

THE DICTATOR OF BRITAIN

BOOK ONE: THE RISE TO POWER

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 One: The Rise To Power

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2013 Paul Michael Dubal

Published by Paul Michael Dubal at Smashwords

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### This book is dedicated to my loving family whose pride in my work and support for my daydreams means everything to me; and to all my family and friends in the U.K. for whose sake I fervently hope the events in this book prove completely wrong.
## CHAPTER 1

Great Britain was on the verge of social collapse, or so Uncle Gurinder claimed. Rajesh had to agree with his beloved uncle, an old man of ninety-four, his skin as dry and rough as papyrus. Uncle Gurinder was so frail that his bones appeared to protrude at odd angles from his emaciated looking frame, and his clothes hung loosely off him, particularly when he wore the traditional Punjabi kurta, a long, straight cut, loose shirt with pyjamas. Under his straggly white beard, wispy as cotton thread, his voice was barely a croak, but Rajesh leaned in close to make sure he heard everything the family patriarch had to say. Despite his fragility, his uncle's hooded eyes remained bright and surveyed everything around him with a shrewd and inquisitive mind.

While the body had deteriorated through the rigours of age, his mind had stayed active, and when Uncle G (as his family affectionately called him) spoke, they listened. Those eyes had seen more than their fair share of suffering and pain, more than any man should have to bear in a lifetime. His wife of forty-one years had died many years ago, and the love of his life could now only be conjured up as a distant memory, as if it was hard to imagine she had ever been real, or that those eventful decades belonged to someone else. The day of her passing had been a hammer blow to his uncle. Rajesh still remembered his aunt's funeral and the haunting image of his uncle standing over her open casket, a seventy-two year old wailing like a child.

Even more tragic, however, was that he had buried two cherished sons, men he had been proud of, but with the curse of old age, he had outlived them. No parent should have to bury their child, reflected Rajesh ruefully. It was not the natural order of things.

His uncle had toiled and struggled to establish a life in England after the family had escaped from Uganda in the mid-seventies. It was nearly fifty years ago, but even Rajesh remembered it vividly as if it had happened yesterday. He was a bewildered nine year-old, knowing things were desperately wrong but not quite comprehending why they had to pack up and leave everything in the middle of the night. He could still picture the look of fear on his own father's face as the family raced to the airport in the back of the pick-up truck in the steamy tropical night, as Amin's army thugs chased them in their military jeep, laughing and waving their machetes. The family just made the mercy flight out of Kampala airport, and Rajesh had run with them, petrified of being left behind, never to return to the country of his birth again. They had lost everything, their home and business, their land and life savings, but also their friends. Many of their compatriots had been captured by Amin's death squads and never seen again, and the survivors had been scattered like poppy seeds in the wind throughout the globe.

They had arrived in England homeless and penniless, but this great nation was a land of opportunity. It represented a chance to build a new life in a democracy where all their hard-earned assets would not be sequestered by the government under some obscure law that targeted their ethnic group and nobody else. The early years had been tough, and they'd lived hand to mouth, but the welfare state in England was generous and they'd been able to survive and then to prosper.

Even so, it had never been easy. When they had arrived they'd lived in numerous homeless shelters and it was only the persistence and tenacity of his father and uncle that had kept the family together, fighting the authorities that wanted to put Rajesh and his sisters into a foreign home with a strange white family. They had faced racism and discrimination, but it was usually only words. Compared to the horrors of the regime back in Uganda, it was insignificant and the family learned to turn the other cheek, to remain strong in the face of the suspicion and hurtful comments of their neighbours and blank-faced civil servants looking down upon them as if they were charity cases.

Eventually, with the passage of time, they had become accepted in the community of Southall where they'd settled, and as they gradually built up the corner store they opened through saving every last penny, had become pillars of the community. Rajesh had worked in the store for as long as he could remember, and now effectively owned the store. His sisters had never shown any interest in the family business and had married doctors, and he hardly saw them anymore. The store had been in business for over forty years, and had survived numerous recessions and economic turmoil, the advent of hypermarkets, riots and social unrest, and the constant war of attrition against the bands of criminal youths that seemed to think his shop was their own personal larder.

He was tired, however, and as he looked at his uncle gently dozing in his wheelchair, the wrinkled eyelids shut tight and his shallow breathing wheezing like a death rattle, Rajesh felt as ancient as the old man. He was nearly sixty and the thought of living as long as his uncle filled him with trepidation. It was late now, and nearly time to close up. Business had been slow lately, but then these days' people had barely enough to spend on necessities, never mind anything else. It was rare to find anyone in this community who was not saddled with debt, and it only made the constant pilfering in his shop worse than ever. It was not just teenage thugs now. It was the ordinary person, the young single mother desperate to feed her crying baby, or the unemployed father with a hungry brood at home. Everybody stole from his store these days.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing, and the door to the shop swung lazily open. In walked five teenage boys, their hoodies pulled tight over their heads, and all wearing the baggy jeans and black laced jackboots fashionable amongst the callow youth of today. What was even more sinister, he reflected, was the recent trend for local youths to wear a large Union Jack emblazoned across the right breast and also on each arm, a sign of patriotism in days gone by but now more often regarded in a jingoistic, antagonistic way, especially in this ethnically diverse neighbourhood. Instantly Rajesh felt his throat tighten and his breath quicken. They seemed to be in high spirits, laughing raucously as they marched into the shop, beer bottles in hand. He glanced at his security camera mounted on a tripod so it faced the door. The picture partly showed their faces under the hoods. White boys, probably trouble. He instinctively felt for the baseball bat held conveniently under the counter, and relished the comforting grip as his hands closed round the heavy wooden club. He hoped he wouldn't need it, but these days it was a necessary tool, as vital as his cash register.

He shouted at the boys, trying hard to hide the tremor in his voice. "Please, no hoodies. And you're not allowed to bring drink into the store. Can you not read the sign?"

The boys stopped their chattering and one of them turned menacingly toward the counter. He said nothing as he moved ominously up the aisle until he faced Rajesh. He whipped off his hood and his mottled, acne-ridden face regarded the shop owner with a contemptuous scowl. Rajesh's grip tightened on the baseball bat out of sight. In the corner the old man continued his sonorous snoring, oblivious to the unfolding drama. The four other boys moved in close behind their friend, unfriendly eyes burrowing into Rajesh from under their hooded tops.

The lead boy stood only inches from Rajesh across the counter, and his breath stank of cigarettes and stale beer. These days real beer was expensive, and the cheap substitutes that seemed to fill the streets after the last recession were tasteless but potent and had a revolting smell, but to the masses it was their daily release. The country's addiction to alcohol was well documented. It seemed that every kid over fourteen was hooked on booze. He held the dirty brown bottle up like a prize. "Are you gonna stop me?" he challenged.

Rajesh was desperately trying to stop trembling, and his heartbeat thudded in his ears.

"I don't want any trouble," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Well, it looks like you've got it old man," the leader sneered. He flipped the dirty brown bottle in his hand and smashed it hard on the counter, where it shattered into a thousand shards of glass, cheap beer spilling out and splashing Rajesh. The boy held the neck of the bottle, which was now a splintered and lethal weapon, and waved it threateningly at Rajesh. The other boys were baying like wolves, urging their friend on.

Rajesh whipped the baseball bat out from under the counter and waved it in the general direction of the youths. He hoped they would not notice that his grip was loose from the sweat that drenched his palms.

"Look, just get what you want and go," he pleaded with them.

The youth turned to his friends and they nodded their approval. The leader, encouraged by this, bared his tobacco stained teeth and jabbed the broken beer bottle at Rajesh. The shop owner stumbled back, glad that a chest high wooden counter separated them, and the gang laughed mockingly.

"I'll tell you what we want old man. For a start we want all the money in your till. And after that we want your shop and then you can piss off back to your own country."

"This is my country!" snapped Rajesh, outraged. "I've lived in it longer than you." The baseball bat was raised now, ready to defend himself. His other hand felt desperately for the panic alarm under the counter.

"Doesn't make it your country, old man. England belongs to the English and you're just a scummy foreigner. Now give me your money."

Rajesh continued to feel for the alarm and cursed himself. In his panic he remembered he had moved it to the far end of the counter and it was now out of reach. He would have to make a lunge for it and even these Neanderthals would know he had tripped the alarm. It was standard practice to have panic alarms in shops nowadays, with crime at epidemic proportions, and these hoodlums would know that. It would be like a red rag to a bull. He waved his bat wildly in the general direction of the youths and shouted at them. "Get out before I call the police!"

The youths stood their ground, not intimidated at all by the solid wooden club the shopkeeper wielded. They merely laughed at him, a cruel, mocking laugh like the baying of hyenas moving in for the kill.

The chief antagonist moved forward and leaned over the counter, eyes fixed on the baseball bat in case the old man was foolish enough to take a swing. Rajesh moved back, the fear in his eyes palpable. "Do you really live with your head stuck in the sand?" he snarled. "The police ain't got time for shitheads like you. They're too busy fighting a losing battle. The streets belong to people like us." He noticed for the first time the wizened old man snoring peacefully in the corner. "Even that old git probably knows you ain't got a chance. Do you know who we are?"

Rajesh, thrown by the question, swallowed hard and replied meekly, "No."

The youth pointed proudly to the Union Jack stitched onto the right breast of his hoodie. Rajesh noticed for the first time that underneath the flag was another symbol, a black Celtic cross on a white background. It was an innocuous symbol that had been receiving increasing prominence in the news recently, a symbol stolen from an ancient Pagan religion now used for a perverse form of worship for the disaffected white youth. Underneath the cross was emblazoned the acronym FREE. Rajesh knew enough to be afraid. The cross was the adopted sign for the Fight to Return England to the English, an organization that typified everything that was wrong with the fragmented society of Great Britain. It promoted the forced repatriation of 'foreigners,' those terms loosely defined and condoned violence in the pursuit of its objectives. Hate and race crime were the by-products of all it promoted, yet despite its policies, FREE was gaining increased traction, not just amongst the unemployed working class masses, but amongst middle class suburbia as well.

The youth moved menacingly around the counter, eyes fixed on the bat but still brandishing his broken bottle. "On behalf of FREE, I'm taking control of this shop."

Rajesh had heard enough. He swung wildly with his bat, aiming for his tormentor's head, but he was nowhere near and the youth moved easily aside to dodge the blow. The gang leader was quick and agile, and as the bat swung round again he grabbed it and twisted it out of the shopkeeper's hands, jabbing his hand with the broken bottle to release his grip. Rajesh screamed in pain and drew his bloody hand away, grimacing. They had him now, he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach.

The youth arrived at the same conclusion and he gave a twisted grin, moving menacingly toward Rajesh. The shopkeeper was cornered and backed away, knocking over a tray of cigarettes. The other youths began chanting, encouraging their leader as they began to crowd in. The bell rung again and the door opened. Rajesh let out a sigh of relief as he saw a tall Asian man enter the shop. He glanced around and as soon as he saw the commotion at the front counter, he made a hasty exit.

Rajesh groaned and called out desperately, "Call the police!" The man made no sign that he had even heard before he departed into the night.

The youth's grin was now a snarl like an angry bear about to devour its prey. "You can't rely on anyone these days. It seems like you're on your own. I gave you fair warning to give me the money from the till. It's always the same with you bloody foreigners, you never listen."

Rajesh's last defence was gone, and he had no choice. "Please, just take what you want and go," he pleaded. "I have a family and an old uncle to look after." He held his right hand, blood dripping lazily from the small gash just below his knuckles.

The youth turned to the ancient man in the wheelchair, still breathing noisily but stirring under his thin blanket. "It looks like he's well past his sell-by date," he sneered. "Why don't I do you a favour and put him out of his misery?" He moved threateningly toward the wizened figure, the broken glass poised as if to strike. Rajesh lurched forward trying to block the youth, and as he did so he knocked the broken bottle from the youth's hand.

The youth, enraged, struck Rajesh full in the face, knocking him to the floor with a single savage blow. He stood over his victim like a prize fighter waiting for the count. His voice now carried a steely edge. "Do you realize who you're dealing with?"

The shopkeeper, dazed and shocked, fixed his gaze on the youth's jackboots, which were level with his head. The scuffed, dirty black boots symbolized everything that was wrong with society today. They were designed to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, much like the boots worn by the Ugandan army as they marched on their home so many years before, the heavy boots clomping on their stone yard before smashing the door in. The boots formed part of a uniform for a street army fighting an enemy that did not even realize it was an adversary. He was just an ordinary shopkeeper trying to make a living as he had done for decades. He felt his eye swelling already from the blow and watched helplessly as the right boot was lifted up and swung back. The youth landed a hefty kick at the man's midriff and Rajesh, curled up in the foetal position, nearly vomited as the boot thudded into his stomach.

The youth paused over his stricken prey, his anger and hatred diffused into another hefty kick at the shopkeeper. He smiled to himself. Christ, it felt good to let rip in these boots, especially against an immigrant. He shouted down at the man on the floor, who was now whimpering in pain. "I told you mate we are from FREE and we're here to get rid of your sort, and we ain't gonna stop until you're all six feet under. Got it?"

He motioned to the other youths and they fanned out around the shop, walking down the aisles and arbitrarily pulling products off the shelves as they walked by. Rajesh's attacker just stood over him, glaring and waiting for him to get up so he could knock him back down again. He finally lost patience and kicked him again, and then bent down so that his face was inches from the old man's swollen, tear stained face. It was the abject, fearful look in the eyes that he enjoyed the most. These immigrants were cowards and deserved everything they got. His mother, the senile old bitch, had taught him that from an early age. At least that was one good lesson she had taught him in her useless, wasted life, he thought wryly.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked it open so that Rajesh could feel the heat as his tormentor waved it close to his face. At first he thought the youth was going to burn him, but he held it steadily an inch from his face. He was mesmerized by the gently flickering yellow flame, unable to predict what would happen next. He prayed to Allah that this ordeal would soon be over. Why didn't they take what they wanted and go?

The youth spoke again, spittle forming around his mouth as his voice rose in excitement. "Do you know what we do with people like you? We're going to put you out of business." He stood up and gave an imperceptible nod to the other youths scattered around the store with its wrecked aisles.

It was then Rajesh smelt it, the bitter smell of paraffin that seemed to catch in the throat. It was followed quickly by the acrid smell of smoke as it curled lightly upwards. Within seconds the flames had taken hold and all around the store separate fires were burning, gathering strength as they devoured anything that was in their path. Rajesh panicked and tried to get up but the youth had anticipated his move and stamped heavily on his thigh. Incapacitated, he shot a terrified glance at his uncle, who was stirring in the intensifying heat. The flames grew in strength with a ferocious intensity, and they were edging closer to his uncle. The heat in the shop was already becoming unbearable, and the bitter, toxic smell of burning plastic assaulted his nostrils as the aisles began to collapse under the ruthless onslaught of the scorching flames. The youth again made a sign to his friends and they decided that now was the time to flee. The youth gave one last kick at his victim and taunted him. "Remember us, if you survive – the Fight to Return England to the English."

The flames crackled and the smoke billowed around the shop as the youths quickly fled the store, laughing and chattering excitedly. Rajesh could barely move. He was quite sure his leg was not broken, but it had been deadened by the vicious stamp and he could not put any weight on it. The acrid smoke billowed around him, stinging his eyes until his vision was blurred and useless. He coughed and spluttered as he inhaled the poisonous smoke which raked his lungs so they felt like bursting. Through the grey, choking pall and his own defective vision he glimpsed the outline of his uncle, now fully awake and struggling helplessly in his wheelchair as the flames began to dance around him, ready to consume the old man. He cried out hoarsely but his weak voice was choked by the smoke, the old man wheezing heavily. With a huge effort of will, he rolled out of the wheelchair and fell onto the floor, landing heavily in the path of a barrage of flames that moved in an animated fashion, roasting and blackening all before it.

Rajesh watched his uncle struggle to get up but he was too weak. He made a dry, rasping sound as he choked on the smoke and Rajesh could see that he had only seconds to spare before the conflagration descended upon him. Gritting his teeth, the injured shopkeeper hauled himself upright, gripping the counter tightly, howling in pain as he put all his considerable weight on his useless left leg. He stumbled but managed to keep his balance as he limped over to where his uncle struggled feebly against the oncoming flames. Rajesh felt the flames burn and claw at his skin. He reached down and gripped his uncle's bony shoulders. Fortunately the ancient old devil was mainly skin and bone, and with a huge effort, his dead leg threatening to collapse under the strain, he managed to pull him away from the immediate fire. He glanced over to the doorway. The flames had moved around in a wide arc so that they cut off their only escape route. The whole store was now a raging inferno and they were trapped in the middle of it. He vaguely heard the persistent ringing of a distant alarm, but it was almost drowned by the crackling roar of the flames licking across the ceiling in their destructive path. He looked around wildly, his eyes raw and streaming from the smoke and intense heat and spotted the baseball bat lying close to the flames. His mind racing, trying to block out the pain of his damaged leg, he limped over and grabbed the bat, grimacing from the searing heat of the fire less than two feet away. It was warm to the touch but undamaged. The shop had a long storefront window with shutters, but most of the window was now engulfed in dense flames. There was a section in the far corner however, that had so far escaped the hungry flames and he limped toward it as fast as his useless leg would allow, pushing his way through the searing heat. He shrieked in agony as a nearby flame shot out across his leg, as if the fire was alive and torturing him with a foretaste of the pain to come.

The fire extinguished any moisture in the air and his already damaged lungs protested against the scorching, dry air it was forced to filter. Rasping from the choking black smoke, the sound of plastic cartons popping as they exploded in the heat, Rajesh reached his only hope of salvation. He swung wildly with his bat and slammed it against the window. The bat bounced harmlessly back and he swung again with the same result. Crying with panic and fear, he remembered. He had only installed the reinforced window a few months ago, exasperated with the constant task of having to repair fractured glass from ever more regular attacks, from riots, street fights or burglaries. Even the steel shutters he rolled down religiously every night had failed to act as a deterrent, and the reinforced glass was an extra protective measure. He considered the irony as his last chance of escape receded. His body, released of adrenaline now that any hope of escape had been extinguished, began to sag and his damaged leg gave way. He slumped to the floor, surrounded by piles of burning rubble. The heat and smoke was now so intense that he felt himself convulsing, hardly able to breathe, and the flames now surrounded him, closing in with ruthless ferocity, ready to devour his tissue.

His mind, released from the concentration of trying to flee, switched back to a time long ago. He had heard that your life flashed before you just before the moment of death, although with curious lucidity he wondered how that could ever be independently verified. As he faced that same defining moment, his life did not flash by but cast back to a similar incident many years ago in Uganda. He pictured Amin's soldiers throwing burning bottles through the windows and doors of his house, the Molotov cocktails for which the troops were so renowned for, while his father loaded the family in the pickup truck and raced away, wheels spinning. He looked back at the house, the flames engulfing the fashionable but simple colonial building, its wooden structure quickly collapsing as the flames spread rapidly, lit like a beacon in the twilight. Everything he possessed had been lost in the fire, and now it was happening all over again, only this time he was not looking at it from afar. He vaguely hoped that the pain would be bearable, but his rational side told him that dying like this would be excruciating. His skin was already starting to blister, and as he inhaled more thick black smoke, rasping and wheezing, he began to slip into unconsciousness.

Amongst the roar of the fire and the crashing of the shelves collapsing in the inferno came the higher pitched screech of glass shattering and just before he drifted away, he saw an alien-like figure emerge through the flames. He was in a heavy suit and rushed through the flames as if they did not exist. The figure bent over Rajesh and placed a device over his mouth. Instantly his lungs were filled with pure, sweet oxygen and he gulped in the beautiful fresh air. The figure guided Rajesh's hand to the breathing mask so he could hold it, and threw a wet, cooling blanket over the shopkeeper. Heaving with effort but with the skill of years of training, the firefighter hauled Rajesh over his shoulder and stumbled toward the door. The flames sizzled as they touched the wet blanket, but the firefighter crashed through the wall of flame and debris. The door into the safety of the night was open but was surrounded by the rushing flames which had now conjoined into one devastating inferno. A fierce cannon of water struck the flames, momentarily extinguishing them in the immediate area, and the firefighter took the opportunity to burst out of the door into the cool night. His colleagues immediately relieved him of the bulk of the victim, and they laid him on the ground, still sucking hungrily on the mask.

Sirens were howling and lights were blazing, and he spotted a group of curious onlookers clustered around the building, the light from the fire reflected on their blank, uncaring faces. Rajesh glanced over and saw the limp, unmoving figure of his uncle. Was he still alive? He could still feel the heat from the burning shop, the flames barely affected by the separate jets of water aimed directly into the orange fireball. Forty years of struggle had gone into the shop, but it had taken less than forty minutes to destroy everything he had worked for. At least he was alive, he thought gratefully as the pain and exhaustion finally overcame him.

## CHAPTER 2

Detective Constable Kendrick studied the Asian man lying in the makeshift hospital bed in the crowded ward. His face was swollen and blistered, but there had been no attempt to clean his wounds, and he noticed that some of the blisters on his face were still weeping. He glanced at his partner, and the shock registered in his eyes as he put his hand to the mask that covered his nose and mouth. Donoghue was twenty-five, but his baby face made him look more like a teenager. The boy was an idealist, believing he could really make a difference when he joined the Force. Why the hell had they put the pair together? Maybe they thought that Kendrick could teach the young Irishman something. The boy had seen nothing, yet Kendrick had seen it all, and he was tired, sick of the constant treadmill of investigating crimes that rarely got solved because they no longer had the resources, or, more importantly in the last few years, the support of the public.

The man was stirring, obviously in pain. A couple of harried looking nurses rushed by in the ward corridors, but there were at least forty patients in a ward that looked like it had been designed for only twenty, and no nurses appeared to be available. The sound of bronchial coughs and choking reverberated in the sickly, heavy air, and Kendrick adjusted his mask to make sure it was secure. He had groaned when his tyrannical boss told him they had to visit the hospital to interview the victim. Entering a hospital was a hazardous business. They were a breeding ground for infections. The overcrowded wards and insanitary conditions made them feel like the field army hospitals he had seen in Iraq when he had served in the Gulf War as a young man.

Kendrick turned to Donoghue. "Okay partner, let's find out what the guy has to say and get out of here. I don't want to stay in this place any longer than I have to." His voice was muffled by the mask, but he was reluctant to take it off. He had only six years left until retirement and he wanted to live to see at least some of it. Jesus, when he joined the police they had promised him that he'd be able to retire at fifty-five. He was fifty-eight now and would not get any pension until he was sixty-four. At least that was better than most professions. The pensions' time bomb had exploded in the last five years and the Government had been forced during the Great Recession of 2018-2020 to pass emergency legislation to increase the general pensionable age to seventy-one. With the crime and murder rate having escalated in the last ten years, it was amazing if people reached that age at all. Maybe that was the plan. Work until you drop and pay your taxes and no need to take out of the pot if you're dead. It all made some form of perverse sense. He feared for guys like Donoghue, just starting out in life and their career. What did the future hold for them?

Donoghue removed his mask as the Asian man opened his eyes and struggled to sit up in his lumpy bed. Kendrick glanced sharply at him but the young officer did not notice as he gently gripped the patient's shoulder and pushed him back down into the bed.

"Don't get up sir, it's not necessary."

"Sir?" Kendrick shook his head, exasperated. "Get on with it," he berated the young Irishman.

"Mr Kumar, tell us about your attackers."

In faltering tones, punctuated by long pauses, Rajesh told them in vivid detail about the attack and described the youths to the best of his memory. He wept as he recalled his abject terror when he was convinced he would die. Donoghue took copious notes, but Kendrick stood impassively, ignoring the stares of the other people. Jesus, they couldn't even afford curtains around the beds now. He was glad they could not see his bored expression behind his mask.

The injured shopkeeper suddenly grabbed Donoghue's lapel and pulled him closer. "They were from FREE," he cried out.

The two police officers exchanged glances.

Rajesh suddenly sat up, and his paper thin gown flapped open, revealing the blistering around his chest. "Where is my uncle?" He tried to get out of bed but Kendrick pushed him back, looking around for a nurse and finding none. Rajesh was too weak to resist.

"I'm sure he's fine," Kendrick lied. "I'll get a nurse shortly." Rajesh flopped back in the bed, a little calmer.

"What are you going to do detective? They burnt down my business and nearly killed me. They left me and my family with nothing! I want justice!" Perspiration formed in beads on his forehead, and ran gently over the angry red welts around his face.

Kendrick let out a bored sigh. He had hardly made any notes, leaving it to his young protégé but he was less sanguine than his idealistic colleague perhaps was. They would make some enquiries, and maybe establish a couple of leads that would come to nothing and the case would eventually be filed in a dusty drawer along with the other unsolved cold cases. That was often the reality of police work, and Kendrick had ceased to be shocked by such savage attacks many years ago. Perhaps when he had joined the Force after his service in Iraq he wanted to make a difference, much like Donoghue. It was so long ago he could scarcely remember, but he would not make any bold promises to the shopkeeper. Donoghue offered some empty platitudes to the effect that they would find and arrest these thugs while Kendrick stood back and wondered who he was kidding?

They promised to be in touch and made a hasty retreat. It was a relief to be out of the stinking hospital, and as Kendrick pulled off his mask and breathed in a long draught of the polluted London air as if they stood on the peak of Kilimanjaro at sunrise, he remembered that he'd forgotten to find a nurse to enquire about the uncle.

The old Victorian hospital, nearly one hundred and fifty years old, had been built to last, its solid foundations excavated deep into the earth. The floors below ground had for many decades been used for supplies and storage. They also housed the huge boilers and sewage machinery that serviced the large building. The floors were home to a multitude of rats and other vermin. In the last five years, this area had served a sinister new purpose, one that was rarely spoken about even within the hospital. Officially, the place did not exist. Only a select few knew about what went on down here, and the medical staff that entered this area were sworn to such a high level of secrecy that it now formed part of the Official Secrets Act. It suggested to Dr. Rasinski that the government of his adopted nation was complicit in the process, but it did not surprise him. He was one of the favoured few and handsomely paid for it, but it was never pleasant coming down here to check on the patients.

At first he had tried to morally justify it to himself; that it was a necessary evil, but he had given up trying several years ago. The fact was that when a patient came down here, they never came out, at least not alive. He and his small band of colleagues labelled this area the 'dying rooms.' The treatment here consisted of little more than occasional monitoring and the provision of sedatives to those patients who were still well enough to protest. He was not sure who made the decision to send a patient to the dying rooms but it involved a complex number of factors, including the injuries or illness they had sustained, which had to be serious. But also factored in was the possibility of relatives making unwelcome enquiries or asking awkward questions, and the age of the patient. There had been a troubling trend, particularly since the pensions' crisis during the last recession, for retired patients to be brought in much younger than previously. There was always a thin line between patients that needed palliative care and those that could be treated for cure or recovery, but it did not matter if they were above a certain age. Any drain on what still existed of the pitiful welfare state was a significant negative factor when the decision was made.

He shuddered in the cold, damp conditions, and hovered over the newest delivery. He picked up the chart clipped to the base of the squalid camp bed and held it close to him so he could read it in the poorly lit cavern. A ninety-four year old Indian man with severe burns to forty per cent of his body. He looked at the ancient creature, unconscious and breathing shallowly. It was incredible he was alive at all. The saggy skin over his skeletal body was blackened and peeling in places. The chart suggested he had been sedated and given painkillers. At least there was some degree of compassion in this terrible activity, he reflected bitterly. The poor beggar had lived a long life, more than people had a right to expect in these chaotic times. He would probably not have to endure this place for more than a day or two anyway. He replaced the clipboard and moved on, the smell of decay assaulting his senses even through his mask as he spotted another delivery that was due for the mortuary.

Detective Inspector Grayson could be an ass at the best of times, and as Kendrick and Donoghue stood in the Inspector's spartan office relaying the statement from the Asian shopkeeper and trying to discuss next steps, he was in his usual form; narcissistic and impervious to reason. Kendrick had been there many times with the man and he never ceased to be exasperated by Grayson. He had suggested to Donoghue that he could lead the briefing and the lad had glowed with the excitement of responsibility. However, he was now red-faced and choleric as D.I. Grayson shook his round, balding head and waved dismissively at the pair. Kendrick said nothing. The lad would learn, probably the hard way.

The battle hardened veteran puffed on his Cuban cigar, the smoke curling upwards into the noisy vents. Although cigarettes had made a comeback since the early part of the century when smokers had become social pariahs, most offices still held a no-smoking policy. Grayson, however, was a law unto himself and no one dared to tell him what he could do in his own office. "I cannot put valuable resources into investigating this incident. We've got far more on our plate."

Kendrick suppressed a cough and Donoghue leaned closer. "But sir, he nearly died. His shop was razed to the ground."

"Did he die?"

"Of course not. You know he didn't but-"

"There are no buts," interrupted Grayson tersely. "It wasn't murder. Do you know how many murder cases this department is currently dealing with?"

Grayson was a typical gruff English bulldog with the tough features of a Yorkshire coal mining family from which he had descended. Kendrick doubted he had spent a day down in the pits, but he was proud of his 'true blood' English heritage, as he put it. Even Kendrick could not profess to have as linear a family line as Grayson. His grandmother was apparently born in pre-war Hamburg, but he would never advertise that fact around the department. Grayson's ancestry meant that he had little tolerance for anyone other than what he regarded as a thoroughbred Englishman. There were rumours that he had been hastily transferred out of the Yorkshire constabulary following an incident that enraged the local Muslim community, but no-one dared to challenge him on it.

He regarded Donoghue coolly, his dislike for the Irish lad evident in his furrowed brow and the enmity in his gaze. When the young detective spoke he still had traces of the Irish brogue that appeared to irritate Grayson so much.

"No, I don't sir."

"Well I can tell you it's far more than we can cope with. Don't you know it's a bloody war out there? It might be sweet for you lot across the pond where the biggest crime they face is a stolen shillelagh, but we're fighting a losing battle on the streets. Unless it's a murder, it's not a priority. Got it?"

"But sir, it was another attack carried out by FREE - the Fight for the Return of England to the English. This is the fifth attack in three days in this area alone. We find out who they are and we can prevent further attacks."

Grayson leaned back in his reclining office chair which creaked under his stocky frame. "You just don't get it son. We are not on a witch hunt. As far as I know they haven't killed anyone and until they do I have other priorities. If you care so much for -" he glanced down at the report – "Mr Kumar, then why don't you arrange a whip round to pay for his airfare back to Bangladesh or wherever the hell he comes from."

Donoghue's face was crimson and he fought to control his mounting fury. "He comes from Southall sir!" Kendrick placed a calming hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Whatever." Puffing hard on his cigar, Grayson dismissively threw a piece of paper in the general direction of the two detectives. "Take this job sheet and investigate this one. An old lady beaten to death in her own home. Now that's a real crime for you. What is the world coming to? Now get out and give me some results."

He waved them out of his office and Donoghue was still twitching with rage. Kendrick stole a pitiful glance at his partner. The kid had a lifetime of that type of attitude and bitterness ahead of him. At least his retirement was just over the horizon. He wouldn't want to trade places with Donoghue and do it all again. "Don't take it personally Sean. Grayson is a racist prick."

"You got that right." The lad took a deep breath, forcibly trying to calm himself. "I've been doing some more research on FREE. They're a nasty bunch."

"Come on, let's grab a coffee and you tell me what you know."

They found a corner in the scruffy canteen and Donoghue pored over his tablet computer, while Kendrick brought over two Styrofoam cups of steaming hot coffee. He looked out at the rain beating against the window and the people dashing around outside, umbrellas flapping in the wind. It sometimes felt like it never stopped raining in London, but of course the environmental activists would claim that it was global warming that had turned the city warmer but wetter. How then could they explain why it always felt so damned chilly?

With the deft touch that only somebody who had grown up surrounded by computers as common as the television, Donoghue brought up some video footage from a street camera of a demonstration near Hackney Marshes. London seemed to hold a demonstration every weekend, whether it was gay rights, protests against social welfare cuts or university graduates complaining about the lack of decent jobs. There was no shortage of grievances to air in society.

Donoghue saw the boredom on Kendrick's face. "Hold on. It gets better. This was a march last week, a protest against the cancellation of a new housing development for immigrant workers. Nothing too heavy. You expect a little bit of a fracas and a few arrests. Watch these guys." With a fluid roll of his finger on the screen, he brought up a larger image. It was a close-up of a small group of white men in their late teens and early twenties, all with close cropped hair and dressed identically in parka coats, baggy jeans and high laced black boots. Donoghue zoomed in and they saw the FREE emblem and Union Jack clearly marked on the arms and breast of their parkas.

Donoghue zoomed back out and the scene was once again a boisterous but peaceful demonstration. The street cam was mounted on the high vantage point of a street lamp, providing a panoramic aerial view. The guys in the parkas were now at the edge of the picture, but Kendrick noticed that there were other similar groups on screen, all hovering at the edge of the demonstration. There appeared to be few police about, and the marching group, made up of a range of nationalities, had not spotted that they were effectively surrounded. Without warning, the parka-clad groups surged forward, whipping out batons and blunt weapons from under their coats and moved in on the crowd from various points in a coordinated fashion. They began to wade into the crowd, weapons raised and with intense ferocity smashed those weapons down on the heads and bodies of the demonstrators, slashing their way forward as people fell under their savage blows. Mercifully, there was no sound on the footage, but Kendrick could imagine the screaming and shouting as the crowd scattered. It was a chaotic scene as frightened demonstrators, some caked in blood, tried to flee the butchery. Kendrick saw one Chinese man break free from the confused mass of bodies, chased by two of the FREE thugs who cut his legs away with a heavy blow from a cricket bat. As he lay prone on the ground, they beat and kicked him with their heavy boots until his body twitched and lay still. The attackers then moved onto new targets.

The few police that were around were powerless to intervene and did not even attempt to do so. Kendrick knew it was unlikely that the perpetrators of the violence would ever face a courtroom or even a police cell, especially with the current policy of prioritizing crime.

"There were no reported deaths, amazingly, just some nasty injuries, so we haven't even created a file on it," explained Donoghue, scratching his stubbly chin. "This is not an isolated incident. This organization is on the rise and it is quite open about its objectives. It's affiliated to the British Nationalist Party, and you know how well they're doing in the polls, especially in certain areas. These thugs are extreme right wing."

"And the BNP aren't?" responded Kendrick.

"They've not openly advocated violence in the pursuit of their objectives but they've not discouraged it either. It's very easy to tacitly approve violent action and then condemn it in public. Politicians around the world have been doing that for decades."

Kendrick smiled inwardly. The kid sounded like an authority on the matter way beyond his years.

Donoghue lightly touched the tablet and handed it to Kendrick. "This is their website."

Kendrick scanned the FREE web page, which under its perverse representation of the Celtic cross the organization had stolen, showed images of burning crosses and a picture of a Muslim cleric as seen through cross hairs, the centre aimed in the middle of his forehead. He quickly scanned the text, some rambling, hateful rhetoric about the need to defend England from the invasion of immigrants, and the need to cleanse the country and reclaim its past glories. It was the type of message that, despite today's ultra-politically correct society, had been gaining traction in certain areas. The word 'free' had always been a positive word that denoted liberty, independence, without obligation or restraint. Within a very short time the word, used as an acronym, had come to symbolize the very antithesis of the original term, imparting it with a sinister new substance.

It was strange that FREE members seemed to act with impunity, and no-one from the movement had, as far as Kendrick was aware, even been charged. Yet as he scanned the website, there was a page called 'Events' which proudly boasted about their past activities, where they had attacked a peaceful march or committed a crime against an ethnic minority. No names and the pictures were blurred. Nothing to implicate the individuals, even if the police had the time and inclination to investigate. Perhaps when they murdered someone, if they hadn't already, the authorities might sit up and take notice.

Kendrick handed the tablet back to his partner. "Okay, I've seen enough to know they're dangerous, but don't go on some personal vendetta against these thugs. You heard Grayson. We leave them alone for now. They seem to be bulletproof anyway."

Donoghue sighed. "They clearly have political connections. The BNP are doing well in the polls and if they are anything to go by, they will gain a record number of seats in Parliament at next month's election. What is this country coming to?"

"How long have you got?" Kendrick pondered the implications of that. Just why was FREE so apparently impervious to prosecution? How long could the police turn a blind eye? It would not be surprising if the BNP did gain a strong foothold in the new parliament after Election Day, which was fast approaching. Their campaign was in full swing, and just like the other political parties they were guaranteed a spot on television and radio and most of all through the internet and social media broadcasts that virtually nobody could escape from, particularly with the huge broadcast screens that seemed to occupy every high street. Despite their extreme policies and invidious message of hate and intolerance, the justice system had decreed that to deny them a voice would be a breach of their civil liberties. Maybe they should ask Mr Kumar about his civil liberties.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp pungent smell of cigar smoke wafting across the room. Grayson stood over them, his crooked nose twitching as he inhaled on his cigar and blew smoke provocatively in their direction. He knew Donoghue detested smoking. "Have you found the old lady's killer yet?"

Kendrick looked up at him but said nothing.

"Well don't just sit around here. Get on with it!" he shouted and stormed back into his office.

## CHAPTER 3

It was not a freezing night, but there was a fierce late April breeze swirling, sending all the detritus of human existence, papers, takeaway wrappers, discarded beer bottles bouncing and rolling like tumbleweed through the dark, deserted London back street. Harry Clarke sat in his beaten-up old Toyota, blowing into his hands, as he waited near the back entrance of the trendy Libertarian nightclub. The club, conveniently situated on the edge of Westminster, was a favourite watering hole and meeting place for the politicians and their hordes of researchers, assistants and interns. The club banned all photography against its highly regarded patrons, the engine room of British political machinery. It was a difficult rule to enforce, what with cameras available on cellphones, mini-tablets, and all manner of electronic devices. Instead the hard-nosed bouncers would enforce it indirectly by filtering out any possible journalists or people they did not recognize, lending the club an air of exclusivity which enhanced its reputation.

He glanced at his watch. Nearly two in the morning. The front of the club had a glitzy, over the top facade, light bulbs flashing in a synchronized dance around the elegant portico, but the action would not take place there. Although it was over two years since he had been unceremoniously booted out of his role as a parliamentary correspondent, he still had plenty of contacts in the corridors of power. He had received a cast-iron tip-off from one of those contacts that the Right Honourable Graham Matheson, M.P. For Harrow East, a rising star in the Conservative Party, would be exiting from the dirty, rat infested back entrance with his handsome young Latin boyfriend for the night, entertained from the proceeds of his constituents' hard-earned tax payments.

He smiled to himself as he thought of a useful pun about Matheson taking the back entrance. As a freelance journalist, he knew exactly which tabloid valued those types of salacious headlines, something that would grab the reader's attention without them having to work too hard. He would surely get a good price. The timing was fortuitous, less than a week before the election. However, Harry felt it would make little difference now to the election result. While voters were shallow and lacking in sophistication, he doubted that even a story like this would impede the inevitable result, with the Tories so far ahead in the opinion polls that they were already preparing to return to Government. If any result were a foregone conclusion in the last hundred years of political history, it was this one.

He leaned back in the tattered fabric seat of his car, checking the light filters on his Nikon camera to ensure that the poor lighting, made worse with the gentle mist hanging in the air, would not affect the quality of the photographs. He'd almost certainly have to leave his car to get the best shots when the politician left the club. He had no idea when Matheson was leaving, and he would have to remain patient and alert. Even so, his eyelids were heavy. He pulled out his tablet computer to stay busy, with one eye trained on the grimy back door.

Harry flicked on the computer which sprang to life, the back-light bathing the car's interior in a ghostly glow. He quickly turned down the lighting to avoid any attention being drawn to the car, and scanned the local London news, set out like an old style physical newspaper. It was the usual depressing barrage of petty crime, racism and vitriolic diatribe about the political parties, but his eye was drawn to a small article about a fire in a Southall corner shop. Underneath there was a link that when clicked would bring up a short video of the actual incident. He absently clicked and the scene showed two semi-conscious Asian men being carried from the inferno by firefighters.

He read the brief article which blandly stated that there were no known suspects but enquiries were ongoing. No doubt the investigation would yield nothing and another heinous crime would go unpunished. It was an all too familiar pattern, he reflected ruefully. He could not remember the last time he had seen a police officer walking the street on a beat. He recalled several years ago interviewing one of the senior officers in the Metropolitan Police who confessed that the union had lobbied hard and won a number of concessions for their hard-pressed members, when police recruitment was at an all-time low. One of these was the downgrading of constables walking the beat. When Harry asked the officer why, he had famously answered "Because it's too dangerous."

For nearly two hundred years the police had avoided being equipped with firearms, which for such a heavily urbanised nation was out of step with most of the rest of the world. Officers, chief constables and politicians alike were wary of upsetting an equilibrium that had been maintained throughout those two centuries. The fear was that the introduction of guns to police officers would be a 'game-changer,' but right wing groups had lobbied hard for their introduction. It was ironic that guns had finally been introduced during the Labour administration when violent crime had escalated during the Great Recession. Those who feared that the introduction of guns could further aggravate the spiral of violent crime were unfortunately proved right, and the relentless rise in gun related crimes had continued unabated in the five years since the introduction of armed officers. As a result, despite the apparent protection of guns, the police had all but abandoned their community style of policing and retreated from the field of conflict.

The absence of a visible presence amongst the police exacerbated the problem. With no checks and balances, those streets deemed as too dangerous became by definition even more so, making many inner city streets, especially in London, virtual no-go areas after dark. Even during the day people had to be vigilant, as it would take a brave citizen to tackle a robber, almost always armed, knowing that an emergency call would likely go unanswered for many vital minutes. It was as if the war between the criminals and law enforcement had swung irrevocably in favour of the former. The police had effectively withdrawn from the field of battle, hiding behind their heavily reinforced steel castles, only venturing onto the streets in armed groups when the trouble was already in full swing. Even Harry hated going out at night, only his job made it necessary.

The police were not the only authorities that had effectively abandoned the streets. Crippled by budget cuts, the city's street cleaners had given up what was a virtually impossible task, and all but the richest boroughs such as Kensington and Chelsea had been neglected for years. London had a long standing reputation as one of the most polluted cities in Europe, with daily air quality levels regularly falling below European Union safety standards. However, it was the general sense of desolation that pervaded large parts of the city which was most depressing. Some of the city's buildings, especially the apartment blocks, had been so badly built that they were crumbling slums, and their grey facade, streaked with soot-black lines from the constant exposure to polluted air, resembled images of dreary Communist era tenements in occupied Eastern Europe.

This urban decay was exacerbated by the streams of garbage and stinking refuse that cluttered the roadside and blocked the drains, slowly rotting in the damp, sickly air. Worse still was the explosion of graffiti that now covered almost every wall and every building in crude artistic parody, as if the confused mass of colour would brighten the grey streets, but merely served to render them with a threatening edge. The graffiti-ridden streets served as the battleground for the brutal gangs fighting their turf wars, contemptuous of any authority or challenge to their dominion, the houses and shops boarded up and windows barred as night fell and the gangs emerged, ready for another night of action.

The gangs often targeted specific groups, and a major concern was the rise in racially motivated attacks. Since Britain had virtually opened the floodgates to immigration in the latter half of the last century, it had become a hugely diverse, cosmopolitan country, but the integration had never been smooth. There had always been a degree of simmering resentment, especially from indigenous youths, against the influx of immigrants, an underlying tension that occasionally surfaced in riots and sporadic attacks by street gangs. This was despite the futile attempts of various governments to introduce anti-racism legislation, and the unbridled rise of political correctness. The powers in government could pass as many laws as they liked, but they could not legislate to change people's attitudes. The last Great Recession had appeared to drive Britain down a path where racist attacks were ever more frequent, and there was no one on the street to stop them. It was a powder keg of rage and frustration, especially with unemployment at record levels.

