullish figure of Ramsey, one of his few remaining allies. "Good morning sir. Are you ready?"

Pelham nodded silently and he followed Ramsey down the elegantly curved flight of stairs, the walls framed by paintings from the old masters. Pelham was too lost in thought to even notice the grandeur. The military war was lost but the propaganda war remained, and he also had a surprise up his sleeve. Everything was primed and ready for that surprise, but timing was critical. The window of opportunity was limited.

As he followed Ramsey into the media room he noticed that Harry Clarke was already there. A film crew buzzed around, making final preparations for the broadcast. Clarke wore a blank expression and barely acknowledged the Prime Minister as he entered. Pelham took the empty chair next to Harry and whispered in his ear. "Remember, a good performance today and Byron is all yours." Clarke just looked directly ahead, saying nothing, but Pelham saw his eyes flashing with controlled rage. Pelham smiled inwardly. There was always a way to manipulate people, to get a hold over them. It was just a case of finding the lever. For Harry Clarke it was his son, and Pelham was confident that Clarke would not fail him. As an iconic symbol of the resistance against his regime, Harry's admission that he had fabricated the evidence against the government would destroy his credibility and severely weaken the argument for the UN invading his nation.

With some final make-up touches, inadequate to mask Pelham's facial scars, they were assigned their positions. Pelham sat behind a large, stately desk, its smooth oak surface polished to perfection. Behind him was a false bookcase with thick volumes of all-England Law Reports. They provided a solemn weight to the occasion. Slightly to his left stood a pole with the Union Jack, the flag slightly unfurled and flapping gently by virtue of a strategically positioned fan. To Pelham's right, in a high-backed leather chair, the ideal type for a fireside chat, sat Harry Clarke.

The producer, a thin, hawkish man with a microphone headset resting on his jutting chin, buzzed around in front of them, checking the camera angles and consulting with the crew. As he waited, Pelham flicked over his tablet one more time. In his early career, he had used teleprompters to ensure that he faced the camera directly when he spoke. He had no need of that today. He knew what he had to say, and the merest glance at his tablet was enough. Indeed the glance at his tablet was for a dual purpose. He had never let petty bureaucracy curtail his ambitions, but the timing of his surprise was critical.

Kobie Emosi glanced at his tablet. It was 10:57 Greenwich Mean Time and the speech was scheduled to begin in three minutes. Eleanor Beaufort sat by his side, but they were not alone. They sat in a large chamber at the Palace of Nations. Seated with them around a large semi-circular table were the current members of the UN Security Council, having convened a special meeting to watch the speech. They peered expectantly at the huge screen as if waiting for the latest Hollywood blockbuster.

He stole a glance at Eleanor and she gave him a forced smile. Her usually soft features were tight, and he could sense the strain she was under. It must have been difficult to see her beloved nation fall from grace so spectacularly, knowing that she was partly culpable, if only through her role in the Cabinet. She had risked everything to flee, and her actions could yet save thousands of lives. He felt a warm glow of sympathy for her, mixed with a degree of mild affection. At her inevitable trial he would provide strong evidence on her behalf. He fervently wished she would never see any prison time.

Meanwhile, he had pressures of his own. The Council had chastised him for his unilateral decision to allow the speech to proceed. One member from Cuba, a country that had known its share of authoritarian leadership, had publicly berated him for his failure to "stop the circus," as he phrased it. They accused him of playing into Pelham's hands by giving him a platform. They argued that there was enough evidence from the footage of the deportation camps and the threats to attack mainland Europe for the Prime Minister to be forcibly deposed.

However, Emosi had maintained his conviction that Pelham would use this speech to accept his inevitable defeat. Despite everything, he was, like himself, a politician and statesman, and should at least be granted the opportunity to step down with dignity.

His reverie was broken by the huge cinematic screen bursting into life. Peering down at them like some deity watching over his subjects, the mammoth smiling visage of Lawrence Pelham filled the screen. The appointed hour had arrived.

## CHAPTER 52

Lawrence Pelham leaned back and smiled at the camera, his posture relaxed and confident. The camera panned back slightly to show his surroundings, the Union Jack waving lightly. Next to him, Harry Clarke stared at the camera, unsmiling, his body rigid and tense. The camera zeroed in on Pelham as he launched into his speech without ceremony.

"I am talking today not just to the British people but to the world community. It has been a difficult few weeks for this government. As I speak, the invading forces of the United Nations wait outside my door. The UN committed a breach of sovereignty when they invaded our country. My government has been fighting to restore order and discipline to this nation, but it has always been a long term plan. It was never going to be easy; returning this country back to economic and social prosperity requires many sacrifices along the way." He paused and flicked a glance over at Harry. On cue, the camera panned back and revealed the taut figure of Clarke, sitting bolt upright.

Pelham continued. "In this social media world, the voice of propaganda is more powerful than ever. This brings with it many problems. There is scope for people to tell lies and to transmit those lies so they become viral. The line between real news and fake news, between truth and deceit, is too blurred to reconcile. People of Britain, you have been sold a massive deception. Some of the horrific but false allegations made against my government has damaged our reputation, and I am here to set the record straight. No matter how well conceived those lies are, how cleverly they are brought to your attention, they remain what they are; a deceptive and treasonous attempt to destabilize my term as Prime Minister.

"The British people elected me on a tide of anger and resentment. It wasn't just a vote for change, it was a movement, a movement toward nationalism and a new order. When I took over as Prime Minister, this country was in a social and economic mess. In fact it was on the brink of destruction, damaged by eight years of a feckless Labour government. Record unemployment, a failed healthcare system, rising crime, social divisions and inner city violence wherever you cared to look. It infuriated me to see long lines of people in the early hours on a freezing day, waiting for welfare or charity offices to open so they could receive their handouts. This was not the nation I grew up in. It was a nation that had lost its standing and influence on the world stage, had lost its very identity. The old British way of life had disappeared under a tide of immigration. People arrived from different nations that were not interested in our culture or way of life, that refused to integrate, preferring instead to create their own cultural ghettos. Indeed, they barely respected our laws, and brought their own customs and rules to our land.

"I quickly realized that radical solutions were required to mend a broken system. It was never going to happen overnight. I developed a plan that would take us at least five years to achieve; a plan that would require sacrifice, discipline and austerity. I never promised an easy route to achieving our goals, and I made it clear that my priority lay with the indigenous British people. I dared to take action where other regimes, most recently Bentley's Labour government, buried their heads in the sand, afraid to tackle the problems head on. It would take courage and conviction to see it through, not just on my part as a leader, but also on the part of the British people. It was never my intention to be a populist Prime Minister. There were too many bitter pills to swallow in order to bring the country back to health. Closing our borders to new immigrants and repatriating existing ones was a necessary part of the plan, in order to re-establish our identity.

"Because of the work I have undertaken, I remain confident that the nation will emerge like a butterfly from its cocoon; stronger, healthier and ready to take its rightful place on the world stage as a major force. Yet these terrible allegations made against my administration have halted our progress in its tracks. Just as we were beginning to turn the corner, the lies and deceit have sullied the reputation of this wonderful country. The propaganda machine was powerful but misguided. The UN tried to break us through economic sanctions. All they really achieved was to spread misery and suffering to a nation that was already going through a transformation. It merely served to strengthen our resolve. However, the UN followed this up with an incursion that I consider an act of war based on false information."

Pelham looked earnestly at the camera, his expression serious and stately. The camera panned back until Harry ghosted onto the screen. His body remained taut, arrow straight, and he did not look at the screen. Pelham continued.

"To help me set the record straight, I have with me one of the most powerful perpetrators of the type of fraudulent propaganda that the social media is renowned for. Some of you may recognize Harry Clarke as the icon of some type of fledgling rebellion. The more informed will recognize him as a traitor who, along with his group of hacktivists, infiltrated the Internet with fabricated stories and images designed to stir the emotions of those who would oppose my government. He was rightly tried and sentenced to death by a properly constituted military court. Unlike the people who died as a result of the ensuing violence from his inflammatory broadcasts, I showed him clemency. Harry Clarke is here today to talk about those broadcasts." Pelham paused dramatically, and the camera angle shifted subtly so that Harry became the central figure. Pelham remained on screen, watching him carefully. Harry's eyes looked directly at the camera for the first time. His eyes were dull, almost mournful. He began talking from what was obviously a prepared speech.

"Thank you, Prime Minister Pelham," he said flatly. "I am here today to refute the allegations I made against this government. The footage that my associates and I delivered to the social media was totally fabricated. The accusations I made are without foundation."

Harry paused and spoke slowly. "I was rightly tried and sentenced to death for my crimes against the State under due process of law. I stand guilty of these crimes, but the Prime Minister showed me clemency and spared my life. I have been granted the rare opportunity to sit at the heart of this government in its hour of greatest need. I am asking that the world take note of our perilous situation and compel the UN to immediately withdraw their forces. Leave this nation to sort its own problems without interference. If the UN persists in its aggressive actions toward innocent people, the British people have no alternative but to respond in kind. There will be repercussions."