The attacks appeared to have escalated in the last few weeks in the run up to the election, with the British National Party gaining considerable ground and, while they did not openly advocate violence against Muslims and the Asian community, by far the largest ethnic minority in the country, their policies and messaging implied support for it. Harry was deeply concerned about his former wife, Tamara, whom he still loved, and more importantly his twelve-year old son, Byron. The divorce had been amicable and he and Tamara remained friends, but he knew that it had hurt Byron deeply. He tried to see him as often as his schedule would allow, and Tamara had never stopped him. However, with the rising tide of hostility against immigrants, they had discussed the possibility of Tamara and Byron returning to her home city of Mumbai, where her Hindu family still lived, especially as India was fast becoming an economic powerhouse. He would miss them terribly but at least they would be safe.

With the politicians constantly on the television and online social networks, denigrating their rivals and using whatever scurrilous gossip they could to tarnish the reputations of their enemies, it was hard to escape the media bombardment. He realized he was part of the machine, hoping to catch some pictures and support it with a disparaging article on Matheson. Harry had no objection that the man was gay. It was the corruption that created the issue for a still morally uptight public fed on a media diet that purported to possess some fake moral guardianship over the public. He had a duty to report it but he was under no illusion that the paper he would sell it to would be interested only in circulation.

Since when had British politics become so polarised, he reflected ruefully. The political parties and their high profile candidates threw accusations at each other with a ferocity borne of hatred. The sheer number of sources of information to the electoral public in the digital age, the TV, radio, newspapers but more importantly in the last decade the voluminous range of social media turned the campaigning process into a maelstrom of fact, opinion and in most cases sheer nonsense. It was impossible for the average voter to get an informed, objective view amongst the twisting and fabrication of facts, so people reverted to the obvious psychological defence mechanism – they believed what backed up their own views thought and disregarded the rest. This made it difficult for people to see the point of view of others who disagreed, and this intolerance was emulated in the ranting and aggressive campaigning that took place in the current political arena.

A movement caught his eye and a large grey shape scurried along the wet ground and disappeared down a storm drain by the kerbside, no doubt headed for the comfort of the sewer. He had recently read an article suggesting that the rat population in London had reached epidemic proportions, fuelled by pollution, the damp climate and mankind's inability to clean up after himself. It was said that in all the major cities in England, rats now outnumbered humans by a proportion of almost three to one, with all the pathogens they carried, and they were growing bigger. One female rat could give birth to as many as fourteen babies in one litter, and five litters in a year. They were at least one species that was not on the edge of extinction.

The door to the club swung open, revealing a shaft of yellow light that glowed on the glistening pavement around it, and out stepped three hulking men all dressed identically in black suits stretched tight against their over-muscled frames. Harry slipped low in his seat, quickly checking his camera, his adrenaline already pumping. This was the part he loved best, the thrill of the chase. The three men spread out in a rough semi-circle, suspiciously eyeing the grimy street and speaking gently into their Bluetooth devices. Harry glanced up and smiled to himself. It was incredible how homogenous minders were across the political spectrum. The three guys across the road all had close cropped hair with a widow's peak and had necks so fleshy that it was hard to see where the head ended and the shoulders began. They had a permanent scowl, and even the one with aviator sunglasses radiated hostility.

They appeared not to have noticed the battered old Toyota parked in shadow further down the road, and content that the coast was clear, they waved inside. Out of the glare stepped two figures arm in arm. Harry's heart bolted, and he opened his window and raised his camera, the long telephoto lens probing into the entrance as the two male figures appeared. They made an odd couple, the Latin boy tall and good looking, his tanned face framed by curly black hair, and his athletic frame squeezed into skinny blue jeans and a white open necked shirt that revealed a smooth, oiled chest. It was the other man that the public was interested in. Graham Matheson stepped out, shielded by his bouncers, but the face was clear and Harry reeled off a succession of shots. The man was in his early fifties, with short, steel-grey hair and a frumpy expression that suited a cardigan, pipe and slippers. Yet the mild-mannered look belied his political power and prestige. He was tipped to become the next Chancellor of the Exchequer in the new Cabinet, and still harboured ambitions of one day attaining the top job.

He was dressed as always in an exquisitely tailored blue Armani suit, and as he stepped out into the dirty street flanked by his minders, he had an easy, affable smile, one familiar to the great British public. Immediately a car moved forward from out of the shadows and began to pull up alongside the group. Harry cursed to himself and instinctively jumped out of his Toyota, one hand grasping his Nikon and ran toward the group. He knew he only had a few seconds. Still running, he aimed the camera at the couple, who, alerted by his movement, had now turned to him. He clicked the camera furiously and Matheson's genial smile was replaced by a confused scowl that looked so incensed Harry had to stifle a laugh. That look would make a wonderful shot in tomorrow's digital papers.

The minder with the sunglasses hastily bundled the couple into the car and the other two snarled furiously, uttering a string of expletives and reaching into their side holsters. Harry, satisfied with his shots, curved around so that he was now running away from the group. The two minders pulled out a pair of Tasers, the electric blue charge crackling in the cool, damp air, while the Mercedes containing his quarry roared away, tyres screeching on the damp surface. They instantly began sprinting after Harry, the Tasers held upright ready to strike. They were about thirty yards from Harry and their irate shouts rang in his ears.

His legs aching from the unfamiliar exercise, and panting hard, Harry looked around and saw the two huge brutes gaining on him, their faces a mask of fury. They ran faster than they had a right to for their size and weight, and Harry felt a surge of panic. His legs felt heavy and the weight of the Nikon around his shoulders bouncing on his chest impeded him. His breath came in short gasps and his legs seemed to lack coordination. Glancing around, he saw the two thugs getting ever closer, growling and relishing the chance to use their Tasers. One of them bellowed at him, "When I catch you mate I'm gonna Taser your balls till they're like roasted Brazil nuts!"

The mental image of his pursuer's threats stirred him into greater effort. However, he still could not shake them as he ran down the deserted litter-strewn streets. He darted into a pitch dark back alley and his pursuers followed. He was hoping that they would not spot him in the inky-black void, but as he blindly thrashed forward, he knocked into something hard and tinny and sent it clattering to the floor, the noise amplified in the confines of the alleyway. It felt like an old dustbin lid, and did not hurt, but he saw the shadows of the two men at the edge of the alley, silhouetted against the sodium haze of an ageing street lamp. They paused and moved forward more cautiously, scanning the darkness for any clue as to their quarry's hiding place.

Harry lay deep in the recess of an old wall, the stench of decay and neglect overpowering in the heaps of garbage that surrounded him. It was all he could do from retching, but he was convinced he was out of sight. He was virtually blind here, the tall buildings on either side sucking away any light, natural or otherwise. Hopefully the two minders would be equally disoriented, but he felt himself holding his breath in any case.

He sensed rather than saw their presence as they edged closer, kicking aside piles of garbage, hoping that underneath one of them would lay the renegade photographer.

"He's here, I know it," one of them whispered harshly to the other. "I can feel it."

The whisper was so close that Harry sensed the minder was almost within touching distance. He tried to remain perfectly still, not daring to breathe, but he felt his body trembling. The figures moved ever closer and then paused, standing almost over him yet still unable to spot him in the blackness. His pursuers seemed to stand there for an age, although in reality it must have been less than a minute.

He lay like a statue desperately hoping they would move on, when abruptly he found himself being dragged up by his jacket lapels and hauled out of his hiding place, sending heaps of garbage scattering everywhere. He smelt the stale, alcohol-fuelled breath of his attacker and caught a triumphant gleam in his eye. Those strong, stubby hands lifted him up with raw strength until his feet left the ground. The bouncer then hurled him backwards and he fell painfully on his back in a pile of rotting garbage. The two men moved purposefully toward Harry, ready to finish off the job. In the darkness, all they could see were hazy, amorphous shadows. One of them aimed a kick at where he thought Harry had fallen and connected squarely with flesh and bone – only it wasn't Harry's.

A large stray dog, sleeping under the mound of garbage, growled savagely, enraged and in pain. It leaped up and the huge paws knocked his tormentor off balance, jaws snapping and slavering with spittle. Harry could not make out the breed in the darkness, but the faint shadow suggested a bulky, muscular dog like an Alsatian or a Rottweiler. The jaws clamped around the minder's arm and the beast hung on, still growling viciously, and the man howled in pain. "Get him off, get him off!" he cried desperately. His companion hesitated, all attention now turned from Harry to the dog. He quickly weighed up the situation and pressed the Taser down onto the dog's fleshy neck and fired off a series of bolts. The whole alley was briefly lit up in an eerie electric blue light and in that moment Harry spotted an exit.

The dog let out a yelp and thrashed around before it finally released its grip on the man's arm and slumped to the ground, twitching convulsively. There was a faint smell of singed fur. The injured man continued to scream with pain and frustration, the deep tissue wound rendering his arm temporarily useless. His companion knew he would need medical attention quickly. They heard a faint crashing in the distance and saw an indistinct shape dart quickly around a corner and disappear. The journalist was gone.

Harry kept running and running until his lungs felt ready to burst, relieved at the unexpected intervention. Stray dogs were now a common sight in London, the agency designated to pick them up closed long ago due to the usual budget cuts. The population had been curbed only because there had been an increasing trend for the poor and hungry to cull and eat them, which perhaps explained why every stray dog would attack at the slightest provocation. He circled back through the streets, keeping a wary eye in case the two minders re-emerged, until he spotted his Toyota. He quickly got in and drove rapidly to his apartment in North London, tapping his camera gratefully. The Nikon had remained intact despite the trauma. These pictures would probably not change the course of the election, but with a hard hitting article about the use of public money being used to fund a rent boy, it would certainly embarrass the Conservative Party just before their triumphant return to Government.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL - MAY 11TH

Today Britain announced the return to Government of the Conservative Party after eight years in the political wilderness, and two terms of Labour rule which the Conservatives, in the run up to the election, had labelled an unmitigated disaster that had brought Britain to its knees. The Conservatives won the election by a landslide, although political commentators suggest that their vote was diluted by the emergence of the British National Party, which had gained an extraordinary one hundred and twenty four constituency seats in Parliament, almost a fifth of the total electorate, pushing the outgoing Labour Party into a lowly third place with less than one hundred seats. There had been widespread accusations of ballot tampering and vote rigging, especially amongst the Muslim and ethnic minority enclaves in the North and around London and the Home Counties. There was also a deluge of complaints that voters had been denied access to their polling stations and many had closed early, citing security concerns.

The outgoing Prime Minister Wallace Bentley was quick to leave his home and office of 10 Downing Street, and made no comment as he was driven swiftly away to what would appear to be political oblivion.

Former Opposition Leader Lance Pelham, the Eton educated darling of current British politics, quickly assumed office, arriving at the heavily armed gates to Downing Street to a crescendo of cheers and wolf whistles from the adoring crowds. He emerged less than half an hour later and delivered a rousing speech that was broadcast live on television and all online streaming networks. It was a tough speech that may well prove to be a landmark event that defines his tenure.

In the forty-five minute speech, he quoted the iconic words of Dr Martin Luther King on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at the Washington D.C. Civil Rights March nearly sixty years before. 'I have a dream,' he stated, before lamenting the decline of Great Britain over almost eighty years since the end of the Second World War. He blamed Labour for the economic failures of the country, which had been most pronounced in the last ten years and had prompted the United Nations Secretary-General to refer to the United Kingdom as a 'third world' country. He mourned the loss of the nation's unity which 'had dissolved in a confusion of political and personal opinions, economic interests, and ideological and racial differences.'

He was particularly disparaging about the open and lax immigration policy that had pushed the population of the country to unsustainable levels, creating intolerable burdens on the welfare state and National Health Service, both of which were in critical condition. He also blamed the immigration policy, and the dismal failure of the Labour Government's integration strategies, for the upsurge in racially motivated attacks and the current tensions with ethnic minorities. Part of his solution would be to give Britain back to the British and stop race crime by removing the sources and reasons for this crime of hate.

He promised that he would give British jobs back to the British and by reducing the national debt, particularly the huge deficit owed to China, transform Great Britain into the economic powerhouse it once was. It was not clear from his speech or from the Party manifesto how he would achieve this, although as widely expected he announced plans to immediately commence negotiations to leave the European Union which he stated 'had been dedicated to usurping British sovereignty and national identity, and acted as a ball and chain around Britain's economic growth.' Certainly the relationship with the European Union has been fractious even since the last Conservative government which, under the Cameron administration, had completely botched its negotiations, leaving Britain politically isolated.

The world stock markets reacted favourably to the election result, with the new P.M.'s strong stance on the economy signalling a possible return to a stronger, more competitive nation following the disastrous fiscal stabilization policies of the Labour Government that almost sent the U.K. into a bankruptcy to rival those of Greece and Portugal.

However, a number of civil liberties groups and bodies representing some of the nation's vast array of immigrant and minority groups issued statements condemning the result, particularly concerned over the rise of the BNP which had ousted Labour as the official Opposition. The U.K. Islamic Council was particularly vocal. Imam Siddiqui, the Council's official spokesman, expressed serious reservations about the future for Muslims in Britain, fearing that attacks on Islam would escalate under the new regime. He further stated that the vilification of peace-loving Islamic people would now be tacitly sanctioned by this new government against people that still lived in the shadow of 9/11, even though it had occurred over twenty years before.

The streets in the nation's capital have been relatively quiet but in various cities around the country, particularly in Bristol, Manchester and Birmingham, there have been reports of sporadic gunfire and several minor skirmishes between rival gangs, not so different from any other night in the inner cities. However, following the Imam's speech, two mosques suffered minor vandalism, including a Celtic cross symbol crudely drawn on the entrance to the main prayer hall.

Only time will tell if Pelham's dream to put the Great into Britain again will materialize.

## CHAPTER 4

Lawrence Pelham, or Lance as he was popularly known, sat at the head of the long, beautifully polished oak table and surveyed his newly appointed Cabinet. The room was brightly lit in pastel shades and taffeta drapes bordering the long windows which allowed plenty of natural light, especially on a bright day like today. Although the huge white marble fireplace acted as a pivot around which everything revolved, it was the table that dominated the impressive Cabinet room. It represented a piece of history, a witness to the many ideas and plans regarding the future direction of this once glorious nation over more than eighty years. It was rumoured that Churchill had first used the table in the Cabinet War Rooms as the ominous clouds of impending conflict cast a pall over the country. What strategies and briefings must he have delivered from this very desk? Maybe it was time to deliver the table to the Imperial War Museum. It was time for a fresh start, he thought absently.

The last of the twenty-two Ministers sat down and laid out their electronic devices. His keen eyes swept down the elliptical table, surveying the assembled group closely as they prepared for the first meeting under the new Cabinet. The Press were still camped outside Downing Street, the election result still fresh, eager to confront any official they could over claims of vote rigging and threats of reprisals in certain parts of the country to encourage minority communities not to vote.

They were a fairly homogenous group, he mused, but that was deliberate, and while the Press had been quick to point this out, he hardly cared. It was necessary for the Cabinet to be structured this way, in order for him to fully achieve the vision he had set for this country. There was a token Asian minister, but he had been carefully vetted, and he could easily be isolated if he caused trouble. There was only one woman on the Cabinet, hardly representative of the enormous wealth of political talent amongst the fairer gender. However, his advisors told him there was an abundance of empirical evidence that suggested women showed great empathy and sensitivity when it came to making hard decisions. This could interfere with enforcement of the harsh measures needed to restore the country back to health.

Never in recent political history had it been so critical for the Cabinet to pull together and act as a team, and his own experience suggested that while a diversity of backgrounds provided different perspectives, it often provoked dissent. His vision needed complete and unwavering support to make it work and a group with similar backgrounds and aspirations were far more likely to follow the Party line. This had been a key component of his Cabinet selections, which he had hand-picked with his Deputy Prime Minister and official spokesman Giles Chamberlain.

He cast a sideways glance at Chamberlain. The man was smug, arrogant and had the temperament of a startled honey badger, but these were part of the qualities that made him such a brilliant politician. At forty-six, he was just two years younger than Pelham, but he had the drive and ambition of a young Oxbridge graduate. Indeed, he had achieved a double first in law at Cambridge and had briefly taught at several Ivy League schools. That experience had no doubt helped craft his gifted oratory skills. He was a natural at manipulating crowds through a mixture of impassioned rhetoric and cold logic, and his athletic frame and ruggedly handsome features, typical of the Cambridge Blue that he once was, endeared him to the populace. He had swept back auburn hair, with just the right touch of grey, supporting the image he had cultivated during the election as a young, virile but experienced deputy who would get things done. He had been the logical choice as a running mate, and Pelham was certain that Chamberlain had been a significant factor in his overall victory. In the new campaign landscape of concentrating on your enemies' weaknesses rather than your own strengths, he had been a significant adversary to his opponents, able to uncover skeletons in their cupboards and to deliver a verbal torpedo with stinging wit.

Pelham did not care for Chamberlain. He found particularly distasteful the fact that the man was absolutely no relation to the former Prime Minister Arthur Neville Chamberlain, who led Britain through the upheaval of the first eight months of the Second World War before he was succeeded by Winston Churchill. Yet when the press or public referred to the nomenclature as if they were related, he never corrected them. Maybe it was part of the deception. Pelham had no doubt that Chamberlain coveted the top job, but one thing he had learned in twenty-five years of politics was that it was better to keep your most formidable enemies inside the tent where you could watch them closely. His acerbic temperament and sharp tongue had qualified him perfectly for the job as spokesman. Chamberlain had a deep contempt for the Press, yet he courted them and used their power to influence public opinion with the strategy of a Chess Grandmaster. He was the perfect foil for Pelham's own lofty reputation as a media favourite. He had appraised Chamberlain at length on his vision for the country, and even now the Deputy P.M. would be thinking how best to deliver the message to the nation.

The first order of business, however, was to elicit the support of his Cabinet. That might not be easy, particularly when it involved tearing up large parts of the manifesto that had won them the election. No one really read the manifesto these days anyway. It was all about personalities and who tweeted the most in the social media. His acceptance speech had laid a foundation for his vision over the next five years, but that was only a small part of his greater vision. The tough remedies could never be made public. They were too radical. They had, however, lobbied several of the more influential powerful figures in the Cabinet in dusty corridors, where the real business was done, and he was confident they would have a strong core of support, especially as many of the appointees had a reputation for being hardliners.

With everyone settled, Pelham cleared his throat and gave the beaming smile that the public had come to know so well. "Good morning everyone. Welcome to our first Cabinet meeting and congratulations to you all. Today is the first day of a new era. You all saw my speech. A video of it is included on the tablet in front of you," he began, waving in the general direction of the small computers positioned in front of each member.

His expression darkened. "Gentlemen and Miss Beaufort-" he nodded deferentially to the lone woman, the new Secretary of State for Health. "These are difficult times which call for tough measures. These will not be without pain, and there will be casualties. But I assure you that with every breath I have I will work toward the vision of making Britain a competitive nation once again. I intend to lead us out of the economic and social wilderness that the last Labour Government steered us into, and on your tablet is the road map for achieving this." He tapped his own tablet and held up the light, thin touchscreen.

"You will see that my five year plan is radical, and arguably extreme, but I believe that never in the history of this nation has our need been so great. Without my plan this country will continue to slide towards anarchy and economic collapse. We live in a fractured, divisive society. Our government has inherited a country that is in intensive care and as leaders it is our job, no matter how bitter the pill, to nurse it back to health. Please remember that when you read the plan. I urge you to think about the bigger picture and to look at it long term, and have the courage to do what's right for this country, no matter how painful it may be at first.

"You have one hour to read it and then I want to know if you are with me or against me, but remember this." His voice changed to a low, threatening drawl. "You are bound by the Official Secrets Act. Whatever you see here is confidential and any breach will have repercussions."

There was a confused murmur amongst the assembled group as Pelham stood up, and, closely followed by Chamberlain, swept out of the room.

Chamberlain watched the group on a large split screen set high on the wall of the small private office down the corridor from the Cabinet Room. The webcams provided nine different views set out in equal sized squares on the screen, and he could control each pinhole sized camera to spy on the ministers as they perused the five year plan. He could zoom in close and view their facial expressions intimately, and the sophisticated software connected to his computer could study those expressions to determine the emotions of the subject. Facial and body language revealed more about the person than anything they said, and the data feed from the software indicated that there was a great deal of consternation in the room. Several of the subjects betrayed anger behind tightly drawn faces, and he made a mental note of this. He had helped Pelham formulate the plan, and he was acutely aware that its successful implementation would need total support. Any opposition to the plan would need to be nullified. Britain may have been a democracy in one form or another since the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215, but it was too late for a democratic solution. The plan required a much harsher regime, and as he watched the faces of the ministers, he saw that they realized it too.

When Pelham and Chamberlain returned to the Cabinet Room, they were met with a stony silence. Then without warning, the group burst into a hubbub of excited chatter like a class full of rowdy schoolchildren, waving their tablets in the air, all trying to talk over each other to get the pair's attention. The Prime Minister raised his hands in supplication. "Please, please calm down; everyone will get their chance to be heard. One at a time please!" Chamberlain was already starting to take notes.

The general furore died down and he turned to the Minister on his right, a portly sixty-eight year old former High Court judge whose ruddy face betrayed the pallor of too many afternoon brandys in Chambers. "Arthur, let's start with you."

The Lord Chancellor, Secretary of State for Justice, the Right Honourable Arthur Hammond, puffed out his ample chest and turned to the assembled group. "It's harsh but it's the only way. These are tough choices and we will all have to be strong. My department will have to pass some tough laws. It's radical and far reaching, but what choice do we have? As it is the country is sliding toward chaos. This will stop the rot. We may be vilified at first and we will need fortitude to see it through but sometimes the end justifies the means."

Pelham smiled inwardly. His deputy had clearly been very persuasive. Maybe it was the possibility of revealing to the world the former call-girl Arthur Hammond had installed in his Kensington apartment that had swayed his opinion. He could only guess at Chamberlain's methods, but in this case they'd been effective. Even so, he had been unable to get to everyone, and before Pelham could turn to the next member, the Secretary of State for International Development interjected. The sole Asian in the Cabinet, Minister Khan had been appointed as a token gesture, aimed at the large ethnic minorities, but while he effectively represented millions of constituents, his sphere of influence was severely restricted. He was inclined however, to be loud and rambunctious, and he did not disappoint.

He stood up and thumped the desk furiously. "This document is an outrage. It is utter madness. You will send this country into a civil war!"

Chamberlain stood up and faced Khan across the table, his physical presence far greater than the diminutive Asian man. The Deputy's voice was stony cold. "Sit down please. You will get your chance to speak in time."

"I will not sit down!" shouted Khan defiantly. "This is a defilement of British democracy. Your policies will escalate hate crime across the country and you will create a totalitarian state." He jabbed an accusing finger at the Prime Minister. "You, sir are a tyrant if you think you can get away with this!"

Pelham sat back in his deep leather chair, his fingers clasped together in a relaxed, scholarly pose. "Can I count on your resignation Minister Khan?"

The Minister sat down, his anger dissipated. "I will consider it and let you have my answer in the morning."

Pelham's voice was steely. "I'm afraid that's not good enough. You are either with me or against me. May I remind you of your oath of confidentiality? Now get out!"

Furious, Khan gathered his belongings, and as the group watched silently, he stormed out of the room, slamming the large double doors behind him. When he left there was a buzz of conversation, but it was more restrained.

With the ministers fearful of emulating their colleague, the debate became less vociferous. Graham Matheson, always well known for his colourful terminology, attacked the policy on gay people and referred to Pelham as a megalomaniac. He was quickly silenced by a playground jibe from Chamberlain. "Graham, that's a big word for you. I suggest you concentrate on keeping your pants on in front of the Press."

There were a few stifled laughs as his colleagues recalled the story that had swept through the media outlets just before the election and made Matheson the most tweeted topic for two days, destroying his ascendancy to the Treasury job he coveted. Chamberlain knew how close had been to losing a position in the Cabinet entirely but Pelham had relented, conceding that Matheson's humiliation would soon be forgotten by the fickle public when a different scandal emerged. Matheson merely cursed under his breath and said nothing in reply.

After several hours of intense debate, the Cabinet had reached an impasse. An attractive attendant in a short skirt came in and provided the tired group with tea and muffins, and when she left Pelham stood and addressed the group.

"It's now time to vote. If you support the plan, you are in it until the end, no matter how high the stakes. I need your commitment. If you don't agree then I will ask you to leave now." He surveyed the group, his gaze resting on Eleanor Beaufort, the lone woman. Surprisingly the Health Minister did not stir but remained resolutely glued to her seat. He was surprised but pleased. She could prove to be a useful ally in the trials ahead. There was some uncomfortable shuffling and the Cabinet members all looked around the room at each other, waiting for someone to make a move. There was a tense silence before a gentle cough broke the awkward pause.

Pelham turned toward the source of the cough. He could tell the inner turmoil registered on Matheson's face as he gathered his tablet and palm devices together, all eyes on him. Recent accusations about his sexual proclivities and the resulting fallout had forced Pelham to overlook him for the Chancellor of the Exchequer position, particularly because the story carried unsubstantiated allegations that he was entertaining his partner on the public purse. Nevertheless, Matheson was – or had been – a rising star in the Tory ranks, possibly a future leader, but in one agonized decision his political career was effectively over.

As he stood up, he turned to Pelham, wringing his manicured hands in agitation. "Lance, I have always found you a maverick, too far right, but all the same I respected you. But if you think that the public will accept this monstrous plan then I have to seriously doubt your sanity. You will become an international pariah."

Pelham smiled without warmth. "History will judge me Graham, not you. I am sorry to lose you, but leave the tablet when you go. Giles will prepare a press release." Matheson gave a baleful glare at the Deputy and stormed out of the room. Pelham could hardly blame the man for not supporting the plan. After all, he was gay and in the new order the burgeoning homosexual population would be considered enemies of the State.

## CHAPTER 5

Since the story broke the week before, Harry had kept a low profile, fearing reprisals from Matheson's supporters. It had trawled the circuit of all the social media sites and gone viral, as this type of scandal had a tendency to do. However, it did not receive as much comment on the media circuit as he had expected. Less surprising was that it had not affected the election outcome in the slightest. Indeed, Matheson's own seat in Harrow East had been won with a huge majority, and the story was barely a speed bump on the sleazy politician's inevitable rise to the top. Harry had taken a huge risk to break the story, and he had to wonder whether the personal sacrifice had been worth it. Even the editor he offered it to first hardly uttered a word of encouragement, even though the story had made the front page of their tabloid.

These stories had less impact than in the past. The public was so weary of the corruption of politicians that it had become almost expected, and stories like Matheson's no longer shocked a population that had grown apathetic. It seemed that people were more concerned about their own daily struggle for survival than to worry about some highly paid politician spending their taxes on rent boys. After all, the abuse of power was a global phenomenon, and why should Britain be insulated from that? The global communications village was clearly another factor. People were bombarded with so much information on a daily basis that it became difficult for the human brain to filter it all. They lived in the Twitter generation, where any message longer than one hundred and forty characters was often ignored. People did not so much read as scan information, and the news that really mattered was lost in the bombardment of daily trivia.

As he travelled the noisy, smelly underground, permanently crowded with the full spectrum of society, from the sharp-suited businessman to the alcoholic down and out, he wisely kept his head down to avoid anyone's eye and scanned his tablet. Just two days before, Pelham's Conservatives had swept to power with a huge majority that gave them almost total power. Their only credible opposition was now the BNP and if it was at all possible, they were even further to the right than Pelham, which created a dangerous imbalance for the nation. In Harry's opinion, more than at any time in the last few centuries of British political history were the conditions ripe for the type of despotic rule that characterized so many African, and in the past, South American regimes.

Harry smiled bitterly to himself as he read Pelham's accession speech, noting the irony of the quote he had stolen from Dr Martin Luther King. Pelham was not worthy of cleaning Dr King's boots, but then the new Prime Minister had been adept at stealing ideologies, quick to twist them to suit his own ends. He was a political maverick, someone who's past was little known, despite the media's insatiable hunger for information. Nobody really knew that much about his childhood, at least no-one who was prepared to talk, and those journalists that went digging were invariably shot down with threats of legal action or other reprisals. The Prime Minister was fiercely protective of his privacy and especially his past, almost obsessively so, and no one had yet breached the legal shield he had erected around himself and his wider family. It had helped to reinforce the aura of mystery and charisma that surrounded him, like a modern day Emperor.

Pelham was also ruthless, especially when backed into a corner, as Harry had found out to his cost three years before. Pelham was on the verge of being elected to lead the Party, which at the time was in complete disarray. In spite of Britain emerging sluggishly from the worst recession since the Great Depression ninety years before, the Labour government, as economically incompetent as it was, had no fears of an early election. Pelham had been elected not for his policies but for his charisma and vigorous personality that, with the support of his bulldog number two, Giles Chamberlain, promised to rouse the Party out of its slumber. Harry gave him some grudging admiration for that, but it was typical that leaders were now decided purely on the force of their personality and not the policies they stood for. This fuelled a dangerous precedent. During his time as a freelance political correspondent, Harry had challenged those policies Pelham did offer and uncovered that his office had illicitly syphoned off money earmarked for regeneration of several, mainly Muslim occupied, tower blocks. Pelham had been quick to act, and like a wounded animal, had bared his fangs.

He had used all his considerable political and media contacts to attack Harry's accusations, all of which were supported by credible evidence. However, the weight of popular opinion is never decided by who is telling the truth, but by who can manipulate the media most effectively, and Pelham had the resources and expertise to do precisely that. In a savage riposte to Harry's story, the Shadow Home Secretary, as he was at the time, used the media to discredit Harry and ultimately destroy his reputation so that his assignments dried up overnight and his contacts distanced themselves from him, never answering his calls, texts or e-messages. The final ignominy came when he was stripped of his access pass into the highly secure parliament building, at which time he knew his career there was over.

Pelham's offensive had been so effective that the story was quickly forgotten, passing by with a whimper through the social media outlets, and within three months Pelham was unveiled as Party leader. The man had the survival instincts of a starving hyena and an amnesic public ceased to care at election time. Following the election, his rise to power was now complete and for Harry, this spelled trouble. Harry had experienced first-hand how dangerous the new Prime Minister could be.

A solid jolt nearly sent the mass of standing bodies hurtling over as the train pulled into the station, and they all swayed in unison, hanging on grimly to the overhead rail. They were veterans of the ageing infrastructure of the tube system, accustomed to the daily grind of commuting on this dirty, overcrowded system. Harry snapped out of his reverie, realizing this was his stop, and stood up from his treasured seat and squeezed through the mass of unyielding bodies, no one willing to give an inch. It was a relief to get out onto the platform just before the automatic doors clanged shut, and out of habit he patted down his pockets to make sure his wallet was still there. He always kept two wallets, one a decoy with a modest amount of cash and a credit card he never used and could cancel with one quick call. He had learnt that during his time in Brussels covering the European Parliament elections many years ago.

As the subway train disappeared down the tunnel, its roar amplified in the hollow acoustics of the station, he looked around the platform, alert for any groups that might be lying in wait for lone travellers. There was only the usual gaggle of weary travellers, rushing to get out of the suffocating underground and to their homes at this relatively late hour.

With the train gone, the platform descended into an eerie silence, and he quickly mounted the stairs, the escalators having been burned out long ago, anxious to get out into the cool London air. The underground was well documented as a hot spot for muggings, although the streets were hardly much safer. The area that he lived in, Kings Cross, was a haven for vice and drug pushers, liberated and uncontrolled since the police had withdrawn from the beat in another round of endless cutbacks. As he walked briskly through the gloomy streets, the diffuse lighting from the odd street lamp the only source of light, a figure approached him from the shadows. He turned quickly, tensed and ready to run, but he saw it was a petite girl, dressed provocatively in short skirt and halter top. She was holding a cigarette and when she stepped into the light he saw that she was young, no more than seventeen, but her eyes had the dark rings and hollow expression of a drug addict. She smiled, a weak grimace that conveyed only desperation. The intoxicating whiff of cheap perfume permeated the air.

She waved the unlit cigarette at him and fluttered her eyelashes in a poor attempt at being alluring. "Got a light, mister?" Her voice was pure East End cockney.

He turned away, anxious to move on. "No I don't smoke." As he walked briskly on, she hurried to his side and pulled gently on his sleeve.

"Do you fancy some company tonight mister? Eighty quid and I'm all yours."

"No thanks. You should go home."

"Please mister; I ain't eaten for two days. Have you got any spare change?"

Harry felt a flash of sympathy for this poor, wretched girl and foolishly began to reach into his jacket pocket for his wallet. The rapid movement of a large threatening shape in the shadows caught his eye and he immediately stopped. He turned on his heels and bolted and heard the prostitute cry after him, "Ya miserable old faggot!" Her shrill voice reeling off an array of profanities after him faded as he turned the corner and he kept running until he reached the sanctuary of his apartment block. It was an age old trick and he had nearly fallen for it. Her pimp would be waiting in the shadows, ready to relieve him of his wallet as soon as it was displayed. In these mean streets, compassion was a weakness that would be quickly exploited.

The block was a squat, four storey concrete monstrosity, less than eight years old and already looking like a slum. He used the keypad to enter the main door and clambered up the concrete stairs under the light of a tiny bulb hanging on a threadbare cord. Harry was on the top floor with three other apartments. As he turned the key in his lock, anxious to get in, an acute feeling of paranoia washed over him. He opened the door carefully and crept in, but it was too late. The dark figure in his favourite armchair had already seen him and held a gun pointed directly at Harry. With a sinking feeling, he realized that escape was impossible. The figure in the chair stirred, his face illuminated by an adjacent table lamp, and Harry gasped in surprise. The intruder was the last person he expected to see in his apartment.

## CHAPTER 6

Adam Griffiths stood at the top of the hill overlooking the vast park that curved downwards into the grounds of the National Maritime Museum. A gentle breeze tugged at his thinning blond hair. From his elevated vantage point close to the Greenwich Royal Observatory, he could see across the River Thames a large section of London's vast metropolis. In the distance the towers of the vast Docklands business district gleamed in the early evening sun, the aircraft warning light from the tallest tower at Canary Wharf blinking incessantly.

Greenwich was a beautiful place, especially in the spring, and its tranquil quality helped to remind him of what he was fighting for.

Considering the events of a few years before, it was also an auspicious and appropriate location to meet. It was hard to imagine, looking at the peaceful vista before him, that this had been the scene of one of the worst race riots in living memory, one that he had helped to orchestrate. Another protest at widespread austerity measures, much like the Greek crisis a decade before, had been infiltrated by his group, at the time a small band of disciples for the cause. They had waded in and selectively beaten refugees and immigrants with baseball bats and iron bars in a frenzied but coordinated attack. Although he considered himself quite handy with a number of weapons, having been trained in firearms and knifes as an army reservist, he was not so accomplished in hand to hand combat. He was wiry but not stocky, and he preferred to let his brawny disciples do the rough work. He considered himself more like a general leading his troops into battle, a strategist and visionary leader.

If he closed his eyes he could visualize in his mind the pitched battles, the hand to hand fighting like a medieval battle. The police had stood back, their riot shields and truncheons poised, reluctant to get involved, watching while the group's enemies, which included anyone who did not fit their creed or ideology, had received a severe beating. A strong message had been sent across Britain.

This was before FREE had become an organized unit, with a structure and clear policies, but he could look back to that day as the birth of the movement. FREE had been spawned from the British National Party, the BNP, which itself had been created from its predecessor the National Front, which held sway back in the seventies and eighties. This was a fight nearly fifty years in the making.

He surveyed the peaceful, sweeping park, perfectly manicured, as he waited for his contact to arrive, and felt a brief surge of irritation as he watched a young Asian boy trampling over the grass. If his vision was realized, that would soon be a thing of the past. Now that the BNP had achieved its long term aim of becoming the Government's official opposition, that vision was now a significant step closer. Their progress since 2000, and in the last ten years in particular, had been beyond even Griffiths' most optimistic expectations, considering that as recently as 2012 the Party did not even have one sitting Member of Parliament. The BNP represented the acceptable face of extreme right wing politics, and the indigenous voting public, tired of being treated as second class citizens in their own country, had recognized what the BNP could do for them.

Griffiths, however, had a different agenda. As a senior figure within the Party for many years, he saw their policies, advocating 'firm but voluntary incentives for immigrants and their descendants to return home,' and their exhaustive lobbying for legislative change as far too moderate. Griffiths preferred more direct policies, interpreting the incentives for immigrants to leave much more widely. Whereas the BNP did not advocate an openly physical approach, FREE used intimidation as the cornerstone of its policies. He was also able to garner support from former members of the now defunct English Defence League, an anti-Islamic far right street protest movement formed about fifteen years ago, before its reputation for conflict became too much for the public and the Labour controlled authorities to bear, and it was squeezed out of existence. The EDL's philosophy was more in keeping with his own, and those former members of the EDL, left in a void following their organization's demise, were quick to join up with those BNP members who considered their own Party too moderate.

The BNP too became splintered and amidst the strife that had typified the FREE's short existence, the Movement was born. FREE was created through violence, and its aim was to perpetuate it. In many ways he saw FREE as a more natural successor to the openly fascist National Front than the BNP. There was a storm coming, and he intended FREE to be at the heart of it. They had already stepped up their operations in the last few months, resulting in some high profile attacks, but that was just the start.

Griffiths did not consider himself a white supremacist, although the Press had sometimes referred to him as such. That was such an Americanism anyway. A white supremacist invoked the legacy of the old Deep South movements such as the Ku Klux Klan, the eponymous KKK, a group spawned from the Confederate army, their intimidating white hoods evoking such opprobrium that they were often described as the first real terrorists. He saw himself as a true champion of change for the betterment of the indigenous society, and a Christian, hence FREE's adoption of a Celtic cross as its official symbol, a move that had enraged a number of religious and pagan organizations. He could not understand the fuss. It was not as if FREE had been the first organization of its kind to adopt the symbol.

The Celtic cross, which combined a cross with a ring surrounding the intersection, was a powerful representation of the advent of Christianity in the British Isles. However, its use had spread far beyond the islands, its Gaelic symbolism particularly prevalent in Normandy, Brittany and other parts of Northern France. Its strong and often richly decorated symbolism had long been associated with right wing elements to denote international white pride, and had been banned by Germany under its anti-racism laws as a popular symbol used by neo-Nazis and white supremacists. In fact the KKK had first popularized it as a symbol for hate, the second and third incarnations of the movement making frequent reference to their 'Anglo-Saxon' and 'Celtic' ancestry, harking back to 19th-century nativism and claiming descent from the original 18th-century British colonial revolutionaries.

It was used as the symbol for Stormfront, the white nationalist and neo-Nazi website established in 1995 by former KKK leader and white supremacist Don Black that was considered as the first major Internet hate site. The powerful iconography of the Celtic cross, surrounded by the motto 'White Pride World Wide' had made Stormfront an inspiration to other similar groups, and certainly had a profound influence on Griffiths himself. Even the National Front had adopted the symbol, and it was a natural progression for FREE to have adopted it.

The beauty of the Internet was that the message could be spread far wider and access more potential disciples than ever before, allowing sites like Stormfront and his own FREE website to address its message to anyone interested without regard to legal barriers or jurisdictional boundaries. The Net was the ultimate forum for free speech and that in itself had strengthened and spread the symbolism of the Celtic cross so that it was generally associated with white supremacy.

He considered himself an agent for change, a pioneer for the one true way. Without the courage to force fundamental change through more direct means, it could take years of petty negotiation and bureaucracy to achieve anything. He did not believe in the democratic process for such an important issue and drew inspiration from those who had been prepared to make sacrifices and stand up for their beliefs at the risk of being vilified and hated. The time had come for true leaders like him to take a stand, to have the courage to see the bigger picture and be prepared to support the outcome no matter how it was arrived at.

His deep thoughts were interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered at the icy touch. He spun round to see a figure in a long trench-coat that accentuated his tall, slim frame. His unshaven face was partly hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses that completely shielded his eyes. Griffiths hated talking to people when he could not see their eyes. He was convinced he could tell if a person was lying by the expression in their eyes, but he knew it would be useless asking him to take them off. The apparent disguise was framed by a large Akubra style hat, so that if Griffiths passed him by in the street an hour later without the disguise, he'd never recognize him.

Griffiths glanced at his watch. "You're late," he said.

The voice had a deep resonant quality and betrayed its irritation at being chastised. "Adam Griffiths, social agitator and upstart neo-fascist I presume?"

Griffiths hated this guy already. "I guess it's not worth asking who you are."

The deep voice merely replied, "Correct."

They both gazed in silence at the extensive panorama before them. A small aircraft tracked through the darkening sky, its landing lights twinkling as it made the descent toward the Docklands airport.

The voice continued. "The scene of your greatest triumph."

"We've only got started," boasted Griffiths.

"Your methods are direct and brutal, Mr Griffiths, but I represent interests that have the power to crush your neophyte movement in a heartbeat."

"Did you arrange this meeting to threaten me?"

"No, I want to make it clear who you are dealing with. I represent various bodies all with strong links to the important people in this country. Not just government but also the corporate world. People who support your ideology but cannot be publicly associated with your approach." Griffiths sensed an edge of distaste when he said this. "The outcomes that you desire are shared by more people in this country than you think Mr Griffiths. I did not come here to threaten you but to offer you an opportunity."

"So what are you proposing?" replied Griffiths warily. He was growing increasingly suspicious of this unorthodox stranger. The history of the British National Party was littered with instances of infiltration by moles and spies, sometimes working at very senior levels within the movement, and he was determined that would not happen with FREE. They had to be alert and guarded, trusting no one. His fledgling organization had already divided public opinion and while this maverick stranger suggested significant support, there was just as much opposition. He just had to go onto Twitter or any of the other forums to view the vitriol that had been directed at him personally. He always kept a weapon hidden on him, just in case one of those verbal attacks became more tangible. It was necessary to stay alert and cautious at all times. There were a lot of crazy people out there.

The stranger continued to gaze out at the darkening sky, not looking at Griffiths. "The neo-fascist movement in this country is growing again. Your movement resonates with many influential people, who have seen their power and wealth eroded by the influx of immigrants that this last government appeared to embrace with open arms. The country's infrastructure cannot sustain the population, and everywhere we see the results of a failed social experiment. Fascism as a political ideology is no longer the preserve of the minority extreme right. We have reached a tipping point in this country. The powerful people I represent see fascism as the only way to rejuvenate our declining nation. The British National Party, despite its ascendancy to Opposition status, is perceived by many to be too moderate and lacking credibility."

"That's precisely why I left."

"You and your compatriots, Mr Griffiths, are the new breed of fascist. Whether you realize it or not, you stand on the brink of history. Your movement epitomizes a mode of thought that is gaining traction across the respectable middle class, the people who have suffered the most from the immigrant population explosion over the last ten years.

"The people I am talking about are decent hardworking people, sick to death of seeing their neighbourhoods soiled and their way of life under threat, prisoners in their own homes, petrified of becoming another unsolved crime statistic. They see their children forced to learn the Qur'an while the Bible is marginalized through extreme political correctness in schools where white children are the minority. British people have become foreigners in their own country, Mr Griffiths, and the time is ripe for revolution. You have an opportunity to be at the forefront of that uprising.

"The fact that the BNP gained such a huge following shows the level of support the public has for the extreme right. With our help, you can take that one step further. We can't change the fact that your activities will remain illegal, but changing the law, even under the present structure, will take too long. We are already supporting and protecting you."

Griffiths turned and looked closely into the sunglasses, trying to search through the dark lenses at his eyes. "What do you mean?"

The stranger's face remained bland, expressionless, the eyes firmly hidden. "Your activities are causing a ripple through this country Mr Griffiths. You are the most tweeted organization in the country at the moment. Why do you think that only a handful of your members have been arrested? The people I represent possess influence and power that transcends the authorities and has a power base at the heart of central government. Your movement will continue to be protected. We can supply you with arms and manpower, and provide you with a platform under the very powers that the last leftist government termed 'freedom of speech.' But officially this government and the corporations will oppose and denounce you. They will never be seen to associate with your brand of violence. Despite the state of this country, the public is not ready to support a government that advocates the methods you employ. We have not reached that stage yet. You will always be outlaws."

Griffiths' eyes narrowed suspiciously. It sounded tempting, too tempting. "So you expect FREE to be puppets of the government and big business?"