As he spoke the last sentence, Harry at last looked directly into the camera. Watching the huge screen from the Security Council chamber, Emosi uttered to Eleanor Beaufort. "He's trying to tell us something." A thought quickly flashed through Emosi's mind that Harry's posture and delivery reminded him of the prepared speeches given by Islamic State hostages in Syria. "We need to act now!" he said urgently. He snatched his tablet and hurried out of the chamber.

## CHAPTER 53

As the Chief of Defence Staff, Sir Terence Harding carried the weight of responsibility for protecting the sovereign nation of Great Britain. He had done a pretty poor job of it, which is why he had to be eliminated. Although the base was supposed to lie in a secret location in the heart of the British countryside, it was not that easy to hide thirty-eight Eurofighter Typhoons, sixteen Panavia Tornados and four Lockheed Martin Lightning II's from the enemy. It was not as if they could hide their weaponry in a bunker, away from the prying eyes of spy satellites, like the North Koreans concealing their nuclear program.

Harding's successor was General James Rawlins, the Vice-Chief of Defence Staff, a thirty-five year army veteran and staunch right-wing supporter. Rawlins had enough experience to know that it was only a matter of time before the UN came calling. In fact he was amazed they had not stormed the base already. Time was not on their side, which meant that they had to adopt the time honoured strategy in any conflict; strike first.

Rawlins had seen service in Iraq and Afghanistan during a highly decorated career, but felt his country had declined under the liberal immigration policies of the Labour government. It had been difficult to speak out in the politically correct climate that Bentley encouraged, even though they failed to create the infrastructure to support or integrate them. If Rawlins had not been in the Army, he would undoubtedly have been a member of the English Defence League, or more recently, FREE. Pelham's rise to power at last allowed a platform for a philosophy that mirrored his own.

In this social media world, however, the propaganda and lies had corrupted the true nature of the project, and he had been forced to witness his country being overrun by their former allies. He had been dismayed at the poor military showing against the UN. Stories had circulated that suggested some units had literally laid down arms and fled when confronted by UN 'peacekeepers.' He put this failure of command squarely at the hands of his bombastic superior, Sir Terence Harding. He had never truly respected Harding, although he had to admit the operation to move the airborne forces to this secret location had been insightful. Even so, when Pelham offered him the opportunity to take charge, he did not hesitate for a second. It was what he had waited most of his life for.

Rawlins had personally administered Harding's demise several days earlier. It was necessary for two reasons. Firstly, the plan to eliminate Harding needed to remain within a tight circle of accomplices. Only Rawlins and two of his most trusted Lieutenant Generals knew of the plan. They, like Rawlins, were disillusioned with Harding's poor leadership and the failure of the Army and the PIA to mount any type of sustained defence of their country. Secondly, Rawlins had the most open access to Harding. They held regular one-on-one briefings and so the opportunity presented itself frequently.

It was not a dramatic death. There was no glorious battlefield destruction, fighting to the last breath in the midst of the savagery of war. Nothing like that. Rawlins had merely served up the usual drinks from Harding's well-stocked cabinet, a gin and tonic each, a slice of lemon on the side for Harding. The Chief of Defence Staff never allowed such trivialities as war to get in the way of his precious luxuries. With his back turned, and Harding distracted by the map on the large briefing table before them, Rawlins had slipped a few grains of purified Ricin powder, no more than the size of several grains of salt, onto the lemon before slipping it into Harding's G and T. It was a naturally occurring protein produced in the seeds of the castor oil plant, utterly tasteless and utterly lethal.

Several hours later, Harding was taken sick as the powder blocked the creation of the body's protein making machinery, the most basic level of cell metabolism, essential to all living cells and to life itself. He staggered into the medic's surgery retching and choking, quickly followed by severe vomiting which quickly turned blood red as the mucous membranes of his gastrointestinal system began hemorrhaging. Despite everything the base medic could do, he expired that evening. Rawlins called his men together and addressed them with a heavy heart, paying tribute to such a fine warrior and leader of men. It was an impassioned speech in which he made it clear that nothing would change under his leadership. The fight would continue until the last man standing.

His orders had been explicit, and he had prepared his pilots for what could prove to be a kamikaze mission. Each of them had a package that they had been instructed to drop at certain points as soon as they reached European airspace. The jets would be flying in different directions to reach different parts of European airspace, including north east to Scandinavia.

The pilots did not know what the package contained. Only he and his two Lieutenant Generals had that information. They were instructed that it was vitally important, and they could face hostile enemy action when they left U.K. airspace.

The packages were delivered by a special courier several days before by an emissary of Pelham. He was a strange man, with dark, brooding features, and a long trench coat that seemed to wrap around him. Rawlins liked to think that he had sharp observation skills, a necessary attribute in his work; but if he saw this guy in the street the next day dressed differently, he was not even sure he would recognize him. He had been escorted to see Rawlins and said very little, except to say, "You know what to do." Apart from the packages, he had also provided him with the Ricin. He then left very quickly, a visit that lasted no more than six minutes. Harding had died later the same day.

Now, as he stood in his office, focused on the great leader delivering his speech on the television, he waited for the signal, the prearranged words that Pelham would speak. Everything was ready to go. The packages were safely stowed in the cargo hold, ready to be dropped where they would smash and disperse their deadly contents. Every pilot had their own set of coordinates that took them above heavily populated areas for maximum effect.

As he watched intently, the Prime Minister uttered the words he had waited for. "The UN followed this up with an incursion that I consider an act of war based on false information." An _act of war_. Like a coiled spring suddenly released, he slammed the klaxon bell. The noise exploded through the base, its strident tone shattering the peace and sending everyone into a flurry of activity. Within sixty seconds the first Typhoon sped along the runway and roared into the air, its engines screaming and whistling, drowning out the sirens that reverberated around the base.

## CHAPTER 54

The camera swivelled from Harry back to the Prime Minister, who flashed his charming smile, still persuasive despite his scars. "Thank you Harry," he began. "To the watching world I say this. Whether I remain or not, the movement for political and social change will continue. This movement is more powerful than any one man. There will be others waiting to continue my work. The world is moving away from the leftist socialist policies of my predecessor. People are fed up seeing their taxes wasted on supporting economic and political refugees; money that could have been spent on creating jobs and better housing for the people who have lived here all their lives. The migration crisis of the last ten years has cost Europe untold billions at a time of economic stagnation. This movement isn't confined to Britain. We have seen far-right radicalism in Sweden, Austria, Italy, France, Switzerland, to name a few. It is a tide that cannot and will not be stopped."

Pelham shifted in his chair but continued to peer intently at the camera. "It's the same argument. We don't want your immigrants sucking our country dry. We have our own problems. For so long we were vilified and in some cases ostracized because we dared to be patriots, to put forward our views. The liberals and globalists opened the floodgates, claiming it was the compassionate thing to do, and anyone that opposed their policies was a racist. They beat us down in a tide of political correctness, damning us for our views which they dismissed as perverted and bigoted. So much for free speech.

"A decade ago, fuelled by rage, we made a stand. Our nation rejected the European Union while our neighbours across the Atlantic elected an ultra-right President in a wave of antipathy against the Establishment. The rise of authoritarianism is still in its infancy. It is a movement that will shape the destiny of this century. It will survive me and others like me. It will survive nations and states. We are creating a legacy for future generations.

"Leave us in peace to solve our problems and rebuild this country without interference. I demand that the UN forces immediately withdraw from our lands. I will make this country great again -"

He suddenly looked beyond the camera, distracted. The muted rattle of gunfire could be heard beyond the thick doors, audible even to those watching on TV and other screens. As he paused in his speech, Harry, without warning, grabbed Pelham's lapel microphone and ripped it off. His own was intact. At the same time, there was an urgent pounding on the door. It had been barricaded at Pelham's request.

"Listen to me," Harry yelled urgently to the camera. "I have seen it for myself. Everything I broadcast is true. He has my son hostage-" Harry was swiftly silenced by a savage blow to the head from the metal butt of a pistol. Pelham stepped back into focus, standing over Harry. Seemingly oblivious to the unseen world watching behind the lens, he stood over the motionless figure and pointed his handgun at his nemesis. Blood flowed from a deep gash to Harry's temple, staining the lush ochre coloured carpet. "I should have done this in the first place," he snarled, all hint of statesmanship dissipated.

Pelham turned to the camera, his eyes ablaze and his face flushed. "Remember, people always have hard choices to make. This one is mine." He cocked the safety catch from the gun, but as he did so, a crashing noise erupted off screen. On camera, Pelham glanced in the direction of the disturbance. Out of camera shot, a soothing voice appealed to the Prime Minister. "Put the gun down Mr. Pelham. You really don't want to do that."