"You can choose any analogy you like. We are offering you an opportunity you will never receive again. Even the Ku Klux Klan needed the support of the Confederates to survive. But let me make it clear. The people I represent are in control and always will be. You will answer to them. The conditions are in alignment for you to create history. Choose the opportunity or regret it for ever."

An Indian family of three generations passed by a little way down the slope, hurrying to get home before darkness descended, the grandmother in her flowing sari, two dark children sitting in a pushchair as the mother pushed them, babbling furiously at her offspring in a language unrecognizable to the two men who silently watched them.

The stranger nodded at them. "If you want that to be a thing of the past, you should accept our offer. Think it over carefully Mr Griffiths. You have twenty-four hours and this offer will not be repeated."

"Will I remain in control of FREE?"

"At an operational level yes, but on matters of policy and strategy, you will defer to us." The man reached deep into the pocket of his trench-coat and for a brief horrifying moment Griffiths thought he was pulling out a weapon. He merely produced a blank business card with a telephone number scribbled on it and handed it to Griffiths. "When you have decided, call this number." The edges of the man's bloodless lips curled up into the merest hint of a smile. "An ancient practice I know, but still the most efficient in some cases. You probably won't see me again."

Griffiths took the card and slipped it into his pocket. Lost in thought, his vision wandered to the vast concrete and glass towers across the river, now lit up in the deep twilight. His hands tingled with anticipation as he considered the future. Fascism was on the rise again. He would write his place into the history books.

He turned to his companion, ready to give him his answer immediately, but with a shock he realized the stranger had already disappeared.

## CHAPTER 7

Harry stared at the intruder, speechless with surprise. His unwelcome guest held the gun steady, and the barrel was pointing directly at Harry's head. However, Harry relaxed a little as he calculated that the possibility of being shot by a Government minister was extremely remote. No amount of spin doctoring could explain that away. Eventually the tense silence was broken.

"Aren't you going to ask me what the hell I am doing here?"

Harry managed to compose himself. "That had crossed my mind. I was wondering why the great Graham Matheson would emerge from his comfortable, high-walled fortress in St. John's Wood to slum it with the proletariat. Where are your thugs? Have you given them the night off?" Harry stared hard at the gun.

"Sit down, you're making me uncomfortable." He waved at the small chewed-up sofa across from the easy chair that Matheson had settled in. Harry complied, still perplexed at the man's presence in his apartment.

Matheson laid the gun down on the small coffee table next to him and let out a weary sigh. "Don't worry about the gun. It's not for you. It's mainly for my protection. These streets aren't safe anymore."

"Well, now you're in power, why don't you lot do something about it, or are you too busy spending taxpayers' money on your own prurient pleasures?"

Matheson grimaced, stung at the accusation. He sat there deep in thought, and then turned to Harry, who noticed that his fine, aristocratic features looked tired and drawn. Small lines furrowed his usually polished brow, and his immaculately groomed silvery hair was unusually tousled. "You and the whole bloody world will know soon enough anyway. The Tories may be in power, but I'm not. I resigned at the Cabinet meeting yesterday and they practically ran me out of town. They even cancelled my parliamentary pass. I am persona non-grata. I'm amazed they did not put out a press release already."

"How the hell did you get in here?"

"You really ought to review your building's security procedures. Anyone with average intelligence could slip in here unnoticed, and you of all people know that my intellect is way beyond the average."

Harry took the opportunity to have another dig. As a journalist, he was starting to enjoy having a private audience with one of the more recognizable faces in the country. "I have to concede your intellect; it's the uses you've put it to that I have an issue with."

Matheson ignored the jibe. "Let's get to the point. Why do you think I am here?"

"I can guess it wasn't a social visit," replied Harry sarcastically.

Matheson picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands, like a five-year old's cherished toy. A troubled look surfaced briefly in his puffy eyes. "This country has become a highly dangerous place, even for the privileged. It's dirty, overcrowded and riven with crime and social chaos. In a country of seventy million people, twenty-five million are below the poverty line. Unemployment is running at over twenty-two per cent, yet the Labour government kept encouraging more and more immigrants and putting them on social welfare, taking the taxes of hard working individuals and selling their pension rights so they could fund the welfare state. Did you know that until they brought in the austerity measures during the Great Recession, a person working for thirty plus years and paying his taxes could expect to receive a pension of about eight thousand pounds from the State when they retired? A family of four coming from a tinpot dictatorship and claiming refugee status could expect to receive twenty-five thousand pounds a year immediately, without any one of them lifting a finger to work. The British people have been sold down the river."

Harry's tone was scathing. "Spare me the social sciences lecture. I'm one of those people, only I can't see myself being able to afford retirement after fifty years, never mind thirty." Harry watched Matheson closely, still wondering where he was going with this.

Matheson continued, unperturbed. "Although Labour abandoned its immigration policy some time ago, it has left the new Government with a fragmented, divided society, where people live in ghettos and integration between the different cultures and minorities is mainly confined to a hostile stand-off. Every day there seems to be a race-fuelled demonstration or riot, and a racist attack by one group against another. This country is a powder keg.

"Pelham was elected on a tide of disaffection. Most of his votes were a protest against the socialist policies that brought this country to its knees over the last eight years. But he's charming and he's plausible. He's the poster child for the xenophobic jingoists, pure Anglo-Saxon through and through, not a hint of ethnicity. The bright white smile, the blond hair and the blue eyes, the handmade Savile Row suits. No wonder he's the media's darling. Even his young wife extols the purity and the family virtues he purports to aspire to for the whole country. They're mediagenic in a shallow society where media presence counts for everything. And with that feral mongrel Chamberlain on his leash, they make a formidable team."

He paused, breathing shallowly, his tall frame sagging in the soft armchair. Harry suddenly thought with wry amusement that this was ironically the first time he had seen Matheson in anything other than a sharply pressed Armani suit. The polo shirt he wore was wrinkled and his slacks were ill-fitting, obvious even from his sitting posture. Casual did not suit Matheson.

"But don't be fooled," he continued. "If you think it's bad now, things are only going to get worse. Much worse. We now have a government in power that has some extreme remedies for the country, and this nation may be just about to enter a new phase of suffering."

Harry stared at him, surreptitiously reaching for his digital recorder. Matheson spotted the motion but merely stood up and walked to the apartment's small, grubby window. "Put away the recorder Mr Clarke. I didn't come to give you an exclusive interview."

"Then why did you come?" Harry shot back.

Matheson shrugged, peering intently out of the window but careful to remain unsighted from outside. "That's a good question. As much as I dislike you and your tawdry brand of journalism, it seems that you may be one of the few independent journalists left that isn't in the pockets of one Party or another. Whatever my own personal view of you, I have to grudgingly admit that your reporting, however twisted and sensationalist it might be, is based on the principle of integrity."

Harry allowed himself a trace of a smile. "That's almost a compliment."

Matheson jammed his hands in his pockets. "It wasn't meant to be."

"So what are you suggesting, that I write a sycophantic article about you, espousing your qualities, so that Pelham and his cronies might be persuaded to take you back?" Harry's sarcasm was met with a disapproving shake of the head from the former Minister.

"Don't presume you carry that much influence, Mr Clarke. You're the last person Pelham would take advice from. In any event, I have no desire to seek a return to the Cabinet."

Harry joined him near the window, surprised at Matheson's admission. "Can you not fight your cause from the backbenches? You're still a Member of Parliament."

"I told you, they revoked my pass. Pelham and that bulldog of his made it clear to me that if I resigned from the Cabinet I would be thrown out of the Party. As unconstitutional as that is, and I objected, they told me to go ahead and sue. Pending legal action on my part, I am officially one of the twenty-two per cent unemployed."

The irony of this could not escape Harry. The man had been instrumental in campaigning for the Opposition for severe cuts in benefits to the unemployed, once famously describing them as 'spongers.' "So why are you here?"

"Because you have a reputation in the media industry and I need you to wake the public up to the fact that they've voted in a regime that is prepared to go to any lengths to realize its vision." He reached further into his pocket and pulled out a small mini-CD.

Matheson held it almost reverently, eyes narrowed and looking round as if he expected spies behind the curtains. "Stupidly or otherwise, I'm entrusting you with this disc. You're my most logical alternative. It contains everything you need." He held it up and the tiny disc glinted in the light of the table lamp.

Harry had not seen a disc like it in years. "Where did you get that ancient piece of kit, the British Museum?"

"A precaution. With everything online these days it's impossible to copy anything without leaving a digital trail. Copying it to a disc can still be traced but it leaves no online presence and the last thing they'd expect would be a copy to an old mini-disc."

"Where the hell do you expect me to find a CD reader, and even if I do, what will I find?"

"You're resourceful Mr Clarke. I am sure you will find a reader. And when you do, you will see why I took such elaborate precautions. It contains the Government's five year plan for the country and it does not make pleasant reading."

"Christ, I should be grateful you didn't give me a cassette tape. So why are you giving it to me?"

"I have just been run out of government. My so called friends are not returning my texts or media messages. God forbid, I even tried to call them. I don't really know who to trust. It's funny how in times like these you find out who you friends really are. The sobering fact is that I woke up this morning realizing that there is not one person I can trust."

"What about José or whatever the hell his name is?"

Matheson looked pensive, as if the subject caused him fresh pain. "It's Juan not José. Men like Juan look good on your arm, but the truth is they don't offer much beyond their well-toned torsos. As soon as he discovered my fall from grace, he was off, taking my Gold Rolex for company. Men like him don't stick around but it was good while it lasted."

Harry almost felt sympathy for the man. He looked a shadow of his impressive public persona. "So you came to me?"

"My reputation is about to diminish when the Party public relations machine gets into motion, but this is a chance for you to redeem yours. I am offering you that chance, although I care about that probably as much as you cared about mine when you wrote that disgraceful article. As sceptical as you may be of this, Mr Clarke, I really care about my country. It's why I enlisted in public service. I do not want to see it ruined further by a tyrant like Pelham. We have just had eight years of torment under the Labour government, but what he's proposing will take this country down a dangerous path and the public don't even know he's leading them there. It is my duty to make the public aware of his vision, which is why I need a journalist like you to distribute the five year plan through the social media. You might make some powerful enemies, but then you're used to that aren't you?"

"What's in it for me?"

Matheson let out a weary sigh. "It's always about what you can gain from it. That attitude has brought this country to the brink of bankruptcy and collapse. Why don't you consider doing this for your country Mr Clarke?"

"Are you sure I won't be doing it for your revenge against Pelham? A parting shot if you like."

"Think of it how you wish, the fact is that I have to get this out to the media." He tapped the disc. "It's too important not to. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Harry considered his own motives. They both had reason to want to seek reparation from Pelham and even if his primary motivation was not born out of patriotism, the fact was that on the face of it he had been handed a golden goose. "I'll take the disc, but I am not making any promises. When I can get to read it from this ancient piece of plastic I will then decide whether to publish. Those are my conditions."

Matheson frowned and let out a deep, exhausted sigh but said nothing. Again he looked around warily and handed the disc to Harry. He took it silently and ran his finger along the disc. "How many copies of this are there?"

"You have the only one Mr Clarke. This is an exclusive for you to publish. I am fervently praying you do because Pelham needs to be exposed."

As he got up to leave, Matheson turned back to Harry. "I won't deny that this venture is not without its risks, but please - I hope you do the right thing Mr Clarke." The former Minister's voice had a forlorn, pleading edge to it.

With that, he gently uttered "Goodnight," slipped out of the front door and was gone. Harry watched him, bewildered, step out into the street and quickly jog over to a nondescript white Volkswagen. Definitely not Government Issue, thought Harry.

Matheson stepped out into the cool, damp street, still uncertain that he had done the right thing. He had taken an enormous risk in stealing the file, hence his obscure and troublesome approach of burning it onto a CD. Their file security had been lax but although he had quickly deleted the file, they would discover in time that he had copied it. However, burning it onto a CD left no discernible digital signature and so was virtually untraceable. They would never know about the CD until it was too late. He looked up and down the gloomy avenue and a movement caught his eye. He saw the shapes of a group of youths huddled at the end of the street, their faces framed by the glow of lighted cigarettes. He could tell they had seen him, and they were already beginning to advance toward him, as if Matheson was an interloper on the streets they owned. The former Minister quickened his pace and climbed into the sanctuary of his small Volkswagen.

From his elevated position on the fourth floor, Harry watched his visitor smoothly drive off and join the throng of traffic in the adjacent main street. Seconds later, another vehicle, a dark Ford saloon, gently pulled away in the same direction as Matheson, and Harry watched the vehicles disappear into the night.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL MAY 25TH

More bouts of violence have taken place across the major cities and conurbations, marking a difficult transition from the Labour Government to the far right policies of the new Conservative Government. The international community has expressed concern that the United Kingdom, a previously moderate democracy, has no credible checks and balances to the governing Conservative Party. The British National Party is even more right wing than the Conservatives, and it has become apparent at an early stage in the new regime that the ruling Party has a free hand to impose a strong, virtually unopposed rule. Emeritus Professor of Politics at the London School of Economics, Dr Dean Chandler stated that 'this is the closest Britain has been in its long political history to a totalitarian, one Party state. Even the judiciary and the House of Lords have a limited sphere of influence. It remains to be seen what the Government will do with this unfettered power.'

It has not taken long for that unrestricted power to manifest itself in a range of radical measures. The Government immediately announced plans to suspend all immigration requests pending review, leaving thousands of applicants in legal limbo. Its draconian immigration policy is unlikely to bring those people comfort. Commentators expect immigration to be drastically reduced or even halted.

Following on from the failed austerity measures of the previous government, the country's new rulers have put in place strict budgetary constraints, severely scaling back what little was left of the welfare state after Labour's debt-ridden term. It has been suggested that this is likely to lead to another spike in repossessions and homelessness, which is already at record levels, the unemployment rate having soared in the last five years as cheap labour from the Asian tiger economies accelerated the globalization of labour. It's not unusual to see at least two or three vagrants and beggars on every street corner in London and most of the UK's larger towns.

Commentators are also suggesting that the incumbent Government's harsh new measures will also lead to a rise in theft and violent crime, which has already reached epidemic levels to the degree that vast inner city areas are no go places, controlled by local armed gangs and militia groups whose only opposition is other groups staking out their territory. The police forces are curiously absent from this turf war, but the Prime Minister has promised to get 'tough on crime and the causes of crime.' It is a pronouncement made by many previous administrations, in retrospect with limited effect. Indeed, in the two weeks since Pelham took power, there has been a spate of attacks against mosques and residential areas with known Muslim populations, with the police apparently powerless to prevent this tide of attacks. There have been a number of injuries and one fatality in recent violence, but the enmity is not confined to Muslims. A settlement in Essex, a small field in which travellers and Romany gypsies had set up home through adverse possession many years before, was razed to the ground by an angry mob of thugs from the Fight to Return England to the English, colloquially known as FREE, a resurgent pro-nationalist organization. While Pelham condemned the violence, he has yet to show the political will to stamp out these types of attacks that have sullied Britain's international reputation.

The country is desperate for strong leadership, but one political analyst sounded a warning to 'be careful what you wish for.' Indeed, this new administration promises strength in ways unanticipated by the electoral public. Unconfirmed rumours suggest that the Prime Minister, having condemned the recent violence following his rise to power, is keen to reintroduce the death penalty. The last execution on British soil was sixty years ago. Civil liberties groups have reacted vehemently to these rumours, fiercely denouncing the proposal through social media and news networks. One widely followed tweet condemned Pelham as sending Britain back to the Dark Ages.

The country is currently a tense patchwork of sectarian entrenchment and simmering resentment, as if Pelham's election victory has helped to polarize differences between the country's diverse groups. It's often unclear as to who the real enemy is. What is abundantly clear is that Pelham needs to get a grip on power and quickly, before the country slides over the precipice of economic and social ruin.

## CHAPTER 8

Sometimes Kendrick felt like a grizzled old fart next to his young, energetic partner. Today Donoghue was even more pumped up than usual, moving about in a frenzied fashion through the crowd. As he viewed the young Irishman dressed incognito in combat fatigues and heavy boots, topped off by a green beret, he began to question his own judgement at being swept along by the vigour and idealism of his fellow detective. If Grayson discovered where they were he would have their heads on a platter, yet he had allowed Donoghue to convince him to attend this march of striking workers through the Tower Hamlets area of London.

Hardly a weekend went by without some protest march or rally happening in London, but this demonstration promised to be more controversial than most, especially because of where it was situated, with the largest density of foreign residents in London. Donoghue was on a crusade, and he had discovered from delving through his enquiries in the social media that FREE was planning another assault. This time Donoghue wanted to be there to catch it on film, and expose these thugs in action to a media hungry world. For Kendrick, dressed more conservatively in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, it carried the threat of violence, and he felt naked without the cold, hard steel of his small handgun in its holster. Even now, as the crowd swayed, chanting tunelessly about the lack of jobs, he thought he should have it. Donoghue had persuaded him that taking a gun was not wise and could be perceived as inflammatory. Technically it was still illegal to carry a handgun without a firearms licence, but many people openly flouted the law, and in some cases were totally ignorant of it.

Now, as the crowd pressed in, he was far from convinced that leaving behind his trusty sub-compact Glock 26 pistol was a good idea. He was shoved and jostled by his fellow demonstrators. He did not like crowds at the best of times, and he struggled to stay close to Donoghue, swept along as the crowd marched relentlessly forward. Donoghue was getting in the spirit, pumping his fist in the air and shouting in protest at everything from lack of jobs to poor housing to a fascist government.

A few police lined the streets to the side, making no pretence of trying to control the march, letting the demonstrators through without hindrance. The odd demonstrator took the opportunity, safe in the anonymity of the crowd, to hurl a few insults at the officers, who remained passive and stony-faced. Kendrick and Donoghue remained on the outer edge of the crowd. Kendrick scanned the mass of bodies, studying the demographic. It was predominantly young African, Asian and even a few Chinese people, which reflected the ethnicity of the local population. He found it ironic that they could all work together when they had a common grievance to protest, yet their co-existence on these streets was often fractious and volatile. Tower Hamlets had one of the worst gang related crime statistics in the borough, and often this arose from local ethnic rivalries.

When he joined the Force nearly thirty-five years ago, there was no shortage of social issues but then the police had a presence on the ground, able to quell these local hostilities so that they were manageable and the ordinary person unfortunate enough to live in these volatile areas had at least some semblance of protection. Now the police were invisible and usually arrived only after the event to survey the carnage and the body count. People like Kendrick were then called in to investigate after the fact to provide some pretence that the authorities actually cared about another murdered African or Indian. It was a damning indictment on a once highly respected Metropolitan Police Force.

Investigators like Kendrick did care, but it was difficult for people like him to fight against institutional indifference, and they were often left with few resources and a community that was scared to talk to a detective for fear of reprisals. The case of the Southall shopkeeper, Mr Kumar, was indicative of that indifference. He and Donoghue had been forced to investigate unofficially, and would never tell Grayson they were still pursuing enquiries. In any event they had hit a wall. While they'd known from the shopkeeper's statement that the perpetrators were from FREE, they'd achieved no clues about the individuals.

Kendrick hurried to catch up with Donoghue, who was fiddling with his tiny video camera, ready to reel off some footage if the protest kicked off. There was plenty for these people to protest about, especially in light of the new Government, which had made no secret of the fact that its policies were geared to make anyone other than true blood Englishmen uncomfortable. The Party had been less obvious in the run-up to the election, but now that it had achieved a level of unprecedented power for an incoming Government, it was starting to reveal its true manifesto. While it had spoken out against recent attacks on ethnic minorities, such as the barbaric attack against the Romany settlement in Essex, the new regime had done little to prevent it. In failing to come up with new ideas to control the xenophobia raging through society since they had assumed power, they tacitly supported the current climate. With the BNP as the only opposition, the sense of unease amongst Britain's minority population was polarized. These types of gatherings, however, were the mark of a true democracy, and at least the country had that.

He looked at the placards and signs raised high into the air by the boisterous crowd. Some were in Arabic, others in the Latin alphabet but clearly not English. Of those he could read, all of them denounced the Prime Minister. Indeed, amongst one group slightly ahead and to the middle of the crowd, a rubber effigy of Pelham, its features grossly distorted but still plainly recognizable, bobbed about lazily amongst the sea of people, an inane grin on its face.

The crowd was in good spirits, and despite their own tribal rivalries, appeared to support each other in the common cause, all their anger directed at a Government that was impervious to their needs. As they turned a wide corner, ready to move up the main street, the crowd hesitated and slowed to a halt. In front of them and spread like an impenetrable wall across the width of the street stood a huge mob armed with baseball bats and pickaxes, moving purposefully toward them. Kendrick shuffled to the edge of the crowd for a better view. They were made up mainly of white youths, many with shaven heads and heavily tattooed, others dressed like office workers, but all defined by their twisted, hateful expressions. Donoghue immediately began filming as the mob moved closer. The small band of policemen stood paralysed, caught between two opposing forces, with neither the resources nor the inclination to prevent the inevitable.

They discreetly moved aside. There was a subtle shift in the mood of the crowd, the enthusiasm and general optimism replaced by undertones of fear. The crowd turned perceptibly quieter and began en-masse to back away, but the mob, weapons raised high in the air, kept marching resolutely forward. Amongst the large group a trio of skinheads carried a tall Celtic cross, and Donoghue gravitated toward it, his camera gently whirring. Kendrick was enraged that such a beautiful symbol of Christianity had been stolen by FREE and similar racist organizations before it to support their reprehensible objectives, much like the Aryan symbol desecrated and rotated into the swastika by the Nazis.

FREE had made no secret of its desire to achieve its aims through brutality, and while some of the crowd had makeshift weapons, they were clearly unprepared. An unspoken signal seemed to ripple through the mob, and as if on cue, they charged the crowd, screaming in fury and waving their weapons high. They slammed into the front of the crowd in a Neanderthal fury and brought the weapons crashing down on flesh and bone. The crowd scattered, shrieking painfully as Kendrick, on the edge of the heaving throng, was dragged along and nearly trampled in the panic-stricken rush to flee. He staggered but managed to stay on his feet, but as he looked around in the chaos and confusion, he saw Donoghue immersed in the crowd, the camera lofted high in the air, before he disappeared amongst the sea of bodies. Fighting hard not to be crushed, he yelled at the top of his lungs to Donoghue, but it was no use. Close to him, he saw a baseball bat come slamming down on the head of a fellow demonstrator, blood spraying from a deep gash gouged from his forehead. Kendrick felt sickened, but the mob was moving in and his overriding thought was to escape as quickly as possible. Within seconds, the raw savagery of the mob had turned a peaceful rally into a war zone.

Kendrick struggled to remain on his feet as bodies tripped and fell around him in the rush to get away. The noise of panic-stricken yells and screams of pain merged together in a deafening cacophony as he was swept along, his heart pounding in his chest, his body buffeted by the sea of bodies around him. With single-minded determination he pushed hard to reach a break in the crowd, many of his fellow demonstrators groaning and bleeding profusely from open wounds. As he stumbled forward, desperately looking for the way out, a wiry pock-marked skinhead, a swastika tattooed on his forehead, blocked his way. For a fraction of a second he looked at his face, inches away from his own. It was a face contorted by primeval rage, a malevolent expression in his dull eyes as he raised the axe high to strike his victim. Instinctively, Kendrick's police survival training took over, and he raised his right foot and snapped the sole of his boot against his assailant's left knee with such force that the knee was pushed back with a sickening crack. The man collapsed instantly, screaming in agony and was quickly swallowed up and trampled on by the terrorized crowd.

Kendrick burst through to relative safety and saw Donoghue less than twenty yards away. Incredibly, the young detective was still taking film, but as Kendrick watched, his partner's camera strap was violently ripped off his neck and the camera snatched away. Kendrick saw him clutching desperately at it before it was smashed to the ground and the Irishman was set upon by a trio of marauders. They rained blows to his torso and he fell heavily under a mass of bodies. Kendrick's last glimpse of his partner was swift and traumatic and there was nothing he could do. He let out a shrill scream of terror for his fallen friend before he too was silenced by a blow that he never saw coming.

## CHAPTER 9

The freezing surf lapped over the rickety wooden boat, crammed with over one hundred and thirty desperate refugees, huddled together for warmth and protection. Amongst them were women and young children, their plaintive cries rising stridently above the howling wind and the sound of the rolling waves breaking against the unstable boat as it bobbed precariously up and down on the leaden sea. Most of the men had their heads down, staring at their feet, silently mouthing a prayer of deliverance. They had been out on the open sea, totally exposed to the elements, for the past six days and rations were running low.

Jonathan Suliman sat near the rear of the boat, one of the de facto leaders of the expedition. He was amazed at just how disciplined the passengers had been. Many of the men looked ill and malnourished, yet all had allowed the women and children to be fed first. However, in the past day there had been sporadic arguments and one fist fight as the hungry grew increasingly desperate. Despite their dreadful conditions, the refugees had held on stoically, anything better than the horrors of the regime they had escaped. For Suliman, his journey had taken him from the Darfur region of North Sudan, where he had escaped the senseless slaughter by local militias known as the Janjaweed. His family had not been so lucky when they burned his village to the ground. Both his parents had their throats cut, and his two infant girls had been shot in front of him. His wife had been dragged away to a fate unknown, and he did not wish to contemplate what they'd done to her. Even after two years of running and travelling, the memory of that atrocity was like a festering wound in Suliman's psyche. Now he was on this rickety vessel, no more than an improvised rowing boat, feeling colder than he had ever done in his life. His thin shirt rippled in the blustery wind, providing no protection at all. Everyone here had a story of where they had fled from, of the horrors they'd witnessed and the misery they had escaped.

Their arduous journey surely had to end soon, one way or another, as it was hard to see the boat surviving more than another day. With every fresh pounding by another solid wave, the bow creaked and groaned, ready to split into pieces with one large pummelling. There were only two life-jackets and they belonged to the 'crew' who worked the boat. He glanced up at the two grim-faced Africans sitting at the stern, checking a ragged piece of paper that allegedly passed as navigational charts. A high pitched cry from the front of the boat pierced the air and many of the travellers stirred from their general malaise and looked up. A small boy was pointing excitedly into the distance but as Suliman scanned the horizon he could see nothing but angry grey sea. He squinted and peered closer and then he saw it, an unmistakeable dark line drawn between the expanse of the achromatic sea and the moody sky. The men on rowing duty, despite their exhaustion from lack of food, began to work the four oars with renewed urgency. Even so, it was several hours before the dark line took a more discernible shape and manifested itself into a range of white cliffs rising up over the sea.

There was now a general buzz of excitement amongst the exhausted travellers, even as they continued to be pounded by the freezing surf and the biting wind. There were many sick children on the boat, and they needed urgent medical attention. Suliman had heard inspiring stories about the land they were attempting to reach, a democracy that tolerated and welcomed members of every race. It was the reason they had bypassed Europe and headed for this island nation. The people needed a welcome, to be free from repression and fear. Every single person on this boat had sacrificed so much to be here, yet the alternative was not an option. Suliman had fled for his life, and no doubt many more of this disparate bunch had been faced with the same dilemma.

Several more hours passed and the general clamour of anticipation had dampened only slightly as the boat made painfully slow progress towards the elusive utopia of the white cliff. The light had diminished into a deep twilight, accentuated by the heavy cloud cover, and the white cliffs, now within touching distance, had turned into a greyish hue. Several lights had come on along the coast, twinkling and guiding the boat. They would reach landfall in the dark, which was more preferable, and after that, every family was on its own to scatter and avoid detection by the authorities, at least for a while. Suliman had no family anymore, and he was determined to stay and help those with sick children find a doctor as soon as possible.

From the distance came a low, mechanical throbbing, like the sound of engines, and one of the shore lights began moving against the dark backdrop. It took a minute for Suliman to realize that the light was on the sea and moving closer. The light grew brighter, the hum of the engines deeper and closer. There was a babble of anxious muttering from the crowd as the bright yellow light moved rapidly toward them, bathing the crowded boat in a ghostly yellow pallor. The throbbing grew to a roar of a large outboard motor and Suliman looked up at the two African men at the stern. Even in the shadowy reflected light he could see their faces register concern.

The motorboat turned in a large arc and cut its engines about thirty metres from the refugee boat, its searchlight glowing over the refugees in a blinding yellow haze. Although the boat was small and rocked precariously on the heavy swell, Suliman could tell, even through the intense glare, that the boat was occupied by a number of men. Despite their indistinct appearance, Suliman could tell by their stance and the shadows of drawn weapons just who they were. In his two years of persecution and flight, he had seen enough military types to sense them from a distance; the way they stood and the air of superiority mixed with contempt they carried with them. This was not a reception committee.

Suliman covered his ears along with many of the other refugees as the piercing whistle of feedback shattered the air. A figure on the boat held a large megaphone and in a distorted metallic voice, he said, "This is the Dover coastguard patrol. You are trespassing in British territorial waters. Turn back now." Many of the refugees did not speak English and the impact of the words was lost on them, although the unwelcoming tone, apparent even through the distortion of the megaphone, was not. Murmurs of disquiet rippled through the crowd, and the oarsmen on duty stopped rowing. The boat rocked back and forth, for a moment only the sound of the waves breaking the silence.

Suliman was fully conversant in English, and with trepidation he considered their words. They just had to get to the shore. People were sick and dying. None of them, even the healthy ones, would survive much longer in this rickety old boat. He could not understand. England was a land of democracy and freedom, the Promised Land he had revered and looked forward to reaching for so long. He was now within touching distance, and had come too far to give up now. They were a compassionate people. If the boat could just reach land...

Standing unsteadily on his stiff legs, stumbling with the motion of the boat, Suliman turned to the patrol boat and shouted across the water at the top of his voice. "We have little food and water and many sick people. Please help us." His shouts reverberated across the water and drifted in the swirling air.

The occupants of the patrol boat offered no sign that they had heard Suliman's plea. For a while there was no movement until the shadowy figure picked up the megaphone again. "I said turn back now. I repeat you are encroaching on British waters. This is your last chance before we take action. You will comply immediately." Even through the distortion, his voice was chill and soulless.

Suliman was not deterred. He forced his way to the front of the boat, stepping carefully over bodies until he was at the closest point he could get to the patrol boat. He shouted as loud as he could, his breath condensing into grey vapours in the cold air. "Help us please!" he implored them. "We must reach land. People are dying." For long seconds, there was no response from the boat. The blinding light prevented any clear sight of the activity on the boat, although Suliman could see shadows moving through the intense glare. Then without warning a deafening crack filled the air and Suliman staggered backwards, clutching his shoulder, the blood from a large entry wound spurting over the passengers closest to him as he collapsed to the deck. Instantly the screams of frightened women and children filled the cold night air. The two African crew members shouted at the four oarsmen on duty and they began frantically rowing in a futile attempt to escape the patrol boat. The heavy, cumbersome refugee boat moved around to the port side and the robotic voice of the megaphone rose above the horrified screams.

"Stop rowing now or we will take appropriate action. This is your last chance," warned the disembodied voice.

Through a blur of acidic pain and confusion as he desperately tried to stem the flow of blood from his wounded shoulder, Suliman vaguely heard the threat. What action could they possibly take against a defenceless boat full of children? How in the name of decency could they really shoot a refugee? In some ways that would be worse than the horrors perpetrated by the Janjaweed. His answer was swift and ruthless. As they watched the refugee boat slowly manoeuvre around them, the occupants of the patrol boat positioned themselves on deck and in complete synchronization and with military efficiency, opened fire on the refugee boat, peppering the wooden hull so that it splintered the side. Instantly the water began pouring into gaping holes in the hull and the boat at once began listing to one side as the refugees scrambled over each other in a frenzy to get as far away from their attackers as possible. It was a useless exercise, they had nowhere to go, and in the panic and confusion the boat heaved in the water, sending several screaming refugees plunging over the side into the water. Desperate hands reached toward them, but they were quickly swept away in the angry current.

The occupants of the coastguard boat looked on impassively at the chaos, illuminated by the bright navigation light that occasionally caught the distressed, horrified expressions of refugees as they struggled against the sinking boat. The shrill intonation of screaming children, crying women and desperately shouting men mingled into a tapestry of sound that could not be drowned out by the rolling waves and the whistle of the wind, which had increased in intensity. To add to the misery for the boat people, the heavens opened and the rain began to fall in torrents, whipped to a stinging intensity by the wind. It hardly seemed to matter, as the boat lurched and pitched crazily, each swell taking in more water until it reached a tipping point.

Coastguard Major Paul Kenny watched the horror unfold before him as he stood on deck, but as the boat lurched and gradually began to slide below the waters, sending its inhabitants into the freezing water where they thrashed wildly, he turned away. He could no longer bear to see the chaos and panic as young children and babies dropped beneath the swirling water out of reach of their helpless, despairing parents, or hear the mournful cries for help as the boat finally disappeared beneath the waves, sending up a stream of bubbles and foamy white water. He would not sleep tonight, that was sure, but his instructions had been explicit and the threats for failure to carry them out precisely were equally clear. He had a family to consider, but then, in a pang of guilt, he realized that so many of the refugees did too. He was not strong enough to take a stand against his autocratic masters, but as he watched with revulsion the horrendous scene before him, he loathed himself at that moment. History was full of men who had committed unconscionable deeds and claimed that they were 'just following orders.' He realized with dread that he had just become one of them.

As he peered out, his stomach turning, he caught the piercing stare of an African man thrashing wildly with his one good arm, the other paralysed by a bloody, open wound. With dismay he realized it was the man he had shot. The African carried the spectral gaze of certain death, bereft of all hope, but eyes fixed firmly on Kenny with a look of such contempt and malevolence that the Coastguard Major felt it sear into his brain, never to be forgotten.

Unable to bear it any longer, he instructed the helmsman to head back to shore, leaving the dying refugees to face their inevitable destiny in the dark and cold of the English Channel.

## CHAPTER 10

It had taken Harry a long time to find a computer with a CD player, and in truth he had been so busy reporting on the excesses of the new Government, he barely had a free moment to think about the disc. It was an ancient piece of hardware that he had sourced through an obscure website that specialized in old computer appliances and software. It had taken over a week to arrive at his apartment, and another few days to get the damn thing charged and working. In the digital age of mini hand-held devices, this clunky old laptop looked like an antique, as well as being bulky and heavy. It reminded him of the first machines he had worked with as a rookie journalist still wet behind the ears, so many years ago. At that time a laptop like this would have been considered state of the art. Despite the human race having regressed in so many ways, advances in digital electronics had continued steadily and electronic products had a very limited shelf life before obsolescence. This was reflected in their price. While basic foodstuffs and the cost of water had shot up, reaching record levels every year, electronic products had fallen steadily in real terms over the last decade. Millions of people in the country no longer had homes with running water, yet everyone had a digital tablet or palm-sized multifunction devices.

As he sat at the old stained wooden table in his sterile apartment at the end of another long day, he fixed himself a gin and tonic and booted up the ancient machine. Down below in the street he could hear youths raucously shouting obscenities at each other, charging through the dark alleyways even though it was close to midnight. A distant bang like a rifle shot pierced the night air, and the youths were momentarily silenced.

The device whirred into life, clicking and tapping as if cogs were turning like some machine awakened from its slumber. After what seemed an age, he was finally able to insert the disc into the drive and bring up the one file that appeared to be held on it. The contents were not even encrypted or password protected, although when the file came up it had a water-seal marked 'Confidential' running diagonally across the document. The file was in the form of a memo to the Cabinet and its preamble was loaded with warnings that the document was for the Cabinet's eyes only and the penalties for unauthorized copying.

He cast a furtive glance around him, somewhat irrationally, he thought to himself, but his apartment was, as always as quiet as a morgue and about as soulless. He suddenly felt a wave of irrepressible longing for the energetic laughter and chatter of his son, Byron. It had been far too long since they had spoken. When he and Tamara were together, Byron was never far away and he seemed to illuminate their home with life and purpose just by his mere presence. Harry never felt lonely even when he was not with Byron. The fact that he could return home and see his child, even if after a long day it was just to kiss his forehead as he slept, was enough to sustain him. It was often said that children of mixed race marriages were often blessed with good looks and intellectual gifts, and Byron was no exception. Allied to that was his pure sense of energy and vitality and a positive character that meant he had an uncanny ability for a child of his age to bounce back from setbacks.

Byron had been his best friend, the one person whose sunny disposition provided a respite for Harry from the cynicism of the real world. They had enjoyed each other's company to such an extent that Tamara sometimes complained of being excluded. Indeed, during the marital discord they had endured in the last few years, she had often accused Harry of indoctrinating the boy against her. Nothing could be further from the truth but he had to admit, with a pang of guilt, that in these troubled times his first thought was Byron, and Tamara came a close second, not just because she was Byron's mother. He had never stopped loving her, but there had been too many obstacles to their long term future, not least the trials and tribulations of his own career, especially after the stress of his banishment from parliamentary reporting circles and his inability to control his drinking.

After the divorce, his special relationship with his son had cooled somewhat, its edge blunted by distance when he and his mother moved to Salisbury, and also by the lingering resentment that Byron displayed at every opportunity to remind Harry that he had abandoned him. He was grieving, and it manifested itself in different ways, not least by lashing out at his father who he believed was responsible for the fractured family. Despite this, Harry missed his presence and had done everything to repair the relationship. It would probably never be how it was before, but at least he could show how much his son meant to him.

He scanned the document absentmindedly, sceptical that this report would probably be no more than an exposition of the Party's manifesto, and that he had spent a small fortune on an ancient old laptop just to get an exclusive that might sell a few extra editions but otherwise go unnoticed. He felt vaguely resentful of Matheson, but as he read further he began to realize with a growing sense of unease that this was no ordinary manifesto. He had been curious as to why Matheson had taken such precautions to ensure that his digital trace was not recorded when he copied the file, but he had failed to give it that much thought. He downed his gin in one gulp as he read more, and quickly grabbed another, irrationally looking around the apartment again to check that no spy was hiding in the corner.

The first page showed a memo from the Prime Minister to his cabinet entitled 'Giving Britain Back to the British – A Five Year Vision For Restoring Power'. The subsequent text was written in the sanitized style of a business plan. For each outrageous proposal there was a justification for the action and a concise summary of the advantages and disadvantages of the intended course of action. The style was lucid, clear and thoughtful, as he would expect from Pelham, who despite his prejudices, always displayed extraordinary clarity of thought. He also regarded himself as a visionary and his 'five year' plan proposed a better future, but not for everyone, and this document was explicit on that. One of its principal aims was to remove the separation of powers that was so critical to the preservation of individual liberty and protection against tyranny. Harry had always considered Pelham a right wing reactionary who made the legendary Lady Thatcher appear socialist by comparison, but this document, if it was genuine, showed his true proclivities. As he continued to read with a deep sense of foreboding, Harry realized that democracy as an ideology in Britain was no longer alive.

The left leaning sections of the popular press had often criticized the new Prime Minister as a somewhat Machiavellian character, someone who was a master of duplicity and lacking in morality. This document fully supported that assessment. The potent arguments as to why so many groups had to suffer were laid out in vivid detail, as well as a graphic description of his proposals to bring the country back to economic strength and prosperity for the homogenous survivors of his five year reign of 'racial austerity' as he so eloquently termed it. The plan read like a Mein Kampf for 21st century Britain. Whilst it was devoid of the racist ramblings and xenophobic expositions of hate against certain classes of the population, it did lay the blame for the country's current woes on a number of groups. It then laid out in clear, lucid detail why those groups needed to be removed from British society. The language was business-like and factual, even when it described how those groups would be removed. It was the tone of the document that reviled him as much as the content. It talked about the obliteration of these people from Britain as if they were the rats that infested every street corner.

Had it not been so articulate in its construction, he would have been convinced that the document belonged to FREE or any other number of fascist or neo-Nazi organizations that had polluted the planet over the years. But this was the vision of the government in power, and not just any level of power. They had a free reign and no tangible opposition, no check on their power. Harry's hands trembled as he took another shot of gin. He had no doubt that the current political, social and economic conditions in the country were aligned in such a way that the Conservatives had total power to perpetrate all the atrocities it proposed in the document. Matheson had warned him that Pelham did not want this document to be seen by the public, and now he could see why, although he could understand why it might be supported by the more perverse elements of the population.

This vision defined the transition from the democratic state to an authoritarian regime, with its emphasis on the highly concentrated and centralized power in the hands of the few, and the repression of individualism. As he thought about the events occurring across the country in the several weeks since Pelham took power, it placed the document into context. He had already begun to put his vision into operation, and things were going to get a lot worse.

He looked at the cracked, oversized train station clock on his kitchen wall, a remnant of his doomed marriage, monotonously ticking away the early morning hours. It was nearly two o'clock but he could not wait until the morning. He picked up his phone and dialled the number that was imprinted on his brain. It seemed to ring for an age before a sleepy voice answered.

"Hello?" Her voice, even when just awoken, carried that sultry quality he had always adored.

Harry felt guilty at having woken her, but he had to know they were alright. "Tamara, it's Harry."

There was a pause and he could sense her sitting up in bed. This time her graceful voice carried a tone of admonishment. "Harry, what are you playing at, do you know what time it is?"

"I'm sorry I woke you. I shouldn't have called."

"It's a little late for that Harry." Her voice was more alert, and it carried a trace of suspicion. "Have you been drinking again?"

"Just a gin and tonic or two."

On the other end of the line, Tamara gave a deep sigh. "It was always one or two drinks with you Harry. One or two at lunch, one or two on the job, at the pub, then a chaser. When did you ever stop at one or two?"

Despite her low, even voice, the words hit home hard, because he knew they carried an irrefutable truth. "I'm not drunk," he replied weakly. "I just wanted to speak to Byron."

This time the sultry voice carried an undertone of suppressed anger. "Harry, you haven't spoken to the boy in four weeks and now you call at this insane hour and want to speak to him? He has a test at school in the morning and I have work. You're not being fair to him."

"I know, I know. I'm truly sorry. I will make it up to him."

"Now that really does sound like the ramblings of a drunk. Promises you can't or won't keep."

"Please Tamara; I just want to know he's okay."

Tamara let out an exasperated sigh, but there was a mix of pity and angst when she spoke again. "Of course he's okay. Why wouldn't he be? And that will not change in the morning. Why don't you call him then?"

He blurted out what was on his mind. "I think you and Byron should go to Mumbai as soon as you can."

"Harry we have talked about this before and two in the morning is not the time to be bringing this up again. We have a life here in Salisbury. I have my career and Byron has school and friends. Why are you so keen to be rid of us? Do you have another new girlfriend?"

"Of course not." The reference to another girlfriend stung. She had never truly forgiven him, and who could blame her. Didn't she know that despite all the upheaval, she remained the only one for him?

"Well I don't want to talk about it now." She gave a tired yawn. "Call me in the morning – when you're sober."

Harry took the mild dig with equanimity. "Yes I will, Goodnight Tamara."

The line clicked off and he sat there staring at the phone, sipping his drink. He had to tell her what he knew, yet spilling the secrets of the Government's five year plan somehow felt hazardous. In fact just possessing the disc could have consequences. He would have to decide what to do in the morning but for now he was too confused and under the influence to make any rational choices.

When he awoke at seven-thirty the next morning, the watery sun had already risen above the misty London skyline, dimmed by the omnipresent cloud of pollution. He had a splitting headache and his mouth was parched. He felt vaguely human after a shower and a coffee, and he called Tamara's number. She'd be up and about getting Byron ready for school before she headed to her own job as a public relations consultant. It was a perfect profession for her, combining her strong intellect and presentation skills with the ability to develop and maintain strong client relationships.

The line kept ringing and ringing until the automated operator announced in a cold robotic voice the obvious fact that there was no answer. He dialled the number twice more with the same result.

## CHAPTER 11

The unit was built into one of the arches under the subway bridge near Whitechapel Road. They were ancient and tatty and located in one of the less salubrious parts of London's East End. Jack the Ripper used to haunt these streets, prowling the foggy, ill-lit alleyways for another prostitute to slaughter. He had passed into the folklore and rich tapestry that was London, a city that had never shaken off the shackles of crime and violence, yet still held an iconic allure for its vast numbers of tourists, and where there was never a shortage of a good story.

Harry had a good story of his own in mind as he approached the shabby offices of the British Guardian, a left wing leaning newspaper that had flourished during the Labour Government's reign but now held an uncertain future. It was ironic that despite their success in the last eight years of Labour rule, the paper had never been able to move to new, smarter offices, like every other business a victim of the recession. At least it had stayed afloat. It outsourced to a small printing press in the Docklands, but like most papers these days, it had a predominantly online presence, mainly found on people's tablets and phones.

Harry had agonized over whether to take the document here. He had managed to get it printed and had hidden the disc, and had decided after a great deal of thought not to reveal this exclusive in his own name. He did not want to take the credit, or indeed be associated with it in any way. He had a feeling that the person revealing the document could open themselves up to a lot of trouble. He could not help surmising that Matheson had handed him a poisoned chalice, perhaps out of revenge. It would take a brave man, someone who was not afraid of challenging this new authoritarian regime, and he knew just the person.

Bernard Maxwell had always been considered a controversial editor, and his socialist views permeated throughout all his publications. He had been a vociferous critic of the burgeoning right-wing movement, and particularly scathing of the new Deputy P.M., Giles Chamberlain. Harry regarded him more as an associate than a friend, having prepared some freelance political commentary articles for him after he had been banished from Parliament. At that time his emotions were still raw, and the enmity he felt toward Pelham was apparent in his articles, which Maxwell relished. Although he did not know Maxwell well enough to trust him completely, Harry had a great deal of respect for the editor. Despite the obvious bias in his writing, Maxwell had been extraordinarily prescient about the rise of the right wing movement, which had been decimated when the Labour government first took power but which had grown steadily as dissatisfaction with disastrous economic policies and an open immigration policy took hold. Maxwell had been one of the first editors to sound a warning about the rapid re-emergence of anti-Semitism and fascism, but unfortunately for him his own radical reputation and the Afghanistan fiasco had counted against him.

Just before the troops finally withdrew from that troubled, combustible nation after spending far too long trying to pacify a land that was way too complex and tribal to be pacified, Maxwell printed a series of articles. They allegedly came from two paratroopers, one of whom had been badly injured by a roadside bomb, who had made some damning revelations about the conduct of several officers in their unit. This included the tacit approval and in some cases active participation in the torture of Taliban prisoners, as well as overzealous interrogation of Pashtun civilians suspected of having links with the fundamentalist religious group. If genuine, the allegations would almost certainly have resulted in a court martial and severe reputational damage to the British mission there, but Maxwell made a grave error of judgement in failing to substantiate their stories. Both soldiers had reason to resent their time in the army, although it was later revealed that the injured paratrooper was suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. The allegations were widely discredited and Maxwell suffered a severe blow to his own credibility, as well as being forced to make a significant out-of-court settlement that nearly bankrupted him.

After that he was much more careful, but the public either did not care or considered him to be scaremongering to sell his papers. Harry had not spoken to Maxwell for over a year, but he was certain the editor would take no pleasure from being proved right about where the country was heading. If the document in his hand was accurate, it was only a matter of time before his paper and many others like it would be marginalized anyway. Perhaps this was a last shot, and knowing Maxwell, he would likely jump at the opportunity.

His thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the sound of two drunks arguing, their grating voices amplified in the confined space of one of the nearby connected arches as they yelled aggressively at each other. Harry hurried to the front of the office. Even during the day it had extensive security, its barred windows and reinforced metal door a necessary deterrent in this area. Keen to escape the potential dangers in the grimy street, he hurried to the intercom system and introduced himself. Presently he heard the sharp metallic sound of a heavy chain being pulled back and the door swung open. He looked up and saw a whirring security camera tracking him as he entered the building.

The office was sparsely furnished and functional, although the open brick arches, still occasionally dripping water, lent the place some character. He sensed an air of quiet efficiency as a small array of operators typed meticulously away at their computer, others preferring to speak quietly into their tablets. It was very different to when he had first started in the industry. What had not changed was the piles of paper scattered everywhere. Maxwell's assistant, a portly, silver-haired lady in her early fifties, sporting thick bifocals, led him past the rows of desks and their occupants, few of whom even looked up as he passed. At the back of the office was Maxwell's own little cave, adorned with certificates, a few trophies and, holding pride of place, a picture of him with Wallace Bentley outside the former Labour Prime Minister's residence at 10 Downing Street. They both sported cigars and looked as if they did not have a care in the world.

"Happy days," came the familiar gravelly voice of the editor, suddenly appearing from a side door.

Harry looked up from the picture and extended his hand. Maxwell looked no different from when he had last seen him. He never seemed to age, even though everyone knew that his jet black hair was through the magic of long lasting hair dye. It did not seem to matter that the editor was the wrong side of fifty. His glossy mane was at odds with the gravitational pull of age on his face, but his raw energy and zest belied his age. Unlike most hacks, Harry included, he had not succumbed to the temptations of the evil bottle. He was rumoured to be a little partial to the odd line of cocaine, but that was totally acceptable in this line of work, and he loved his cigars, which in part explained the deep resonance in his voice, which had adorned a number of voice-over commercials. Harry caught a strong whiff of expensive cologne as Maxwell leaned into him, accepting his hand with a firm grip.

Maxwell rested his slender frame in a high backed leather chair and motioned to Harry to close the door. Harry sat opposite and Maxwell moved a pile of paper so the scratched aluminium desk had some space between them.

"How are you doing Harry? I see you're keeping busy. I loved your e **xposé** on Matheson by the way." Maxwell pulled out a box of cheap brand cigars from his desk drawer and bit off and spat out the tip. He waved around a lighter and looked at Harry expectantly. "Do you mind?"

"No, of course not."

"Thanks. I'd offer you one but to be honest even this working class brand is so bloody expensive I can't afford to. Damn Tory government is trying to take away what little pleasures we have left."

Maxwell took a long draw on his cigar, sending blue smoke curling up to the mottled ceiling as he exhaled. "You mentioned you had something dynamite for me. Best not to say too much on the phone these days but I think we're safe here. What have you got?"

Harry reached into his satchel and pulled out a neatly bound folder. He opened it up at the first page and pushed it over to Maxwell. The editor scanned the first page with the memo and title, puffing at his cigar as he did so. It was emblazoned with the P.M.'s seal of office, which was easy enough to forge on a letterhead. Less easy and apparent only because Maxwell had the experience to look for it was the almost invisible unique watermark that ran the length of the document. It was a watermark that was closely guarded, encrypted and only available to a few Parliamentary staff in the P.M.'s office.

Maxwell looked up from the document. "Is it genuine?"

Harry pointed to the faint watermark. "You and I both know how hard it is to forge that, and it was delivered by the man himself."

"Yes, but Matheson has a grievance. Maybe he cooked it up to set you up as a stooge. He has motive you know," replied Maxwell. His droopy jowls creased into a grin.

"Read on Bernard. Matheson could never have created anything so monstrous. He doesn't have the imagination for it. No, I am certain this is genuine."

"Okay, let's assume it is for now." Maxwell continued scanning the document.

The door, already slightly ajar, swung open and in came the same portly lady carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee. She set the tray down and set the mugs on the table, her tired face creasing into a friendly grin as she did so. She looked down through the thick glasses perched on the end of her nose and Harry sensed that her gaze lingered just a second too long on the document in front of Maxwell, although he made no attempt to hide it.

"Thank you Doris," said Maxwell, barely glancing up. "Close the door on the way out please."

When she left Maxwell slurped at his coffee. "She's a diamond. Over twenty years she has been with me. I trust her more than myself."

Harry relaxed a little. Maybe he was being paranoid. Ever since this explosive document had fallen into his hands he had suffered acute bouts of anxiety. He was glad to pass it on.

Maxwell fell silent and became enveloped in the document. He took a pen and with Harry's nodded approval, underlined or marked certain parts of the text. He uttered a succession of whistles and surprised gasps as he read further, puffing away at his cigar. Presently he looked up at Harry, who had been waiting patiently while checking his messages on his cellphone, with a grim expression. "I can see why you used the term 'dynamite.' No wonder Pelham did not want this leaked."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "However, it does rather make sense. Pelham's regime wouldn't be the first to use an extreme or terrorist organization to further its own ends. I had my suspicions about the BNP but more so about this new wave of extremists, the FREE organization. They seem to be doing the Government's dirty work on its behalf, and all the while Pelham and Chamberlain can wash their hands of it and make the appropriate indignant noises in the press. But Pelham is the man of the moment. He was almost predestined to step in when the Labour Government finally imploded. The country is looking for him to drag it out of the quagmire and most people don't really care about how he does it. He has manipulated the media cleverly. He has hidden his true ideologies, all the while waiting for the day to seize power. Even some of the ethnic areas voted in a Tory councillor, thinking they were the moderate alternative to the BNP. He has deceived them all, and now he is in power I suspect we will see his true colours. Half this country loves the man. He is the embodiment of true British values, or so the public think.

"The British public has always been indifferent when it comes to voting its politicians in. That comes from too many decades of democracy. Complacency creeps in and they judge the politicians more on whether they look good rather than their policies. It would be easy for the public to unwittingly vote a tyrant into power, and they may have just done that. Yes, half of the public love Pelham, but then the same could be said for Hitler when he came to power."

"But the world has changed Bernard," interjected Harry. "Europe or the States would never allow Pelham the same latitude."

Maxwell dismissed Harry's objection with a casual shake of the head. "Europe's in a mess and the States has its own immigrant problems. Anyway, Pelham's not interested in Europe or anywhere else abroad. He's only interested in his power base at home. He is not intent on invading foreign lands for resources. He is not interested in world public opinion. He's merely interested in keeping power, and to do that he needs an obvious enemy."

"Islam?"

"Not just the Muslim world, Harry, although in Pelham's view they've been largely responsible for the disintegration of the old traditional British way of life and the slow but steady decline of British culture. But it's every class of immigrant. They are all cast with the same dye. I'm worried Harry. History has plenty of precedents that demonstrate abuse of power when it goes unchecked. And right now, there is nothing or no-one to prevent Pelham and his cronies exercising that power in whichever way they wish. It's a recipe for the rule of law to be chewed up and spat out. This document underlines that."

"Are you going to publish?" asked Harry expectantly.

Maxwell gave a deep sigh. "This is not some scurrilous article about a Tory minister being caught with a rent boy – something the public have seen countless times before. This document could spark a civil war."

Harry leaned forward. "Surely the public have a right to know what is in store for them. It would be the height of irresponsibility not to warn the public that they have a narcissist in power with the attitude and resources to devastate large sections of the population. If we don't act a lot of innocent people will die."

Maxwell finished his cigar and stubbed it out in a glass ashtray at the edge of his desk. Harry noticed his hands were trembling. "Christ Harry, why did you come to me? If I publish this then a lot of people will die anyway. It's too late for a revolution. We should have stopped Pelham before he ever made it this far. With his parliamentary majority and no credible opposition, the country has far more power concentrated in one individual than anyone since Churchill."

Harry's voice was edged with frustration. He had expected Maxwell to pounce on the story. "That's why he has to be stopped now while there is still a shred of democracy left in the country."

Maxwell ran his hands through his unnaturally black hair and puffed anxiously on his cigarette. "I agree with that. Christ, this country has been in decline for eighty years. Why don't we all just bugger off out of here and let the country destroy itself."

Harry tried a different approach. "Because you are not a coward. You're the one person who has had the courage to stand up against the rise in the right wing elements. Who else did we have as a voice of reason, a warning against the rise in fascism, when most of the public were looking the other way?"

Maxwell's tone was pensive. "Yes and look where it has got me. More death threats than I can count and a tatty old office in Whitechapel. My wife said it's worse than being married to a police officer."

Harry pointed to the document. "But this is a vindication of everything you've warned against. This could be your crowning glory, to make the people sit up and take notice."

"It could also be my suicide note." The gravelly voice turned softer. "Harry, do you honestly believe the public will take notice? Do you expect them to rise up in revolution and overthrow the government like the Arab Spring in the 2010's? The great British public is ruled by apathy. The people have enjoyed democracy far too long and now, staring a dictatorship in the face, they don't know what to do. I really don't think the release of this document will make any difference except to incite trouble."

"I think you may be underestimating the people."

"Am I? The authoritarian regime has already started down this path," replied Maxwell, waving the document in the air. "I don't see the public rising up in some great revolution. It's already happening. You just have to look at what is going on around you. The welfare cuts, the riots, the forced evictions. And then that terrible business about the boat people. These things are clearly part of Pelham's master plan. I'm surprised they haven't tried to shut me down yet."

"Better to go out guns blazing," Harry retorted.

Maxwell gave a sardonic laugh. "I doubt I will even have that opportunity. They're already starting to restrict access to the Internet. Look at this." He keyed in the address for a socialist propaganda website based overseas. Although the problems with bandwidth to support the vast array of data that travelled along the Internet were well documented, it still took too long to load the address. The cursor seemed to hang motionless for an age before a timeout notice explained that the website was temporarily unavailable. He tried the same for a trade union publication based in London with the same result. "They are selective however." His bony fingers danced over his tablet's touchscreen and within a microsecond the website of FREE flashed onto the screen, complete with images from their recent outing in Tower Hamlets.

"It's only a matter of time before they close my website, and plenty of other dissident publications. They have a range of statutory instruments and regulations that they're passing to support the suppression and censorship of free speech, ranging from anti-terrorist to state security to incitement on social media sites. The freedom of the Internet, of the right to express one's opinion and opposing views is gradually being eroded. They've already set up a number of firewalls that stops Internet Protocol addresses from being routed through, or set up domain name system poisoning so that when specific sites are requested they are routed to harmful sites that contain potentially damaging viruses. It will get worse as they continue to wrest control from private internet service companies, and this document makes clear they intend to do precisely that."

Harry had to admit to himself that like the vast majority of the population, he had been blind to the level of interference the government had perpetrated in the free press. He berated himself, for as a journalist he should have been more aware. Choking off the avenues for dissent had been used by dictators for centuries, to neutralize public opinion and suppress criticism, but he had always considered the Internet's border-less capacity was beyond that, at least in the Western world. It was obvious, really. China had suppressed the Net for decades. It was, after all, just another tool that could be manipulated.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, hands rested behind his head, and let out a laugh that carried no mirth. "People like you and I, Harry, are dissidents in the New Order and we will be silenced eventually. This document will only hasten our inevitable demise, but you never know we may be able to make a difference. I have some serious thinking to do. I will let you have my answer in twenty four hours."

He got up, a clear signal for Harry to do likewise and Harry hastily finished his coffee, now almost cold. It was bitter, like the taste in his mouth, but the outcome was probably the best he could hope for. They shook hands and as Harry headed for the door he said, in one last futile attempt at persuasion. "If this is to be your swansong, it will be a glorious one. You will go down in history."

Maxwell smiled but said nothing as he ushered him out. Plenty of people had gone down in history, martyrs like Joan of Arc. It did not mean he wanted to emulate them.

Outside the tiny office, Doris Black sat at her desk listening intently, her subtle earpiece relaying everything discussed between the two journalists. She felt a little guilty, but they'd paid her cash with the promise of more to come. Since her husband had been off from his construction job, sick with emphysema, money had been tight, even though their son no longer lived at home. Her wages were modest and insufficient to support them both. The money could not have come at a more difficult time, and it had been impossible to resist. They had shown her how to plant the small listening device which was triggered by the sound of a human voice. She had placed it discreetly under his desk so that it captured the conversation as clearly as possible, and all she had to do was listen and record and relay it back to the men. She had felt conflicted as she had worked for Maxwell for ages, and generally he was a considerate, if diffident employer. He occasionally asked about her husband, but she always got the impression it was out of duty rather than courtesy or that he really cared. No one really knew how hard it was for her, and Maxwell had often stated how important it was to look after number one. Well she was following his advice.

She looked around at her colleagues, now a mere handful. No one suspected that she was listening in. Only five years ago, even during the Great Recession years, the paper had over twenty staff, and had been much livelier. The last few years it had limped along, its fortunes waning like the Labour Party it supported, until it scraped by on only eight employees, including the staff reporters. The men had told her that the paper could not go on indefinitely, would likely have to close before long. They suggested that she consider their payment a form of severance pay for long years of service. If the paper did go insolvent, there would hardly be money to pay even loyal servants like her, they'd told her. It made sense and so she had finally agreed. In any case they did not look the type of men that would take no for an answer. They had mentioned that she would be doing a service to the country, but they never actually said where they were from. The money did the talking when they produced the bundles of cash. Indeed, with the money they had provided she might even be able to treat herself to the laser eye surgery she had dreamed about for many years.

As the reporter walked out of her boss's office, she quickly returned to tapping away at her computer as if she had been typing the whole time. She then got up and politely ushered him out into the street. As he left, her thin lips stretched into a weak smile. "Be careful on these streets sir. You never know who to trust."

## CHAPTER 12

Pelham always dreaded the weekly strategy meetings with Chamberlain, not because his Deputy intimidated him, although he found himself choosing his words carefully in his presence. It was more because he found the man mildly objectionable. He had to admit however, that they made a fearsome combination, and Chamberlain's gifted communication skills had eased the media and public transition to the new regime. As they sat in the deep-seated brown leather chairs in the sumptuous Drawing Room at No 10, he studied his Deputy's face. His second-in-command had an arrogance born of achievement and privilege and it was etched into every distinguished line on his chiseled face.

The P.M. got up and ambled over to his generously stocked drinks cabinet and poured sherry from a crystal decanter into two small glasses. He handed one to Chamberlain as he sat back down facing across from his Deputy. They both had tablets resting on small writing desks to the side of their chairs. Chamberlain grabbed his sleek computer, sipping at the sherry as he did so.

"Lance, we have a lot to cover today," Chamberlain began. They had a loose agenda, although their meetings were constructed more as a think-tank. Even so, the Deputy P.M. brought his notes up on screen.

"Go on," replied Pelham, glancing out the window into the neatly trimmed square below. Despite another gloomy early summer day, the courtyard had been delicately manicured into a colourful display of roses.

"The riot at Tower Hamlets. A police officer was killed in the line of duty and another one badly injured. FREE are claiming responsibility. We'll be under pressure to make arrests soon."

Pelham found it hard to conceal his irritation. "Giles you know our approach to this. We keep the Party line. Condemn the violence and repeat our pledge to rid the streets of crime. Send a message to Griffiths. Tell him to offer up a couple of his foot soldiers and we can give them a high profile trial. That will keep the masses happy for a while."

"And the boat people? There is outrage in the international press about this."

"An unfortunate incident caused by an overzealous coastguard who will be punished. Who the hell leaked that anyway? There can't be too many witnesses on a cold night in the middle of the English Channel?"

"There will be other boats," warned Chamberlain. "The situation on mainland Europe is dire. Since the break-up of the Euro-zone pact very few countries are welcoming refugees. We're still seen as fairly liberal compared to most countries, a legacy of our benevolent predecessors I'm afraid."

Pelham snorted with derision. "We will soon change that. Make sure we re-state our position on accepting immigrants, refugees or otherwise, and tell the coastguards to extend their patrol. I want any more boats like these to be taken out well before they even get sight of land."

Chamberlain nodded and tapped at his tablet. He stole a glance at the Prime Minister's boyish, media friendly face with the high forehead and the bright, credulous eyes that suggested a keen but benign intelligence. Chamberlain knew well that appearances could be deceptive and inside that immaculately tailored suit beat a heart of stone. He talked about these people as if they were enemies invading the U.K.'s shores. He barely thought of them as human, and it reminded him of his studies of the slave trade during his thesis years, when the good Christian slave owners did not believe that their slaves were human enough to feel pain. Since taking power they had worked together much more closely on policy issues and Chamberlain saw his boss in a new light, very different from that portrayed in the sycophantic areas of the Press. No wonder he was keen to control the news industry.

The man did not have a callous disregard for life, only those whom he regarded as surplus to his vision. Yet his insight was inspiring. Despite their similar public school and red-brick university backgrounds, Chamberlain considered himself to be intellectually superior to the Prime Minister. Yet he had to concede that Pelham possessed an extraordinary charisma, not really charming, but an innate quality that made him appear persuasive and rational. His speech on accession, he had to admit, was quite brilliant. Although he had drafted large parts of it for his boss, Chamberlain accepted that the panache with which it was delivered was inviolable. Chamberlain was ready to work with Pelham and let him, as leader, accept the inevitable repercussions of the brutal methods of achieving his vision, and he would be waiting in the wings ready to inherit a better Britain.

Pelham continued, still wishing to morally justify his stance on the boat people. "This country has had enough of the invading hordes. Isn't it enough that we had to suffer the free market of workers in the European Union for twenty odd years, and they all headed here? Just because the damned Euro-zone was too indolent to manage its own affairs, why should we pay the price for their poor governance? These refugees have no right to head for these shores. They're not our problem."

Chamberlain smiled inwardly. The P.M. would never reveal his true thoughts as candidly to the public, but his masterful oratory would be able to dress it up and still get the same point across when addressing the people.

They talked at length on a range of policy matters, and Chamberlain's esoteric boss was pleased to note his observation that the ministers were 'behaving themselves.'

"Good, good," Pelham said, downing his sherry. "Keep a close eye on them. I want to know about any signs of dissent. We need to have complete dedication to the cause. Don't let them vacillate Giles. There are vital battles ahead. We have to assert our dominance quickly."

That observation led to a new thread of discussion. Pelham was not too worried about the upsurge in violence since he had taken over. There had been a number of riots, not least the Tower Hamlets incident they'd spoken of earlier. His greater concern was the slow spread of dissonance, like a creeping virus, that had manifested itself in more demonstrations and criticism in the social media. He saw two potential key elements. The first was to strengthen his position through the military. He got up and paced the room, his nervous energy now in full motion.

"We need to create the conditions to declare a state of emergency or martial law. I want Huntington-Smythe to swear total allegiance to me," he said, referring to the Chief of the Defence Staff, the professional head of the British Armed Forces. "We need the military on our side. I don't care what it takes; I want the army to support my rule, to be completely subservient. Do whatever you need to make it happen. Check the legal position but do your homework on the Chief. Offer him what he wants or better still, offer him what he doesn't want. He must have a secret mistress or a drug habit or some other leverage. We need to get to him."

He continued pacing, his polished black brogues soundless on the deep pile carpet. The second key element was the propaganda war to indoctrinate and win the unwavering support of those people who really mattered, the indigenous people of this great country. "The restrictions on the media are not happening quickly enough. How do we move the pace of change up a gear?"

"Lance, the first Ordnance on Internet restrictions is already at the draft stage, but introducing and forcing though a statutory instrument through both Houses takes time. You know that."

Pelham turned toward Chamberlain, eyes blazing. "We have the largest majority in any post-war government, and an opposition that supports ninety per cent of what we do. We can do anything we want. Find a way to get it done sooner!"

Chamberlain bit his lip. It was this type of bullish, almost irrational behaviour the public never saw.

Pelham continued, a little more calmly. "I want the State Ministry of Information set up within a month. We take control of the Internet and we will take control of the hearts and minds of the people. You of all people know that history has taught us that. Control the information flow and you control the people. I want the internet service providers nationalized or put out of business. Raise their taxes; raid their offices on charges of sedition, inciting terrorism. Do whatever it takes."

The pace with which the Prime Minister was implementing change had surprised even Chamberlain, but Pelham had justified his stance several times in private to him and also to the Cabinet. It was interesting that the ministers had been muted in their criticism of their leader, fearful for their jobs and the role in their constituencies. All were talented people in their own right, yet the force of Pelham's character had almost bludgeoned them into submission. Of course they had questioned his approach on a number of issues, but they'd failed to challenge him on the fundamental matters, the direction the country was taking. It was if there was an unspoken rule in Cabinet meetings that this type of dissent would not be tolerated. They had all read the Five Year Plan, and they'd remained in the Cabinet, but the Deputy could not help feeling a trace of contempt for these individuals. They were regarded as powerful figures within Government, but in reality they were merely puppets in the regime, capable of being emasculated at the stroke of his or the P.M.'s pen. He had to admit it was a feeling he enjoyed, and he had already begun mentally assessing the various characters in preparation for the day when he achieved what he regarded as his rightful place at the head of a nascent British empire.

Pelham continued to pace the room restlessly. "Do you have the current unemployment figures?"

Chamberlain accessed the figures on his tablet. "Estimates are running at twenty three per cent and rising."

Pelham glared at his Deputy. "What? That's nearly a percentage point higher than when we took over!" His accusatory tone carried the suggestion that Chamberlain was personally responsible.

The Deputy's acerbic response did little to disguise his irritation. "Lance, we expect a small temporary spike in the rate of unemployment on transition to a new Government. It's not unusual and is not symptomatic of any underlying structural issue. We are working on changing the regulations to further reduce the eligibility for welfare benefits so that a large section of the population is discounted for statistical purposes. And the public works projects are making good progress."

The Prime Minister sighed, staring out of the window across the deserted inner courtyard. Mottled clouds were rolling in and the rain began to gently spatter against the window. "So the real figure is much higher."

"It always has been Lance. We wouldn't be the first to manipulate the figures. But at least we are addressing the problem. Immigration applications are at their lowest level in a decade. The only applications getting through our vetting process are top level economic emigrants or the emergency asylum applications, and we are only doing the latter to meet our international treaty obligations. I have instructed Dr Grainger to ensure that these applications are processed as slowly as legally possible," he said, referring to the newly incumbent Home Secretary. "Why do we honestly care if these people will be persecuted in their own countries, even if it is true?"

Pelham turned from the window and gave a faint smile. "I agree but we have to move carefully. The damned civil liberties groups are getting vocal. They're already up in arms about the death penalty rumours and the minority registration proposals." His expression suddenly turned dark. "What is it about these people? They stand in the way of real progress. They complain about how bad conditions are and as soon as they have a Party with the courage and conviction to make real changes they scream about their bloody human rights. These leftist liberals don't have the balls to turn this country around. It's down to people like us Giles. It's our duty to this country. We can't let these cowardly liberals impede real progress."

Chamberlain nodded but said nothing, glancing surreptitiously at his boss as he topped up his sherry glass. Even in the short time they had ruled the nation he had seen the Prime Minister become more obsessive and entrenched in his views. It made him unpredictable, and that in turn made Chamberlain uncomfortable. Pelham was a visionary, there was no doubt of that, but he had been placed on a pedestal by the social media as the answer to the country's vast range of problems when he was in opposition. Now that he had assumed power and the first rumblings of discontent were filtering across the networks from the fickle press, he had begun to subtly alienate himself from the staffers.

The P.M. was a disciple of the Machiavellian school of thought, as was he, and that is partly what made them so distrustful and yet accepting of a grudging mutual respect for each other. The Five Year Plan was a joint effort that would one day be hailed as a masterpiece of progressive thinking and courage, he was sure of that. But the remedies were harsh and there would be casualties of course, but there was no longer any room for a weak, democratic approach. They were also both social Darwinists, convinced that the natural order of the animal kingdom, the survival of the fittest, would prevail in the new regime. The country had for far too long pandered to the weak, the lazy and the indolent, and he just had to look around to see the results of that approach. Privileges had become entitlements and the country had been strangled by political correctness and positive discrimination. Despite their mutual antipathy, they worked well as a team, and he was convinced that they were the only ones who could return Britain back to its former glory.

Pelham's tablet beeped and a view of his pretty blonde personal assistant appeared in the corner of the screen, a signal for his next appointment. "Oh, hell," he sighed, "Prime Minister's question time. Are we done?"

"One more thing. We've identified the leak at its source and at its conclusion. We can contain it."

"Then do what you must. Spare me the details but organize the remedy so that the problem does not resurface." Pelham sat down for a minute, massaging his temples in a tired fashion, before he picked up his tablet and without another word swept out of the room.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL JUNE 13TH

There have been chaotic scenes in major cities across the country as groups of disaffected and disenchanted people have protested against conditions in the U.K., which are worse than at any time since World War II. Large groups of protesters have camped outside city halls and other public buildings in scenes reminiscent of the global 'Occupy' movement of the last decade. In London large groups of protesters were encamped outside Whitehall and in Parliament Square. It's not just the immigrants and ethnic minorities, which sections have been shamelessly targeted by the Conservatives, who are voicing their disapproval at the policies of the new ruling Party. The ordinary citizen is becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the new Government's extreme measures, such as the Minorities Registration Act and the reaction to the boat people, with MORI polls showing the Party's approval rating far below its pre-election high. Although it has been in power for just over a month, the new Pelham administration has already polarized views on Britain's streets.

The coming into force of the Minorities Registration Act has been especially controversial, particularly as, being passed as emergency legislation, the government circumvented the usual timing for readings. The Bill was fast tracked through both Houses. The report stage and third reading in the House of Commons was held on the same day, followed by a similarly swift passage through the House of Lords. The Government has been unable or unwilling to provide any reasons why it has been passed as emergency legislation, although extracts from Hansard, the official publicized record of parliamentary proceedings, have suggested that the aim is to counter subversive and insurgent factions, whilst falling short of using the word terrorist. Certainly the Act and its accompanying regulations is designed to address what it regards as a growing problem, but its detractors have argued that it is merely to discourage dissent and to reinforce the Tories' own power base. More disconcerting still is the compulsory registration of people whose lineage is less than two-thirds British, irrespective of whether the person was born here or not. There is a complicated formula in the Act which in cases of doubt would clearly require the advice of an immigration lawyer. Even so, the penalties for failure to register are severe, with hefty fines and the possibility of a prison sentence of up to six months or two years if indicted in the Crown Court.

Human rights groups and advocates have been quick to attack this legislation, calling it an abominable affront to the dignity of civilized people of all races. The forum for Yom HaShoah, the organizers of the Annual Jewish Remembrance Day for Victims of the Holocaust, have likened it to the persecution of the Jews forced to wear the Star of David in Nazi Germany. The Muslim Council of Britain was equally vociferous in condemning the legislation, arguing that its decades of valuable work in seeking a more enlightened appreciation of Islam and the different branches of Muslims in the wider society has been emasculated.

In addition to complex registration requirements, the Act also contains provisions restricting ownership of weapons by registered minorities, and also limiting rights of assembly for all minorities. The draconian penalties for failure to register have compelled many people to sign up, and large urban centres with sizable immigrant populations in places like Birmingham, Leeds and Manchester have opened sports halls, schools, municipal offices and other public buildings to deal with the registration process. The registration program has been likened to Election Day a little over a month before.

The polarity of views has never been more prevalent in the towns and cities, with the tense stand-off between different racial groups often exploding into fierce running battles, despite the Act's attempts at curbing dissent. Although the Government has condemned these battles in the strongest possible terms and appealed for calm, the authorities have done little to quell the violence. In fact, the police have rarely become involved, citing health and safety concerns amongst its employees. This has caused the fighting to escalate, resulting in a number of deaths and substantial property damage. One of the most serious incidents occurred in Bradford when a mosque was set ablaze during evening prayers by the radical anti-immigrant group FREE, who set upon the congregation with knives, axes and other weapons as the victims, some of them women and small children, fled the burning building. There are rumours that Pelham is in talks with the army in an attempt to quell the disturbances spreading like a virus across the nation. He has appealed for calm and for a sense of decency to prevail. 'We are British after all,' he declared. Clearly, however some are more British than others.

In his short tenure so far, Pelham has failed to offer any coherent strategies for unifying the country. Indeed, under his rule, the nation is now more divided than ever before, with some pessimistic commentators calling it a prelude to civil war. However, he is due to deliver a significant keynote speech next week in which it is expected he will appeal for calm and for patience to see through the severe austerity measures and economic sacrifices needed to get the country moving again. The speech will take place at Wembley Stadium, an interesting choice of venue, and it's clear that Pelham will be expected to outline his proposals for lifting the country out of its current depression. With unemployment continuing to rise with a momentum that is difficult to restrain, the Conservative administration faces some significant challenges ahead.

The speech is bound to provoke fierce debate, but the new regime has shown itself to be lacking in tolerance in this area. Nowhere is this better typified than the subtle restrictions it has placed on the Internet and social media generally. Already the new Government has passed at least six emergency statutory instruments, all of which directly or indirectly limit either groups of individuals or the public generally from accessing certain categories of websites or blogs, all in the name of counter-terrorism. The fast track legislation has also criminalized the hosting of a number of different websites, forcing those sites into closure as internet service providers are compelled to direct traffic away from them on pain of having their licences revoked. Reuters estimates that over a thousand websites, many of them critical of the new regime, have already been forced out of cyberspace. With the Internet and social media the primary communication tool, it's difficult for these users to cry foul and be heard, because the platform for their protests has been taken from them. Regimes the world over have suppressed freedom of speech under the guise of fighting insurgents, but this is a sinister trend for a country like England, and the world is watching this declining but still influential island nation with concerned eyes.

## CHAPTER 13

Matheson had suspected that he was being watched ever since he had passed the disc on to the reporter. He had been vigilant but two things had surprised him. Firstly that he had not been taken in for questioning and secondly that he had received no more communication from Harry Clarke in the intervening few weeks. It was as if the action he had taken, the consequences of which he had carefully evaluated, had brought no result. Maybe Clarke had destroyed the disc and never even looked at it in the first place. Why should he trust me, a politician after all, he thought.

Then out of the blue that evening he had received a call from Clarke on his private cellphone, a number he had given to only those he trusted, very few people indeed and in Harry's case, a trust born out of necessity. The reporter had wisely said very little. It was hard to know if his phone was compromised. He was almost certain the landline was. He had suggested a meeting place and then texted him five minutes later to change it. A sensible precaution, but one that might end up as a futile gesture if they were following him. He had to take the risk.

He watched the grandfather clock strike eleven, its deafening chime reverberating through the hollow acoustics of the huge, empty St. John's Wood mansion. The clock was an old family heirloom passed down from privileged generation to privileged generation, its strident peals no doubt accompanied by the laughter and joy of the children of his ancestors, all of who had raised large families and had enjoyed wealth and standing in this affluent community. Now, the old clock merely disturbed and irritated him, a reminder that he had no children to compete with the noise of the clock, no wife or family of his own. It was a matter of deep regret to him, but his sexuality had not permitted it. He knew of several parliamentary colleagues who had married for the sake of appearance, condemning themselves to soulless, loveless marriages for the sake of their public profile. It was somewhat ironic that even though same sex marriages had been legal in Britain for many years, there was still a stigma attached to gay politicians.

Matheson was never hypocritical or vain enough to get married, he was far too promiscuous for that, but he had tried to keep his string of lovers out of the public eye and for the most part had been fairly successful at staying out of the tabloids. The rumours had circulated around the social media but had never been substantiated. However, when Clarke had exposed him it came almost as a relief that he was no longer living a lie, and the scandal now scarcely seemed to matter. The fact that he was no longer in the Cabinet was for a different and more sinister reason, but relieved from the pressures of office, he had far too much time for introspection. What he wouldn't give for a gaggle of children to be running and shouting through this vast, echoing, joyless house.

The house would have to go, he decided. Although it had been in the family for generations, he could no longer afford the upkeep, reduced as he was to the income from the family trust fund. He peeked through his curtains and saw the dark Ford saloon parked opposite, two occupants with their heads held low but still just visible in the gloom, even though they were outside the immediate vicinity of the street lamp. He had seen the vehicle around a few times in the last month, and it clearly did not belong to any of his neighbours, most of whom preferred a Porsche or BMW. He laughed to himself at the absurdity of it. They were hardly discreet. Maybe the surveillance was a warning, designed to intimidate him.

In any event, he had decided on his course of action. He could not take the car; it would lead them straight to Clarke. Not that Matheson really cared about the reporter, but he was curious to hear his views on the document, which is why, he assumed, Clarke had called the meeting. As dangerous as it might be so close to midnight, he would have to slip out the back entrance and walk. Fortunately Harry had proposed the south east edge of the Church Gardens, just off the Prince Albert Road, a very convenient location, close by, well lit, and in this still relatively prosperous area, less likely to be dangerous.

The grandfather clock chimed again, its intrusive echo startling him out of his deep thoughts. It was a quarter past eleven and he wanted to give himself plenty of time. He was already dressed head to toe in black and he slipped out through his French windows onto the patio and into the darkness of his garden, protected on all sides by high walls and large cedars. He was able to choose one of the cedars to climb up, straining and breathing hard as he did so, reaching the top of the wall. It was good for getting out of the garden but impossible to get into the garden that way, as an intruder would merely be faced by a high, flat wall. It was the only place he could exit the garden, and his body heaved and ached with the unaccustomed effort. He was too old for this, he thought breathlessly. He eased himself gently down the other side onto the sidewalk, the streets around his high-walled garden mercifully empty. They would not have expected him to escape out of his garden and so had not bothered to monitor this side of the house.

He was on a dark side road where there was little traffic even during the day. Only a few dim street lamps placed at long intervals lit the road. The local council, carrying a huge budget deficit, could no longer afford to light all the lamps and had ordained that in less busy areas, only one in three lamps would now be lit. An invitation, as if one was needed, for more nefarious after-dark activities, but right now it suited him.

He checked his watch, the dials luminous in the semi-darkness. He had twelve minutes before the meeting, more than enough time. He moved cautiously, checking his immediate area thoroughly to ensure that he was not being trailed. He took a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. The whole area was completely deserted. In any event, he may not be as fast as his glory days as a Cambridge University sprint champion but he was still a decent runner if danger presented itself. Buoyed by his own confidence, he arrived at the cut through path adjacent to the northern edge of Regent's Park that led to Newcourt Street, close to their rendezvous point.

The path faded into a black abyss as the weak yellow light from the sodium lamps succeeded only in creating a patchwork of dim shadows. He hesitated briefly before venturing down the path and before long he was enveloped in a suffocating blackness. The bushes on either side closed in and prevented even the diffuse light from the early summer night sky from guiding him. He had to look almost directly overhead for any relief from the claustrophobic blackness, where a few stars that could penetrate the haze of pollution twinkled like beacons. Hearing a rustle in the bushes, he felt his heart racing and his mouth become dry. It was easy to turn your thoughts inward in this inky blackness, imagining all kinds of evil under the shroud of darkness. He chastised himself for being irrational. Being scared of the dark was for little children, but he quickened his pace anyway. He walked fast, wishing he had brought a torch, but a faint break in the black shroud indicated that the path ended a few hundred yards ahead. Nothing to worry about, he assured himself.

A rustling sound close by set his pulse racing again, and as he peered closely in the direction of the sound he sensed rather than saw a shape scurry into the bushes. It was too fast for the hedgehog that was often found in this urban woodland. Probably a squirrel, or more likely a rat, he decided. Best to get out of here quickly. He was just about to launch into a loping run when he was suddenly struck by a hefty blow to the back of the head that catapulted him forward, leaving him sprawled on the floor, too shocked to move. He tried to get up but another blow, this time a kick to his abdomen, left him gasping and breathless.

Feeling the bile rise in his throat, he tried to scramble out of reach of the shadowy assailant, but the attacker anticipated his move and stamped on his hand. Matheson yelled in pain, feeling the heavy tread of the boot grinding the bones in his fingers into the soft earth.

"Christ I've got money if you want it! Just take it," he pleaded.

His attacker at first said nothing, and then the deep, husky voice said with a low, menacing growl, "If I wanted your money I would already have taken it."

Matheson was incapacitated, struggling for breath, his hand still trapped.

"Then tell me what you need. I can get it for you. I'm an influential man. Please!" The former minister's voice carried an urgency and fear that was lost on the assailant. With his eyes now accustomed to the pitch dark, he could make out the shape, even darker than its surroundings, and the man was tall but slim, and curiously appeared to be wearing a hat, framed by a long trench-coat. The man paused, considering the offer, and then with uncanny strength he hoisted Matheson to his feet until they stood face to face barely inches from each other. Matheson saw for the first time that the man was wearing sunglasses, a faint glint of light bouncing off the metal frames as he moved his head. Matheson could smell the man's hot, spicy breath and he felt an overwhelming urge to get away, but the attacker grabbed his throat, his strong gloved fingers biting into his neck.

"What the hell do you want?" croaked Matheson.

The baritone voice carried a sinister edge. "Did you think we were that complacent? We know you are meeting Harry Clarke."

Wheezing heavily, Matheson tried to prise the sinewy fingers away from his throat but he could not. They relaxed slightly, however and Matheson was able to take a gasping breath, his lungs feeling about to burst. He said nothing, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his brow.

"Tell me why you're meeting him!"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

The deep voice remained level but carried real menace. "You make a lousy liar Mr Matheson, despite being a politician. I am guessing it has to do with a certain document that you were specifically prohibited from copying." His attacker produced a long, tapered hunting knife from under his trench-coat and in one fluid movement pressed the flat side of the blade against his victim's face.

An icy chill ran through Matheson's body, and not just from the smooth steel, cold against his skin. The stranger's low drawl carried an ominous threat. "If you want to live you will tell me everything."

Matheson hesitated, unsure how to respond and partly paralysed by fear. He seemed to know a great deal anyway. He was not so sure he had any more information that would persuade his attacker to let him go. "Who sent you?" he responded finally.

"I'm asking the questions here." The cool steel pressed further into Matheson's cheek. He felt its sharp point pricking his skin, and a trickle of blood run down his chin like a teardrop. "I'm waiting and I am getting impatient. Does he have the disc already? Why are you meeting Clarke?"

Matheson could see the glint of the blade's point close to his eye, a sliver of light against the

all-consuming blackness.

"All right, all right," he relented. "I did copy the document but I have hidden the disc. I was meeting Harry Clarke to tell him about it."

"Liar!"

"If you know so much then why the hell are you asking me?"

His attacker was silent, and the blade pulled back, as if he were contemplating his next course of action. The hard fingers on his throat also released and suddenly the synapses in Matheson's brain moved in a frenzy. As if his mind and body belonged to someone else, in a flash he pushed his assailant backwards, the man staggering back, surprised. Matheson ran blindly away, sprinting as fast as he could yet unable to see further than a few yards in front of him. The bushes skirting the edge of the path lashed at his body as he ran hard. He saw the faint light of a street lamp at the end of the path and made for it as fast as he could. He could hear the soft footsteps and the laboured breathing of the stranger chasing after him, but he sensed his tormentor was falling behind, unable to match the intensity and speed of a man literally running for his life. Matheson had an irrational burst of elation as he realized that he might just escape, when his foot struck a rock and he was sent sprawling onto the soft earth.

He rolled forward, clawing at the gravelly soil as he desperately tried to get up, but a solid weight pressed down on him. He instantly felt a slash between his ribs but felt no pain, just a sensation of the air being forced out of his body. With deep foreboding he knew exactly what that meant. The knife had only plunged into him once but it was enough to puncture a lung. As Matheson fought for breath, and felt the sticky wetness seeping from between his ribs, he had a bizarre thought that he hated to let Harry down, before the darkness closed in totally.

## CHAPTER 14

As soon as he had given his affirmative answer to Harry, Maxwell knew deep in his consciousness that they would visit. The Government's scandalous five year vision would be laid bare for the world to see, and his publication was due to hit the media the following day. He had worked frantically on the article, refusing to entrust it to his editorial staff. It was too important, too controversial, but it was also to protect them. He felt duty bound to take responsibility for this disclosure. If the British Guardian was going to go down, he was determined that it would go down in flames. Better that it go now rather than with a whimper as the Tories chipped away at freedom of expression through a war of attrition until journalists like him were permanently silenced.

It was curious that when they arrived, it was with the minimum of fuss. Four plain-clothed police officers knocked politely on the door of his offices and were ushered to his cramped office by his assistant Doris. There was no kicking down of doors or histrionics that he had heard take place at other locations where government agents were closing businesses under the provisions of the new Minorities Registration Act. Maybe it was because he was not an immigrant, although in the narrow sights of the right wing ruling Party, he was still considered as an enemy.

They shuffled in to his room and three of them stood while the head of their group, a sour-faced man with a bent nose and pinched features, slouched in the spartan aluminium chair and regarded Maxwell with deep-set suspicious eyes. He made no attempt to shake the editor's hand but coolly regarded him as if he were stalking his prey. He reached into his jacket and as he did so Maxwell spotted the unmistakeable shape of a concealed handgun. He flashed his card unceremoniously.