Pelham gesticulated at the camera. "Turn that damn thing off!" he said sharply.

Across the watching world, screens were plunged into sudden darkness as the live images were eclipsed. Only the audio feed remained as the drama unfolded. That was enough. The whole world jumped in shock at the explosion of sound, a single shot that was literally heard around the world.

## CHAPTER 55

Hurrying through the corridors the short distance to his apartment, Kobie Emosi placed his tablet on the large oak desk of his study. He hit a switch under the desk and part of the wall slid away, revealing a recess in which a personal computer sat on runners. The runners slid out so the computer protruded from the wall. Emosi pulled up his chair and logged into the PC using an iris scan. Personal computers were not that common these days. Most people preferred mobile devices, but Emosi felt safer not carrying around the confidential information held on the drive. Most of it would be explosive in the wrong hands. The security around the machine had to remain tight, hence its location behind the wall. Only his inner circle knew it existed.

He preferred to type rather than issue verbal instructions to the computer, and as he checked his files he noted with satisfaction that his orders had been carried out. He had received a number of timed reports, and would continue to do so throughout the mission. It was the latest report which was of greatest interest. The report from the Vélizy – Villacoublay Air Base confirmed that the NATO Alliance had launched a wave of fighter jets to counter the British forces. They were already on their way and would engage the British jets within minutes.

Emosi leaned back in his chair and let out a deep, satisfied breath. He felt vindicated by the close dialogue he had engaged in with NATO leaders as the crisis developed. Relationships between the two organizations had not always been co-operative, and at times downright rocky, especially during the Syrian crisis when they had clashed over Russia's involvement. However, they shared a common mandate; to prevent the escalation of crises that might threaten peace, to manage conflicts and counter-terrorism operations and to stabilize situations in dangerous territories. This meant that they would inevitably be focused on the same hot-spots, and had led to the 2008 cooperation framework, a document he remembered well. He had assisted in its drafting as an ambitious UN lawyer rising through its ranks.

While NATO had allowed the UN to take the lead in the "British crisis," their support in the latest development was critical. Of course there was an element of self-interest; there always was. NATO had pledged to support the UN's security operations if there was any potential for threat to its thirty-four member nations. Most of those nations, especially France, a founding member, would be vulnerable to an air attack from British fighter jets. Even so, Emosi had needed to call on his full range of diplomacy and negotiating skills to convince the NATO Secretariat that Pelham's threat was a credible one. At first they had simply refused to believe it. They had come through just as he had hoped.

He turned back to his tablet, where Pelham had once again taken centre stage from Harry Clarke. Pelham was ranting about the political climate and the rise of authoritarianism when he was distracted by the sound of gunfire. Emosi had a direct communications link to his diplomatic envoy.

Rúben, what's happening?" he said into the tiny Bluetooth device perched on his ear.

There was no answer. Incredulous, he saw on his tablet Harry struggle with Pelham before being knocked to the floor, and heard the urgent pounding on the door in the audio feed. Then, out of camera shot he heard the unmistakeable voice of Rúben Pinto appealing to the Prime Minister to put the gun down. Emosi was transfixed as he watched Pelham, waving his gun, stare directly at the camera and with snarling rage, demand that it be turned off. At that point the scene went suddenly black but the audio remained. The percussive explosion of the gun made Emosi nearly jump out of his skin. At that point the audio feed was lost and for a second Emosi sat there stunned.

"Rúben, Rúben," he screamed. "For God's sake tell me. What the hell just happened?"

There was no answer at first, but after a long, heavy pause, Rúben finally answered. His voice was slow and deliberate. "Mr. Secretary-General," he said formally. "You are not going to believe this."

"Believe what?" replied Emosi urgently.

Pinto again took a while to answer, and when he did his voice faltered, thick with emotion. "It's over."

"You're making no sense Rúben. What are you talking about?"

There was no response from Pinto.

" Rúben \- Rúben talk to me!"

## REUTERS EDITORIAL SPECIAL EDITION MARCH 17

At 11.53 Greenwich Mean Time yesterday, Prime Minister Lawrence Pelham was officially declared dead, ending a regime that brought death and terror to millions of innocent people. The cause of death was reported as a single shotgun wound to the head. Whether the shot was self-inflicted or not is unknown and the subject of intense conjecture. It was a shot that reverberated around the world, not just because it was live and heard by more people than any other single shot in history. It was the resounding implications of that single bullet and how it will shape the course of Great Britain in the future. It is a nation that needs to be rebuilt, and that reconstruction will be a long-term project.

Any State leadership, even a dictatorship such as Pelham's, is not built on one man. It is a system, and while its leader may be gone, there are still supporters who perpetrated hideous acts in the name of the government. The evidence is clear to see throughout Britain. The horrific deportation camps, the 'Sonderzüge' trains, the cargo ships full of corpses deliberately sunk in the waters around the coast. These will be viewed as haunting legacies of a despicable regime that chose to represent one group and terrorize another.

The scene of Pelham's last stand, the country residence of Chequers, was last night surrounded by UN Special Forces and in a state of lock-down. The remaining Party faithful and inner circle holed up at Chequers with the Prime Minister were quickly rounded up, any opposition nullified by the death of their leader. The body has apparently been taken to a local mortuary for a post-mortem, although there has been no sight of it in the local media. An unidentified source commented that they had seen the body covered in a bloodstained sheet before being zipped up in a body bag and carried away. It is unclear whether there will be any form of State funeral or other ceremony in the near future. The bigger mystery, one which the UN has done little to dispel, is who fired the fatal shot; or indeed was it self-inflicted? Conspiracy theories already abound.

The demise of the regime's leader, however, is not the end of the fight. Pelham held good on his threatening rhetoric to attack the European mainland with the camp plague. British fighter jets were quickly neutralized by NATO air forces that engaged them in a short battle over the English Channel. Several jets were completely destroyed. Many more were hit, forcing the British pilots to eject from their disabled planes, where they were picked up in the sea by a UN frigate patrolling the area. Most jets turned back, fearing imminent defeat against the wave of NATO planes they were confronted with. This minimized the air conflict and the resulting casualties. Only two NATO jets were fired on, and in both cases they were able to avoid a direct hit.

However, one British plane was apparently escorted into continental Europe, where it made a landing in a remote area of Norway, east of Stavanger. The pilot was instantly arrested and a search of the plane revealed several glass vials. A team of local Swedish biologists have been dispatched to the landing area, but early indications suggest that the vials did indeed contain the deadly pathogen that causes anthracis hemorrhagic fever. To be effective they would need to be released over heavily populated areas. The spores don't remain airborne for long, but once ingested and passed on through close physical proximity by a carrier, who would not even know they had the disease during an incubation period of at least a week...an epidemic would be inevitable. The pilot admitted under interrogation that his intended target was the Swedish capital Stockholm.

While the swift action of the allied forces of the UN and NATO headed off a potential disaster, the work of the United Nations is far from done in this country. Following the announcement of Lawrence Pelham's death, people took to the streets across a number of major cities late in the evening, despite icy North-East winds of change sweeping across the country. It was unclear whether these gatherings were intended to be peaceful or even celebratory demonstrations. However, reports quickly filtered through of violent clashes with the police and the other forces, clinging to the authority of a regime that had been effectively emasculated.

It is unclear who is in control of post-Pelham Britain. Many political commentators have condemned the United Nations for their failure to plan to install an interim government. The renowned foreign correspondent Sucheta Choudhry was particularly scathing in her assessment of the UN. "How could Kobie Emosi make such a fundamental error of judgment?" she blasted him on Twitter.

The country is without leadership, and the power vacuum now existing has rendered certain parts of the country lawless no-go areas, controlled by local militia. The UN focus has been to liberate the deportation camps and dismantle the operations in ports such as Pembroke and Folkestone, which became Britain's equivalent of the killing fields. With the lifting of the Internet restrictions and access to social media, people have found their voice again. However some areas have suffered from gangs of heavily armed and organized youths fighting with each other for dominance. Many residents have been confined to their homes, and local services are crippled. Food, water and medical supplies are running low.

Although the mission has technically been a success, Secretary-General Emosi is going to have some tough questions to answer. As things stand, the country is currently in a fractured state. After a year of tyranny, Great Britain is a work in progress for the UN. This mission is far from over.

## CHAPTER 56

The clinic at the Chiltern Hospital in Great Missenden was a nondescript grey outbuilding lost in the vast maze of corridors, walkways and roads that traversed the hospital grounds. It was located near the west wing of the hospital, where any visitors had to pass through the oncology ward to reach it. The clinic's relative inaccessibility made it a suitable venue for its sole patient. The security services protecting their charge did not necessarily expect trouble, but they remained vigilant. It was difficult to know where a person's loyalties lay in this restive post-Pelham era, and their patient was as high profile as anyone in Britain at present.