"Detective Superintendent Moody from the Special Branch Counter-terrorism Unit. These are my colleagues. I won't bore you with their names. You don't need to know them." He gave a disinterested wave of his hand in the general direction of the trio. The bulky officers formed an impenetrable barrier that Maxwell found suffocating. The small office was far too crowded, and the scent of cheap cologne and stale sweat was overpowering. He instinctively lit up a cigar without asking but he had taken one drag when Moody in one swift movement swatted the cigar away from Maxwell's lips. The editor, startled, merely glared balefully at the detective.

"Bad habit Mr Maxwell. Illegal as well in confined spaces. How's business?"

Maxwell's voice was heavy with derision. "I am sure you didn't come with your three esteemed colleagues to ask me how my business was going."

Moody's bloodless lips twitched into a twisted smile. The wispy hair on his balding head was cropped short and crowned at the front by an island of delicate strands that looked as if they would be blown away with a few puffs. However, the pointed features and broken nose lent him an undercurrent of menace that Maxwell found intimidating. "In a manner of speaking I was. It must have been tough running a paper like this when public opinion was clearly moving in the other direction."

Maxwell ignored the subtle taunt, reaching for some gum in his drawer, closely watched by the three standing officers, staring impassively with eyes like hot coals.

Moody continued. "I'm sure it would be very tempting to publish an exclusive, one that could elevate you above the general detritus of the socialist media. Sell a few more copies on the Net; make a name for yourself. Yes, very tempting," he said, answering his own question.

"It's the nature of our business detective."

"Indeed, indeed, but be careful you don't cross the line. Sensationalist tabloid reporting is not so welcome these days."

Maxwell's tone was mordant. "Duly noted. I am busy working on one of those sensational reports you're referring to. So if you could get to the point?"

Moody's expression hardened and his voice carried a steely edge. "Don't play games with me Mr Maxwell. I think you know why we're here. This country is facing a serious threat of terrorism from within and inciting people against the government with seditious articles is viewed seriously by the Special Branch. Our objective is prevention and as you know, we have a number of options available to us to ensure that the security of this country is not compromised. It's in your best interests to cooperate."

"Is that a threat?"

"Think of it as more of a warning. We understand that you recently met with Harry Clarke."

Maxwell was taken aback. How did they know? How much else did they know? Were they testing him to see how much he was prepared to reveal?

Moody continued, "I take it from your silence that our information is correct. Another warning. If upon further enquiry we find you have been withholding information, I will regard that as a serious issue. I need hardly remind you that it is an indictable offence when it comes to matters of national security. So I am giving you this opportunity to make a statement. It's an offer that will not be repeated." He leaned forward, his narrow eyes boring into Maxwell. He continued in an ominous tone. "So is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Maxwell could sense real danger. Moody's three colleagues stood over him, watching carefully, like hyenas at the edge of the pack waiting for the kill. His thoughts were conflicted and finally he said weakly, "I am going to give the staff the rest of the day off. This has nothing to do with them." He stood up to talk to them, anxious to escape the claustrophobia of his cramped office, but one of Moody's colleagues barred the way, standing impassively like a wall of flesh, his square set jaw devoid of all expression. He did not even look at Maxwell.

"We'll decide who leaves and who doesn't. We may want to question them. Now sit down!" It was not a request, more an order and the editor had no choice but to comply.

Moody slouched further in the metal chair and gazed at Maxwell contemplatively, his fingers steepled. "Exactly what has nothing to do with the staff?"

"Should I be calling my lawyer?"

"That depends on you. Most of them are corrupt and on the make in this city anyway. Never liked lawyers myself, especially not criminal defence barristers. They just get in the way of justice."

"You mean they make it difficult for the police to ride roughshod over the rule of law so you can meet your conviction targets?"

Moody's bushy eyebrows, at odds with his balding pate, knitted together into a frown, but he did not rise to the accusation. "I didn't come here to debate the merits of our judicial system Mr Maxwell. I say again. Is there anything you need to tell me? We can do this here or at the station and if the latter then I hope for your sake that your lawyer is a good one."

Maxwell could no longer avoid the direct question. He tried to sound as confident as possible, but inside he was nervous. He had been hearing stories about 'incidents' happening in police cells that would have been unthinkable in this country ten years before. "No," he said simply.

Moody sighed with disappointment. "Have it your own way. But you've given me no choice." His voice stiffened, became more formal. "Bernard Maxwell, I am arresting you on suspicion of soliciting and distributing seditious material likely to cause harm to His Majesty's subjects and to the peace and security of the United Kingdom contrary to Section Twelve of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, as amended. I must warn you that anything you do say will be used in evidence against you."

As soon as the words were uttered, two of the police officers moved forward and quickly and efficiently hauled him to his feet, spun him round and clicked on a pair of steel handcuffs. Maxwell knew it was useless to resist but he hoped his voice carried indignation and not the real fear he felt. "You're making a grave mistake. There is still some free speech left in this country."

As Maxwell was roughly guided out by two of the officers, each grabbing his elbows either side of him, Moody called out, "Free speech is subjective Mr Maxwell, and I think you've crossed the line."

Aware of the commotion, the staff in the outer office stopped work and stared impassively as their boss was escorted through the main office into a police van that suddenly pulled up outside. As he was pushed unceremoniously forward, he called out to his staff. "Keep the edition rolling team. You know what you have to do. We won't let these fascists stop us." He was silenced by a swift, sharp jab in his solar plexus by the officer to his right and he grunted in pain. "Shut up," the officer growled at Maxwell, hauling him upright as the editor staggered.

Doris Black watched her boss being taken away, and a pang of guilt stabbed at her abdomen. She kept convincing herself that she had done what she needed to, but the sight of Bernard being taken away brought a lump to her throat. She'd be out of a job now but she would have been anyway and they said they'd make sure she was alright.

Out of the van poured six uniformed police officers who entered the building and fanned out, at first standing stony faced around the perimeter of the office. Doris thought it curious that they had helmets and large truncheons to go with the obligatory guns worn around their wide belts. She remembered when the debate about whether to arm police officers had first arisen. It was now so common and ingrained in the public that it was hardly recalled that there had been any debate at all. Carrying truncheons however was less common. They were usually only used for riots now.

The two remaining detectives stepped out of Maxwell's office and surveyed the employees, who were now standing at their workstations, hesitant and unsure of what to do next. Detective Moody glowered at them, his face a mask of contempt. They were all traitors in his eyes, working for this left wing subversive paper. The Labour Government was finished. These dogs had had their day. "I want you all to assemble in the corner and await further instructions. We will want to question each of you separately."

The six staff members glanced at each other nervously, but no one protested, and they silently assembled in one corner, following the direction of the detective's gloved hand. With a subtle signal from Moody's colleague, the same beefy officer who had barred Maxwell's way, the uniformed officers raised their truncheons. To gasps of horror from the group of employees, the policemen stormed through the office hacking away with their truncheons like crazed animals, smashing computer screens, tearing out phone lines, ripping up desks and sending their contents crashing to the floor. Their orgy of destruction continued until the office looked as if it had been hit by a tornado, heaps of broken furniture, battered chairs and destroyed computer monitors strewn across the floor in heaps of junk. The detectives looked on impassively, and when the violent episode was over, they turned their attention to the three digital presses standing in a small air conditioned room close to Maxwell's office.

They were not large machines, only about waist high, but they were solid and square and so were more resistant to senseless beating from a truncheon. They had to be a little more resourceful, for the digital presses were the lifeblood of the organization, holding the digital editions of the current edition of the paper. They also fulfilled the function of data storage, holding all the past copies of the paper since they had gone fully digital over five years before. Maxwell had often talked about getting a backup, but money had been tight and it was not a priority. The officers were a little more subtle about these machines, but in less than five minutes, the machines had been rendered useless by having their innards ripped out, the black shell largely intact. With the dismantling of the digital presses went the intellectual property of the business. Doris stood there with her colleagues, and she gave a distressed, guilt ridden cry. One of the employees, Ben, a staff reporter in his twenties, placed a comforting arm around her. "This is no one's fault," he murmured. If only she could believe that. She was just glad that they'd taken Bernard away before he had to see this.

With the business effectively shut down, the officers had served their purpose, but instead of leaving they moved in threateningly close to the employees, who stood rigid, afraid of what would happen next. Detective Moody addressed them. "We will now question each of you individually and I warn you to be careful with your answers. As long as you are honest you can avoid the same fate as Mr Maxwell. Who's first?" There were no takers so Moody pointed to a frightened looking youth no more than eighteen, who had joined the paper only a few months before. Doris noticed that the burly officer who practically dragged him to Maxwell's office had a nasty glint in his eye. As he was brought in to be interrogated by the two detectives, the door shut with a resounding clang. The British Guardian was officially out of business.

## CHAPTER 15

George Prescott had been a farmer since the day he could walk, and his family had farmed the same land for generations before that. One of his first and most vivid memories was as a four-year old helping his father milk the cows in the cow shed at some dark hour way before sunrise. The overpowering rich and creamy stench, mingled with the sharp smell of close-up animal flesh created a memorable aroma that had stayed with him for years. That smell was now an integral part of his life and had been for the last six decades. Although he was turning seventy the following year, he had no intention of giving up his share of work on the farm, even though he had several capable farmhands. He worked as assiduously and as long as he had ever done, and he had no intention of slowing down. His farm was a beautiful expanse of several acres south of the picturesque village of Nunton, about five miles south of Salisbury. Another few miles south on the A338 would take the driver to the north-west edge of the New Forest, still one of Britain's most natural habitats, even after the bush fires that had plagued the area in recent years. Despite the slow but insidious encroachment of the outer suburbs of the biggest town in the area, mainly in the last five years to house the influx of immigrant workers, his farm had been largely unaffected. At least not in that respect. The last few years had been a struggle to keep the farm working, and although food prices were at an all-time high, his profit margin had been cut to the bone by greedy wholesale suppliers who purchased cheap from him and sold at high markups. They had leverage and they used it ruthlessly.

Somehow the family had survived the recession, and it now looked like they were just starting to emerge out of those long, dark years where they could look beyond mere survival and actually have a reasonable standard of living, as they had in the early years. However, George had received a notice a couple of weeks before that chilled him to the bone. It was a Compulsory Purchase Order addressed directly from the Secretary of State, served on him by a grim-faced bailiff.

The Order stated that the land would be acquired under the Planning and Compulsory Purchase Act 2004, but it gave no reason for the intended acquisition. However, it stated that the Order was non-negotiable and was needed as a matter of urgency. The Order suggested that he take legal advice but then went on to suggest that it would do absolutely no good, the land and its chattels, including the farmhouse where he had spent all his life were as good as sold. They had offered him a derisory sum apparently at 'fair market value.' Fair to whom? He had sent a property developer packing only the year before who had offered a sum four times the current offer.

The Order had arrived in the mail two weeks ago. He had not responded, not really knowing how to. The family solicitor had retired a long time ago and he personally had never really had any need of one. He had not told his wife, secretly hoping that the offer would not materialize, that they would not need his land. However, as he peered out of the farmhouse kitchen into the verdant rolling hills framed by a huge copse of trees on the horizon, he realized that assumption was a little naive.

Although it was a fresh morning in early summer, thick slate-coloured clouds heavy with rain had come rolling in and settled over the sweeping panorama of his land. As he watched, the line dividing land and sky grew darker and the darker patch quickly emerged into a series of shapes. He gasped in horror as he saw a convoy of vehicles moving steadily across his land, merging into a steady line of green and brown military style jeeps that trundled across the road that skirted the edge of his land and led directly to his property. One of the jeeps broke away and raced ahead and within less than a minute it had reached the large driveway at the front of the farmhouse.

He stood paralysed at his kitchen sink watching the army jeep pull up, its tyres scraping on the gravel, and five burly soldier types jumped out. None of them appeared to be armed but they moved with a fluid confidence that suggested they did not expect much resistance. There was a resounding thump on his heavy oak front door, which stirred him into action. His wife appeared, still shaking off her lethargy from having just crawled out of bed, dazed and confused by the sudden noise. Sheila was often a late riser these days, a legacy of her constant battle with arthritis. Some days she could hardly move, but she had struggled down the stairs this morning, curious at the commotion.

As he turned to her, he was overcome by a range of conflicting emotions. He had tried to keep the purchase order from her to shield and protect her, hoping the problem would quietly go away. Looking at her weathered but still attractive face, he was stirred into action. He remembered the old hunting rifle in the glass cabinet in the dining room.

"Sheila, go upstairs!" he urged her. "Quickly!" Frightened and confused, she obeyed him and staggered up the stairs again as fast as her aching joints would allow. He reached the glass cabinet and fiddled for the key. The thumping on the door became more insistent and urgent. The key was not where he remembered it. There was no time. He took a heavy old figurine gathering dust on the cabinet as it had done for years and threw it against the glass, which shattered with a high-pitched resonance, broken glass tinkling to the floor. Careful to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he lifted out the long rifle with its beautifully carved wooden handle and metal double barrel. It was an ancient instrument, and he had not used it in years, but it was all he had. He did not even know if it was loaded or if he'd be prepared to fire it. It was, he realized, a futile, empty gesture.

The door was being banged so hard in a rat-a-tat motion it sounded like it was going to collapse inwards. Taking a deep breath, his body quivering, he unlatched the door and opened it. In front of him stood five soldiers in combat fatigues. At their head stood a hard-faced man of about forty, with a strong, lean face framed by sharply cut grey hair. His crystalline eyes bore into the farmer. They were dead looking eyes, devoid of emotion, but calculating and appraising. The eyes turned to the shotgun that Prescott pointed at them with shaking hands. The farmer stepped back, waving the gun in the doorway. The lead soldier merely flicked a piece of imaginary fluff from his uniform and the edges of his thin lips curled up almost imperceptibly.

"Get off my land," cried Prescott. He tried to sound strong and commanding, but his voice came out as high-pitched and reedy. By contrast, when the soldier spoke, his bass tones exuded authority. "Mr George Prescott, I presume. This is not your land, not anymore. I have in my hand an Order for the compulsory purchase of your land from the Secretary of State. I believe you were served with the Order several weeks ago and you have had more than enough time to respond."

"Get away before I call the police. You're trespassing!" The gun felt slippery in his sweating palms. The other soldiers merely watched impassively, waiting for the signal from their leader.

The soldier, whose breast label identified him as Master Corporal Saunders, immediately lost the trace of a smile. His expression turned serious, and he stepped forward across the threshold of the door. Prescott took an involuntary step back.

"You should be careful who you're pointing that thing at," he said, gesturing to the gun. "I suggest you put it away now before I get angry." The cool authority in Saunders' voice forced Prescott to comply, and he lowered the gun, still afraid to dispense with it totally. With a slight nod from their Corporal, the soldiers swarmed into the house, their muddy boots trampling over the wood floor of the hallway and into the carpeted areas in the rooms. Saunders pressed the Order into the farmer's hand. "This house and its land now belong to the Secretary of State. You're the one who is trespassing."

Panic stricken, Prescott screamed desperately at the marauding soldiers. "Get out of my house!"

The soldier laid a hand on his shoulder, but the old man swatted it away. "Get off me!"

Saunders did not have time for this. With lightning fast precision, he grabbed Prescott's wrist and twisted the farmer's arm behind his back, restraining him completely and guiding him to a chair. Prescott grunted in pain and surprise. When Saunders was sure the old man had calmed down, he let go, and Prescott rubbed furiously at his sore wrist, his eyes blazing but acknowledging that the Corporal was physically far superior.

"I'm sorry," Saunders said almost placatingly. "I'm just doing my job," he continued, as if that would make it alright. Prescott knew he was defeated when he heard his wife scream in shock and horror as the invaders made their way into the couple's bedroom.

The group of soldiers combed through the house and one of them collected a battered old wooden crate from the back of the jeep. The soldiers began to unceremoniously sweep everything on the shelves and cabinets into the crate, old family photographs, valuable antiques and heirlooms collected over generations. Eventually the crate was full and the soldiers lost interest. Two of them heaved the crate outside onto a small flatbed truck that had pulled up on the gravel driveway next to the jeep. By now the rain was falling in a steady, depressing drizzle. As Master Corporal Saunders watched impassively, the other two soldiers hauled Prescott to his feet and frog-marched him out to the same truck. "For God's sake, go easy on him!" he cried. Jesus, this job was rough sometimes, he thought, but it was a necessary evil; something that had to be done for the greater good. There would always be sacrifices, but that did not assuage the sense of guilt he felt at displacing a fellow Englishman.

Despite Saunders' pleas, the soldiers opened the tailgate and roughly pushed the farmer up so that he rolled on the hard metal. He sat miserably against the wooden crate. His wife was next, and they were scarcely less gentle, despite her disabilities. He looked at her face, a mask of abject misery, the tears welling up in her eyes as she realized the horrible truth that the house and farm they had built together over forty years had been taken from them, apparently quite legally.

She sat heavily next to him and he put his arm silently around his wife, trying to comfort her and protect her from the rain that was already starting to dampen the skin through their clothes. The tailgate was lifted up and the truck lurched forward, its wheels spinning on the wet gravel, and the truck jolted up the path. He had no clue where they were taking him, but as their beautiful thatched farmhouse receded into the distance, he had a despairing feeling that it was the last time he would ever see his home again.

As they moved further up the road toward the large copse of trees marking the perimeter of his land, Prescott watched the flurry of activity that continued despite the weather. Groups of soldiers were putting up barbed wire fencing all around the edge of his land, laying coils of the sharp wire in thick rolls that stretched endlessly. He surveyed this scene with a mixture of confusion and outrage that his beautifully tilled land was being violated in this manner, and as he looked further he saw them. A whole convoy of open trucks herded into view, bouncing along the rutted fields so that the occupants of the crowded truck were shaken around, clinging for balance onto the metal fencing of the large cage within which they were held. They stood like cattle inside the cage, which took up the entire rear of the truck. Prescott estimated that there were at least sixty people crammed inside the cage.

He had never in his life seen a more miserable, demoralized bunch of people, all soaked from the teeming rain, the cage having no roof and so completely open to the elements. Apart from the few men, there were mainly women, small children and babies in the truck, and they all looked absolutely abject. His rage turned to pity for these poor miserable people. He knew who they were from their brown, black, yellow but sometimes white faces. Victims of a harsh government policy against immigration, yes, but he had never expected it like this. He treated his farm animals better. An old man of at least eighty stared at him as they drove past, his weary, lined face studying him disinterestedly.

He mentally worked through his list of jobs for the day and with an almost overpowering sense of sadness, he realized that the pigs would not get fed and his horses would not be groomed today.

## CHAPTER 16

Harry sat in the comforting darkness of his small apartment pondering the events of the last twenty-four hours. It was clear that the Tory Party faithful were determined to stop the public release of their five-year plan. He sipped at his Jack Daniel's, relishing the burning in his throat and the warmth it brought to his belly as it slipped down like a river of fire. Any moment they could come for him. They clearly knew now that the disc had come into his possession. It had to make sense. Last night he had arranged a clandestine meeting with Matheson just before midnight in the former minister's own neighborhood, but he had not shown up. Numerous text messages to his cell phone had yielded nothing and neither did instant messaging to his tablet provoke a response. It was rather odd because barely an hour before Matheson had enthusiastically agreed to the meeting. He must have been detained somehow.

Harry had walked gingerly back along the route that he would have expected Matheson to take. There was a cut-through but it was pitch dark and he had not ventured down it, keeping to the streets, as poorly lit as they were, until he had arrived on the outskirts of the mansion and seen the vaguely familiar Ford Saloon and the shadows of its two occupants. It had to be a surveillance vehicle. Harry stayed out of the light, careful not to be seen. At least it explained why he could not come. It would be hard to slip through these guys without being tailed. However, that did not explain his failure to answer his messages, to account for his absence. Although Harry had initiated the meeting, he had not expected that Matheson would let him down.

Then later that day he had received a message from one of Maxwell's employees, explaining that the police had visited the offices of the _British Guardian_ and trashed the place, closing down the paper and arresting Maxwell. The police had clearly switched their allegiance from protecting the people to protecting the interests of the State. It was a fine line in some cases, and many would advocate that if the law had been broken then the perpetrators would have to face the consequences. What concerned him was the nature of the law and its interpretation. Clearly the paper was no longer in a position to publish an article about the five year plan. Whichever law they had relied on, its sole purpose had been to silence any opposition or criticism of the Government. No doubt it would not be long before they traced the document back to its source. Maxwell was a tough old bird, but even he would be forced to reveal his source, if indeed they didn't know already. It was only a matter of time before they came for Harry.

He sipped again at the whiskey and the sudden rush of heat galvanized him into a decision. He had to go and see Tamara and Byron, to try and convince her in person to get out of the country before it was too late. She had not returned his calls or answered his messages. Surely she could not still be angry over the call he had made in the middle of the night just a week before? His irritation at her obstinacy in failing to respond had been replaced by a gnawing fear that things were not right. He wanted to make sure they were fine, and sitting in his dingy apartment only made him a sitting target for the police anyway.

He glanced at the old clock. It was way past midnight but he was wide awake despite the drink. He heard a creak and some thumping as if someone was coming up the concrete stairs. Had they come to arrest him? His body involuntarily tensed, but the sound receded and he heard the door of one of his neighbours slam shut. That was the signal for him to pull on his jacket and grab his keys. It would probably take him four hours to reach Salisbury, although he'd have to be careful. The roads in Britain had been poorly maintained for years despite the presence of cheap overseas labour, something which the previous administration had robustly exploited. There were also few lights on the roads, not even on Britain's crumbling motorways, so he would have to drive cautiously at night. When he reached Salisbury it would still be dark and so he would sleep a few hours in the car before arriving at their house in the morning.

He galloped down the stairs, glancing with distaste at the latest obscene graffiti plastered on the blotchy concrete wall, which was like a canvas for the street 'artists' to paint or write whatever they wanted to. It was hard to find a building now that was not defaced in some form or other. Only a few days before he had reported on the shameful violation of the grave of Karl Marx in the vast Gothic necropolis of Highgate Cemetery. The grave had been vandalized many times, but this time it was plastered not in Nazi swastikas, but in the Celtic cross that had been stolen and distorted by the FREE movement.

He hurried down the stairs and got into the dented old Toyota parked on the street. It was scratched with numerous key lines and the lock was battered from several break-in attempts, but miraculously it had survived. It was mechanically sound, and he could not afford another car, so it would have to do.

It started immediately and before long he had left the quiet but menacing streets of London, past Kingston-upon-Thames and Sunbury and was on the M3 heading southwest. The road was virtually deserted, only the occasional blinding lights from cars travelling in the opposite direction bathing the inside of his car in an eerie glow. The motorway was still lit in patches, but the light was weak and he had to stay focused, particularly as here and there the hard shoulder was littered with the wrecks of vehicles that had died and not been reclaimed. It was a popular sport amongst some gangs to push the carcasses of rusting heaps into the middle of the motorway. In the darkness a driver would not see the wreck until far too late to brake in time. The fear of such a collision certainly slowed down the journey time and ensured that Harry kept his full beam on to maximize the distance he could peer into the blackness.

Nevertheless, it was a journey he had taken many times since the divorce, and his driving fell into a hypnotic routine. As it did so, his thoughts began to wander. He could never think about Tamara and Byron without a deep sense of melancholy, of regret for the failures that had led to the breakdown of their marriage. As he drove he fell into deep introspection. His marriage to Tamara had been strong for a number of years. When they had first met in 2010 he was a promising young political correspondent and she was an intern, having just finished her Masters in Political Science and several years younger than him. They met at one of those suffocating networking parties that took place for the workers on the fringes of the British political corridors of power, which the real political heavyweights deemed insufficiently important to attend. They had been introduced by a mischievous colleague of Harry's who, knowing their different allegiances, had sat back and watched with amusement as they launched into a heated debate about the causes of the dire state of the economy. He had commented to another colleague that 'sparks would fly.'

Well he was certainly correct. Sparks did fly but not in the way his colleague had imagined. Harry had been instantly captivated by her dark sultry looks, the exotic beauty of a Bollywood actress rather than a harried intern. They had launched into a fierce debate for what seemed like hours to the extent that everything around them became unimportant. They continued to debate, shooting down each other's arguments with cold, reasoned logic, focused entirely on each other and hardly noticing as people drifted away. When they finally looked up from their discussion there were only a few barmen and one or two late party-goers left. All the time the discussion had been carried on with complete respect for each other's views and Harry felt himself magnetized, her intelligence and wit matched only by the keen gaze of her deep brown eyes and her refined beauty. As they talked, the slightly accented lilt in her voice was like music to his ears, even when she skilfully shot down his viewpoint.

He had walked her to a taxi and spent the rest of a sleepless night thinking about her, wondering how he could engineer another meeting. They had not exchanged numbers or email but that hardly mattered. He was sure he could find her quickly on LinkedIn, but the question was whether she'd want to see him again. They were on opposite sides of the political spectrum, like a modern day Romeo and Juliet.

However, after several days of being unable to focus on his work, he decided he would take the plunge and send her a message. He did not expect a response, but that did not stop him checking his email every five minutes, but just before he went home for the evening he was crestfallen, wondering if he had made a fool of himself. Then her message had popped up and he nearly jumped out of his chair when she had agreed to meet up. It was the start of a passionate courtship that culminated eighteen months later in a beautiful traditional Indian wedding in Mumbai. He had little family to speak of, having been adopted, and she had a large set of relations, so it made sense to have it there. Her family had welcomed him into their community, having long ago accepted that in pursuing her career in England from such an early age, she would inevitably end up meeting a 'local' boy. They were a modern and cultured family, never forcing Tamara into unhealthy matches with Indian boys, and she was far too assertive to have allowed that anyway. As he reflected on those three chaotic days of non-stop celebration and feasting, he realized it was probably the happiest time of his life.

A few years later Byron was born and it provided Tamara with the opportunity to leave her job. The policy makers presented a public face about the need for equality for women, that their careers should not be affected by starting a family; yet when it came to their own staff, the politicians made it clear that maternity leave was not welcome. Tamara had progressed into a solid job in the Parliamentary Communications Department, but had grown increasingly disillusioned with the hypocrisy of drafting press releases that attempted to put a distorted spin for the Conservatives on the crises that were really happening. When they looked disapprovingly down their snouts at her after she had announced her pregnancy, she knew it was time to go, well before the Tories relinquished power.

While Byron's birth was a joyous event, it also made it financially hard for them, being used to a second income, which even by then had become almost essential for most families. The age of the dutiful wife staying at home while the husband maintained the family solely on his income was long gone. It was no wonder that the birth rate was declining so rapidly in the western world. Although he loved his son more than anything in the world, he had to be honest with himself and admit that Byron's entrance into the world was when the rot started. The financial struggle and the stress of bringing up a child in a difficult environment was exhausting and dispiriting, and slowly and insidiously crushed the passion and excitement of those first few years. The coming into power of the Labour Government which precipitated the country's long, slow slide into recession merely compounded their problems.

Tamara still possessed a degree of political shrewdness and had urged Harry to be cautious about his attacks on the Shadow Home Secretary, Lance Pelham. She could see that he had become powerful and influential, especially as the Labour Government was fast becoming a laughing stock in Europe. When he used that influence to manipulate the media to launch an offensive against Harry's own accusations, the writing was on the wall, and when he was stripped of his parliamentary security clearance, she merely nodded as if to say 'I told you so.' He knew she was right, and he had let his preoccupation with bringing Pelham down get in the way of what really mattered. The family, already under pressure, suffered a slow disintegration. Tamara was forced to take up a low level position in public relations just to make ends meet, and they limped on for a while in a strained, often fraught relationship. Even the intellectual stimulation that had been such a critical foundation of their relationship had diminished greatly, as they no longer had the political arena in common, and such discussions merely reminded them of what they no longer shared.

Maybe it was the lack of intellectual stimulation, which he missed more than he cared to admit, that had driven him into the arms of Julianne, the feisty redhead, a committed revolutionary and socialist who worked tirelessly as a campaign manager for the recently re-formed Independent Socialist Party, which had been revived after a seventy year hiatus. When he had interviewed her for his journal, they had discussed political ideologies at length, which continued over a drink off-line. He sensed the same energy and passion that Tamara had displayed when they first met, and he had to admit that with her long red locks, sparkling, hazel eyes framed by long lashes and her breezy, carefree personality, she was quite irresistible. With her delicate pale skin and freckled face, she was the antithesis of Tamara's sultry looks.

Julianne was the archetypal radical, full of the spark and vigour of youth, and the self-assurance that she would be the one that would change the world, as yet untainted by the cruel blows of reality. She was a sworn social activist and protester, convinced of the efficacy of her own views. Harry had the impression that if she had been old enough she would have chained herself to the fence around Greenham Common with the other ladies of the Peace Camp back in the early nineteen-eighties. She would have screamed at the army boys as they surreptitiously delivered another cruise missile to the base in the dead of night as part of the fight against the Russian spooks during the Cold War. She would definitely have been a student activist if the movement, downtrodden and bludgeoned by huge tuition fees and the need to actually get a degree if one wanted any chance of even the most menial job, had all but perished. However, as she had confessed later, she had been an active participant in the Occupy London movement as a teenager and the more recent protests against the austerity measures the feeble Labour government had introduced in a vain attempt to stave off the Great Recession. She took great pride in regaling Harry with her stories of cold nights spent on the floor of numerous prison cells, sometimes in a drunken stupor, but more often than not because she was just so loud and brash in her protest that the only way to contain her was to lock her up for the night.

The conversation ended in bed and though Harry was consumed by guilt in the days after, she was like a siren calling. Their affair was brief but passionate. Tamara, he knew, was not the forgiving type, not for a betrayal of this magnitude. The marriage was over as soon as he confessed and the rest was about making arrangements for the demise of their relationship. Byron was nine and understood that his mother and father were not getting on well, even though the arguments rarely descended into shouting matches. They consisted of strained civility, but children are perceptive and he could undoubtedly feel the tension in the household, without necessarily knowing why it was happening. The divorce was quick and as painless as it could be in these situations. Certainly the legal procedures for divorce had evolved through necessity, with two out of three marriages now doomed to failure. The divorce was amicable, Tamara had ensured that for Byron's sake, and shortly after she took up her public relations consultancy post in Salisbury. She was glad to escape the suffocating confines of London, riddled as it was with corruption, a perilous place to raise a child. It was like a dagger in his heart when she left. At least while they were close by he could see Byron regularly and that was a reason to see Tamara. He had only attempted reconciliation once but she had gently but firmly rebuffed him and he did not have the courage to try again.

Quite unfairly, he blamed Julianne for the break-up of his marriage, unable to come to terms with his own failings. In the confusion of his own contradictory emotions, he did not realize that Julianne's affection for Harry went far beyond a casual affair. She had kept coming back, especially after the divorce, believing Harry to be a free agent. But he had been cruel to her, taking out his own resentment on her, until he had driven her away to the extent that they could no longer even remain friends.

Entrenched in his own emotional quagmire, he went through a period of shutting himself away from his friends and burying himself in his work, shunning all social contact. For a time he even rejected any communication with Tamara, hoping that this act of playing hard to get would somehow force her back. In retrospect it was immature and irrational and only served to intensify the sense of abandonment and guilt that Byron had felt, as if the break-up had somehow been his fault. The boy's school work had suffered, and he became angry and withdrawn, often getting into trouble at school.

Only when Harry emerged from his dark tunnel of emotional turmoil could he bear to see Tamara, and therefore Byron again, and he had spent time ever since trying to make it up to him, to assuage his guilt at abandoning his son at a time when he needed him most. Tamara and Harry maintained a deep mutual respect, despite everything, and their meetings were always courteous and without argument, especially in front of Byron, but this in itself led Byron to hang onto the misguided hope of his parents' reconciliation. Whenever he saw Byron, it was wonderful to be with him, but the deep father-son bond they'd shared had been severed like an umbilical cord. The betrayal Byron had felt at Harry's lack of presence in the immediate aftermath of the divorce was still visible in the boy's eyes, and the way he acted toward Harry. It would take time, Harry convinced himself, just like it had taken time for him to work through the emotional wreckage he had brought upon himself. Yet now he wanted them to leave England altogether. Byron might regard that as another sign of rejection, but he had to take that risk. The stakes were too high.

## CHAPTER 17

The journey along the A303 through Andover and onto the A338 to Salisbury required more concentration. Although it expanded into a dual carriageway in parts, it was mainly a dark single lane in each direction. It was a relatively fast road despite its poor maintenance and lack of lighting, but Harry had to be alert to avoid the potholes that were only visible by virtue of being a deeper hue than the surrounding road under the steady beam of his Toyota. There was also rubble and wreckage scattered across the road every now and then, sometimes the scaly rubber skin from damaged tyres or litter drifting in the air torrents whipped up by a passing car. Sometimes, however, it was more solid, a discarded exhaust pipe or a twisted hubcap, and colliding with these could result in a tyre being blown out or worse still, a nasty crash. Harry had no desire for his Toyota to join the skeletal wrecks of rusting heaps that lined the side of the road, long since abandoned, a legacy to the apathy of the local councils in failing to clear them away.

When he arrived on the outskirts of Salisbury, he suddenly realized that he was dog tired, hunched as he was over the wheel, gripping it fiercely. He pulled into the car park of a familiar pub, the Carrington Arms, located by one of the many tiny rivers and tributaries radiating out from the city. As he pulled in, both the car park and the building were quiet and empty. In fact it had an abandoned feel to it. He had not been there for at least six months, but he knew it was owned by an Irish couple.

He was too tired to drive any further. He would stay here and hopefully snatch a few hours of sleep before he visited Tamara and Byron. Harry knew it was taking a risk sleeping out in the open like this, but he was too tired to care. It was a good place to stop and he pulled up and took out a blanket from the rear trunk and draped it around himself. He leaned back as far as he could in the back seat and within seconds he was asleep and snoring softly.

Harry was startled awake by an insistent tapping on his car window. He sleepily turned his head in the direction of the sound, irritated at the interruption but not yet fully alert. He flinched and became instantly awake when he saw the scowling face framed by a police issued beret pressed against the glass. He had a sour, narrow face, the look of an overly officious bureaucrat. Harry gingerly opened the window and the policeman's voice was disparaging. "You can't sleep here. Move on before I call for back up!"

He made a placating gesture to the policeman, trying not to look at him, and said "Okay, I'm on my way." He pulled away quickly, leaving the police officer glaring after him. He glanced in his mirror and was relieved to note that the officer had decided not to follow him. After a few miles he pulled over and drank from the bottle of water in his glove compartment, and washed his face. He probably looked a mess, but at least he'd feel a little fresher when he met Tamara and Byron. Even now, he was anxious to impress her.

As he skirted around the town centre, still quite early, the traffic began building up but as usual the greatest hazard was the stray dogs that always seemed to congregate in town centres. Perhaps they were attracted by the pickings of discarded take-outs and the smell of food from restaurants and pubs that had somehow survived this period of austerity when only the more affluent could afford to eat out. A couple of large bull terriers, ribs sticking out obscenely from their undernourished torsos, snarled at him as he drove past. Man's best friend was now more often his worst enemy, and Harry recalled with a wry smile the night he had been chased by Matheson's thugs. He had still heard nothing from the former Minister.

Tamara's house was a small terraced property in a tidy neighbourhood just south of the centre. It had somehow managed to retain that quaint English feel, closeted away as it was from any main roads, and boring enough to escape the unwanted attention of gangs of paint spraying youths. It was a quiet, peaceful road that felt to Harry like a sanctuary from the madness outside during the few times he had visited. He always felt comforted that Byron lived in a relatively safe place, which was now considered a luxury in this country.

As he arrived in the narrow street, the trees were in full bloom but he noticed that some of them had been cut back. He glanced at his watch. It was just before seven o'clock on a hazy morning, the sun now higher but weak through the veil of clouds. He arrived at the house, his heart beating furiously, as it always did when he saw Tamara. He was unsure of how to convince her to leave England. Sitting in their tidy house in this manicured street, without a hint of rats, stray dogs or gangs of youths, it was harder to make a compelling argument. Yet he had seen the perceived vision for the country and the future looked bleak.

He pulled up outside the house, and her small Swatch car was in the narrow driveway. He walked up the drive and put a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to look as if he had not slept in his car. He knocked at the door several times without answer, and impatiently pushed at the door which to his surprise swung slowly open. He cautiously crept in, senses alert, an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Tamara was obsessive about security. She would never leave the door open and unattended. She had always been fiercely protective of Byron and even now, at twelve years of age, he was not allowed to walk outside on his own. He considered calling out but decided against it. He slowly tiptoed through the hallway and into the lounge. He gasped when he saw the mess. Tamara had always been such a tidy person, but now there were papers scattered everywhere, a broken lampshade and a tablet lying on the floor, its screen cracked. Shards of glass from a broken wine glass littered the beige carpet, which was soiled with blood. As he inspected closer he was relieved to see it was only red wine, but all the evidence pointed to signs of a struggle.

He moved on upstairs, still afraid to call out, but the house was empty. The beds in both Tamara's and Byron's room were perfectly made, clearly not having been slept in that night. He scratched his stubbly chin in confusion, afraid to even consider what might have happened. As he descended the stairs and went into the kitchen, he heard frantic footsteps. His heart beating furiously, he turned, hoping to see Tamara, but instead saw her next door neighbour, a caring but intrusive woman in her fifties whom Harry had met once before. Her badly drawn mascara was running down in slow, black rivulets around her face and she dabbed at her weeping eyes with a handkerchief.

"Oh, Mr Clarke," she cried. "They took them away last night!" She ran to him sobbing and cradled her greasy head on his chest. He gently patted her on the back and then pulled her tear streaked face close to hers.

He gripped both arms. "Who took them away Mrs Braithwaite? Who?" he urged her.

"The soldiers!" she sobbed. "I saw them take Tamara and Byron. They put them in a truck and drove off!"

Harry's voice was tinged with panic. "When did this happen?"

She carried on sobbing and Harry had to fight the temptation to shake the woman. "When?" he repeated, his voice rising.

"Last night. I saw them come and I heard a lot of shouting and I peeked out of the window. They didn't want to go but I saw the soldiers hit them!"

Harry's hands gripped her arms tightly and she paused momentarily from her sobbing, surprised at the strength of his grip. "Where did they take them?" he asked her, unable to contain the urgency in his voice.

Mrs Braithwaite struggled to compose herself. "George thinks they were taken to the new army camp not far from here. He heard rumours at work that they had built a camp for foreigners." She hastily corrected herself. "Not that we ever considered Tamara and Byron as .. you know .. foreigners. George heard it was just past Nunton."

Harry had heard of the village. "Thank you." He left the woman, still dazed and sprinted out of the house. "Keep your doors locked," he shouted back as he left the house. He got in the car, quickly checked his tablet for directions and raced away toward Nunton. Jesus, he thought, it was already happening.

## CHAPTER 18

Harry drove frantically, narrowly missing a huge pothole that opened up before him, and bouncing along the poor, rutted country roads as he left the town, racing south toward the small village. By now the sun had retreated and was totally obscured behind thick low lying clouds that had rolled in, darkening the land like some portent of doom. As he drove, the first drops of rain spattered against his windshield, and he had to turn his wipers and lights on.

On the outskirts of the village, just before its 'Welcome' sign, he came across several Armoured Personnel Carriers on the side of the road. Their solid, sand coloured hulks looked distinctly alien against the tranquil backdrop of the village's church spire, but as he progressed further he saw the presence of more army personnel. On the road ahead they were actually setting up what looked like a roadblock. He swiftly took a detour down a bumpy, poorly maintained side-road that seemed to skirt around the village. The grass on the roadside was high and unkempt and it blocked his view of the surrounding countryside. A large rat emerged from the dense tussocky grass and scampered across the road. Harry saw it and accelerated, a soft bump reverberating through the tyres the only evidence of the demise of the wretched creature. Mrs Braithwaite had said that the camp was just past Nunton, which suggested that he would have to come out on the other side of the village to get there.

His initial urgency having subsided, he forced himself to stay calm and evaluate the situation. Clearly he was not far; the presence of the roadblock suggested that. He had to keep driving until he could gain a clearer view. He saw a battered old sign that pointed toward Downton, which he knew was further south near the edge of the New Forest. The narrow, battered country road was deserted but in the distance, the village was receding. He continued up a small hill, the Toyota's gears labouring, until he reached the rise where the view was elevated and opened out onto the expanse of countryside, its early summer colours diluted by the dull sky. It was then he saw it in the distance, a few kilometres away. A large farmhouse and several outbuildings stood isolated at the end of a long pathway, and from his lofty position he could see the army vehicles and trucks with what appeared to be metal cages at the rear. Crowds of people were being herded like sheep into the muddy field, where the rain was now falling in a steady drizzle.

A gentle murmur carried on the breeze reached him across the fields, like a low level buzz of conversation, but this was punctuated every now and then by a high pitched cry that seemed to rise above the general sound. The road continued off into the valley in the opposite direction, and he decided to proceed on foot, mindful of the possibility of more roadblocks as he approached the camp. He began to realize just how tired he was, with only a few hours sleep in the cramped confines of his car, but his sense of urgency outweighed the fatigue. He watched through the tall, spindly grass, careful for rats or other rodents that might be lurking unseen. Of more concern was the odd soldier lurking outside the compound. The closer he got the greater the risk of being spotted. He decided to keep low and sought the cover of a small copse at the edge of the field. The line of trees appeared to run almost parallel with the camp and it provided an ideal natural cover as Harry silently edged closer to the camp.

Before long, Harry was entrenched in the group of trees with a clear view of the camp. It was a chaotic scene. In the teeming rain he saw people being herded and pushed and prodded by the soldiers, apparently with little purpose. Some seemed to be clutching bags, probably their possessions, struggling to keep hold of what little they had. As he watched from his concealed position, a soldier roughly snatched a holdall from a small Oriental woman and tipped the contents onto the muddy ground. The woman let out a plaintive squeal, scrabbling in the dirt for her few meagre valuables while the soldier stood back laughing with his fellow soldiers. It was a pathetic and cruel scene, and Harry cursed himself in his anxiety to reach Tamara and Byron for forgetting to take the camera from the car. The cellphone would have to do.

The perimeter was poorly manned, the soldiers hardly expecting anyone to want to break into the camp, and in the general confusion he was able to reach the exterior barbed wire barrier. It was tricky and awkward getting through, and he scratched himself badly several times. If he was spotted now, he'd be trapped, with no way to escape the sharp wire rapidly. A soldier passed close by but miraculously failed to turn in Harry's direction, his attention drawn by the opportunity to persecute another captive of this obscene camp.

Harry finally squeezed through, heavily scratched and his clothes torn and he surveyed the area. Dotted at various points around the camp were several larger tents where lines of wretched looking people, closely supervised, snaked around in a long queue to get into the cover of the tent. He quickly immersed himself in the crowds of shambling people wandering aimlessly in the rain, many of them visibly distressed, others silent but downtrodden, sitting on the ground. The field was grassy, probably used for grazing purposes, but the steady rain and the tramp of feet had made it slippery and muddy in parts, and it was difficult for Harry in his flat shoes to get a firm grip, especially when he was jostled and pushed by the aimless crowds. He noticed that some people had completely inappropriate footwear, one shivering dark-skinned woman still wearing a black dress and stilettos as if she had been plucked from a formal evening dinner and dumped in this field. As he watched her struggling and sinking in the soft earth, she gave up and tossed the useless shoes aside, preferring to walk in her stockinged feet.

As he emerged from the throng of people a gaunt black woman materialized in front of him, hands turned up to him in supplication. She was holding a bundle in her arms and she raised it up to him as if willing him to take it. She babbled furiously in an unfamiliar tongue, but her accent and dialect was West African. He looked at her tear streaked, hollow eyes, a haunted expression in her thin, pointed face, cheekbones protruding sharply. He then looked down at the bundle and saw huddled in the grubby blankets a small baby, a boy no more than three months old, a shock of jet black hair rising in tufts around his tiny head. The baby looked up at Harry with big, wide, innocent eyes, searching and curious, totally oblivious to the suffering that would surely dull those bright pupils in future. The woman thrust the boy at Harry, and her tears turned to a low plaintive moan. He stopped rigid, self-conscious, feeling the heat of eyes drawn to him. He did not want to draw attention to himself, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a soldier glance disinterestedly in his direction.