Inside, Harry was recovering from the traumatic concussion he had sustained live on television. The doctors had refused to show him the footage, but he recalled all too well the explosion of pain, as if his skull had been smashed like a porcelain vase, before he blacked out. He had been unconscious for two days. The doctors told him he suffered severe blood loss. He still suffered from a throbbing headache, and his head was bandaged like a mummy.

In the two days since he had woken, everything had been a blur. They had fed him intravenously, and his wrist was still attached by a line to a drip. An electrocardiograph monitored his vital signs. They were stable and healthy, oblivious to the fact that Harry actually felt as if he had been hit by a steam train. Eventually the fog inside his head began to clear, and he was able to sit up in bed. He was anxious to get up, his legs numb from lack of exercise, but when he tried an alarm beeped on the wall. Within seconds a dark-haired nurse in her mid-fifties hurried in and gently pushed him back down, fluffing his pillow. Her dark strands were flecked with grey, and she had a warm, maternal smile.

"Take it steady Mr. Clarke," she said kindly, her solid, buxom frame overshadowing him. "One step at a time." She fished in the pocket of her light blue uniform and produced a small pencil-thin light which she shone in his pupils. He blinked furiously at the stabbing light. "Much better," she said in a satisfied tone. "You'll be out soon enough. I think you're ready for visitors."

Now that he was more lucid, the nurse explained to him the circumstances behind his arrival at the hospital. For the first time, he spotted two dark figures lingering in the entrance to his private room. They did not look like doctors. She saw him looking curiously and cocked her thumb in their direction. "Security guards," she said simply, as if that would explain everything. "You should be ready to receive guests now. There are plenty of people who want to see you." She paused. "But first you have dinner. You need to eat well to get your strength up," she said sternly, as if to a recalcitrant child.

Harry found he was ravenously hungry and wolfed down the hospital food. Feeling much better, he waited with anticipation for his first guest. He hoped and prayed it would be Byron, but when the door opened it was an altogether more familiar figure. The low morning sun shining in through the latticed window made her lustrous red locks sparkle almost golden, and she beamed at him as she bounced in.

"Julianne," he said, trying to mask his surprise and disappointment.

"Harry," she began, leaning forward to kiss him fully on the lips, as if they were still lovers. "You don't look your best, but considering what you've been through, I think we can all forgive you." She smiled fondly as she collapsed onto the fabric visiting chair. "You're hot property," she continued. "If I left it any longer I would have to join the queue. I believe there's a UN delegation coming to see you soon, but I got here first, as soon as I heard you had woken up."

"You look well," he said hoarsely. In truth she looked pale, and older.

He clearly had not sounded convincing because she smiled thinly. "You don't have to lie, Harry. I look terrible. I spent over four months in that damn bunker under Westminster Tube Station, hardly seeing the light of day." She grinned again and stroked his hand. "But it's nice of you to say so. I never could resist your charms."

"Or indeed Giles Chamberlain's," Harry shot back, rather cruelly.

Her smile instantly disappeared and she looked hurt, remembering all too well the last time they had seen each other. "Ouch, Harry. I can't change the past but there is always the future. Chamberlain has been indicted for trial at the International Criminal Court."

"How do you feel about that?"

Her eyes were ablaze. "How do you think?" she countered fiercely. "I hate him, and if it were up to me I would throw away the key." Julianne quickly changed the subject and described to Harry how he had once again become a social media icon, even as the media platforms speculated on his whereabouts, which Julianne said had remained secret. "You cannot believe the hoops I jumped through to get to you," she said brightly.

Harry lowered his eyes. "I don't deserve that. I was almost his stooge, spouting the party line."

Julianne rolled her eyes in mock admonishment. "Come on Harry, no-one in their right mind could criticize you for that. You were placed in an impossible position."

He remembered bitterly how Pelham had used his son as a human shield to get to him. "Where is Byron?"

Julianne looked plaintive. "I don't know Harry. I'm sure he would have wanted to be here for you. All I know is that he's safe. You need to concentrate on recovering."

They talked some more and as they did Harry caught a sense of that same magnetic attraction he recalled from years ago. Yet a lifetime had passed between them. He mainly listened as she told him about their situation at the bunker after Harry had been imprisoned. "I grieved for you," she said, tears welling up, as she recalled hearing the news of his impending execution. "I know I messed up my testimony at the trial."

"Whatever you said would have made no difference. The guilty decision was made long before you took the stand," said Harry, trying to comfort her.

Julianne sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I begged Kessler to do something, but we were powerless. He wouldn't listen to me anyway. I was the one who betrayed the Resistance. Chamberlain played me for a fool. I betrayed you too Harry, but I never meant to. You would be the last person I could ever hurt."

He nodded agreeably, unconvinced, but the conversation had turned full circle. Julianne looked hesitant, almost nervous, in contrast to her normal gregarious persona. "Do you.....do you think there is any hope for us?"

Harry hesitated, struggling to find the right words to say, his brain still in the fog of concussion. His expression must have given him away because Julianne rescued him. "It's okay, Harry, you don't have to say anything. A girl has a right to try though." She chuckled briefly, but Harry knew it masked her true feelings.

"I'm really sorry, Julianne," he said with genuine empathy. "Too much has happened. I cannot commit to anything right now. I need to get to know my son again. That's my focus for now. After -"

Julianne placed a soothing finger on his lips. "It's alright Harry, you don't have to say anything more. It would never work between us anyway. I'm too feisty and you're too bloody stubborn."

Harry gave a weak smile, relieved that she understood. "What will you do now?"

Julianne wiped away a stray tear. "There's still a lot of work to do for a revolutionary like me. We may have got rid of Pelham but the country is still dangerous. There's a lot of rival factions fighting turf wars all over the country. At least when Pelham was in power we had a ruling government, no matter how repugnant it was. With no leadership and a power vacuum, our society will quickly slide into anarchy unless the UN act quickly. After that? Kessler put me in touch with one of his sailing buddies, someone he met when he disappeared. He's a mercenary in Africa, apparently well connected. The rebel forces in Angola need a helping hand. The country is in real danger of sliding into another civil war. The Socialist government has been in power since its independence in 1975 and the people need a change. Just up my street. A chance to fight the good fight and get some sun while I'm at it. I'm sick of this country anyway."

"You always wanted to make a difference Julianne," he said admiringly. "Don't go doing anything stupid like getting yourself killed."

"She smiled and flicked her copper hair back playfully. "Nice to know you still care."

"I always will," Harry replied warmly. Despite everything, he would always hold a candle for Julianne. He could never love her again, if indeed he ever had, but she would always be in his thoughts.

As if to demonstrate to Harry what he was about to give up, she reached toward him and again planted another deep, passionate kiss full on his lips. Her lips lingered there and despite his sore head, he felt that familiar tingle of excitement. She stood up, her tall, lithe figure as shapely as ever. "Goodbye Harry," she said as she swept out of the room.

"Adios Julianne," he mumbled. Harry had the distinct feeling he would never see her again.

## CHAPTER 57

There was really no reason for Anatoly Kessler to remain hidden with his team of hacktivists. They had been quite literally an underground movement, and now it was time for them to return to the surface where the wind was natural; not the pungent, swirling draft that funnelled up from passing tube trains fifteen metres below them. They had worked in the shadows for far too long, but there was one last piece of work they had carried out. It was somewhat more subtle than their usual _modus operandi_ of sabotage and subversive activity. This was about revealing information that certain people would prefer remained out of the public domain.

When Eleanor Beaufort had received the information from an 'anonymous' source, she had at first failed to understand its significance. The message was sent in a burst of encrypted instant messages sent to her Periscope social media platform. She had lost her devices in her haste to flee Pelham's private carriage when it was attacked. However, they had granted her Internet access at the Palace. When she logged into her account the messages were waiting, but there were a number of security protocols she had to follow to decrypt them. Only after she had read and compared each message did she realize the implications.

Now, sitting on the top deck of the private Geneva-Paris TGV high-speed train, surrounded by the glass bubble of the viewing platform, she trembled in anger. The luxurious train cut through the carved mountain valley, but the stunning view of the Jura mountains was lost on her. As it was on her travelling companion, his head buried in his tablet, scratching his iconic white goatee thoughtfully. She knew Kobie Emosi was a busy man, particularly given the events of the last few days. The train was full of diplomats, politicians and consultants, all vying to offer their advice to the Secretary-General, but he had still granted Eleanor an audience. It was in part an acknowledgment of her contribution to the British crisis, but also recognition that she still had an important part to play in the immediate post-Pelham aftermath.

The train was so smooth it felt like it was gliding on a cushion of air, and the forested mountains flashed by in a blur. Only by fixing her attention outside to the stark rock formations high above could she focus on anything. All her attention was now fixed on Emosi, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose in a professorial manner.

"I need to know why?" she demanded.

Emosi looked up, confused. "What do you mean?" he asked innocently.

Eleanor wanted to scream at him, to tell him exactly what she was thinking, but she had to check herself. He was, after all, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, at present the most high profile organization on the planet. Whatever his conduct, he deserved respect.

"The NATO air defence," she began.

Emosi put down his tablet, all his attention fixed on her. "What about it?"

"I have reason to believe that the first NATO jets launched at 11.18 GMT during Pelham's speech."

Emosi looked perplexed. "Maybe, but what's the relevance?"

Eleanor fixed him with a steely gaze. "The British jets did not launch until _11.27!_ "

Emosi sat up straight and paused, considering his response. "Where did you hear that?" he said stiffly.

"Does it matter? Is it true?" responded Eleanor, an edge to her voice. She looked deep into his eyes, searching for the answer. Emosi blinked rapidly, his hesitation affirming her fears. "It is, isn't it?" she said cuttingly. "You ran out of the chamber during Pelham's speech because you claimed Harry was trying to tell us something. That was just a smokescreen - because you had already ordered the NATO planes in the air."

Emosi grimaced, unable to refute her accusations. "What would you like me to say?" he said calmly.

"How about the truth?" she replied angrily.

"Come on Eleanor, you're a politician. You're not naive. I needed a reason to intervene and Pelham gave it to me. I wasn't the one who launched those planes carrying a disease that could ravage Europe. He thought his planes were hidden safely from UN forces, but we knew they were there. I instructed our ground forces not to intervene. I needed him to carry out his threat to attack Europe. I knew it was imminent and yes I was proactive. But his attack vindicated everything we had done in Britain. How could we be criticized for invading Britain after that?"

Eleanor arched her eyebrows in surprise. "But one of those planes was escorted to the ground and allowed to land in Scandinavia. It could easily have dropped the package and spread the disease."

Emosi looked pensive. "A calculated risk, one that I had to take. I needed evidence to prove the attack was genuine. Retrieving the vials provided me with the proof I need to take to the Security Council."

"You hid that information from them!"

"Yes, but I did what I believed was necessary. I'm entrusted with the role of Secretary-General. I need to show the courage to make tough decisions, and to do what I believe is in the best interests of the organization. War is dirty, and no-one emerges from it with any glory. There was no other way."

Eleanor would not be appeased. "You put a population centre of several hundred thousand at risk!" she said, her voice rising.

The Secretary-General looked around, concerned. They remained alone on the viewing platform. "Keep your voice down please. You and I both know that the UK mission was the biggest test of our relevance in recent history. I could not take the chance that we would fail through inertia. I was fully aware of the atrocities first hand, atrocities committed by _your_ government. Despite the country's isolation and restrictions on Internet use, we had insiders from MI5 that supplied us with valuable intelligence. We did not go in blind. The situation was escalating almost daily. After Pelham was attacked and you confirmed what we had feared all along, that they had propagated an artificial pathogen, the decision was made. It was your address to the Security Council that persuaded us to intervene."

"But you kept vital information from the Security Council about the attack. You ordered those jets to attack Britain without a directive from the UN."

Emosi sighed impatiently, as if he were lecturing a child. "Eleanor you're a good politician, but too much of an idealist to be a great politician. In any case, the Council was aware that I had jets on standby in case of this type of attack. The fact that I did not inform them is only a matter of timing."

"But you needed a resolution to use air strikes. That's why the Council exists to make these decisions!"

"Technically, yes that's true, but you and I both know there was no time for that. The Council is too slow and mired in bureaucracy. Even if I could arrange a meeting they would have debated and argued until the RAF jets were on top of us, dropping their disease. I made a unilateral decision, one that was in the best interests of the European people."

"Which makes you no less a dictator than the one you have deposed."

"Not at all," he replied patiently. "I used my position to achieve a positive result."

"You're not a true altruist Kobie. You did it for your career as well. Because if you failed you would be finished as Secretary-General."

"That may be true." He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his forehead in a tired fashion. "I don't know how you found out about the timing of the NATO launch, and it sounds like you're not going to tell me. Whether you think I withheld information from the Security Council or not, or that I put people at risk is irrelevant. I did what I had to do and I stand by my actions."

Emosi suddenly leaned forward. His dark eyes were hard and burrowed into Eleanor like laser beams. "I strongly suggest that our conversation stays between us. No point in stirring up conspiracy theories. I do not want to be put into the awkward position of making strenuous denials about my conduct. You, on the other hand, may be forced to do exactly that if your matter goes to trial. Everyone associated with Pelham's regime, particularly members of his inner circle, are likely to be prosecuted. That means you."

"That's not quite true," she said acidly. "My sources also told me that the charges against Matt Lindström have been dropped. How much did he pay you?"

Emosi's face creased in anger. "Be careful with your accusations Eleanor. I won't deny that Lindström has promised reparation money to a British rebuilding fund. You can probably see that on any of your social media sites. But I don't like what you're implying. I may have acted unilaterally when the need arose but I am not corrupt. He will contribute millions. That is money desperately needed by the country. What's the point of using taxpayer's funds to finance a costly trial that has a limited guarantee of success? You're a better target for trial. You were at the very heart of a monstrous government. What you claim you did or didn't know will ultimately come down to the evidence presented."

"So the wealthy get to buy their way out of jail?" retorted Eleanor.

The train passed along a viaduct and for a moment Emosi stared out of the glass covered ceiling into the green, expansive valley below, apparently lost in thought. "Not just the wealthy, Eleanor. You keep your counsel and I will fight for you, tell the court how much you helped us and the risks you took to expose Pelham."

"And if I talk?"

"We both have a vested interest in you not talking. Let's leave it at that."

They were interrupted by the tall, lithe figure of Emosi's personal assistant, Dahlia, fashionably dressed in a colourful poncho and headscarf, sweeping toward them. "Sir, the President of the Security Council is waiting for you downstairs," she said in her soft, velvety Namibian accent.

That was Eleanor's cue to leave. As she headed down the carpeted spiral staircase to the lower deck, she had a strong urge to see Francois. She knew he was on the train somewhere. Maybe she would confide in him, although it was hard to know who to trust anymore. Maybe Emosi's accusation that she was too much of an idealist was true **,** but her confidence had been shaken and the thought of an impending trial scared her.

## CHAPTER 58

After his discharge from hospital, any hopes that Harry fostered of peace and isolation were quickly shattered. He suddenly found himself a reluctant celebrity, even to the extent that he was trawled by the 'paparazzi,' anxious for a quote or a picture. As some degree of normality began to creep back into Britain, the free Press were nascent again, re-emerging like insects from stasis.

As he passed by they shouted after him, but he was never alone. The bodyguards that had supervised his every minute at hospital now stayed close by him for protection. It was frustrating for Harry, but a necessary precaution. The UN representative, a Portuguese named Rúben, had warned that he had made some powerful enemies. There were still many Pelham supporters around that probably blamed him for the demise of their leader. Like so many shadow wars fought in this century, those enemies were not obvious. They did not show themselves until they moved in for the kill. They warned him to stay vigilant until they could arrange to spirit him out of the country. "Kobie Emosi, the Secretary-General himself, wants to see you," Rúben had said with effusive praise.

Holed up in the penthouse suite of The Lanesborough on Hyde Park Corner, one of the most expensive hotels in London, surrounded by burly guards with dark shades and Bluetooth earpieces, he felt as much a prisoner as during his trial. Admittedly it was a gilded cage, and the food was wonderful. He had lost too much weight during his internment and he faced a long battle back to health and fitness. One luxury he had pointedly refused, however, was alcohol. He was determined not to go down that path again.

Despite the stream of meetings with politicians, journalists and social media representatives, he felt an empty sense of loneliness. His enquiries as to Byron's whereabouts were politely rebuffed and he was becoming impatient. There had been three days of meetings before his 'assistant,' an energetic lady called Poppy who had been assigned to him, suddenly announced his next visitor with a broad smile on her round face.

Harry slouched in the opulent leather recliner, staring out from the large balcony window at the London skyline. The weak evening sun cast its diffuse light like a shawl over the park, where Harry could still see long lines of refugee tents huddled together the length of Hyde Park. "No more visitors today, please!" he cried. "I'm tired!"

Poppy, tablet in hand, gave a beaming smile, her dark eyes dancing. "I think you will want to see this guest."

Harry stood up, hopeful and expectant. It couldn't be could it? The door opened and the face he was so desperate to see appeared from behind the door. For a fleeting moment Harry feared that he would be distant, estranged in some way. Why had he not visited sooner?