He had no choice, and feeling terrible for doing so, he pushed the woman away and hurried on until he was once more lost in a mass of people. He had no clear idea of what to do and how to find Tamara and Byron, so he headed toward one of the large tents, hoping for some type of clue to what was really going on. He stumbled several times on the slick, uneven ground, and as he headed toward the tent three amorphous figures, rendered shapeless by the light grey burqa that completely covered their head and body, shuffled forward, pressed close together for comfort. He watched in horror as a soldier grabbed at one of them and ripped off the head covering and the veil, leaving her face exposed. She screamed and covered her face as well as she could with her arms. Her two compatriots moved to protect her, but the soldier just pushed her to the ground, leaving the garment streaked with mud. It was a cruelty that was calculated and callous, more severe than striking the woman, and the soldier seemed to know it as he walked away laughing, clearly pleased with himself.

A group of Muslim men remonstrated angrily with the soldier, yelling and cursing at him, but instantly the soldier was joined by five of his colleagues and they silently raised their weapons at the group, ready and prepared to attack. The Muslim group, armed only with their outrage, backed away, their anger dissipating as they stared at the barrels of six high-powered rifles.

Appalled, Harry moved on and reached the first of the three large tents. The line outside seemed to snake for miles, the people standing, heads bowed, barely talking. He stood back and watched curiously as other dishevelled men and women, sometimes with children trailing behind, emerged from the tent clutching a pile of folded blankets. Harry gently stopped one Romany looking family with two children, their dark faces regarding him with suspicion.

"What is this place? What is inside the tent?" he asked.

The children ran off while the mother hollered something incomprehensible to them. The father slicked back his untidy, greasy looking hair and looked at Harry, struggling to comprehend. Harry repeated the question and the man responded in faltering English. He pointed back toward the tent.

"In there. They register us. Give us blankets. Tell us sleep on ground. We leave country."

"Where did they take you from?" Harry persisted, but the man merely gave him a quizzical look and hurried after his wife, who was trying to keep up with the children before they were lost in the crowds. Staggering behind the family was an archaic, rotund woman leaning heavily on a walking stick that looked ready to snap under her weight. Her heavily lined face looked like an ancient weathered rock, and she had a hacking cough that sounded like her throat would split, as she waddled desperately after the family, afraid of being left behind.

He spotted the farmhouse in the distance, a number of army trucks parked in front of the building, and decided to head for it. Despite his heavy fatigue, he broke out into a gentle jog, anxious to find some answers and more importantly, the whereabouts of his erstwhile family. He saw one of the open trucks with metal cages bouncing down the tarmac lane heading toward the farmhouse, and as he drew closer he saw that the cage was crowded with people, standing shoulder to shoulder like cattle. They looked utterly exhausted and ravaged, some of them slumped over, bodies pressed listlessly against the grid-like metal, barely conscious, the weight of other bodies pressing them painfully against the cage.

Harry drew closer to the farmhouse, which was swarming with soldiers. As he watched, the truck pulled up in the gravel driveway in front of the house where the ring of soldiers stood guard, blocking off the entrance to the large building and its nearby outhouses to the mass of people exiled to the field. As the truck lurched to a halt, forcing the mass of people inside the cage to sway forward like a wave, the loading ramp was lowered, the cage unlocked and the throng of people guided off the back of the flatbed onto the ground. Several stumbled and fell. One dark-haired lady with a young boy collapsed to the ground and was instantly dragged up by her wrists. The lady looked frightened and dishevelled, and the boy stood protectively close to her, courageously pushing back the soldier who did not react. Only as she stood upright did he see her face, and as he did so he felt his face flush hot, the blood pounding in his ears. Her usually elegant, refined look had been replaced by a gaunt, sorrowful expression, her usually immaculate hair in untidy, straggled clumps, slick from the rain. Even from the distance he could see the look of utter hopelessness on her face, and next to her Byron's look of anger mixed with fright.

At this point his emotions took over, and he found his legs propelling him toward the truck. He heard himself yelling as he raced forward toward Tamara in a faintly heroic but doomed attempt to rescue her. Despite the general noise, his urgent shouting attracted attention, and the soldiers glanced at him in unison. As he continued running, several of them raised their weapons, alarmed at this sudden interruption in their grim routine. Harry barely registered them, his eyes fixed firmly on Tamara and Byron. She had now noticed him and her dejected face lit up as she saw him. However, it quickly turned to horror as she saw the soldiers raise their weapons, the wall of flesh between Harry and his ex-wife impenetrable. Harry kept running and the soldiers were poised to fire when their platoon leader, a tough commando type with leathery skin and a greying beard barked an order to stand down. Instead a small group of them met Harry full on and quickly wrestled him to the floor. Harry kicked out and struggled with a determined strength that took his assailants by surprise. It took four of them to finally subdue him.

"Let me go, I need to see my wife!" he shouted.

One of the soldiers, angry at the interruption, silenced Harry with a solid punch to the kidneys and Harry writhed around on the wet ground, gasping and struggling to breathe. "I'm gonna take you to see someone mate, but it ain't your wife." His accent betrayed a Cockney origin, a fellow Londoner, but his face was twisted in anger. Harry thought he was going to vomit as the soldiers lifted him to his feet with the ease of a rag doll, and half dragged him away from the truck into the house. Before he passed out of sight, he saw from the corner of his eye Tamara crying freely, Byron clutching her protectively.

He was taken through the large kitchen into an even larger parlour room that had the temporary look of a recently established logistics office. Thick manila files were placed in haphazard piles on an old dresser, and several more lay on a sofa, together with a combat jacket slung carelessly over the armrest. The owner of the jacket sat behind a battered kitchen table that had been adapted to serve as his desk. He wore a tight white T-shirt that hugged his powerful torso like a second skin. The veined biceps seemed to burst out from under the short sleeves. He carried an air of quiet confidence and authority, yet despite his athletic frame, his lined, worn face suggested a man way past his prime. Harry guessed that he was at least fifty. He studied Harry with intelligent, appraising eyes as Harry stood before him, flanked by two soldiers. Harry, still winded badly, found it hard to stand upright, and his guards had to hold him steadily by the arms on each side. He was not offered a seat, but the man turned to another of the soldiers who had dragged him in. One of them had relieved Harry of his wallet and tossed it on the desk in front of the officer.

"Get this man some water, quickly." His voice was low and even, but carried implacable authority. The young soldier saluted stiffly. "Yes sir, Lieutenant Randall." He was gone for only a few seconds before he returned with a full glass of ice cold water which Harry gratefully accepted. Feeling more composed, his anger partly subsided, Harry nodded at the scene outside the small bay windows. "Have any of those people been offered this courtesy?"

Lieutenant Randall leaned back in his padded chair, the merest hint of a smile on his thin, pale lips. "Your concern is not with them. Leave us to worry about that. My concern is what the hell I do with you?" His voice betrayed a trace of Glaswegian.

He leafed through the identification in Harry's wallet, a driving licence and a National ID card. "You're clearly not a registered ethnic, so how, and more importantly, why did you break in here?"

Harry paused, weighing up Randall. The soldier had shown disarming civility, and his tired features displayed curiosity rather than antipathy. "How? That was easy. Your men don't seem to have this camp, or whatever it is, organized. It was easy to get in. Why? You have my wife and son." His voice betrayed a tremor of emotion as he spoke.

Randall clasped his hands together, looking troubled. "I can't say I'm surprised, the number of mixed marriages in this country. We have our orders I'm afraid. I am told that the authorities don't wish to break up families if it can be avoided so non-ethnic people like you have a choice."

Harry frowned in confusion. "A choice of what?"

"To be deported with them of course," replied Randall casually, as if it were the obvious answer.

Harry nodded in understanding. "Christ, it was supposed to be five years," he said, almost to himself.

Randall failed to catch his meaning. They had probably been instructed only on a need to know basis. Harry continued, "Does the government seriously think it can deport all the registered ethnics in this country? There are millions of them. It will take years, and that's assuming that the countries they are deported to are willing to accept them. Some of the ethnic people due to be registered under this monstrous law are second and third generation Brits. They were born and raised here, and know no other life." He paused, feeling his anger rising until his cheeks flushed red. "My son was born here!" he shouted.

The Lieutenant gave a sympathetic nod but remained non-committal. "Mr Clarke, I am not a politician and have no desire to be one. My job is to follow orders and those orders are to process registered ethnics as efficiently and as quickly as possible in preparation for their deportation. It's not my job to question those orders."

"Even when those orders are clearly immoral?" Harry shot back.

Randall paused, weighing up his debating opponent. "I see you're a journalist so maybe I should be careful what I say. We're not moral guardians and neither, I suspect, are you. The media are hardly concerned about morality, except when it serves them to sell their tawdry publications. So I do my job and I am responsible for making sure my men do the same."

"Does that include attacking Muslim women and ripping off their burqas?" interjected Harry tersely.

Randall's brown eyes gave the merest hint of a flicker. "These things happen. It's a stressful situation and some of the men can become overzealous."

"Stressful for who?" retorted Harry.

"For everyone involved Mr Clarke. I'm not pretending this is particularly pleasant for the ethnic people and it certainly is not for my men. Many of them have only been in the army for a few months. Most of them are fresh from the training ground. Sometimes you have to give them latitude for making mistakes. That is how they learn to become better soldiers."

Harry leaned forward. The two soldiers either side tensed, but a quick warning glance from Randall restrained them. Harry could barely hide the contempt in his voice. "And what about those people in cages on the truck, including my wife and son. They've been forced to stand on that truck all night in the pouring rain. Was that a mistake too?"

Randall sighed. "I do understand. This project has only just started. We were drafted in at short notice and we haven't been given proper guidance by the authorities. It will take a little time to get organized, before we get our procedures right. There will always be teething troubles."

Harry could no longer contain himself. He was tempted to throttle the Lieutenant, but the soldiers on either side gripped his arms tighter, and he felt them squeeze his biceps with iron force. "Teething troubles?" he spat. "Is that what you call this? I call it inhumane cruelty!"

Randall was beginning to lose patience, and as he did so his Scottish accent became thicker. "Mr Clarke, I'm a busy man. There are a number of people I have to justify myself to, but you're not one of them. I have offered you the courtesy of a hearing and now I have to decide what to do with you. Might I remind you that your status is that of a trespasser and I could have you put under military arrest. It would however, be just one more problem for me to deal with and fortunately for you my best option is to have you taken as far away from this facility as possible." He tossed the wallet back at Harry.

The two soldiers still gripping Harry tightly looked disappointed. "What about my wife and son?" Harry persisted.

"As far as the law is concerned, Mr Clarke, they are registered ethnics under the Minorities Registration Act and are therefore eligible for deportation. Like all deportees, they will be processed and repatriated to their host country as quickly and efficiently as possible."

"What host country? I told you. My son was born and bred in England. He has hardly ever left the country. You're repatriating Byron to a country he has never seen."

Randall's voice was tinged with impatience. "I don't make the law; in this case I am merely enforcing it. Now I have had enough of this conversation. My men will take you to the perimeter and I insist that you get away as far as possible because if we find you near the camp we may not be so lenient. Do you understand?"

Before Harry could reply the soldiers bundled him out of the room and threw him into the back of a small army jeep. They sat either side of him in a squashed trio as the driver pulled away up the road. Through the canvas windows of the jeep Harry saw more trucks of caged and demoralized refugees standing without shelter in the rain, passing the opposite way toward the farmhouse. Within minutes they reached the perimeter of the camp and the jeep ground to a halt, its wheels skidding on the muddy ground. The soldiers quickly stepped out of the truck and hauled Harry out. One of them, a broad but acne-ridden grunt of no more than twenty, barked at him. "You're lucky the gaffer is a decent bloke, mate." He pointed to the bayonet on the edge of his rifle. "If it was up to me I'd have shoved this up your arse. Now get out of here." He gave Harry a strong push and he stumbled to the ground, caking his trousers in mud. The soldiers let out a satisfied, mocking laugh and the jeep roared off, its wheels spinning in the wet mud.

Harry picked himself up and began the long walk back to his car in the steady rain. He had come to convince Tamara to take Byron to India, and now it seemed the decision was being made for them, but in the cruelest possible way. He feared for their safety, especially in the terrible conditions he had seen. He just hoped that they would be deported quickly so they did not have to suffer the squalor and degradation of that camp for too long. Had he known the truth, he would never have left the camp, as powerless as he was to stem the tide of a brutal history in the making.

## CHAPTER 19

Harry hardly remembered the drive back from Salisbury. He had debated whether to try and get back into the camp but before they had dumped him on the roadside, the soldiers left him in no doubt of the consequences if he were seen around it again. There was nothing he could achieve by staying there. He had briefly considered an audacious rescue attempt for Tamara and Byron but dismissed it as foolhardy and unrealistic. The only thing he could do was to follow his instincts as a journalist and expose what was really going on. Even though many of the news outlets had been closed down or taken over, the Government could not suppress the existence of these camps from the media for very long. He would expose the conditions and use it to bring some pressure to bear on Pelham's leadership. Surely even this poisonous regime could not be totally impervious to public opinion.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, he nearly spun off the road at one point, the slick, wet conditions hazardous to even a fully alert driver. Despite his desire to get home as quickly as possible, he forced himself to pull over and take a much needed sleep in the car. He had to be careful where to stop, because there was a risk of attack from random gangs intent on violence, even on the wide stretches of highway between towns. At least the rain had stopped, though the clouds were dense.

His other fear was the possibility of being detained, like Maxwell. Once they found out from the British Guardian editor that it was he who had provided him with a copy of the Five Year Plan they'd surely be after him. Harry would have to look elsewhere for a willing publisher fast as the number of media outlets still alive to criticize the new regime was reducing almost daily. He had to release this story before it was too late. The combination of the Plan and his observations of the deportation camp near Salisbury would make explosive reading, and perhaps make an apathetic public sit up and take notice of what was really going on around them.

In some ways he had been lucky not to be detained at the camp. They had checked his identification and the Lieutenant knew he was a freelance journalist. Were they really that arrogant that they did not care what he said about the camp? It appeared to Harry that Randall was concerned more with removing him from the camp as an awkward presence he had no idea what to do with. Maybe he was not interested, happy to let it be a problem for someone else. Had they discovered he was a political correspondent in possession of a piece of media dynamite, the outcome may have been somewhat different.

He turned on the radio, looking for valuable news, and partly to keep himself alert, but only came across the usual bland array of computer produced synthetic tunes or aggressive hip-hop that seemed to dominate the current British music scene, or old time classic tunes and highbrow classical music stations. He turned the digital dial, searching for news channels, but even the BBC, a long standing critic of the previous Labour administration, was full of inane chit-chat about the latest West End theatre releases, as if people could afford to go there anymore. He turned his dial to the frequencies of familiar news channels, but all he received was a blast of static. For one station, an automated robotic voice declared that the station operating at this frequency was temporarily off air due to technical difficulties. He struggled to find anything that resembled real news, and frustrated, he gave up when he nearly forced the car into a huge pothole whilst fiddling with the radio.

The pace at which the Government was dismantling these institutions alarmed Harry. Conscious of the huge power of the media, Pelham's regime had suppressed all avenues for 'subversive propaganda' as he had heard it described. The newspapers, Internet, television and now radio had all been emasculated in an incredibly short period. Even access to overseas news outlets had been censored, making it ever harder for ordinary citizens to canvass world opinion on the fundamental changes taking place in this troubled nation. Having read the disc, he was acutely aware of Pelham's strategy for State control over all information. Once the information channels, the life blood of democracy and freedom of expression, had been cut off, the Government could act with impunity, oblivious to the threat of public opinion. With no outlet for dissent, and no forum for accountability, the State could perpetrate any action it liked without the wider public's awareness.

The more he turned the issues over in his mind, the more anxious he felt that his story should be published as soon as possible, whatever the repercussions for him personally. He felt himself racing to get home, certain of his objective, but less certain of his next move. As he crossed the M25 orbital highway past Chertsey into Greater London, he saw the distant pall of smoke rising in the dull low-lying cloud cover. It was easy in less fractious times to dismiss this as an accident, maybe a poor pensioner who fell asleep in the armchair still clutching a lighted cigarette, but it was far more likely in these times to be the collateral damage of another disturbance. London was a steaming kettle waiting to boil, simmering with rage and frustration. He saw it everywhere he looked, in the ugliness of people's expressions, the mistrust and suspicion that had seeped into society over many years, but which had been amplified since the election.

Harry drove on, thankful for the safety of his Toyota. He drove carefully through the streets of London, alert for danger, but the traffic moved fluidly, slowed down only by the remnants of damaged cars sprawled across the road, or another half abandoned highway repair project. Like him, everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and there was urgency in the traffic that swept it along. He was jerked out of his reverie by a solid bump at the front of the vehicle. For a split second he saw nothing, and then a large scruffy Labrador staggered into view, dragging a bloody, now useless hind leg as it hobbled, whimpering, to the sidewalk. He fought the impulse to stop. There was nothing he could do for the dog. It had probably been someone's pet once, now doomed to wander the streets, a wild dog, its chances of survival curtailed by the injury.

He was relieved to make it to his shabby apartment just as an early dusk was beginning to wrap itself like a cloak over the brooding city. It was an effort to climb the four flights of stairs, the elevator vandalized again. He stepped inside and switched on the light, which illuminated the devastation in his apartment. The whole room had been turned upside down. Furniture and papers were scattered everywhere in a chaotic pile, the contents of his living room cabinet hurled randomly onto the floor. Strangely his TV home theatre system and his Bose music player were untouched. Crime was an occupational hazard of leaving home these days, even for one night. Indeed, there was an increasing trend for homeless people to break into people's homes and change the locks, living there until they were evicted either by force or through the painfully slow legal process. Yet nothing appeared to have been taken. It was more like a tornado had hit, completely random and unstructured in the devastation it caused.

Harry then had a dawning realization. He scrambled past the debris on the carpet and into his study. The same random destruction awaited him, and he turned to the filing cabinet in the corner. The lock had been broken, twisted beyond repair and the contents of the cabinet emptied and tossed around. The bottom cabinet had a small alcove and he reached toward it. His heart sank as he found it empty, but it was not unexpected. They had found what they were looking for, the tiny disk with the five year plan. He was now a marked man.

With an overwhelming sense of exhaustion he pulled up a chair that had been thrown across the floor from the kitchen and sat in front of the TV. He wanted to fix himself a coffee but could hardly summon the energy to get up again. The news channel blared at him, and he watched with little interest. It was then he heard a rapping on the door. It was not a gentle knock. It had the urgent quality of a demand to open the door immediately, an insistent thud that suggested it was not a social visit. Harry stood up, instantly alert, his heart racing, his exhaustion neutralized by the rush of adrenaline. Again that hard, urgent thud, followed by a long pause. He thought he heard the deep baritone of two male voices, and with a sense of portent that something was badly wrong, he made his decision.

He rushed to the rickety doors that opened out onto the tiny balcony and clambered onto the adjacent fire escape. Just as he did so he heard the TV newscaster's silky voice state in a matter-of-fact tone that the police were closing in on the arrest of a local journalist for the murder of Graham Matheson.

The decrepit set of metal stairs had not been maintained in years and some of the bolts had detached themselves from the crumbling masonry, so that the stairs swayed gently under his weight. He kept moving, driven by fear, his feet clanging on the rusty steps. It was gloomy and the light was poor, but there did not appear to be anyone waiting in the narrow alley at the rear of the building. His only instinct was to get clear of the building and consider his limited options afterwards. He had no choice but to get out of the alley as quickly as possible. It was blocked off by a high wall at one end, and he'd be trapped by any pursuers entering the alley from the other end. He heard the wail of a police siren, but it sounded distant. It wasn't for him was it?

As the sound faded, he relaxed for a second. So Matheson was dead. Murdered. Did they know about Matheson's planned meeting with him? The net was closing in. Of his two contacts regarding the disc, one was dead and the other detained for questioning. Clearly Pelham's regime had demonstrated that they would take all necessary measures to protect the public release of their five year plan. He was clearly next. He had to get away, and the next few minutes would determine whether he would survive, at least for now. Even if he escaped, he was on borrowed time.

The high buildings rising on each side of the narrow alley permitted little natural light, and the alley was a patchwork of indistinct shapes and shadows. He crept along stealthily, gagging at the stench of rotting fish emanating from a large refuse container, but tripped over an upturned garbage lid. His involuntary fall sent the metal lid rolling on its axis with a shrill clang that startled him. A large black shape scuttled across the ground and disappeared amongst the heaps of garbage piled high against one wall. He looked up and saw two dark figures emerging from his balcony and following the same path down the fire escape. The poorly built set of stairs creaked and swung crazily under the weight of the two men, but it stayed fixed to the wall as they clambered quickly down it.

Harry had the advantage of obscurity in the shadows but they must have heard the bang of the garbage lid. He moved forward quicker toward the shaft of light at the end of the alley. The figures were closer now, and he could hear the sounds of their voices. He was breathing hard, a mixture of exhaustion and anxiety, and he fought the urge to run. Keep calm, he told himself. He kept moving as silently as possible, but the alley felt interminably long. Kings Cross had plenty of these alleys, a perfect haunt for muggers, addicts, prostitutes and rats. He moved faster, conscious of his own laboured breathing until the dim light of dusk opened out and he had cleared the alley. It was then he heard the shout behind him. They must have seen his silhouette. He looked both ways, momentarily undecided which way to run, and opted for the opposite direction to his apartment. The sidewalk was slick with the recent drizzle, and he nearly slipped, but no one was around to bar his way and he set off at a sprint, his weary legs screaming in protest. He had no clear idea of where to run to, just to escape, but as his legs pounded on the concrete paving slabs, he saw a police car come screeching around the corner, sirens blaring and blue light flashing. Harry pulled up short, caught in the fierce beam of the lights, and ran desperately in the other direction. The two figures emerged from the alley and entered the chase too, their footsteps thudding relentlessly closer.

Harry kept running, adrenaline powering his aching legs, until a second police car emerged from the direction he was running in. The two vehicles, at opposite ends of the long road, were closing in quickly, and his pursuers on foot prevented him returning to the alley. He looked around wildly. He was surrounded, only a small service road running between the high walls of opposite residential buildings offering any hope of sanctuary. He glanced up at the road and his heart sank as he saw an unmarked charcoal coloured van come careening down it, the road barely wide enough to support its bulk as it raced down the road, lurching crazily, almost out of control. He stood transfixed, caught like a rabbit in the glare of the headlights as the van sped out of the narrow road onto the wider main road. Dazzled by the harsh glare, unable to see inside the cab, he thought for a horrifying split second that the van was about to mow him down. He instinctively put his arms up, as if that would do anything, but with a deafening squeal of smoking tyres, the van swung around sharply and screeched to a halt, its side door inches from Harry. The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled his nostrils, but he had little time to react. In one fluid movement, the side door slid open, and two strong figures emerged and grabbed Harry harshly by the shoulders, as the police vehicles were closing in. They bundled him into the van and immediately one of them slapped a coarse sackcloth over his head, while the other assailant quickly slid the door shut.

He heard a rough, gravelly voice shout urgently, "Go, go, go!" and the van screeched away. Blind and disoriented, Harry was thrown backwards by the van's acceleration and fell heavily onto the floor. He heard a metallic crunch and felt the van shudder as it pulled away, and as Harry tried to steady himself, he felt strong hands haul him against the side of the van and a heavy knee rest on his abdomen, pinning him down painfully. There were more people in the van's rear compartment, their voices hoarse, excited, one of them heavily accented, and another a softer, feminine voice, still highly agitated but which held a strange hint of familiarity. Despite the roar of the racing engine, he could hear the strident blare of the police sirens, as if they were in pursuit, but Harry felt the van turn and sway, his stomach lurching and within minutes the sound of the sirens had begun to fade.

The two police officers on foot stopped their pursuit and watched helplessly as the van spun around and snatched their quarry from under the noses of the police cars. As it raced away, the van clipped one of the vehicles, sending it spinning out of control. The other police car began to give chase before a small Mini emerged from an adjoining side road and, misjudging the speed of the car pulled out in front of the police car. The police vehicle was forced to brake hard and it swerved into a lamppost. Its front bumper folded in concertina fashion and the air bags exploded open inside the car. D.C. Kendrick could not suppress a sly smile as the uniformed driver got out and angrily remonstrated with the shaken Mini driver who sat resolutely at his wheel, his face a grim mask.

Kendrick hung back with his colleague, surveying the damage, while several people emerged from their apartments to gawp like voyeurs, curious at the commotion outside their homes.

"Let's get back to the station," he said, and his colleague nodded silently. Kendrick pulled out the arrest warrant for Harry Clarke and peered at the creased yellow paper. It had been a risky procedure but they had succeeded.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL JUNE 20TH

The protests over the steadily worsening conditions in the country have continued, but up to now the protesters have encountered little resistance, other than sporadic attacks with tear gas. The police have adopted more of a supervisory role to ensure that the protests do not turn into full scale riots. It has become a tense stand-off which seems to have captured the mood of the country. The Conservative regime appears to be watching and waiting, conscious of its sinking popularity in the polls, and anxious to avoid taking draconian measures against the protestors for fear of the perception it will create amongst British people and the watching world. Indeed, they have already been heavily criticized by a number of influential establishment figures, yet the Government has merely paid lip service to most of these concerns.

Nevertheless, this apparent inaction is at odds with the Government's enforcement of the Minorities Registration Act, which was signed into law just over a week ago. Yet already the Government has moved swiftly to set up a number of deportation camps around the country. The British Armed Forces, long regarded as bastions of Western democracy, have been drafted in to administer the setting up of the camps, and despite the clampdown on various Internet sites and social media regarded as 'subversive,' reports have filtered through of the poor treatment of detainees, most of whom are forced to sleep outside in fields while the camps are set up. It is not clear exactly how these camps will run, and how registrants under the Act will be allocated to the camps, and so far the Government has made no announcement, except to say that the policy is supported by the BNP, the official opposition. However, the moves have prompted fury from a number of human rights and immigration groups, to which the Government has remained impervious. One of the most frustrating aspects of Pelham's tenure so far is his apparent reluctance to engage in dialogue with groups opposed to his policies.

In a major constitutional change, the Chief of the General Staff, the head of His Majesty's Armed Forces, General Sir Huntington-Smythe, has sworn his allegiance directly to the Prime Minister, and not to King William, a subtle change on the face of it but one not unnoticed by political commentators. The practical effect is that it gives the Prime Minister unfettered powers to use the Armed Forces internally to support his own agenda, and more importantly to use the army to suppress any dissent, effectively creating a military state. The use of the army to support the setting up of the deportation camps typifies how the role of the Armed Forces will change in the future.

The camp locations have been identified and sites taken over quickly and efficiently, using the powers available to the Government to make compulsory purchases of land. Many of the properties taken have been working farms situated close to or on a major route to coastal ports or airports, although up to now there has been little sign of any activity in the ports to transport those that the Government regards as no longer entitled to stay in the country. The detaining of registered individuals has so far been completely arbitrary, and therefore it's impossible to know who will be next. It seems, however that anyone who is forced to register as a result of failing to achieve the necessary two-thirds British genealogy, whether a citizen or not, should be looking over their shoulder with concern, waiting for a knock on the door.

The deportation program will certainly be a huge logistical exercise, as estimates put the numbers of people required to register under the Minorities Registration Act as over thirty million people. It is politically inconceivable and impractical that the Government would attempt to deport all registered minorities, but so far this regime has taken its own tyrannical course without any regard for political or humanitarian considerations, the mark of a true dictatorship.

The violence and looting of the last week has abated somewhat but even so the cities, and the inner cities especially, are a simmering hotbed of resentment that could flare up at any time. The army has been forced to maintain a visible presence on the streets merely to dissuade gangs of youths and other disaffected groups from launching further attacks against each other. It's as if the divisive policies of the new Government have turned people against their neighbours. For the first time since the last World War, there has been a sustained military presence on the streets of the nation, and the rest of the world is watching events unfold with some concern. There have been attacks on British embassies around the globe, most recently in Pakistan and Iraq, which has large populations of U.K. based Muslims, perceived to be the group most at risk of persecution under Pelham's regime. The truth is that the Prime Minister has not singled out any one creed or race, but rather appears to have committed himself, at least in theory, to removing a large cross-section of the immigrant population, as unbelievable as that may seem.

Indeed, the pace of legislation has been unprecedented in parliamentary history. The amount of emergency legislation that has been pushed through on a fast track basis with very little opposition, even from the House of Lords, has been impressive. Several Bills have received a Second Reading, Committee Stage, Report Stage and a Third Reading all within the space of a week, compared to the usual period, which because of the parliamentary timetable can often take several months. The Government has been able to do this because of the lack of real opposition to its legislative agenda. The number of seats held by the Conservatives, combined with the BNP's support of the Government's extreme right wing policies, means that the Commons Stage of any proposed legislation receives only cursory debate. The Bills still pass through the House of Lords, but the strength and influence of the House in curbing proposed Bills has diminished to such an extent in the last ten years that the passage of a Bill through the House is effectively viewed as a rubber stamping exercise.

An example of the fast track legislation is the controversial Purity of Marriage Act, which is currently at the Report Stage but is expected to become law within a week. This Act proposes that marriages and 'marital type' relationships between British people and certain immigrants is outlawed, and it also repeals the law on same sex marriages that were declared legal over ten years ago. Its most controversial provision, however, is in an obscure clause that has, on the face of it, nothing to do with marriage as such - in the interests of 'racial hygiene' the Government plans to prohibit marriage outside one's own 'group,' in this case mentally and physically healthy individuals, and to develop a program of sterilization for categories of physically and mentally handicapped. Amongst the expressions of outrage at this proposed law, a leading Queens Counsel and eminent human rights lawyer, Gordon Hugh Richardson, has declared the law to be unconstitutional and unenforceable, and will surely be struck down by the courts. This has not stopped or even delayed the rapid passage of the Bill through the House.

Amongst this backdrop of uncertainty, Pelham's speech in two days is one of the most widely anticipated of any Western leader since the address by President George W. Bush after the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York over two decades ago.

In an apparently unconnected incident, a former Government Minister was recently found murdered near his home in St. John's Wood. Graham Matheson had been a rising star in the Conservative Party for several years, tipped as a future Party leader, but had recently been 'outed' as a homosexual following lurid tabloid revelations. This had not affected his appointment to Pelham's first Cabinet, but within days he had resigned without any explanation. First reports suggest that he died from a single targeted, deep stab wound to the liver area, causing him to bleed to death. His body was found dumped in deep bushes in the local park by a walker out with his dog. Forensics teams that arrived at the site that morning estimated his time of death at around midnight the previous evening. Investigations are focusing on Matheson's last known movements. In the weeks since his resignation from the Cabinet, he had become quite reclusive, and it is currently not known why he was in the local park at midnight, although the tabloid press has been quick to draw their own scurrilous conclusions. However, investigators apparently have several leads which they are following up on and the police have indicated that they have identified a suspect and are confident of making an arrest soon.

A spokesman for the Government expressed Pelham's deep sadness at the loss of what he called a 'talented, compassionate and highly respected politician.' It is not clear why he left the Cabinet in the first place, but the spokesman stated that it had been hoped Matheson would return to Parliament in some capacity once his personal issues had been resolved.

The apparent murder of a politician who until recently was close to the inner sanctum of Government lends another layer of mystery and uncertainty to an administration that is already cloaked in an aura of secrecy and unpredictability.

## CHAPTER 20

Griffiths' orders were quite specific, despite their clandestine nature. He had been summoned to Westminster tube station, on London's subway system, to the Bridge Street exit that faced south onto the Houses of Parliament. He was instructed to be there by six-thirty a.m. sharp. As he waited, a light breeze tugging at his jacket, there was already considerable activity in the streets around Parliament, the black taxis hurtling around the square as they carried the power brokers to and from early breakfast meetings. Since Pelham had come to power, the stunning 19th Century Gothic architecture, one of the most iconic and recognizable buildings in the world had been heavily barricaded with ugly steel fencing so that it was impossible to get within a hundred yards of the entrance without passing an elaborate security cordon. Even to Griffiths' unrefined tastes, the fencing was a monstrosity that diminished the standing and reputation of the House.

Violence roamed the streets of Britain, however, and such measures were considered a necessary evil. Griffiths made no apologies for that. Much of the recent violence had been perpetrated by his fledgling movement, and he preferred to see it as the country being moulded into shape, much like a sculptor who chipped away at the unwanted parts to reveal a masterpiece underneath.

He still cherished high hopes for the country, free from the tainted ethnicity that in his view had weakened the energy and vitality of Great Britain. His vision was taking shape at a rate faster than anything he had ever envisaged. The tide of xenophobia that made FREE such a formidable force and promoted a tacit validity to their campaign of targeted destruction had flourished under the new Government. Since his meeting with its shadowy representative at Greenwich, his organization had carried out a number of attacks with impunity, enhancing its reputation as a feared and powerful force reviled in the immigrant community. Yet Griffiths could not help wondering if he and his organization were merely tools for the new regime, bereft of real power. Be careful of your soul if you make a deal with the Devil, he reminded himself. The fact that the most overtly right wing Government in British history had risen to power could not have worked out more favourably for FREE. He and Pelham were brothers of the same ideology, yet they had met only once, and then informally, which made the P.M.'s request for a meeting even more perplexing. He doubted that Pelham could be trusted, and he would remain wary. Without his trusted Commandants by his side, Griffiths felt a little intimidated, but he had to be careful not to reveal that to the Prime Minister.

Despite the early hour, at the far end of the square a horde of protesters, billboards raised high in the air, marched in a solid mass by the steel fencing. It was impossible to tell from this distance what they were protesting about, but snatches of their raised, urgent voices occasionally broke through the unrelenting din of traffic. There were so many grievances to air that a protest outside Parliament was a regular event. Sometimes the police got bored and charged in, batons raised, to break up whatever rally was taking place. Mercifully for the protestors today, the police were so far holding off, but they tracked the group closely, ready to attack like a black and yellow swarm on a signal by their Chief.

His view was blocked by a sleek black limousine that seemed to glide to a halt next to him. He could see his reflection like a mirror in the shiny, flawless passenger door, its windows tinted. He quickly stepped in and the vehicle purred gracefully into the increasing rush hour traffic. He gave a cursory greeting to the driver who did not answer, instead stealing a quick glance at his passenger in the rear view mirror.

From his limited view, Griffiths thought that the driver was the same emissary he had met at Greenwich, but it was impossible to tell. Griffiths quickly realized that they were not headed for Downing Street. The limousine eased itself out of the complex network of roads of the city west into the county of Buckinghamshire. For a moment he had an unpleasant feeling that he was being set up. Of course, he reflected with relief; Chequers, the official country residence of British Prime Ministers for over one hundred years. Set at the foot of the Chiltern Hills near the small village of Ellesborough, the imposing Gothic style mansion stood in rolling, largely unspoilt countryside, light years away from the pressures of Westminster. They were soon at the wrought iron gates and sentry post that marked the only entrance through the high stone walls mounted with high resolution surveillance cameras that encircled the huge estate. The limousine was quickly ushered through and glided along the private road for another half mile, the entrance lined by a stunning procession of beech, oak and birch trees in full bloom, the vivid greens of the leaves competing with the surrounding manicured fields. Through the tinted windows he saw several gardeners tending to a large square garden that contained bushes and flowers that sparkled in the morning sun in a riot of colour.

The main building came into view and its front facade was even more impressive than he had seen in pictures. Its taupe coloured brickwork was mottled with age – the main building had been in place since the sixteenth century - but its high frontage and large cross-hatched windows conveyed a sense of quiet and stately dignity. The limousine gently moved around the huge clover-shaped lawn and stopped in front of the building, its tyres gently crunching on the gravel. The entrance was a large oak door set in a high alcove, rounded off at the top. It reminded Griffiths of a gateway into a church, not that he had been in one for a long time. He got out and the limousine silently pulled away. The heavy door opened with a creak, and a bald, morose looking butler greeted him with a curt nod. He was at least six inches taller than Griffiths and his dull eyes appraised him with disdain. Without waiting to introduce himself, the butler waved at Griffiths dismissively.

"This way please, Mr Griffiths."

He led Griffiths through the large reception area and past a tasteful but ornately decorated drawing room toward the rear of the building. There were numerous canvasses hanging on the walls, some of former Tory Prime Ministers like Churchill and Thatcher, strong, dogmatic leaders. No trace of Major or Cameron, Griffiths smiled to himself. He became mildly confused as the butler silently led him past the kitchens, where he heard the playful banter of domestic staff, into a narrow wood-panelled corridor. The passageway appeared to lead to a dead end but the butler flicked a switch in a wall recess and the square panels slid away to reveal a metal door that opened to an elevator. He then turned to Griffiths and stood there in a threatening stance. Only then did Griffiths appreciate that, although the butler's lined face betrayed his age as probably late forties, his frame was toned and athletic, his thick, solid arms straining against the material of his formal jacket. "If you don't mind sir," he said, gesturing for Griffiths to raise his arms and stand with his legs apart. Griffiths complied, not quite sure what would transpire if he did mind, and the butler, clearly no ordinary domestic servant, skilfully frisked him with strong, stubby fingers for any weapons or recording devices. Griffiths had been clearly instructed not to bring his tablet computer, and he felt a little lost without it.

Security formalities over, the butler silently gestured for him to enter. He stepped in and the butler hung back. Immediately the doors slid shut and he was on his own. He had a momentary wave of panic as his mind played tricks – he had seen too many James Bond movies – but the elevator whirred into life and gently moved down. He chided himself for such irrational anxiety, although he looked up to see a camera peering down at him. He tried to ignore it and was relieved when the elevator door opened. It was hard to tell just how many floors he had descended, but the room he was delivered into had a more metallic, operational feel, completely devoid of windows, its walls metal not brick or wood. The Union Jack flag stood unfurled in the corner and there were several comfortable sofas and Queen Anne style chairs, and a coffee table upon which rested a decanter of water and three glasses. The furniture had a comforting aspect but looked totally out of place in this otherwise stark, sanitized room.

A metallic door at the far end slid open and in walked the Prime Minister, closely followed by his deputy Giles Chamberlain. The two men sauntered over and shook his hand, unsmiling, with a cursory greeting before they settled in the chairs. They faced across Griffiths in an arrangement that made it clear that he was alone and they were not. Without waiting to be asked, Chamberlain poured the three of them a tumbler of water.

"Thank you for coming," began Pelham, as if Griffiths had a choice. "This is not the most comfortable room in Chequers I know, but a necessary precaution." He looked around admiringly at the stark, functional decor. "This room was built after 9/11 although it would have come in handy during the Cold War. It has been acoustically insulated so that it's not only completely soundproof but also blocks any transmissions in or out of the room. Cellphones, radio, wireless internet transmissions are all lost here. It has directional antennas that can detect and pinpoint the location of foreign transmitters, and spectrum analyzers that can pick up electronic signals out of synchronization with the usual frequencies. I'm not the scientist but suffice to say, I hope you or your organization had no plans to record our conversation!"

He laughed at his own joke, flashing that famous, flamboyant smile that had endeared him to a media driven public, and Griffiths found himself gently laughing along with Chamberlain. It set the scene for a lighter mood, although Griffiths had no illusions about the Minister's serious intent.

"Mr Griffiths – may I call you Adam? You are no doubt wondering why I have summoned you here. I want to congratulate you on FREE's enormous contribution to our project. The scale and success of your organization's work has helped position us strongly for the next stage of our plan. But we need your help to implement our next wave."

Griffiths nodded in a non-committal way. He could feel the heat of Chamberlain's piercing gaze, calculating and assessing him.

Pelham continued. "You and I are not too different. We share the same ideology and the same vision for our country. This country has been polluted by miscegenation and immigration. We have a lot to learn from South Africa before apartheid and the Southern States before their racial laws were deemed unconstitutional in the sixties. The real pioneers were the Nazi Germans, reviled throughout the world, admittedly, but mainly because of their sheer brutality. They were remarkably inefficient and clumsy at the process of ethnic cleansing. The Hutus in Rwanda and the Serbs in Bosnia during the nineties were far more effective, but it was still messy, violent and brutal."

The Prime Minister paused and ran his fingers through his immaculately coiffed fair hair, a trick he often used in media appearances. "Adam, did you know that the Nazis were experimenting with chemical warfare long before the Iraqis, and probably even before our friends across the Atlantic? Releasing a deadly pathogen with a short incubation period in confined areas is a far more effective tool to pacify enemies than the iron fist, which we know from history can only sustain a regime for so long."

Griffiths noticed Chamberlain shoot him a furious glance and Pelham changed subject. "It has been a difficult time since we took power. I am well aware of our ratings in the polls since I took over, and the cloud of tension that has swept the country. My speech at Wembley tomorrow is probably the most important of my career. I need to reassure the public that the pain they're suffering now is for the greater good of our people. I must congratulate your movement for the way they've suppressed the marches and demonstrations. However, we must seek an end to random violence. It is not subtle and sends the wrong message. But I will not be swayed from my vision."

He sat back and sipped his water as he paused, waiting for Griffiths to respond.

"Why are you telling me this?" said Griffiths cautiously.

"Because I need you to share in our vision. With your help FREE can become a critical component in our strategy, under the radar of course, but politically and financially you will be well rewarded."

Chamberlain continued to study Griffiths. His department's research on this unsophisticated but streetwise leader had been thorough, and they knew that Griffiths' real motivation lay in personal power and success. Appeal to his base instincts. Maybe he was not so different to him. Although he was a product of the working class, rough around the edges, a hoodlum made good that lacked subtlety; his true goals were not so dissimilar. They both yearned for power. It was the way that Griffiths sought to achieve that power which Chamberlain found so loathsome.

"We need a change of role for FREE. Your acts of intimidation have worked well on the streets, but I now need your people to help us administer the deportation camps."

"Don't you have the military for that? Rumour is that Huntington-Smythe is already in your pocket," countered Griffiths.

Pelham scowled at him and his tone betrayed his irritation. "Ugly rumours; completely without foundation. The military has done an excellent job in supporting the transition to power, but their resources are stretched. If your organization is as committed to my vision of a pure Britain as it claims to be, then this is an opportunity for FREE to engender some legitimacy. Of course we could never reveal that it is FREE administering the camps; that would be political suicide, but we can create an umbrella structure and your members will be well remunerated." He gave a disarming smile again. "Your members will be making a useful contribution to society that I'm certain they will find very satisfying. Removing the immigrants from British society is what you set up FREE to do isn't it? I see it as a natural fit."

Griffiths remained cautious. He had the vision in his mind of two predators circling each other, ready to pounce when the other was off guard. He had to be careful not to commit FREE to a potentially damaging course of action. "And what if we refuse?"

The smile disappeared. "Your members have enjoyed some degree of protection since I came to power. Even so, it's still an offence to attack mosques and synagogues and assault their members. Don't forget that."

"That sounds like a threat to me."

Pelham's tone was abrasive. "Perceive it how you wish, but I am in a position where threats are unnecessary. If I want something to happen, it will happen. Your organization has, through my connections, achieved a degree of immunity and protection from prosecution. Police files are brimming with as yet unused information about the activities of FREE members. If that information was acted upon, and there is great pressure to do so, the courts would be extremely busy. As its leader your own position is not without risk. You would bear responsibility for the activities of your members through your speeches, messages and media broadcasts. Inciting racial violence is just a start. The list would be long and ugly. I think you get the message?"

The Prime Minister's gaze was unwavering and Griffiths understood what he was up against. There was no doubt in his mind that Pelham had the power and the inclination to carry out his threats without a moment's hesitation. He was even more dangerous than Griffiths had suspected. Pelham would use FREE until they no longer suited his purpose, and then what? If you made a pact with the devil, he reminded himself, eventually he'd be after your soul. At the moment he had no choice but to comply.