He need not have worried. When Byron saw his father he ran toward him and nearly knocked him over with a huge bear hug, burying his face in Harry's chest. Tears instantly began streaming down Harry's face, and he was too choked to say anything at first. After the lingering embrace that he had cherished in his heart for so long, he eventually composed himself. All he could say was, "I missed you."

Byron sniffed, not wanting to let go. "I missed you too Dad."

Harry looked up and realized they were not alone. Poppy had left them to it, but lingering in the doorway was a stunningly attractive blond woman with a soft, almond-shaped face and azure eyes. She looked to be around mid-forties, with a presence and composure that hinted of experience and an inner toughness despite her tender features. Then she smiled, and her eyes sparkled with humour. Harry felt his heart leap and smiled back weakly, suddenly feeling like a shy teenager again. Byron disentangled himself from Harry's arms and sauntered over to the blond woman. To Harry's surprise, he led her by the hand until she stood close to Harry. She looked even more beautiful close up, with the small lines around her eyes accentuating her maturity and confidence.

"Dad, let me introduce Dr. Hilary Warnecki," said Byron in a proud, almost haughty way. "She's the reason I wasn't around when you woke up."

The doctor smiled again, a little more coyly this time, as they shook hands. Her hands were a little coarse, as though used to hard work, but her grasp was strong.

Byron continued to explain. "Hilary was a doctor in the Salisbury camp. When Mum died she looked after me, made sure I survived. It was like having Mum back."

It was Hilary's turn to feel Byron's affectionate embrace, and she let out a gentle laugh. "I think it was the other way round. Byron helped me to survive. His work with our patients in the field hospital was nothing short of miraculous. He was an incredible comfort to the patients. Byron truly is the bravest and most generous lad I have ever come across. You should be very proud of him."

They sat down on the large sofa, almost sinking into its soft leather. Byron decided to perch on the floor, sitting cross-legged between them as room service entered and served them tea and muffins. They let Byron talk, and listened patiently as Byron recalled their time in the internment camp. He did so without bitterness, even when he described how Tamara had passed away. Harry was impressed at the boy's maturity, but also felt a surge of guilt that he had not been there for him, and indeed for Tamara. Sensing Harry's discomfort, Hilary gently interjected. "There was nothing anyone could do. The hospital was under-resourced and unable to cope. Byron stayed with her right to the end. She at least had comfort in that. Many of my patients died alone."

With great admiration, Harry understood the incredible sacrifice Hilary must have made in the camp. She described her work as a medical volunteer for Médecins Sans Frontières in diverse places around the world, eventually arriving in Salisbury, her most difficult mission. "Wherever I have been in the past," she said, "no matter how poor or desperate the conditions, there was always one thing we could rely on; the support of the government and the military, regardless of political affiliation. They would always try and provide resources, even with the logistical challenges. Facing a regime that was indifferent or worse, as people died around me, was enough to send the most balanced person absolutely insane."

"Were you ever concerned about getting infected yourself?" asked Harry with concern. "The pathogen was designed to be highly contagious."

Hilary nodded in agreement, sipping tea from an ornate china cup. "Yes it was. That risk was ever present but we always got ourselves checked out. Call it a miracle but none of my nurses ever contracted the disease." She turned to Byron, smiling broadly. "Even more of a miracle was Byron's resistance to the camp disease. He hardly ever wore a surgical mask and he stayed close to the patients, comforting them and keeping their spirits up. He was like an angel in our field hospital. All the patients, as sick as they were, absolutely adored him."

Byron smiled sadly and Harry knew that look. He had surely been through hell and it would take him a long time to recover.

Hilary continued. "Through all the madness and bedlam we suffered, his presence for those dying people was like a shining light. When the soldiers took him away I thought I would never see him again. It felt like a part of me had been ripped out, and I could do nothing to stop them." Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she recalled the feeling of Byron being forced onto the caged truck.

Harry hesitatingly placed a hand on hers and squeezed it gently. The feel of her skin was electric.

Byron watched them, satisfied. "Dad, I never want to leave you again. But I want to stay with Hilary. She's my mother now. Which means the three of us need to live together."

Harry gave a nervous laugh and said without conviction, "Byron, we've just met."

Hilary rescued him. "Let's see how things develop, Byron. For now you need to spend time with your Dad, get to know him again."

Harry nodded in agreement but understood Byron's viewpoint. It was far too early to tell, but maybe he could build a new life with his son's surrogate mother, despite his track record. Harry felt happier than at any time since he had been married to Tamara. For the first time in years, he looked forward to the future with a sense of profound excitement.

## REUTERS EDITORIAL APRIL 5

In the immediate aftermath of Lawrence Pelham's demise, the nation was divided, without clear leadership. It was initially even more fractured and volatile than during his regime. Hostilities ran deep between local militia groups jealously protecting their territory. To their credit, the UN was quick to grasp the political implications of deserting Britain when a power vacuum they had helped create threatened to engulf the nation.

The presence of trucks and soldiers bearing the UN logo has become a familiar and welcome sight on Britain's streets. There is still a lot of work to be done before they can safely leave, in particular overseeing the transition to a new government. However, their continued presence has become a calming influence. There are still sporadic explosions of violence, but they have been rapidly quelled. In recent days UN peacekeepers have rarely had to fire a shot in anger.

After almost a year under an oppressive authoritarian regime, there is a true sense of the country returning to normal. Of course, given the events of the past year, that normality will be impossible to achieve for some. So many people have lost too much. In the past few days a trend, fuelled by social media, has arisen, whereby people have lit Chinese flying lanterns, adorned with a photograph of a loved one. One short video making the rounds shows a huge gathering of people in Sutton Park in Sutton Coldfield, near Birmingham. They are launching the lanterns in the air, so the night sky is filled with thousands of orange lanterns drifting upwards in a poignant tribute to those they had lost. It is a dramatic sight, made all the more moving by its symbolism. The Chinese lantern is a symbol of reunion, a suggestion that they will see their loved ones in another time and place. It is also used in festive occasions, arguably a time for muted celebrations and the hope of a better future.

This hope can be seen in another trend floating around the social media. This is images and stories of people helping each other, often just small deeds, but carried out with compassion and empathy for those who have suffered. It creates a sense of a new beginning, a change in attitudes. People are starting to look forward again with renewed optimism.

However, this optimism is tempered by a firm rejection of old values. People across the country are looking for something different. They have rejected the empty promises and vague promises of existing politicians. The relationship of trust, the boundaries of which politicians have tested to the limit time and again with lies and deceit, has now completely broken down. The British National Party, through its leader Jane Forster, the Opposition Leader, made repeated overtures to form an interim government. All were firmly rebuffed by the UN, based on the strength of feeling from the British public.

The UN has, however, declared the creation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Its purpose is to analyze and to understand the circumstances that led to Lawrence Pelham sweeping to power and being allowed almost unfettered ability to impose his will. A number of witnesses have already been lined up, including Giles Chamberlain and Eleanor Beaufort, whose trials have been suspended until the Commission has finished its work. It is expected to take at least a year for the Commission to publish its final report.

There is a certain irony that one of the most significant prevailing mysteries lies around exactly what happened in the moments immediately prior to Pelham's death. The irony is that the combined viewing figures taken from TV and streaming media suggest it was one of the most watched speeches in history. Yet nobody actually watched the defining moment itself, other than those physically present, and none of them are talking. The autopsy and forensic analysis would undoubtedly confirm whether the shot that killed Pelham was self-inflicted or not. If there has been an autopsy it has not been released. Indeed the whereabouts of Pelham's body is a mystery. A casual journalistic search of nearby mortuaries has yielded nothing.

One of those individuals present at the time of Pelham's death was Harry Clarke, although he had been knocked unconscious, something that was seen live across the globe. The images of Pelham standing over a motionless and injured Clarke, while raising his gun, apparently to shoot him, will surely be replayed for decades to come. It has not stopped the journalists from asking Harry to speculate on the former Prime Minister's demise, which he has consistently refused to do.

However that has not lessened his appeal. There is a clamour on social media supporting Clarke's candidacy, if he were to declare one, to the leadership of a new Britain. As so often happens on social media, an idea catches on like wildfire and suddenly those calls have reached into the millions, not just in Britain but across the free world. One Twitter comment that particularly resonated came from an eighty-two year-old man from Santiago, Chile, who declared that he knew what it was like to live under a despotic regime. He stated that many members of his family simply disappeared during the 1970s, never to be heard of again, under the dictatorship of General Pinochet. Over a half century later, he was still looking for answers regarding the fate of the people closest to him, unable to find peace until he knew. He followed this up with a call for Clarke to be elected, that he stood for integrity.

Kobie Emosi has received worldwide plaudits for his handling of the British crisis. It is a complete turnaround from the earlier part of the campaign, when he faced heavy criticism. His standing has never been greater, and it has added new relevance to the valuable role the UN plays in regulating world affairs. It has helped to restore its reputation following serious strategic mistakes in Israel and Syria. There remain plenty of significant challenges to face, and rather than basking in the glory, Emosi has kept busy. Reports on social media suggest he recently held a summit meeting with Clarke. However, both parties remain tight-lipped about the outcome of those discussions, other than one fact. Both confirmed that Harry was asked to address Parliament, not in any official capacity, but as someone who defined the face of the resistance against Pelham.

It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that with the dawn of a new Britain, someone like Harry Clarke, not a career politician, may provide the change that the British people yearn for. He has an intimate knowledge of the political machinery and Parliamentary process from his former career as a political correspondent. However, his key attribute is the courage and integrity he displayed to make a stand and expose the previous regime, almost at the cost of his life. With the clamour on social media growing daily, he may just be the right person to lead and unite the nation.

## CHAPTER 59

Standing at a lectern in the middle of the House of Commons, the Speaker of the House glanced down the rows of politicians sitting on red leather cushioned benches on each side of the House. He was a portly man with a ruddy face, but underneath a shock of unruly white hair and curled eyebrows, his eyes darted around the chamber vigorously. He had a reputation for being able to build consensus during fractious debates using wit and charisma, skills which had been hugely valuable in the previous year.

There were some empty spaces, because many of the politicians who populated the House were no longer in power after recent events. However, the public gallery was full to overflowing, standing room only for most as they clamoured for a view. For the vast majority of the population who were not privileged enough to attend in person, cameras were dotted around the vaulted chamber for TV and live streaming on social media.

There was a general hubbub, which was not unusual in the House. The Speaker tapped his wooden gavel on the lectern insistently in time honoured fashion, until the buzz of conversation faded into silence. He cleared his throat in a loud and exaggerated fashion into the microphone and welcomed the assembly to the House. "Today, ladies and gentleman and privileged guests, we are pleased to welcome Harry Clarke. I won't bore you with an introduction because all of you know exactly who he is."

The Speaker paused dramatically, a veteran of the build-up introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen, privileged guests..... Harry Clarke!"

There was a roar of applause as the Speaker invited Harry to the lectern and made way. They shook hands warmly as Harry reached the lectern.

Harry placed his tablet on the lectern and waited for the applause to die away. He could not deny he was nervous, but he also felt energized at the opportunity. Somewhere in the crowded public gallery sat Hilary and Byron.

He looked around the large chamber, which was now steeped in silence, all eyes trained on him. He tried to stand tall but his knees were heavy, ready to collapse. "Thank you, thank you. Standing in front of you today, I feel a heavy weight of responsibility. We are a nation licking its wounds after the horrors of the last year. It will take many decades and possibly generations for those scars to heal. For some they will never heal, and future generations will look at the Pelham regime with the same repulsion as other genocidal leaderships throughout history. Make no mistake, the recent past has seen some of the darkest days ever known in Britain; we have consigned ourselves to a notorious place in world history. But there is an opportunity to right those wrongs, and we must take that opportunity, starting from today."

Murmurs of approval rose from the crowd, and Harry sensed his nerves dissipating. "I wish to declare for the record that I am not, whatever the social media campaigns say, here to declare my candidacy to form a new government. The responsibility is too great and the wounds are still fresh. I wish to use this platform today to ask that we come together as a nation. The divisions continue to run deep in the country. There are still rival factions vying for power, wishing to protect their turf.

"A deep sense of nationalism and intolerance continues to prevail. We need to get past that. We have seen the destructive effects of prejudice, ignorance and intolerance. I urge you to cease those rivalries. The conflict has to end." More murmurs of approval and an isolated shout from the public gallery of "Here here!"

"The wave of xenophobia and hatred that Pelham triggered across the country will not fade overnight. His supporters are everywhere. But we will tackle hatred and bigotry wherever we find it. The people that hold these extreme views have no place in a civilized society.

"I repeat that I do not wish to lead the country; I do not have the skills or attributes to do so. I will, however, work closely with the United Nations to ensure that those individuals who supported Pelham are tracked down and brought to justice. This should be an imperative of any incoming administration. We will work tirelessly to achieve this goal. Only when these people are rooted out and brought to justice can we truly begin to rebuild the country. We have long memories and our reach will be wide. To those people who perpetrated acts of genocide and murder in the name of the government, I say this. You will see what it is like to live in fear. All those people you regarded as allies will be our informants. You will have no friends, no-one you can trust and soon you will have nowhere left to hide. The long arms of justice are coming for you, and do not expect forgiveness or even clemency when we find you. Mercy was not something you afforded your victims. Like many, I have suffered personal loss from this terrible regime and I am not prepared to grieve without justice. I want closure."

A ripple of applause circulated around the House, and Harry continued, now in his stride. "Unlike the tyrants and thugs who supported Pelham, we will only mete out justice according to the rule of law. We will not stoop to the savagery that has blighted this country over the past year. So many of you are grieving for those you have lost. The Chinese lanterns that symbolize the disappeared are everywhere. There are few people in this country who remain untouched by the cancer of ethnic cleansing that swept the country. As difficult as it may be, I am asking those of you who suffered so much not to carry hatred in your hearts, but to look forward; to continue your lives with hope, and build a legacy that the disappeared will have wanted you to build.

"As a nation we are diminished in the eyes of the world. It will take a long time to restore our standing in the international community, but with strong leadership we can rebuild. Lawrence Pelham promised to make this country great again. Yes, we can become great again, but not in the way he intended. The path of destruction and conflict is not a path to greatness. It is to lead, to innovate, to empower its citizens, no matter their background or culture. A great nation embraces diversity and taps into the wide range of skills and perspectives that only a diverse nation can bring.

"We live in a time of extraordinary change. We stand at the edge of the most challenging period in our nation's history. Our challenge is to create a future not ruled by fear and xenophobia. We need to build a nation in which racism and bigotry against other cultures will not be tolerated. We must welcome diversity, protect freedom of speech within the reasonable bounds of democracy, and protect an open Internet. But that does not mean that we will permit the Internet to be used to poison the minds of individuals in the way that FREE was at liberty to do. We will respect the sanctity of human life, that everyone is equal under the law, regardless of colour, creed or culture." Another shout in support echoed through the chamber.

"In my view the most important task of the incoming administration is to create a bond of trust with its citizens. We have daunting challenges ahead, and we must face them with strong leaders who enjoy the trust of the people. Will we respond to those challenges with fear, turning inward as a nation, turning against each other as a people, as we did under Pelham? Or will we face the future with confidence in who we are, in what we stand for, and what we can achieve together as a nation? I pray that it will be the latter. It is the responsibility of every citizen and resident of this proud nation to come together and rebuild. The past will never be forgotten, but we can still live in hope for the future. Thank you."

A ripple of applause echoed around the chamber which rapidly spread into thunderous applause and cheering. The politicians on the Benches on both sides of the House rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically. In the crowded public gallery many people were standing already, but the seated spectators also rose to their feet. They applauded until the noise bounced deafeningly around the House, hemmed in by the acoustics of the chamber.

The man of the moment merely stood smiling modestly at the unexpected outpouring of adulation. It was a special moment for him, and even in the raucous approval from the assembly of some of the most influential people in the country, a thought lodged in his brain and refused to budge. Many people were relying on him. His contribution to the healing and renewal of post-dictatorship Great Britain in whatever capacity would be the most important work he had ever undertaken.

Clapping politely in the public gallery, Rúben Pinto felt a sincere sense of optimism cascade through the crowd, a fervent expectation of a better future. The UN had helped to liberate this country, but things were never as simple when you scratched below the surface. There was still plenty of work to do. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission would begin its preliminary investigations soon, and he would play an active part. He was one of the few people to know the real truth behind the many conspiracy theories on social media. Who's gun was it that fired the fatal bullet?

It was the wrong question to ask. The truth – the real truth – made him angry when he thought about it. Of course he had followed Emosi's orders, but the SG had not seen what he had seen. He might have seen the footage that Rúben recorded, but it was not the same. He had not been there to witness what he did at the deportation camp, the stench, the pain, the sense of utter hopelessness. It still troubled his sleep.

In the immediate aftermath of Pelham's ill-fated live speech, enquiries to local mortuaries by zealous investigative journalists had concluded that Pelham's body was not interred at any of them. No-one had seen his body. That was not unusual. There had been similar rumours in the immediate aftermath of Osama bin Laden's assassination at his compound in Abbottabad back in 2011.

In an attempt to quell the rumours, the UN had issued a short, bland statement to say that the body was subject to postmortem examination. There would be no State funeral for Pelham, and he would be buried in a secret location to avoid the inevitable ghoulish visitors, either in support or against the former Prime Minister. His legacy carried too much emotion. That was the extent of the message, and had not appeased those who questioned the circumstances around the death of Lawrence Pelham. The world was full of fake news. The truth was usually buried somewhere in between, but you had to search for it. Sometimes you could only believe if you saw it with your own eyes. Rúben had done exactly that, and he would carry that secret to his dying breath.