"If we agree to this, I will expect certain guarantees for our members."

Pelham's tense upright posture visibly relaxed and he smiled again, the conflict resolved. "Of course. I would expect nothing less," he replied.

"I will need to talk to our executive committee," Griffiths said.

"You have an executive committee?" replied Pelham, his tone betraying a trace of amusement. Griffiths caught him exchange mocking glances with Chamberlain.

"Yes and if your research geeks did their homework you would know that," countered Griffiths tersely. "I need to discuss the terms on which we provide these services to you."

The Prime Minister sighed and put on a pair of reading glasses, lending him a scholarly air. Chamberlain handed him a document which he glanced over before looking up at Griffiths again.

"While the introduction of the camps will in time be an effective measure, it's impossible to identify and deport more than a fraction of the non-English population through this method. We need other measures. We have introduced emergency legislation through the House that will tax what we regard as foreign earned income. The term has been redefined in our statutory instrument to cover income earned in this country by people not of English descent, and such descent is cross-referenced to the Minorities Registration Act. Anyone required to register under that Act will be caught by these taxes. But that in itself is not enough. We need to provide other incentives for immigrants to leave of their own accord."

"What incentives?"

"You will probably recall from your history studies the boycott of Jewish businesses by the Nazi regime during the 1930s. They made anti-Semitism respectable and soon after the Party came to power in 1933 they organized a national boycott using the brown-shirts from the paramilitary wing of the Nazi Party. They physically prevented customers from entering Jewish shops, damaged property and threatened Jewish shop owners while non-Jews just stood by and watched. It was highly effective in its way to further erode the rights of the Jews. The general public supported this because they saw the Jews as having stolen the wealth they perceived to be rightfully theirs, especially when the average German was still suffering the effects of the Depression and post-war austerity measures. I believe that the conditions apply equally to Britain in the 2020s. We are suffering record unemployment, yet how many businesses in this country have absolutely no British ownership? We are being disenfranchised on our own doorstep. I consider a similar approach to foreign businesses would support the average Briton, who should be the true owners of these assets."

"I agree with you but most of these people do pay taxes, even if some of them are trying to cheat the system," interjected Griffiths.

"Arguably yes, and I accept that there will be short term reductions in revenue. A necessity I'm afraid. We have to look at the bigger picture. I did not take this job in order to be popular with the voters. I took this for the longer term good of the country, for the British people, and that means there will be pain along the way. Our people will be forced to make sacrifices, to make difficult choices, and there will be a period of austerity. I don't expect the road to recovery to be easy, and it will get ugly, but these measures are necessary. There is no reason why these existing businesses can not in time be owned and operated by British people for the good of the British."

"So what are you proposing?"

Pelham peered at him over his spectacles. "Isn't it obvious? We need your men to stand outside the foreign businesses and shops and stop people entering, like the brown-shirts did to the Jews. People will not interfere, they will be too scared. If we cut off their employees, their supply chain and their custom, their business will quickly die, especially in the current economy. They will have no reason to stay. My research department is preparing a list of these businesses and we will supply them to you. This will take a considerable mobilization of your forces Mr Griffiths, so you may want to consider recruiting further. I'm sure there are many willing recruits out there.

"I see your organization and its policies as a key component in the rise of the British people to the influence and power they once possessed, and which we both agree is our right. Yet look around us. The Chinese and the Indians have resurgent economies and have overtaken Europe and America as the real economic superpowers. God, even the likes of Brazil has a stronger and more developed economy than us. We are a fractured and divided society, overrun by Arab and African Muslims, Asians and Europeans, so that our laws are made for their benefit, and the true indigenous population is marginalized. White births in this country became a minority years ago, so if we don't act now we will never have the opportunity again. With the help of FREE, we will again rise to power. I see you as a key power broker in our new order."

Griffiths could not help noticing the look of distaste that Pelham let slip when he referred to his organization, as if the very mention of the acronym 'FREE' was anathema to him. The Prime Minister's contempt for FREE was written in his face, and Griffiths knew he could not be trusted. Even so, he made a compelling case and Griffiths' heart leaped as Pelham alluded to Griffiths' own influence. After all, he was ambitious and greedy, and he made no apology for that.

Pelham adjusted his spectacles. "My speech at Wembley is not without risks. I have had to tighten security since I came to power, and there are many people who would gladly see my demise. But I don't intend to hide myself in a gilded cage. I am a man of the people and they shall see me. I have some highly trained people looking after me, do I not Giles?" He turned to Chamberlain who nodded smilingly, as if they were sharing a private joke.

"However, I need the support of a hundred or so of your strongest and most accomplished men tomorrow night. I fully expect there to be trouble, but then that is what motivates your men isn't it? Tomorrow will be a good outing for them. I realize I haven't left you much time, a logistical necessity unfortunately, but I'm confident you will not let me down." It was conveyed more as a statement than a question.

Griffiths felt cornered, with little choice in the matter. He knew that his own rise to power was almost solely dependent on the man sitting before him. He dared not fail him, and he found himself nodding agreeably to the demand. "Consider it done," he said, without thinking.

The Prime Minister took off his spectacles and gave Griffiths a disarming smile. Griffiths sat back, more relaxed. Pelham had an aura of intensity that radiated power and strength, allied to a charismatic persona that made his requests difficult to refuse. He unconsciously shook Pelham's extended hand. "You and I, Mr Griffiths, are on the cusp of a historic moment. We are the pioneers of a new Great Britain. We will restore the 'Great' and we will in time be hailed as heroes. But before that we will be vilified and despised for our necessary actions. Staying on the road we have chosen will take courage and conviction. Tomorrow my speech will mark the dawning of a new era for Britain, a turning point in this great nation of ours, and I want you to be part of that future."

Pelham glanced at Chamberlain, and a few seconds later the heavy metal door slid open, revealing the butler, who waited expectantly for Griffiths to leave on cue. Clearly the meeting was over. Pelham and Chamberlain stood up and once again they shook hands with Griffiths before the butler ushered him away. "Remember tomorrow, Mr Griffiths. A hundred men." He waved in the general direction of the butler. "Jennings will discuss the details with you. Goodbye for now."

Jennings led Griffiths out of the room into the elevator and he felt the mild gravitational tug on his feet as the elevator rose gently upwards. He doubted whether he could raise a hundred men in less than twenty four hours, yet he felt strangely compelled to do so, as if to justify the P.M.'s faith in him. He began to appreciate the charismatic presence that Pelham possessed, which made the man hard to refuse, but it was tinged with a degree of apprehension. Pelham was clearly a visionary, yet he was a dangerous man, an extremist like himself, in many ways far more powerful in stature and character. Griffiths led a vast array of thugs and bullies, strong but often ill-disciplined, but Pelham was a different breed of thug, the most insidious kind. The P.M. had used his authority and negotiating skills to completely outmanoeuvre Griffiths. He was a master tactician and manipulator, and likely the most dangerous man Griffiths had ever met.

As the metal doors slid shut with a mild clang, Pelham put his spectacles on again and turned to his Deputy. "What an odious man Giles, don't you agree?"

Giles sipped at his iced tea. "Quite so Lance, but even so we have the man in our pocket. You gave him a glimpse of just what he desired, and I don't think he will let us down. He is no more than a thug in a suit. He will come in very useful to us but we will continue to monitor him, and when the time comes...."

Pelham nodded, his thin lips curling upwards. Chamberlain did not need to spell it out.

## CHAPTER 21

Blinded and subdued, Harry rolled within the confines of the van's rear as the vehicle lurched and weaved frantically, its engine racing. He would have been sent flying had it not been for the heavy knee on his abdomen before the van settled down into a less tumultuous journey. Having escaped their pursuers, or so Harry guessed, the drive became more routine. Even the knee pressing him down was removed; his tormentor apparently satisfied that Harry was in no position to attempt an escape. He was confused and disoriented, but his attempts at communication were harshly rebuffed.

"Be quiet or I'll gag you with my dirty vest," spat a heavily accented voice. Harry did not relish that thought and stayed silent through the rest of the long journey. The others remained silent. It was hard to tell how long they had been driving as he kept drifting into fitful, fatigue-driven bouts of unconsciousness. He was barely awake when they manhandled him, still hooded, out of the van down a series of stone steps into a tiny cellar-like room. He heard the door slam and the clink of a heavy key. He took off the hood, but it made little difference. The room was windowless, and only a tiny sliver of moonlight filtering weakly through the bars set high up near the ceiling provided any respite from the cloak of blackness. The cold silver light revealed a frail looking camp bed with rusty springs perched in one corner, a few soiled blankets draped carelessly over it. He adjusted them and flopped down on the bed, which creaked and swayed as if it was about to collapse under Harry's weight. In spite of the discomfort, he immediately fell into a fitful sleep. When he woke the next morning there was enough gloomy daylight entering through the bars for him to discern his surroundings.

He had no idea where he was and more importantly why he was there. The only thing he could be certain of was that this was not a police cell. The cold stone walls were damp with patches of moss, and water occasionally trickled down in a lazy fashion. The dampness in the air was not refreshing; rather it chilled his bones, and just made the atmosphere clammy and uncomfortable. He had no idea how long he had slept, his watch had broken in the frenzy of the chase the night before, and the subdued light offered little clue. He felt curiously refreshed however, as if the last few sleepless nights had been banished, and he then realized that he was exceptionally thirsty and hungry. As he surveyed his dungeon, he surmised that this was not a purpose built prison. It looked more like the unused section of a large cellar, like an old stone farmhouse that housed barrels of fine wine in its vaults.

He hollered at the top of his voice, "Let me out of here!" and kept shouting until he was hoarse. His shouts were met with utter silence, broken only by the occasional plop of water dropping onto the stone floor. He rested his voice before shouting again and this time he was quickly met with a sharp retort, "Give it a rest in there for Chrissake!" The voice sounded outside but it was not far away.

Undeterred, Harry continued to shout and was met by the same voice cursing him, until at last he heard the sharp crack of a bolt outside being turned back, and the hefty oak door swung inwards, its hinges creaking in protest. Of all the people he expected to see behind the door, she was the least likely. Yet there she was, as alluring as when he first met her. Her hair hung in lustrous flame coloured curls, and those mischievous hazel eyes danced with amusement. Of course, the feminine voice he had heard last night. It was impossible to discern in the roar of the van's engine, but the strained voice had sounded faintly familiar.

"You look good Julianne." It was all he could say, but it was true. In almost two years since he had last seen her, she had changed subtly, if anything more desirable than before. Apart from the curly hair, she had become ever so slightly thicker around the waist, accentuated by her cargo pants, so that her athletic figure was now voluptuous. Her beautiful pale face, framed by the small cluster of freckles around her nose and cheek had hardly changed, yet somehow it possessed a maturity and strength that he had not seen before. The eyes were a little darker, with just the odd hint of lines under the long eyelashes, but as he looked at her it was if the past had melted away. He once again understood why he had sacrificed his marriage for a brief but passionate affair.

Julianne smiled broadly, showing the long incisors he remembered so well. It added to her sensual passion. "I wish I could say the same for you Harry, but you look like crap." She hesitated, not sure how to approach him, and hovered uncomfortably for a few seconds before she stepped back and picked up a tray she had left at the door. "I brought you some food. You must be hungry."

She brushed past him as she laid the tray on the camp bed, and the faint aroma of her perfume brought him back to another time. A happier time perhaps? It was hard to recall when he had been happy and when he had not. He just existed and dealt with each day as it came, much like the rest of the people in this troubled country.

She turned and looked up at him, a few inches short of Harry's five foot ten frame, despite her padded combat boots. "Eat up; you're going to need your strength." Her full lips again curled upward. "It's good to see you Harry."

Harry began wolfing down the food she had provided. He was hungrier than he thought. "No hard feelings then?" he asked casually.

Her smile disappeared instantly and she turned away. "You hurt me Harry. I don't want to talk about it."

Harry finished his cereal. "What is this place? Why am I here? Why are you here?"

"Rest assured it's better than a police cell, which is where you were heading, and given the charges against you, I doubt you would ever see the light of day again. Do you know how many opponents or critics of this regime have simply disappeared after less than two months in power? Opponents silenced without warning, not just as if they no longer exist, but as if they never existed at all. If you're lucky you might just get beaten senseless by a few thugs from FREE and warned as to your future conduct and you will think twice about voicing your opposition in future. This government is determined to wipe out any opposition to its plans as expediently as possible. We can only guess what Pelham's plans are over the next few years, but if the first few months in power are any indication, we are all in for a terrifying time. But of course you know what's in store don't you?"

Harry said nothing, draining the cup of tepid water supplied with his food.

Julianne's eyes danced with mirth. "So did you do it or not?"

"Do what?"

"Kill him of course. Did you kill Matheson? It's the hot news at the moment. They nearly got to you before we did but fortunately we have inside help."

"And who are we exactly?"

"You haven't answered my question."

Harry let out a long exasperated sigh. "No I did not kill him."

Julianne's eyes glinted in the poor light. "I didn't think so. You may be a conniving bastard Harry Clarke but you are not a killer. We suspected that you'd been framed. It would be very convenient for this regime to remove you as well as Matheson from the picture. I think you have the potential to be a thorn in the government's side."

Julianne swept back her long curls, and Harry could not help but stare. She seemed relaxed and confident; her new found maturity adding to the perception that she was now in control and knew it. Harry had always been the one in control during their brief, tempestuous relationship, probably because of the ten year age gap, but also because he used her and then made excuses to rush home to see his wife.

"How could I be a thorn in their side? I may be a political journalist but it seems we're a dying breed."

Julianne smiled again, clearly enjoying their verbal parry. "But you have something we want. It's why we brought you here. Where's the disc Harry?"

"What disc?"

Julianne's face turned serious. "Don't play games with me Harry. I am not the spurned mistress anymore. We know that Matheson passed you a disc containing details of Pelham's five year plan. Maxwell told us before they took him away. We want to see it so at least we know what we are up against."

Harry leaned against the wall, feeling the dampness against his crumpled clothes, which he had not changed in two days. "If you know so much you will probably know that whoever trashed my apartment also stole the disc. I no longer have it."

Julianne's pale, sensuous features registered disappointment. "I took a risk for you. There are those in our group that resent your presence and suspect you're a government spy. They would rather see you dead. If you had the disc..."

"I did not ask to be taken here Julianne. I can't give you what I don't have. In any case who is this group? I answered your question; now please answer mine."

Julianne grinned but her tone displayed irritation. "Harry, you've grown tetchier since we last met. Very well, I'm not authorized to tell you too much but what the hell? We are the last dying embers of the Independent Socialist Party. We're a small group but we have a number of separate cells working in various parts of the country. This farmhouse and its surrounding lands is our main compound. We have been preparing for the inevitable crisis of government for a few years, ever since it became clear that the pathetic Labour administration had no hope of re-election. It was only a matter of time before the extreme right wing took control. We live in a fascist state, but even we have been surprised at the speed and savagery with which Pelham has dismantled democracy in England. The man is more dangerous than any of the Arab or African dictators we have come to know and love. This man hides behind an aura of respectability, as if his actions are those of a benevolent leader. It's his arrogance that makes him most dangerous, and we hope will be his downfall. Our group is multicultural and diverse, but those who are not true English blood are refugees. If they are found by the government, they will be taken away to one of the deportation camps. So we stay off the radar and make our plans to overthrow the government. We are the only real opposition left. The public is too afraid to stand up to Pelham, as if they cannot yet come to terms with the monster they voted in. He has quashed most avenues of dissent, particularly the ones that matter like the TV, radio and social media."

Harry nodded in agreement, recalling his frustrating attempts at trying to find an objective news station on the radio the day before. "How many of there are you?"

Julianne's voice showed its first sign of nervousness. "About eighty of us in this cell. But we are well armed."

"Eighty?" scoffed Harry. "How the hell do you expect to overthrow the government with eighty people?"

Julianne seemed to shrink back, as if stung by the accusatory tone of Harry's voice. "I told you, we have other cells and militia units. We are the central fulcrum of a clandestine cell system, not a hierarchy. We try not to issue orders but work with our cells toward a common goal. The system is made up of a number of active and sleeper cells using communication techniques that consist mainly of encrypted messaging. We act as a subversive structure, unknown to our enemies yet able to call on our brothers at a moment's notice in most regions of the country. Our aim is to eventually infiltrate government, although it's too early for that yet. Our cells are made up of local groups of insurgents, people from different cultures and races, all of whom have shared the suffering of a government that has denied them their basic rights and interests. We merely provide the support, the direction and the decisions, but our network relies on close personal relationships, hence you will see many different backgrounds and cultures here.

"It's an irony of the government's regime that in its attempt to create a homogeneous nation, it has drawn cultures which often consider each other as sworn enemies together, working toward a common goal, their conflicting interests put aside. We have, for example, members from the Sunni and the Shia Muslim denominations working together. Yet in places like Iraq and Iran, Yemen, Bahrain, Lebanon and Pakistan, they've been slaughtering each other for decades and have hated each other ever since Muhammad's death in the seventh century. The people here have put aside their differences as they face the same consequences for failure. I am not saying that we have complete harmony but generally those ideological differences have been put aside for the greater good.

"We mainly work on the basis of targeted attacks at strategic points that will weaken the government. Our Holy Grail is the assassination of the Prime Minister. Hezbollah has used similar strategies for decades, every so often with devastating effect. In fact we use them as an inspiration. They too started as a small militia back in the eighties when Israel invaded Lebanon and they grew in power and status to become a part of government. Despite their long campaigns of suicide attacks, kidnappings and bombings, they ultimately achieved political legitimacy. We believe that as insurgents we can achieve a similar result."

"So you are terrorists?"

Julianne grimaced again. She was starting to wonder what she had seen in Harry in the first place. The anger was palpable in her voice. "There is a thin line between a terrorist and a freedom fighter. You'd do well to remember that around here. My job is to convince my brothers in arms that you can be trusted, that you're not a government spy, but more so because you can be useful to us. That way they won't slaughter you like a dog and leave your headless body on the roadside. The fact that you don't have the disc makes my job that much harder, and your attitude isn't helping. What's to say I don't just walk out of here and let my brothers come down and deal with you?"

Harry tried to keep his tone even. He hated violence, especially when it was carried out on him. "Sounds like a nice crowd you've got involved with," he said mordantly. "Look I think we have got off on the wrong foot. I should be thanking you for snatching me from the police because I'm sure they will be able to make the murder charge stick, and they're already setting up Death Row in preparation for the change in the law. I guess I'd be in a windowless cell in solitary confinement in the basement of a large police station waiting to be interrogated. At least this way I'm in a windowless cell in solitary confinement in the basement of a farmhouse waiting to hear if I will be slaughtered or not." He forced a smile. "But at least I got to see you. It has given me the chance to say something I should have said a long time ago. I'm sorry for the way I treated you."

Julianne's anger instantly dissipated and to Harry's surprise she reached up and kissed him fully on the lips. He remembered how soft they were. "You don't know how important it is to me to hear you say that Harry. Now get some rest and I will talk to my brothers. Wish me luck."

She disappeared quickly, leaving her faint scent in the damp, close air, and he heard the lock being drawn back. He sat down on the old camp bed and thought of Julianne. She was no longer the idealistic revolutionary who sought to change the world by her beauty and political gravitas. Some of that carefree approach and naivety had vanished and now she appeared edgier, more assertive. Maybe it was the way he had treated her but there was something more. She had grown up, become more realistic about what she could achieve, even if her ambition still outweighed her capabilities. There was a subtle sense of sadness in her gaze, something he had not seen before, as if the blows that life inevitably dealt had blunted her natural sense of optimism.

With only eighty people in their cadre, it was unlikely to represent any threat to Pelham's regime, even if they discovered this band of revolutionaries. He was curious to know how Julianne had become mixed up with them, and he found himself eagerly awaiting her return.

## CHAPTER 22

Harry must have dozed off because when the bolt clicked back and the door opened he felt groggy, and it seemed like only moments before that Julianne had kissed him. This time she was not alone. Two men entered behind her, one with an olive complexion and swarthy features, sporting ragged looking stubble, the other with polished ebony African skin. They both towered over Julianne, and she was by no means short, and the African had to stoop to get through the door frame. They stood either side of her like sentinels as she regarded Harry. Her delicate features looked grim. "They want to talk to you," she said.

The two men stared at Harry impassively, debating whether to drag him out of the cell, but when he moved forward they waited until he was past them and then followed him up a set of flagstone steps and into the kitchen. The sudden infusion of daylight bursting through the windows hurt his eyes. Julianne led them through the kitchen into a small room that looked like a converted study. As he passed through he heard the activity and low voices of other people in the building. The study was sparsely furnished with a rustic looking table with two chairs on one side and one on the opposite side. The tall African pointed to the single chair, eyeing Harry warily, as if expecting resistance. Harry merely complied and flopped down in the chair. He glanced at Julianne. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying, and her face had a troubled expression, no hint of her previous good humour.

She took a chair opposite Harry while the two men stood at the door, saying nothing, and moments later a broad shouldered, ruddy-faced man with thick wiry stubble and thinning black hair that just about stretched into sideburns silently entered the room and sat opposite Harry. He was about his own age, but as he perched on the chair next to Julianne, Harry noticed the deep red, spidery veins of a heavy drinker around his cheeks. I will probably have them myself soon, thought Harry. The man gave a quick nod to the two standing by the door, and they silently left, leaving him and Julianne alone with their prisoner.

He held a small revolver in his stubby fingers, and twirled the open chamber nonchalantly. "Do you know why you are here?" His voice was harsh and questioning, but it had a strong Irish lilt which softened the edge in his voice.

Harry watched him playing with the revolver. He saw that the chamber was filled with bullets. "You tell me," Harry replied.

The Irishman studied Harry, his ice blue eyes appraising him with thinly disguised enmity. "You have something we want, but Julianne tells me that you're not being cooperative." Julianne shifted uncomfortably, gazing at the floor to avoid Harry's gaze. "We want that disc Mr Clarke. We need to know what we face in the future so we can fight it."

Harry sighed. "If I had the disc I'd probably give it to you, or at least to Julianne. But I don't. I came back from Salisbury, where I witnessed my wife and son being herded around like animals in one of the Government's deportation camps, to find my apartment trashed and the police on my trail. If you want to know where the disc is you should be talking to the person who raided my apartment." He noticed Julianne's pale cheeks redden ever so slightly when he mentioned his family.

"Why should I believe that?" He paused and leaned back, folding his brawny arms, and the chair creaked under his solid frame. "I guess it doesn't matter, you can tell us everything that was on the disc. You'd better pray you have a good memory. You might still come in useful for us."

"What makes you think I want to be help you lot," Harry sneered.

The Irishman scowled and snapped the chamber into the revolver so it was ready to use. He looked at Julianne. "I told you I was right. We should just get rid of him now."

With deliberate slowness, he pointed the trigger at Harry and held it steady, as if he was pondering whether to shoot Harry. It was a powerful weapon and at close range would make a nasty mess. Julianne stepped forward from her chair and gently closed her hands over the weapon. "Come on Sean, you're better than that. Harry just needs to know a little more about us. He doesn't understand that's all."

Sean looked at her and Harry saw a glint of affection in his eyes as he looked at Julianne. He let her push the barrel down until it rested on his lap. Harry observed the exchange between them. Were they lovers? They appeared to share an intimacy that was familiar to him, one he himself had shared with Julianne so long ago. Despite her confident demeanour however, she appeared almost submissive to this volatile Irishman.

Sean snarled at Harry. "Whether you want to help us or not is beside the point. Julianne persuaded me to take a big risk to snatch you from the police. Fortunately for you we have some inside help or we would never have been able to pull it off. You should be thanking us because, as I am sure Julianne reminded you, the alternative would be far less pleasant. Although we can turn you in." He smiled almost to himself. "Who knows we might even get a reward."

"I get the picture," replied Harry. "If I do help you, I need to know who you are and what you represent."

The stocky Irishman's distrust of Harry was evident. "Julianne assured us that you were not a government stooge, and I am inclined to believe that, given the circumstances of your delivery. We're prepared to exchange information but you need to tell us what you know first."

"Am I a prisoner here?"

"I prefer to think of it as a protective detainee. No-one knows you're here, at least no-one who is interested in your whereabouts, specifically the police. This is the best place for you to be at the moment, if you value your life. The alleged murder of a recently serving Cabinet minister would certainly be considered a capital offence. Even assuming you made it to trial."

"And exactly what value do you put on my life?"

Sean's cracked lips stretched into a broad smile. "That depends on your usefulness to us. Julianne is your only true friend here but she can be very persuasive." He gave a suggestive glance to Julianne, who merely looked away in discomfort.

Harry stole a glance at Julianne. "What do you think you can achieve against the military might of this regime? They could wipe out a small bunch of terrorists like swatting a fly."

The Irishman's ruddy complexion flushed even redder with barely concealed anger. He moved his face closer to Harry's. "You should be careful in your choice of words around here," he said threateningly. "It could get you hurt. We are not terrorists; we're revolutionaries, fighting oppression against a savage and unjust regime, one that, if allowed to stay longer in power, will eliminate all of us. We are fighting to bring back true democracy to our country. We will sacrifice whatever we have to make that happen."

Harry regarded the burly Irishman coolly. His whole body exuded passion and belief for his cause. "So how do you intend to take out this government?"

Sean looked at Julianne and she nodded encouragingly. "Okay, I'm not giving anything away by telling you. The fact that you know we exist is enough. We're a clandestine operation. Our methods are not new, but they're highly effective against a power that has far greater military might and manpower. We aim to wage a campaign of targeted attacks through our various sleeper cells, using intelligence gathering and individual units in a manner pioneered by the Provisional Irish Republican army, the IRA if you like, back in the early part of last century. We will never come out in the open, but our attacks, combined with infiltration within the government and a propaganda campaign through the social media, will stir the public to rise up against this tyrant."

"You have one problem," replied Harry. "When the government says it's okay to persecute immigrants it's amazing how quickly the mob mentality spreads. Most of the public, at least those not being carted off to camps agree with Pelham's vision, even if most of them don't agree the methods."

"Which is partly why we need your information," countered Sean. "You know what the government is planning. Maxwell gave us a hint at how bad it will get, and we think with this information in the public domain, hearts and minds can be turned against the legitimacy of this regime. They just don't know yet what type of tyrant they've put in power. Already the polls are less favourable than when he was elected."

"I know they are, but believe me he will soon get rid of the polls. By then it won't matter what the public thinks."

Sean pondered this, still fiddling with the shiny silver revolver. "So do you prefer to take your chances with us or the police?"

"I want to get rid of this government as much as you do, but there are other means. You mentioned modelling yourself on the IRA."

"They were freedom fighters, battling for a united Ireland. They did what needed to be done."

Harry gave a derisive laugh. "Tell that to the innocent women and children who died in Enniskillen and Omagh and Lord knows where else! It may have been true in 1910 but not in 1970."

The Irishman could no longer contain his anger. The blood seemed to rise up his face, his already red face turning an angry scarlet, in deep contrast to his icy blue eyes. He jumped up out of the chair, sending it flying backwards and raised the revolver. He pressed it hard against Harry's temple and his finger shook as it remained firmly pressed on the trigger. Not even Julianne could stop him this time. A small degree of pressure and a few millimetres of movement in the trigger and it would be all over for Harry. He stayed still, the metal pressing hard against his flesh, and he felt cold sweat trickling down his face. Maybe he had pushed him too far.

Sean snarled at Harry. "They had no choice! I knew I was right. We should have disposed of you at the start. Any more smart-ass comments? They're going to be your last words."

Harry remained silent, and he saw the pleading look in Julianne's eyes. She began to sob, and as he did so, Sean's animal rage began to subside. He stood there for what seemed an eternity before he pulled the gun back and cuffed Harry around the cheek with the barrel, causing a small cut. Harry winced in pain but thought better than to react.

"Count yourself lucky you have a friend here because I would not think twice about putting a round of ammunition through your brain." Sean turned to Julianne. "Get him out of my sight. We'll decide what to do with him later." Sean stormed out of the room, kicking the flimsy wooden door hard as he did so.

Julianne led Harry back to his prison and refused the support of the two guards who had previously brought Harry to see their leader. Harry did not resist and without a word Julianne gently pushed him into the tiny stone cellar. Her expression was cold, but she said, "He wouldn't have shot you. He knows the risk we took in snatching you; it would be wasted if he killed you now. He's a very good tactical thinker, the type of person we need to lead us in this war. He knows how to run the type of cell structure we have, he knows the protocols and the communication channels. He's well connected and he is also an accomplished bomber, which will become a useful attribute in the months ahead, whether you agree with our approach or not. His uncle was one of the Omagh bombers back in '98, so I think you touched a nerve. He may be overzealous sometimes but he's a true patriot." She regarded him icily. "You haven't lost your arrogance have you?" She was about to close the door on him when, desperate for her company, he blurted out, "You sleep with him don't you?"

Julianne's expression froze, momentarily taken aback by the question, but she quickly regained her composure. "Since when did that become your concern?" she snapped challengingly.

Harry's tone was placating. "Of course it isn't. I had no right to ask that. It's just that it was good to see you again and I still care about you. I don't want to see you get hurt."

Her features softened, but her voice was still terse. "Sean is a good man. You went too far and he is not a person you want to antagonize. You'd better cooperate soon or he may just send you back to the police and then you will be wishing he had shot you."

"So why are you so edgy around him?"

She stared at him, unsure how to answer. "What do you mean?"

"I have never seen you like that around anyone. You seemed to shrink back into yourself, losing all your confidence. You seem almost -" He paused, looking for the right word, "Submissive to him."

"I – I don't know what you mean," she stammered, looking away, as if the damp stone walls were suddenly interesting. "He just gets angry sometimes."

He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. "He hits you doesn't he Julianne?" She was wearing a light sweater with baggy arms that did not complement her figure, and he pulled up one arm to the elbow to reveal several scarlet patches of bruising on her pale forearm.

She snatched her arm away, eyes blazing. "Let go of me!"

"It's when he drinks isn't it?"

"It has nothing to do with you," she screamed. "You left me remember?" She let out a low sobbing moan and covered her face with both hands. She suddenly seemed to Harry like a lost and frightened little girl. He felt an overwhelming surge of compassion, and of guilt for having treated her the way he did. Clearly her sense of betrayal was still there. He put his arm around her and this time she didn't resist and they stood there while Julianne gently sobbed, until she abruptly stopped and extricated herself from his grasp. Without another word she stepped out of the room and bolted the heavy oak door behind her, leaving Harry alone and imprisoned again.

## CHAPTER 23

It was another several hours before Julianne unlocked the door and silently brought him another tray of food. He realized he was starving and gobbled up the food hungrily. Her baggy sweater was replaced by a tight fitting brown jacket. She left him to eat and quickly returned to collect the tray. This time she was not alone. Accompanying her, dressed in a long trench-coat was a tall, distinguished looking character who Harry estimated to be in his fifties. "Harry, this is Detective Constable Kendrick of the Metropolitan Police," explained Julianne.

Dazed and confused, Harry could only stare blankly at the officer. His heart sank as he understood that they had carried out their threat to turn him in. The officer, however, offered a friendly smile and extended his hand. "I've wanted to talk to you for a while," he said. Harry wondered why they would have invited the police here when they had snatched him from under their noses. It did not make sense but then nothing seemed to in this place, least of all Julianne's involvement. There were no handcuffs forthcoming and Julianne excused herself. "I will leave you two to talk," she said.

"I didn't kill him." It was all Harry could think of to say.

Kendrick ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. "I am not here to take you in."

"Then why are you here?" replied Harry, suspiciously.

"I just want to talk. Unless you'd prefer I took you in. I am still technically on duty you know."

Harry gave an impatient sigh. "So what do you want to talk about?"

"I gather you and IRA Sean did not hit it off. I used to have an Irish partner.... in the job I mean. He persuaded me to go to a rally at Tower Hamlets last month. He wanted to take pictures of the FREE thugs in action so he could give them to our Chief Inspector to persuade him to take action. He got his pictures alright when the bastards waded in but it cost him his life. He was twenty-five years old, younger than my own two boys. But what sickened me most was that Grayson our Chief took one look and tossed the SD card in the bin. The department hardly even mentioned him after his death, like he had never existed, just because he was not English. It took that incident to open my eyes to what I should have known all along. The police force is racist to the core and reflects the attitudes of this Tory government. We need to fight it, but we can only do so from within."

Harry considered this elegantly dressed detective and was impressed by his candour. He had always considered himself a good judge of character. It was like an inner sense that he could not explain, a gut feeling some people would call it. He had taken an instant dislike to Sean before even knowing his links to terrorism. But Kendrick seemed genuine, as if he was guided by a strong internal moral compass. He also looked vaguely familiar, as if he had seen him from afar.

"That's why I came here," Kendrick continued. "I still work for the police force. I have bills and I need my pension, but this organization is the only one I know that is trying to make a stand. It has to be done gradually and from within. We can't fight a conventional battle. We don't have the resources or the manpower. Frankly I don't know what this cell can achieve but I have to be part of it. I would have driven myself mad if I didn't do something, even if it's just for my late partner Donoghue. I find it hard to sleep since he died. Maybe it's the guilt. I should have stopped him going or kept him away from danger, but he was a stubborn kid."

Kendrick paused reflectively and Harry felt himself warming to the detective. Kendrick suddenly brightened and smiled at Harry. "I thought I kept myself reasonably fit for my old age but boy you're a fast runner when you have the cops bearing down on you!"

Harry snapped his fingers in recognition. "So you were one of the police officers chasing me?"

"Of course, I had to coordinate it very carefully. It was touch and go whether we would get to you before the police cars. You've had a lucky escape. There are search teams scouring London for you. Killing a cabinet minister, even one who had recently resigned, is a major event. The only thing police officers hate more than high profile murders is when someone kills a fellow officer; unless it's someone like Donoghue of course."

"Like I said, I didn't kill Matheson."

"But he was on his way to meet you wasn't he?"

Harry paused before answering. Was this just another form of police interrogation? "Maybe I should say nothing until I have spoken to my lawyer."

Kendrick let out an ironic laugh. "You're a long way behind the times my friend. The Labour administration got rid of legal aid years ago. These days you get a lawyer appointed by the Court Service to defend you, and these guys are usually either tapped up or they're the deadbeat lawyers who are far too incompetent to work in private practice. You'd be better off defending yourself, not that it would make any difference. Relax, I know you didn't kill him, but I am not the jury. You know the government is rushing through legislation to bring back the death penalty and they want to make it retrospective, which means it will cover you." He glanced around him, revealing the bald spot on his crown. "This place is luxury compared to the police holding cells. I have seen them. When I first started out in the force way back in the late eighties at least the police made some pretence of a basic level of comfort and dignity for prisoners, for those on remand anyway. I'm convinced that one of the Home Office bureaucrats went on an exchange visit to some banana republic to see how they treated their prisoners and decided to model the prisons on that."

"Okay detective, you've frightened me enough," replied Harry in a sarcastic tone. "What's your point?"

"My point is that you stay here. That's if Sean will allow it. Right now he's happy to dump you back on the streets and make an anonymous call to Scotland Yard for them to pick you up. The only thing stopping him from doing that is Julianne, but he wants the disc."

"You saw my place when you broke in. It was trashed. The disc was gone. I hid it well but they knew what they were looking for."

Kendrick rubbed at his bulbous nose. "Again I believe you. But we need as much information about Pelham's five year plan as you can give us. Those are the conditions, which in the circumstances are not unreasonable. You realize you will never be a free man again, not with this charge hanging over your head."

"I've been framed," protested Harry.

"Of course you have, Harry, but you won't be the first innocent person to spend a long time in prison. You may, however, be the first innocent to go to the gallows in a long while. In this country anyway."

Harry sighed. His options were virtually zero, like a novice caught in a checkmate situation against a Grand Master. "Just who or what is this group anyway?"

"We don't have a name because officially we don't exist. We are totally off the grid. This group is a disorganized and disparate bunch of individuals, most of who would be exiled sooner or later if they hadn't gone underground. Some of them are still working and going home to their families when they can, others have lost their families already. Those of us who aren't in danger of spending time in the deportation camps are just ordinary people, like Julianne, who cannot stand idly by and let this tyrant destroy our nation and its reputation. We're a miserable, hopeless bunch, led by a self-appointed anarchist, the offspring of an IRA bomber, and we all disagree about the methods if not the motives for our actions. But we have plenty of weapons, and we are the only true opposition force that the Government has, even if it doesn't know it. I honestly don't know if we can achieve anything, but we at least have to try. For me it's about being able to sleep at night, and to feel that I'm at least doing something about Donoghue's death."

"So you want me to tell you everything I know about the Government's five year plan?"

"We've heard a lot about the existence of such a plan, but of course it will never see the light of day, not officially anyhow. I guess we will all find out soon enough and it's clear already where this regime is heading, but forewarned is forearmed and if there are any particular areas of policy that we can attack then we may have the element of surprise. Only you know whether the information on that disc will really help us or not. He is due to make his live speech tomorrow. I doubt he will reveal his true plans, so please tell us what you know."

Harry decided he liked Kendrick. He had a depth of sincerity and a candid manner, a realist not a dreamer, despite his affiliation to this bizarre group. He was also now part of this, courtesy of a trumped-up murder charge, whether he liked it or not, so he concluded there was no point holding back. Maxwell was clearly no longer an option, so this group was his only real outlet. It might not be so bad. At least Julianne was around, and he smiled inwardly as he thought of her. "Okay, I guess I have nothing to lose. I will tell you everything I know."

Kendrick's face beamed, creasing the dark lines around his eyes. "Thank you. I'll make the arrangements."

Although Sean and Julianne as founders were regarded as the de facto leaders of this band of rebels holed up in a rural farmhouse in Kent, there was no real hierarchy. It was run more as a collective, and the seven men and two women, the putative 'executive committee' for the group, who usually sat around the large circular oak table in the expansive country kitchen all had, in theory at least, an equal say. Kendrick regarded it as a flawed democracy. Despite their diverse nationalities, they shared a common goal, but that was where it ended. They had very different ideas about the process for meeting those goals, and as they debated what to do with Harry, the tension in the air was palpable. Julianne had made her case in support of him, but several in the group remained unconvinced.

Sean himself was sceptical, and his voice carried the greatest influence. The others knew that it was only out of affection for Julianne that he had agreed to pick up the journalist in the first place, and after their meeting he was more willing than ever to toss him back into the lion's den.

As Kendrick emerged from the cellar, all eyes turned to him. He could see from the tension on their faces that they had been debating the issue of Harry intensely, and clearly there had been no consensus. The group sat around the table consisted of six men other than Sean; Chen, a scholarly but ageing Cantonese man, Yannick Mboto, usually shortened to 'Yan,' an athletic Congolese man who together with Eduardo, the swarthy Bolivian and also present, doubled as unofficial bodyguards for Sean. There was also Waseem, an Arab Sunni Muslim whose community had been decimated by the FREE attacks in his small Home Counties town, Luka, the cocaine snorting Bosnian Serb with a hair trigger temper, and Andrew, a Cambridge educated former Surrey stockbroker who would easily qualify for the Government's definition of racial purity if only for one characteristic; a badly deformed hand from birth, resulting in a swollen limb that had only two short stubby fingers that were virtually useless. It was an ugly, cruel deformity that had defined him as a person the whole of his thirty years, and which now placed him in the cross-hairs of the new regime as it sought to eliminate genetic deficiencies.

There was only one woman in the group other than Julianne; Sindhu was a former Tamil refugee who had fled to Britain over fifteen years ago when the Sri Lankan administration had finally destroyed the rebel Tamil Tigers after three decades of fierce fighting in 2009 and jailed or executed most of the rebel leaders. A handful of them escaped to exile, but it was not just the insurgents who suffered. The Government also targeted the Tamil civilian population, thousands of whom had been killed in the final brutal army onslaughts that finished off the Tigers. Sindhu had lost several of her family before escaping her homeland, but more recently had lost several more to the deportation camps here in Britain. She would have been taken with the rest of her family only she was attending a conference at the time, but both her teenage sons and her husband were now held somewhere in the camps. The rumours were that upon arrival at the camp, detainees had their cellphones confiscated immediately, and Sindhu had confided in Kendrick that she had not heard from her family since they had disappeared and had no clues as to their whereabouts; the government 'helplines' set up were either constantly engaged or were met with a bland voice-mail that promised a return call that never materialized.

It was now getting late, and despite it being the longest day of the year, darkness was drifting down like a cloak over the rolling landscape. It was at this time that many of the part-time operatives arrived, under cover of the night to avoid detection, leaving their families to do what they could before they were called away by their duties to employers and families. Once they'd arrived, the compound was put into lock-down mode for the night, protected by armed guards, but remained a hive of activity throughout the night.

When he was not on duty Kendrick was usually here, and he had observed the interaction of the group very closely. They all had valuable skills that they could offer the group, and he had been impressed by the way they had amassed a healthy stash of weapons, mainly handguns but also a handful of semi-automatic machine guns and a pile of grenades. These had all come through Sean's extensive range of contacts, people he had revealed to no-one, not even Julianne. Kendrick felt that Sean was the only real potential terrorist in the group, the only one who would kill and injure without a second thought if circumstances demanded it. Kendrick would never have associated with Sean in normal life, except probably to arrest him, although, apart from his boasts about being the nephew of one of the Omagh bombers and an accomplished bomber himself, he revealed little more about himself.

Luka also had a past that he kept to himself and usually said very little. Rumours floated that he was the child of a Bosnian mother interred in a Serbian labour camp during the bloody war of independence following the break-up of Yugoslavia in the early 1990s. Those rumours suggested that he was the product of the Serbs' ethnic cleansing policy of raping and deliberately impregnating Bosnian women in order to produce Serb offspring, and therefore his father was unknown, probably a soldier. It was only hearsay, but if it were true it explained a lot about his demeanour. The knowledge that he had been born out of war and hatred clearly affected him to this day. He was a diffident, introvert giant who had built a protective fortress around himself, eschewing all attempts to pierce his mental armour. Even his cocaine habit was a solitary exercise. Yet he was forthright in his views about how the group should operate, and having served as a mercenary in Africa for the last fifteen years, joining the Foreign Legion as a raw teenager, he was no stranger to violence. His brooding physical presence and volatile temperament often intimidated the others. He strongly advocated the use of controlled but violent attacks, recognizing that given their limited resources, such attacks would have to be covert and precisely targeted. Kendrick was certain that Luka too would kill mercilessly, but in a subtly different way. He'd probably do so only if there was no other option, as if he had already witnessed too much senseless killing, whereas Sean was less constrained by his conscience. In any event he and Sean were united in their pursuit of a combative solution, while the rest of the group preferred more passive resistance. However, in the fractious debates that Kendrick had heard, he had seen the others grow less certain of their position as Pelham's regime asserted its stranglehold on the country without any pretence of listening to its populace, least of all those it wanted to deport. A propaganda war, appealing to the mass of public opinion to oust the Conservatives was increasingly regarded as an unrealistic objective. There was too much apathy, but worse still, there was a fear spreading across the country, particularly as Pelham now had effective control of the British Army.

The dissension in the group was never more pronounced than when Yi Chen spoke. His once mellow Cantonese voice now carried a gruffness that betrayed his vice. As a chain-smoker he had permanently nicotine-yellowed hands, and a stench of tobacco seemed to linger around him, the cigarette habit a legacy of his youth. Nevertheless, he was a gifted and articulate communications and social media expert who had been instrumental in creating the infrastructure that allowed the group to work and communicate through a network of cells, and therefore his expertise was indispensable. It was the only reason that Sean and Luka tolerated him, as he was a committed pacifist, having fled his Hong Kong home during China's dissident clampdown of 2014 to escape a potentially long detention for inciting subversive activities. He still believed that resistance could be non-violent but increasingly Kendrick had wondered whether Chen, for all his gifts, was somewhat naive. He continued to stick rigidly to his line of passive resistance through social networking, like some latter day Mahatma Gandhi, but was constantly shouted down by the two main advocates for a more aggressive approach. It was interesting to observe the dynamics of the group. Whilst Sean and Luka had openly declared their hand, as had Chen, the others, including Julianne, were less polarized in their views, keeping an open mind. Even Yan and Eduardo, who had both witnessed violence first hand in their own countries, did not openly support outright aggression. Perhaps it was because they had seen the devastating effects of this violence that they avoided this approach. Covert acts of terrorism always caused innocent casualties, despite Sean's insistence that any acts perpetrated would be precisely targeted. There were never any guarantees, and many in the group were reluctant to have blood on their hands. This was not a sophisticated militia unit. They were a band of disparate individuals, sharing a common purpose but strongly divided as to how to achieve it. Perhaps the group's morality could in the end be their Achilles heel, but there was one violent plan that all, including Chen, had accepted had to be implemented, and the time was nearly ready for that.