##  EPILOGUE

Pausing at the cabin door of the small private Lear jet, the suave looking gentleman in the crisp white linen suit savoured the warm, humid Panamanian breeze. The sun was low in the sky, an orange ball sinking toward the horizon, but the long runway still shimmered in the hazy heat of late April. He finally stepped down the short set of stairs onto the warm tarmac, and sauntered across to the main terminal building of Tocumen International Airport in Panama City. Behind the terminal building, and crowding around the edges of the long runway, dense banks of lush trees wavered gently in the light breeze. It felt almost idyllic to him, and only with reluctance did he step from the moist, clammy air into the cool, air-conditioned building.

He followed the signs, all in bold Spanish, with an English translation in smaller letters underneath, until he reached the passport control. The line was short, composed mainly of American tourists in ill-fitting summer clothes who had arrived on a plane that taxied in just before his, and the man kept himself hidden under his Panama hat. Entirely appropriate attire for the occasion, he smiled to himself as he waited. Finally it was his turn to be called to the passport booth. The swarthy border guard sported a finely trimmed moustache that stretched down both sides of his chin in Fu Manchu style. He gave a cursory "Buena noches."

As the man presented his passport through the gap in the window, the border guard glanced up, comparing the picture against the person in front of him. His wary gaze seemed to linger just a touch too long, and for a fleeting moment a surge of panic shot through the man. It passed quickly as the border guard abruptly stamped the passport and handed it back to the man, waving him on.

Presently, he was out of the airport and travelling through the dusty outskirts of Panama City. The taxi driver jabbered on in Spanish, and the man just nodded politely, his thoughts elsewhere. He would need to improve on his poor Spanish. Although his passport gave his name as Señor Luis Palmeira, a Panamanian businessman, it was a carefully crafted pseudonym. Indeed, he had to laugh at the irony of the initials. He was not sure if that was by accident or by design, but it hardly mattered. They had created an intricate history for him, one that was clearly convincing to the border patrols.

A lot of money had been spent to fund his exit, but most of the financing had come from Matt Lindström's fund. It was hardly as if they had been out of pocket. The facial surgery was probably the most expensive part. It was quite incredible. It would take him time to get used to it of course, but it had been tested against even the most sophisticated facial recognition technology, and had passed easily. They had repaired the scarring around his chin and neck, and even changed his vocal cords to lose the English accent. Once his new identity was placed into the global database, any facial recognition devices would register him as Señor Luis Palmeira.

He would live a quiet life here. Arrangements had been made with the Panamanian government to allow him to remain as their guest. He would help the UN root out his former accomplices. He was a born survivor, and as the net closed in he realized it was his only way out. His final speech had been carefully planned, and the remaining few soldiers loyal to his cause had been given strict instructions to put up only token resistance. It had been a meticulously coordinated exercise to allow the UN access to the media room where the speech was held. A shot had been fired and he had been hit, but it was not from the powerful assault rifles the UN peacekeepers carried. Instead he had been knocked out by a very powerful tranquilizer, powerful enough to give him a bloody and painful head wound. It had slowed his breathing and heart rate to virtually zero, so that for all intents and purposes he appeared clinically dead. He was quickly bundled out of the building in a zipped-up body bag, waking five days later in a secure detention facility in the bowels of a UN facility. When they handed him a mirror the face staring back was alien, and it took him time to adapt.

He sat there isolated for the best part of a week, and he wondered with panic if their deal would be reneged on, but Emosi had come through. The negotiations had been complex, but when he was holed up in Chequers with support dwindling, his options had been narrowing daily. Both he and Emosi stood to gain significantly from the deal, so the agreement was never likely to fail. It was just a case of hammering out the terms. The most complicated part of the deal had been the air attacks. Emosi had insisted that this become a key part of the deal. He understood perfectly. It vindicated everything Emosi had done up to that point. It gave the UN invasion an irrefutable credibility, and had enhanced Emosi's standing on the world stage to an unassailable position. He could not help but feel a grudging admiration for the man. He would make a formidable adversary at chess.

His emissary had come to see him to brief him on his new identity, and what they wanted from him. The terms were most acceptable, particularly because he kept a relative degree of freedom. He would never see his beloved homeland again, he accepted that. Indeed it might be difficult to leave Panama but maybe that wasn't so bad – beautiful country, beaches, mountains, rainforest, plenty to explore. He was not even under house arrest. As his administration crumbled it could have been a lot worse.

A couple more weeks of briefings in detention and then he had been spirited away on a private jet to Panama. His only company was the Portuguese emissary who briefed him, and a few bodyguards who did not know his identity, only that he was a V.I.P.

They told him that South America had proved a little too challenging. Several countries there had welcomed the old Nazis and their reputation had suffered in consequence, even if the Nazi gold had helped to prop up ailing economies. There were very few Nazis around now, but some of them had lived to a ripe old age. Most of those still living would be centenarians by now. The only justice they had faced was not from fellow men, despite extensive searches, but from the inescapable laws of nature, as their time on this earth ran out. They had looked over their shoulder for the majority of their lives.

Despite assurances, Palmeira (he really had to get used to that name) knew that was exactly what he would do. Danger came not just from vengeful men wanting to fill him with lead, but also these days from low-flying drones with long range cameras. He would have to be careful. They would keep him safe, he was confident of that, but probably only until he had outlived his usefulness. He would be frugal with his information and use it for maximum leverage.

The taxi sped through the shanty town that crowded around the north suburbs, rickety buildings with corrugated iron roofs, many of them clinging precariously to steep hillsides. The taxi soon reached the contrasting heart of the city, the glass and steel towers of the business district glittering in the dying sunlight. Finally they reached the far south of the city where they passed fashionable colonial villas with white colonnades on wide roads. The city was far behind when, in the failing light, the taxi abruptly turned off the road and down a narrow side road until they eventually arrived at a more modest villa, set apart from any others. It stood alone at the head of a long, sandy trail that ran down towards the sea, waves gently lapping on the shore.

As he stepped out, a breeze tugged at his newly darkened hair. A maid was waiting in the doorway, an overweight Hispanic woman with a white apron on a blue smock, iron black hair tied in a bun. The taxi driver hauled his luggage into the small entrance and the maid thrust some notes into his calloused hand. He left quickly, and the maid carried his bags across the tiled floor into the small living room.

The villa was not up to his usual standards, but the white walls and patchwork tiles were spotlessly clean. He had used his legendary negotiating skills to insist on a beachfront villa, and they had not let him down. Maybe this would not be so bad.

Once he had settled in, the maid excused herself and he sat out on the balcony facing the sea. The stars were beginning to make an appearance in the night sky, and in the distance he saw the flashing light of a distant buoy. He would start his work with the UN in the morning. In the meantime, he could get used to this.

The gentle ripple of waves beating the shore and the soft, insistent whistle of cicadas were the only sounds that broke the silence. He suddenly tensed. There was something else, another noise, almost imperceptible but clearly there, like the stealthy movement of an animal. Then a shadow flitted across his peripheral vision. In the split second it passed by, he knew it was no animal.
About the Author

Paul Michael Dubal is originally from the United Kingdom and settled in Ontario in 2008 with his wife and two children. His day job takes place in the corporate legal field in Toronto but he is even more creative outside the office. Paul's first novel, Crimes Against Humanity is a critically acclaimed thriller about human trafficking in Canada.

Connect with Paul online

Twitter: @pauldubal

Facebook: Paul Michael Dubal

Goodreads: Paul Michael Dubal

I.A.N. www.independentauthornetwork.com/paul-michael-dubal.html

Praise for Paul Michael Dubal's **CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY**

" _A heart pounding, pacy thriller that explores a difficult subject with compassion"_

" _An intricately woven plot – it's action packed and fast paced, the characters really come alive"_

" _Good twists and turns - it's a very entertaining and hard to put down read"_

" _The author successfully combines suspense and in-depth research of a controversial topic"_
_Where it all started...._ _THE DICTATOR OF BRITAIN – THE RISE TO POWER_

_"_ _A scarily real apocalyptic vision of a near future Britain_ _"_

_"_ _A first class political thriller superbly researched_ _"_

_"_ _A great mix of high octane adventure and thoughtful social and political commentary_ _"_

_....and where it continues..._ _THE DICTATOR OF BRITAIN – THE DIRTY WAR_

_"_   
_Takes a frightening concept developed in Book One to the limits of extremity in Book Two_ _"_

_"_ _The second part of this trilogy is not for the faint hearted_ _"_

_"_ _This story just blew me away!_ _"_