"Kendrick," snapped Sean. "Have you gone asleep man? What is his answer?"

"Oh yes sorry," replied Kendrick, emerging from his reverie. "He's willing to tell us all he knows."

"Good. Have him brought up tomorrow morning and we can decide what to do with him later." The tension suffused a little and Sean stood up. "Get some rest everyone, tomorrow will be an eventful day."

## CHAPTER 24

The laboratory was located in a nondescript industrial estate on the edge of the chaotic suburban sprawl of Watford, easily accessible by road from the crumbling M1 motorway or by rail for its supplies, which often came in unmarked boxes. There was an aura of secrecy that now surrounded the lab, particularly since it had been bought out by a Crown Corporation from the pharmaceutical giant Glaxo several months before. There were no signs evident to suggest that the laboratory was now a testing facility effectively controlled by the government.

When the lab fell under new management, Dr. Gareth Pearce had been requested, or more accurately, compelled to sign the Official Secrets Act. He found it strange as the work they did here was not of the type that demanded secrecy, but his new bosses, a faceless bunch of bureaucrats who never showed up in person to speak to him about his work yet demanded regular detailed reports, thought otherwise.

Perhaps it was the nature of the work. The laboratory was one of the foremost centres in England for the study of pathogens and their effect on genetic materials. It was the type of work that had led to the creation of vaccinations and antibiotics to protect against viral, bacterial and fungal pathogens. The work he was now undertaking however, was not about saving lives; it was about destroying them. As the senior technical expert on the project, Pearce had a dedicated team of accomplished scientists working hard to deliver on the tight deadlines imposed by the facility's new masters. The new owners had put the team under increasing pressure, urging them forward to deliver a solution.

Pearce had tried to explain to them that testing and research of this nature had to be handled carefully, not rushed. In his thirty years as a research scientist, he knew that breakthroughs could not be programmed to a deadline; they often occurred in a moment of inspiration, when an experiment that had been tried a thousand times before was tried again, but in a subtly different way, by slightly altering the parameters or the test conditions. Even the most lavishly funded university or corporate facilities were captive to the vagaries of chance. Yet these bureaucrats were not scientists; they failed to understand, and they had pushed his team to work harder and longer hours, demanding results quickly.

He was convinced that, on one of his infrequent drives home to snatch a few precious hours with his family, he had been followed, but maybe it was just paranoia caused by overwork. He certainly felt like one of the hamsters on the treadmill in the glass cages dotted around the laboratory.

However, to his relief it seemed that they had finally made a breakthrough and the tests confirmed it. The rat population in Britain had reached epidemic proportions and various attempts to cull the burgeoning species had failed miserably. Rats were highly resilient and resistant to most parasites, and attempts to introduce 'dirty bugs' into their environment had been totally ineffective. Because of the filthy, infested conditions that rats existed in, they were also strongly resistant to most contaminants and introduced pathogens. Part of the problem was the rate of reproduction, which meant that for every rat killed there would often be twenty to take its place. The sheer volume of rats made it a huge health problem for the country. It did not help that most city streets, where the rats proliferated in greatest numbers, were dirty and badly maintained, creating a perfect breeding environment for vermin. Pearce recalled a puerile joke that had done the rounds recently that if the gangs in London did not get you first, the rats surely would. Indeed, after the national strike of sewage and refuse workers five years before, the city had been ridiculed in the world's press as the dirtiest in the world, fighting off formidable competition from Africa and Asia's most polluted cities. During that time, it was estimated that the rat population nearly doubled, and it had been impossible to contain the problem ever since. It was a vicious cycle. With more rats came more births and more rats. Despite all the efforts of the overstretched health and vermin control units, the rats just kept on coming, and they had also grown noticeably bigger.

Attacking the nests where they could be located was hazardous and arbitrary. They were often located in inaccessible areas, although there had been an increasing incidence in recent years of large rat's nests discovered in cellars, walls and even kitchens. Wiping out individual nests was only scratching at the surface of the problem. What was needed was a biological solution, a bacterium that could spread throughout the population merely by the rats being in contact with one another. The studies he had overseen consisted of the introduction of a hostile bacillus into the rat's gastro-intestinal tract that was a variant of the anthrax bacillus, and would therefore cause massive edema followed by cardiovascular shock. The introduction into the intestines was useful as rats ate their own faeces, providing an efficient method of transmitting the disease across the species. The other effect of the bacillus was that the rats would cough blood, thus releasing the spores into the immediate atmosphere where they would be ingested by the other rats. It would take a long time before the disease reached critical mass, where the deaths from the pathogen outnumbered the births, but the early tests had been promising.

It was now late in the evening, and even the cleaners had left for the day. Encased in his windowless laboratory surrounded by harsh neon lights, it was impossible to tell the weather outside, but he knew from the time that the midsummer sun would be setting soon. As anxious as he was to get home, these latest results confirmed that the pathogen they had manufactured had the right mix of elements to cause the most devastating damage to the rats. Under controlled experimental conditions, the subject rat population had been decimated within seventy two hours, twice as quickly as previous experiments. He was ready to declare the experiment a success.

Pearce placed his hands in the surprisingly light and flexible gloves set in a bubble in the airtight glass screen and skilfully manipulated the gloves to gently position the slide under the microscope on the other side of the glass. He peered at the tiny rod-shaped bacillus moving randomly on the slide. The scientist never ceased to be amazed that something so tiny could cause so much damage. He turned to his assistant, Jason Grant, a recent acquisition to his team. He was not Pearce's most favoured colleague to share the triumph with, but at least the lad was here. He had dismissed the rest of his team several hours ago. Jason had been foisted on his team by the new owners, and Pearce had little say in the matter. Apparently a Masters graduate in Clinical Microbiology at the University of Nottingham, he had been with the laboratory for a few months since the acquisition, and had shown great enthusiasm, if not a natural gift for this type of work. Sometimes his questions were exasperating, not what he would have expected given his credentials, but Pearce had dismissed it on the basis of his lack of laboratory experience. Pearce did not have the energy to explain the technicalities to the gawky, overweight but strong-looking graduate, and he merely turned to his colleague and smiled. "I think we have cracked it, Jason," he said, his voice muffled by his breathing mask, a precaution despite the air tight room behind the glass that held the pathogens. He felt an overwhelming tiredness despite his elation.

Jason's piggy eyes lit up behind his own mask. "That's great doc. This calls for a celebration."

Pearce found the stocky lab assistant mildly irritating at times. No-one else in his team called him 'doc,' they addressed him with respect, and this mildly arrogant boy had certainly not earned the right. And the guy was so big. He was barely twenty-five and he had a huge double chin despite his relative youth. Pearce found it mildly repulsive, even though obesity was such a huge problem in the western world. He forced a weak smile. "Oh not now, I'm so tired. The first thing I want to do is get home to my wife. I feel I could sleep for days. I will announce the findings to the rest of the team tomorrow and we can all celebrate together. I might have spearheaded this project but it has always been a team effort. I feel like the Pied Piper of Hamelin."

"He used his magic on the children when he didn't get payment," replied Jason, scratching his ample stomach. "Say, would this bacillus work on humans?" he said suddenly.

Pearce shot him a quizzical look. "Why, yes it probably would. As I am sure you know rats and humans share very similar biochemistry and genome sequencing, which is why rats and the rodent family generally make such useful subjects for experimentation. What it means is that as the disease can also be contracted through airborne spores, it has to be administered under very strict and controlled conditions to avoid human infection. If a human contracted the disease it could spread. There is still a lot of work to be done in developing the bacillus for mass production but we have the prototype." He pointed to the row of test tubes perched on holders and sealed within a glass cabinet behind the airtight screen. "We just need to build the assembly line."

Pearce moved toward the door but Jason blocked him. "The team can develop that. They don't really need your guidance anymore, is that correct?" Despite Jason's muffled voice, Pearce sensed a steely edge to it.

"I'm sure my team are more than capable of mass producing this pathogen. Now if you will excuse me-" replied Pearce, trying to move around his bulky assistant toward the door.

"That makes you expendable doesn't it doc." Pearce looked at him and saw the cold, hard expression in his eyes. Jason was a few inches taller than Pearce and his weight made him a formidable obstacle. Pearce tried to push through but Grant was a solid wall of flabby tissue. "Get out of my way," Pearce shouted through the mask, but Grant did not move.

Jason's mask creased, as if he was smiling behind it. "Maybe we need a human guinea pig before we release the pathogen," he said.

Pearce stood back. The boy had gone mad. "What the hell are you talking about?"

But Jason did not answer. With a speed that belied his bulky frame he picked up a small but solid mini-generator sitting on a shelf and brought it crashing down on Pearce's temple. The veteran scientist slumped to the floor, out cold. Jason knew exactly how and where to strike him without drawing too much blood, but the problem with any unconscious person was that they were always a dead weight. He glanced at his watch and made a short call, then quickly set to work.

Pearce woke with a blinding headache and he instantly closed his eyes again as the bright light stabbed at them like daggers. He opened his eyes more carefully, adjusting to the radiance, and he gingerly touched his head, the memory of the blow flooding back. He was furious at the young punk and tried to get up. With an effort of will he managed to do so, but his limbs felt leaden as if they were weighted down. He looked around and with a shock he realized he was in one of the airtight testing areas, behind the pressurized glass door that could only be opened from the outside. He was a prisoner.

He hauled himself toward the pressurized door and banged hard on the toughened glass, his fists bouncing off the smooth surface. Some of the testing stations were soundproofed and he could shout all day and no one would hear him. The harsh yellow fluorescent light on the ceiling offered no clue of the time, and he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. His insistent banging did yield a response, however, and he stepped back in surprise as the barrel shape of his attacker suddenly materialized the other side of the glass. He was not alone, however. With him stood two suits, almost identical bland-looking bureaucrats who he faintly recognized as being part of the acquisition team a few months back. Both wore a neutral expression, their appearance so uniform and inconspicuous that their faces were instantly forgettable. It was only Jason who conveyed any expression, and his was one of smug satisfaction. It unnerved Pearce. He tried to sound indignant and commanding. "How dare you lock me in here! Let me out this instant!" However, the three just stared at each other, perplexed, and then Jason flicked a switch on the control near the door, and spoke into the long threaded microphone.

"Sorry, doc, we missed that, what did you say?" Even though his voice was distorted through the electronic machinery, Pearce could sense its mocking tone.

"Get me out of here now!" His voice was less commanding this time, and the three figures did not move.

Jason's electronic voice echoed around the small chamber. "I'm afraid that's not possible doc. You're carrying a lethal infection. We have had to quarantine you. Don't worry, your absence will be explained away. You are in the basement testing station, where no one ventures. It is better that way; we can observe the effects on you without interruption."

Pearce's head was throbbing hard. "What infection, what are you talking about? You've gone mad Grant." He banged on the glass again, but Jason and the two bureaucrats just passively observed him like a zoo animal.

A flicker of empathy crossed his chubby features. "Doc, I feel I owe you an explanation. You recall I asked you whether the bacillus would work on humans. It was not an idle question. We need to test the effects on people. I have injected you with the bacillus, enough for a human to suffer the same effects as a rat. I need to see the symptoms and how long it takes for the bacillus to take effect. You're probably already starting to feel a little queasy, but then you created the pathogen so you'd know better than me. According to your studies on the rats, you should start coughing blood within a few hours. How long do you think it will take doc?"

As he looked at the impassive faces of the bureaucrats silently watching him, a cold, sickening tremor ran through his body. His heart was racing and his body sagged with a morbid fear. "Why?" he choked.

Jason glanced at the bureaucrats and one gave an imperceptible nod. "I guess the least you deserve is to know why you have to die. You've spearheaded a very worthy project, and it will have great benefits as a biological weapon. You would never allow that, so we felt it is better to relieve you of your responsibilities. We will see to it that you are remembered for your work. Personally I really enjoyed working with you. But it isn't just about the rats' doc. There are other vermin closer to home, enemies of the State, and they take priority. Your work is done and we need to take the project over from here."

"What enemies? What are you talking about?" Grant had surely gone mad, but he did not look deranged, in fact he looked more self-assured than ever, and the two faceless suits clearly believed in his sanity. He could feel his body inside starting to rebel, as if a war was ranging around his organs. He noticed his body sweating, a cold clammy moisture breaking through his skin, and his body began shivering uncontrollably.

"The enemies," Grant continued, "Who have dragged this country down, so that it has rotted from within. With your discovery, doc, they will be exterminated and this country will rise to its former greatness. Who knows, you might even get a posthumous award."

Though his mind was beginning to feel cloudy, as if the synapses were being obstructed, he realized with a sickening feeling what Grant was referring to. "Christ," he exclaimed, "You want to use this thing on humans?"

"Enough talk doc. We have to go now. Don't worry, we reckon you have about twenty-four hours but you won't die alone. We will check on you every hour, see how the symptoms are progressing. It will provide very useful analysis."

Pearce could already feel a shortage of breath, his body wheezing like a death rattle. Jesus, it was faster acting than even he had imagined. His throat felt like it was being constricted but the fog in his brain lifted as it suddenly dawned on him how his creation was going to be used. Oh God, they wouldn't would they? How could any government, no matter how tyrannical or corrupt, do that to its people? With as much dwindling energy as he could muster he charged at the glass and pounded on it with his fists, cursing Jason and the two suits standing silently by his side.

Jason merely turned off the microphone so they would not have to hear his insane ranting, and gave a brief smile, his chin wobbling as he did so. As they left, Pearce continued pounding on the glass until he was exhausted, devastated by fear and hopelessness. As he dropped to the floor he suddenly convulsed into a coughing fit, and when it finally stopped he saw already, under the harsh glare of the laboratory lights on the white tiled floor, the first spots of his own blood.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL JUNE 22ND

Today marks one of the most widely anticipated speeches ever by a British leader. The eyes of the world have cast anxious glances in the direction of this small island nation, which has experienced significant economic and social upheaval in the last few years and is in desperate need of a strong leader. Pelham has certainly flexed his political muscle during his brief tenure, and his combative style of governance has been compared with the 'Iron Lady' Thatcher's early years nearly a half century ago. He has yet to be labelled 'Iron Man' in the tabloid press, but he has already ruffled many political feathers. More alarmingly, the simmering class war and the more overt racial tension has often boiled over into street violence of an intensity and regularity that has many commentators concerned that the U.K. could find itself dragged into a civil war.

With Pelham now in charge of the Armed Forces, he has declared his willingness to call in the troops to quell any violence, even though up to now they have remained very much at a stand-off. No-one wants to return to the dark days of the Northern Ireland crisis with protesters throwing Molotov cocktails at police and army units and running to escape tear gas and rubber bullets. Americans are calling this speech the U.K.'s 'State of the Union' address, but the British union is more fractured than ever.

The preparations for tonight's speech at the famous Wembley Stadium, the legendary home of English football, have been shrouded in secrecy, primarily for security reasons. Already Pelham has divided opinion with his robust policies and pace of change in pursuit of his vision, and the security arrangements are reflective of the antipathy toward him in many sectors. So far he has shown himself to be somewhat impervious to public opinion, although the Party has been quick to quash rumours of a secret manifesto. The Deputy P.M. Giles Chamberlain declared that this government would be completely open and transparent, although there has been little evidence of that so far.

It is expected that today's speech will point the way ahead for Britain for the next five years and the public will want answers on what he intends to do about the escalating street violence and spiralling crime, but by far the most important agenda item is what the government itself has termed the 'immigrant problem.' It's not expected to make comfortable viewing for the large proportion of immigrants and ethnic minorities, vast numbers who have been born in the U.K. but forced to register through the complicated process of the Minorities Registration Act. Many registered 'immigrants' have already been sent to deportation camps on an apparently arbitrary basis, and this has led to outcries from civil rights groups in the country and fierce condemnation from abroad.

There is also a vast range of other social and economic problems to tackle, admittedly many of them inherited from the previous Labour administration, and the country was crying out for a strong leader after the barren Bentley years. The question many are asking is at what price? Laws such as the Minorities Registration Act and the Purity of Marriage Act, not to mention the various statutory instruments passed to facilitate the move toward State media control, all point toward strength and power, undoubtedly. But that strength does not lie in the populace. The balance of power has swung toward robust, centralized government control. Today's speech will certainly provide a strong indication of whether democracy in Britain is officially consigned to history.

## CHAPTER 25

It was a bright summer morning, and Julianne could even hear the birds singing outside the large rambling farmhouse in the Kent countryside. It was hard to believe that there was anything wrong in the world as she glanced out at the lustrous green trees gently swaying in the breeze, framed by an azure sky dotted with fluffy clouds like balls of cotton wool. The only blot on an otherwise perfect horizon was closer to home. The land around the farmhouse stretched to a wide perimeter, beyond which stood a small copse and gently rolling trees. The perimeter, however, was marked by a ring of ugly black razor wire. The house and grounds were patrolled by a private security firm under contract, further depleting the cell's limited resources.

The house and its outbuildings was run like a commune, with everyone assigned various domestic tasks just to keep the place running. Julianne had designed the roster and had made sure that both she and Sean pitched in despite their status. She stuck to her tasks assiduously but Sean was at times quite lazy, and often skipped them as if they were unimportant trivialities. To the casual observer it would have looked like an ordinary commune, the type that had become more common in the last fifteen years as economic and social decline dismantled more families and forced people into communal living as people sought comfort in numbers from the hostile world outside. Many communes were protected by razor wire, so that in itself was not extraordinary, but few communes had a cache of weapons stored in the coal bunker, and fewer still had an operations centre full of computers, tablets and listening devices, the fulcrum of the group's communication with its various scattered cells.

As she prepared breakfast, she caught sight of her bare arms under the baggy sweater, and sighed to herself. Sean certainly had a temper, and released his frustrations by lashing out at the nearest thing to him, which was often her. He was always contrite and apologetic immediately after he had done it, but in those moments when he lost control, his eyes were wild and she knew he was capable of killing again. He would never hurt her intentionally, he kept assuring her, yet her bruises contradicted that. He had only hit her once in the face, and the black eye was easily explained by a fall against a light stand. She was not alone. The country had endured an explosion in domestic violence, particularly during the Great Recession, as frustration and desperation boiled over behind the closed doors of the nation. Harry had known the instant he saw her arms. Although their affair had only been brief, she was convinced they had a deep connection. Harry seemed to know her so well, as if she could never deceive him, and when Sean was on top of her last night, clumsy and half drunk, she could not stop thinking of him.

Maybe Sean had sensed it also, because he had berated her for having put their organization at risk by kidnapping Harry from under the noses of the police. He was determined to be rid of him eventually, but even Sean had to bow to the will of the group. Today they would listen to Harry and after that they'd decide his fate.

After breakfast Harry was brought up from the cellar. Julianne thought he looked tired and she felt guilty that he was imprisoned in the cold damp cellar, but Sean had insisted he stay there for security reasons. She secretly believed that Harry's discomfort brought him pleasure, as if it was a way of asserting his superiority. But as the group assembled in the main drawing room, with as many chairs as possible pulled together from various parts of the house, all eyes were on Harry. There were nearly forty people in the room, and it was squeezed tight, many people standing, and several spilled out into the adjoining hallway. A table had been placed at the front of the room for Harry to sit, and he was flanked by Sean and Julianne on either side. It looked like a press conference for a football manager, Julianne mused. Chen had even set up a microphone and as Harry was seated, Sean tested it and his voice echoed around the room. Sound checks completed, Sean motioned the audience for silence and the buzz of conversation died down.

"Most of you know how Harry Clarke came to us, and you all know why he is here this morning. Friends, we are facing a war against a despotic regime. We know that the Tory regime is a fascist dictatorship, but none of us really know their strategy and without that inside knowledge it's difficult to pre-empt them. They will always have the upper hand, but if we know their vision and their plans we can better develop our own counter-strategy, to strike early and cut them down by targeted attacks.

"You have all heard rumours about the existence of the Government's five year plan, not the public manifesto they used to deceive the voting public, but the secret document that sets out their real plans for this country. Only a few people in the Cabinet and the government's inner circle have seen this document, and many of you will have heard what happened to Bernard Maxwell when he attempted to publish the plan. Harry acquired the document-" Sean shot a sideways glance at Harry - "apparently from Graham Matheson himself, and as you know he was murdered recently. Pelham's hoodlums are very keen to make sure that their plan is not leaked any further, so I should warn you that listening to Harry will put you in the firing line. If they ever find out about us they will use force to silence us permanently. We should be under no illusions about that."

He turned to Harry. "Make it good Harry. Our lives may depend on it but yours definitely will," he added threateningly, the malice clearly evident in his voice.

Harry ignored the warning and cast his eyes over the assembled group. They were a disparate bunch, a cross-section of the country's cosmopolitan society now under threat, and they did not appear very cohesive or disciplined. They would offer little resistance if the Government took an interest in eradicating them. He could fully understand Julianne's interest in making sure that they stayed under the radar, because despite Kendrick's insistence that they had plenty of weapons, if the army came calling they would raze the farmhouse and all its occupants like swatting a fly. He looked around the room. Just where was Kendrick anyway?

Harry had not prepared anything, except in his mind, but it was surprising how sharp the details of the plan were in his brain, as if they were waiting to be off-loaded. He spent the next hour reciting the horrors of what he had read and recalled about the five year plan, and he barely paused for breath as the words tumbled out, not in any particular order, merely as he recalled them. The assembled group hung on to every word and did not interrupt him during the whole speech, and as he talked, he was less aware of his immediate surroundings, instead recalling the repugnance he had felt when he had first read the disc back in his apartment, in what seemed an age ago.

He described how the Government planned to change the constitution by effectively removing the principle of Parliamentary sovereignty, so that Parliament was no longer the supreme rule making body. Because they already had effective control of Parliament, they were totally capable of achieving this. It meant that the executive branch of Government, in particular the Cabinet, through an Enabling Act passed by Parliament, would be granted the authority to enact laws without the participation of Parliament. This model had been established in Germany in 1933 and effectively passed the powers of the constitution to the Government, setting the ground for dictatorial rule. In 1930s Germany, the law had been called an Act to Remedy the Distress of the People and the Nation, but its key result was to effectively remove the power of the Reichstag, the German Parliament, as an active participant in German politics, and it became little more than a stage for Hitler's speeches. The danger signs were already present in history.

The Cabinet could pass laws that did not need to go through the exhaustive scrutiny of Parliamentary review, and thereby allow them to pass laws, no matter how draconian, with impunity. The other pillar of the British constitution was the rule of law, which stated that everyone is equal before the law and no person is above the law, including those in power; and people are free to do anything, unless the law says otherwise; thus, no punishment should be applied without being able to point to a clear breach of the law. This pillar was also under attack and would mean that if it were struck down, it would remove the principle of habeas corpus, a writ or legal action, through which a prisoner could be released from a detention lacking sufficient cause or evidence and therefore unlawful. The dismantling of the rule of law would enable the executive and its organs complete power to arbitrarily stop, search, interrogate, imprison and put on trial anyone they wished to, without any need to give reasons or to bring forth any evidence of a breach of law.

It would also give them power to entrench their own position, effectively giving them a route to unrivalled and permanent power. They would be able to pass legislation that would make the formation of opposition parties' illegal, thereby removing any challenge to their authority. Again the Nazi Party had consolidated power in this way, for example by banning the trade unions and arresting their leaders. During the eighties in Britain, Thatcher had also attacked the trade unions, not going quite so far as banning or arresting them, but using her parliamentary and executive authority to effectively emasculate them, ironically accusing them of undermining parliamentary democracy and economic performance through strike action. Her high profile confrontation with the National Union of Miners cost the country billions and devastated entire communities, but she succeeded in destroying the power of the trade unions with a significant toll on her opponents. Pelham would not be the first Conservative P.M. to adversely affect the lives of large sections of the population in pursuit of their goals.

Of even greater concern was the plan to pass plenary powers to the office of the Prime Minister. This would mean that power would be granted to Pelham in absolute terms, with no review of, or limitations upon, the exercise of his powers. The assignment of a plenary power to Pelham would divest all other bodies or individuals from the right to exercise the powers granted to him. More importantly, the right to substantively review the exercise of that power in a particular instance or in general was also divested. This would create a true one Party state where Cabinet could pass laws quickly and without independent review by Parliament or the courts. Even worse, the plenary powers granted to Pelham would mean that he could make his own decisions independent of Cabinet, and those decisions could not be struck down or subject to independent review. Not only would the country be a one Party State, but in turn it would also become a one person State. The country's transition from democracy to dictatorship would be complete.

As he talked about this, it was difficult to gauge the impact on his audience. Some of them looked a little confused, and it was understandable that they did not fully understand what this entailed. As a political correspondent, however, he was intimately acquainted with the implications for the nation and its people. He clarified the position by stating that if they achieved their constitutional goals, the government would have complete and total power, with no checks and balances and no accountability. They would have total power over the judiciary, the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom. None of Pelham or his inner circle's actions, no matter how extreme, could ever be tried in a British court of law. They would hold power over the country's Armed Forces, the Church, the police and both the House of Commons and the House of Lords, the latter which they'd abolish anyway. The country would witness a transition to a true totalitarian state. It was already happening now, but the alarming thing was what the Government planned to do with that unfettered power.

He described the Tories' vision of a 'pure' race free from the imperfections of other races and creeds, and physically perfect, with no tolerance for physical or mental disabilities of any kind. The immigrant population would be forced out through high taxes on their businesses and earnings, an erosion of their civil and legal rights, removal from positions of influence and boycotting of their businesses. Immigrants would be economically emasculated, but they would also face severe restrictions in what they could do and where they could go. Violence and hatred toward the immigrant population would be positively encouraged and this was seen already in the riots and attacks in cities across the country and the unrestrained activities of groups like FREE. It would all count toward one thing, the systematic destruction or removal of the immigrant population. The process had already started with the Minorities Registration Act and the setting up of the deportation camps, but it would be a gargantuan task to register and remove all the estimated thirty-two million immigrants from the country, nearly half the population.

Harry continued, "I doubt that too much of this will be a surprise to some of you, and I have no doubt that Pelham will probably cover much of this in his keynote speech to the nation later today. The really worrying aspect is the scale and ambition of his project. How can he really hope to achieve it? That is what should be of concern to you all, because it is the 'how' that will affect every single man, woman and child in this country."

The group stayed silent but there were a few murmurs and gasps as Harry continued. He described his own experience at the deportation camp in Salisbury, noting that whilst it had only just been set up, conditions were appalling and likely to get worse. They envisaged a regime where the death penalty would be reintroduced, but a lesser range of offences would constitute capital crimes, including acts such as sedition or plotting against the State, which could be interpreted in its widest form, and with no effective judicial process, the regime could sentence dissidents to death with little regard to their human rights. It would be an effective tool to silence critics.

Even if this did not deter people from speaking out, the forums for doing so would be limited, and this was already happening, as Harry noted when trying to find radio stations on his drive back from Salisbury. Eventually all television, print and digital media, radio and social networks would be controlled by the State, effectively muzzling the opposition by removing the outlet for dissent. The government would win the propaganda war because they would be the only voice being heard.

To further discourage dissent and opposition, it was proposed to limit people's individual freedoms, and this would be enforced by a zealous internal security force drawn from militia units in the armed forces and also drawn from street gangs, but also by subverting the role of the police from the protection of the individual to the protection of the State. They proposed to deter crime by such an extreme response that the risk of being caught would act as a brutal deterrent. They saw this as a way of weeding out the criminal element in society in the same way that they proposed to exterminate 'impurities' by forced sterilizations for immigrants and those with physical disabilities.

The Government viewed the freedom of the individual as subjugated to that of the State. People would be rewarded for spying on their neighbours and reporting seditious activities to the authorities. It would be a surveillance State, where individual privacy was subordinated to the power of any government agency to tap phones, and monitor people's email, social networks and web-surfing activities. The aim was for the population to be completely subservient to the State, which in turn would grant them freedom from crime and dilution of their cultural identity, and a return to security and full employment. Harry noted with irony how the most extreme right wing politician in living memory built his utopia along a communist model, but commented that history had shown that any extreme regime, at either end of the political spectrum had a similar ideology; that of individual subservience to the State, and the repression of any freedom of thought. Technology and social media had made the challenge of suppressing free speech far greater for authoritarian regimes than in the past, but this Government was determined to do so anyway, and had already made significant strides to that end.

"The only positive thing I can say about this regime is that while they've declared their hatred for Muslims, Jews and any other minorities you care to think of, they don't intend to engage in any program of ethnic cleansing. Even Pelham cannot be totally impervious to world opinion. As far as we know, their aim is not to exterminate but to remove all traces of ethnic minorities from these shores."

He looked around the room, and a heavy silence hung in the air.

Sean spoke first, and his tone was heavy with derision. "Do you honestly expect us to believe that this regime wants to get rid of every single immigrant in this country?"

Harry sensed the hostility in his voice and turned to him. "Quite frankly I don't care what you believe Sean. You asked me to tell you about the five year plan and I have done that. What you choose to do with it is up to you."

Sean scowled at him but said nothing. A low buzz of conversation began to rise from the assembly, and Harry saw some concerned expressions amongst the group. Julianne's voice rose above the general chatter. "Are there any questions?"

Sindhu stood up, her red sari flowing around her. "How long do we have to stop this?"

Harry gave an ironic smile and bent over the microphone. "As you know they're already implementing their plans, but they have moved quicker than even I expected. Lance Pelham is ruthless, with a heart of stone, and he is very single-minded. He will seek to achieve his vision no matter what the human cost. He knows it will be brutal and ugly but he sees that as necessary. Having crossed him in the past I know that he does not accept criticism easily and he will use the power he has to crush any opposition. He's a clever manipulator, always devious, but now he's in the seat of power, far more dangerous than ever before. This country is on a knife edge. I know also that he is an impatient man, and he will use every means at his disposal to achieve his aims as quickly as possible. Despite the surprising pace at which they have moved, I can tell you that he has only got started. I think that today's speech will provide some form of milestone of how quickly they propose to implement their plans, but my view is that we have very little time." He paused and then laughed faintly. "As regards stopping them? I don't think we have a hope in hell."

The Serbian Luka marched to the front and bent over so that his head was level and his face no more than a few inches from Harry's. Although he was still relatively young, Harry could see the lines on his face and the smouldering ferocity in his eyes told of a life of brutality, either perpetrated or witnessed. His breath smelt of stale cigarettes. "You underestimate us," he said in a low threatening drawl.

Harry sat back, a little intimidated by this wild-eyed stranger, but he kept his voice level. "I know very little about you, but I do know the resources the government has. No-one stands a chance against them. Their only stumbling block will be world opinion but that never stopped tyrants like Assad and Mugabe in the past."

"Luka, sit down!" Julianne snapped.

He turned to her, his face still set in a grimace. "What does he know? We can make a difference but we have to do it now. If we delay in taking action we will have lost our chance. We need to rise up and fight back! If Pelham is prepared to use brute force, then we must do the same. Fight fire with fire. This is a war!" His voice rose almost to a crescendo and he raised his small Russian made Makarov pistol high in the air. A number of people in the audience stirred uneasily as Luka waved the gun around. They knew him well enough to understand that he was driven by a blind passion, and it would be unwise to try to reason with him when he brandished his prized possession.

Julianne saw Sean nodding in support on the other side of Harry, but then the Cantonese man Yi Chen stood up, a calm but probing expression on his heavily lined face. Although he looked frail, and he leaned on his chair for support, his keen intellect was as sharp as ever. He was also quite courageous, maybe because he no longer feared death. He had once told Julianne that it was an appointment everyone had to keep sooner or later, so was it not totally illogical to fear the inevitable? It was typical of his unruffled but forceful intellect. His penetrating gaze was fixed on Luka, unperturbed by the weapon in his hand. "Luka, we cannot fight this regime and attacking them would only bring the weight of the army down on our shoulders. We would not stand a chance. Our only way is from within, to sabotage their plans where we can. It has to be done anonymously and quietly. Your plan will only draw attention to us. The only reason we're still alive is because our cells are clandestine. We must keep it that way. We should strike where we can but we must be patient."

Luka cocked his pistol and aimed it at the diminutive Cantonese man. "You're just a coward Chen," he snarled.

Chen did not flinch. "I may not be a soldier like you but I am not a coward. I accept the reality of where we are and we must take a balanced approach."

The antipathy between the two men that had been evident at several of their meetings had surfaced again, pondered Julianne sadly. They were at opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to policy for the group, and Luka's simmering resentment of their resident communications expert was not helped by the older man's measured passivity. Not for the first time, Julianne felt compelled to intervene, but Harry got there first.

"Like it or not Luka, Chen is right. It would be suicide to engage in an armed struggle against the might of this regime. Unless of course that is what you were thinking? I don't know how many weapons you have but they have drone planes. They just need to target the coordinates for this farmhouse and strike and we would all be annihilated in an instant."

Luka was still brandishing the gun and spun round to face Harry again. "I am not proposing an open war. We strike them when they least expect it, when they're least prepared. A program of targeted terrorist attacks at the heart of their regime. We kill and injure and disappear until the next time. We have enough cells to wage this type of war."

"And what about the inevitable civilian casualties that always result from terror attacks? The people that really matter in the Party will be well protected."

Luka paused, still waving his pistol nonchalantly like a child's toy. "Collateral damage," he replied casually. "It's a dirty war but much more effective. I have seen it used to devastating effect in Angola and Nigeria by political and separatist militants. It's the only way to make a regime like this take notice. A passive propaganda approach like Chen is proposing-" he waved his gun in the Cantonese man's general direction- "will achieve nothing except our own deaths. I have seen regimes like this many times in Africa. They understand only bloodshed and violence, the rule of the gun."

"Your way demonstrates a complete disregard for human life," protested Chen.

"So be it," snarled Luka. "One day I will take you to the hellhole of an African prison to see how cheap human life really is."

Julianne interjected. "Enough. This is not the time." Her voice cut through the tension in the air and Harry was amused to see Luka skulk back into his chair like an admonished schoolboy. Julianne turned to Harry. "What plan does the regime have for the Church and religion?"

Harry rubbed his chin, conscious of his stubbly bristle. "Strangely enough, the plan is not as explicit about religion as in other areas. It plans a program of destruction of mosques, particularly in areas where local Muslims practice their own unofficial form of Sharia law. Equally it has targeted synagogues, which is inevitable considering the renewed rise in anti-Semitism across Europe since the turn of the century. But it is strangely silent on the Christian church. I do know that Pelham himself is a committed atheist, with aspirations for a fully secular society, but that does not mean that the Church cannot continue in a state sponsored form. I think this would just be a natural evolution in any event. Most western societies are recognized as secular in nature, particularly, for example, the United States, apart from the Bible Belt. I think Pelham knows that to ban religion entirely would be self-defeating, but I suspect he will try and control it for his own purposes." He pointed to the cross that Julianne wore around her neck. "I do believe, however, that such symbols of worship will soon be outlawed. They do not correlate well with complete submissiveness to the State."

Another arm shot up from the group, and as Harry looked over he saw that it was not really a hand at all but a stubby, badly deformed lump of flesh that had only two short fingers. "Hi Harry, my name's Andrew." Harry smiled at his refined Eton style accent which exuded charm and affability. "You mentioned that disabilities would not be tolerated." He pointed to his fleshy stump. "Do you think this would count and if so what do they intend to do with us?"

Harry sighed. "I recall that it is mentioned many times throughout the document that the regime was looking to build a perfect race, mentally and physically. In the 1930s the Nazis engaged in a program of eliminating people with mental or physical abnormalities, whether genetic or otherwise. That included their own countrymen. They did not discriminate and they were ruthless in doing so. I don't expect that this regime will be any different. At the very least there will be forced sterilizations, but it's not clear what they intend to do with their own disabled citizens. In Nazi Germany they were either sent to the death camps or made homeless and left to fend for themselves so that eventually they died of starvation and exposure. The deportation camps are aimed at repatriation of immigrants but it may be an option to send others there as well."

Andrew gave a shallow laugh. "So I should check my life insurance policy then?" he quipped. There was a small ripple of muted laughter but his joke helped to ease the tension in the room. Harry held court for a little longer, answering questions as openly and as honestly as he could, based on his limited knowledge, before Sean ordered Yan and Eduardo to take him down to the cellar again.

As the group broke up to resume their tasks, Julianne confronted Sean as he went to the bedroom they shared. She followed him in and slammed the door. "Why have you sent him down to the cellar again?" she shouted.

He turned toward her, the spidery veins on his cheek looking darker. "Because I haven't decided what to do with him yet," he replied dismissively.

"He has made it clear he can be trusted. Look at the information he provided to us! He's a political journalist for Christ's sake! He can be a great asset for us." Her impatience with Sean was rising and it was betrayed in her voice and expression.

His icy blue eyes narrowed with a hint of suppressed anger. "You may trust him but I certainly don't."

Julianne wanted to scream at him. "What will it take for you to trust him? He has told us everything he knows and in return we keep him locked in a stinking cellar!" She paused, looking deep into his cold eyes. He turned away uncomfortably. "Oh I see. You're jealous aren't you? Do you see Harry as a threat? Do you think I have a thing for him? That's what it's about isn't it?" She suddenly realized she was shouting, her feisty temperament fuelled by indignation.

"Shut up," he said quietly.

She continued unperturbed. "No I will not shut up! What we shared was a long time ago and any feelings I ever had for him were smashed apart when he went back to his wife! Get over yourself." "I said shut up!" This time he shouted and in one fluid motion he brought the back of his hand across her cheek, drawing a smattering of blood across her ruby red lips. She cowered from him and stepped back.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, this time his hand raised in supplication. "You made me do it."

She grabbed a tissue from the bedside cabinet and gingerly wiped her stinging lips. "That's always your answer isn't? Lash out at anything you can't control. That's going to get you killed one day. You will regret it if you're blinded by petty jealously to get rid of Harry. He can do so much for us. You just can't see it and that will be your downfall." As she stormed out of the room she paused by the door. "Sometimes I really hate you!"

The atmosphere in the room was tense, and not just because of the argument between Sean and Julianne, news of which, in the close confines of the farmhouse, spread like wildfire, but as the hour approached for the speech by Pelham. The broadcast from Wembley stadium was being streamed live by web-cast and on all the major TV channels and news of it dominated the Web, radio and all the social media networks. It was one of the biggest media events in the country in years. The time was fast approaching for the speech, which was scheduled for seven in the evening, and the reporters on TV were breathlessly speculating about its likely content. The whole run up to the speech was like an Oscars award ceremony, with selected celebrities invited to the front rows being stopped and interviewed, always happy to pause and receive screen time to promote whatever project they were engaged in.

The interviews were shallow and inane, Harry observed, and he wondered just how much these people really knew. None of them were critical of Pelham, despite his policies already stimulating violence and chaos in the streets day after day. His short time in office had already precipitated a fundamental shift in the country's psyche. He wondered how they felt about the Government's moves to muzzle and ultimately control the media, which these celebrities relied on as their life blood. Perhaps that was why they were careful not to speak out because those that did would suddenly find that they were ostracized, and without the media talking about them they were nothing.

It was interesting that this mindset also applied to the wider public. Everyone had a reason to be afraid, to avoid speaking out for fear of reprisal, which was mainly how dictatorships perpetuated. They were built on a foundation of fear and intimidation and Harry knew well enough that Pelham and Chamberlain were masters at intimidation.

He looked at the faces around him, all anxiously waiting for the speech. He was lucky to be here at all. Sean had finally relented to Julianne's pressure and Yan and Eduardo had escorted him from below. They were polite and respectful, and far friendlier than the first time they'd taken him from the cellar, as if they had accepted him as a member of this little band of rebels. It was only Sean and the Serb Luka who regarded Harry with any suspicion. He was now allowed to move freely around the building, which Sean had reluctantly agreed to, signing off with an acerbic remark to 'keep an eye on him.'

As the appointed time for the speech moved ever closer, the tension amongst the group clustered around the large television became almost palpable. Sean particularly looked strained, the lines on his face looking as if they had been inked on. Julianne too looked under stress. She had barely spoken to Harry since he had come up from the cellar, and deliberately avoided catching her eye when he gazed in her direction. Her lip was puffy, he noticed. He had hit her again, he was certain.

There was something more than just the natural anticipation of what Pelham had to say. It was almost like an air of expectation; as if they were waiting for something to happen, something they feared. He meant to ask Julianne, but he had been unable to get close to her. Sean had stuck to her like a barnacle to make sure she did not speak to him.

On-screen, the bright floodlights of Wembley stadium dimmed perceptibly, and the arc lights bathing the stage set in the middle of the soccer pitch also faded to nothing. The crowd, a huge audience seated in the stands but also on the pitch itself, surrounding the stage, went noticeably quieter, the buzz of conversation dying down as a distant drum roll sounded from within the bowels of the stadium. It was time, and the group seated around the TV were not just silent, Harry observed, they looked positively petrified.

## CHAPTER 26

The operation had been planned meticulously down to the finest detail. The schematics for the stadium had been pored over for endless hours and a plan laid out in intricate detail so that Faisal's every step had been rehearsed and run through in his mind. When the time came, and he had to run as fast as he could in the confined space around the stage, he fully expected that his body would respond almost instinctively, without the need for conscious thought. This would enable him to wield all his concentration on the task in hand, because he knew that when the defining moment arrived, he would need every drop of mental strength for the trial ahead.

When the Council of Leaders had gathered to choose the emissary for the mission, there had been much heated debate among the imams and the clerics. It was a task of honour, of course, but no one really relished the thought of actually sacrificing themselves. Faisal had spoken up, however, and the Council had readily agreed, relieved that they had been spared the task of forcibly 'appointing' a delivery agent. Faisal was a graduate of one of the underground jihadist training camps that were dotted around the country, this one in his home town of Bradford. Although he was born in England, he had been indoctrinated to hate this country and to regard his true homeland as that of his forefathers, born in the great Central Highlands of Afghanistan, part of the Hindu Kush mountain range. He had never visited this beautiful land, and now probably never would, but he had learned so much in his nineteen years about this great, mountainous country, which for far too long had been occupied and oppressed by western military forces. He had learned Farsi and developed a deep understanding of the Pashtun culture, religion and traditions that had existed long before this accursed country of England had ever spread its cancer outside its own shores.

He had volunteered mainly for two reasons. His hatred of the infidel had been compounded by the attacks on the Muhammadi Masjid mosque on Lumb Lane that had created such a sense of impotent rage in his community. The anti-immigrant scum known as FREE had violated this sacred place and destroyed half of the building two weeks before. His brother had been at evening prayers in the mosque and had barely escaped with his life. When the infidel had set fire to the building there had been a huge stampede toward the exits as the raging fire took hold. Many had been trampled underfoot in the chaos and confusion but several others had suffered a worse fate, unable to escape the all-consuming flames. His brother had managed to film some of the chaos on his cellphone but as he escaped from the choking black smoke billowing around inside the building, he had been attacked and beaten unconscious by several white men with chains and baseball bats. He had woken up in hospital with several cracked ribs and a broken arm as he tried to fend them off.

Although the operation had been at the planning stage before this attack, in fact since the Prime Minister had announced the speech, it was the attack on his local mosque that had prompted him to volunteer. The other reason was that his holy leaders in the training camp had promised him a life everlasting in paradise if he carried out this mission. He drew inspiration from the Holy Book that said that those who became 'shahid' or 'martyrs' for the noble cause of jihad would be revered and his name hallowed on earth while the martyr would enjoy all the sensual pleasures that paradise had to offer throughout eternity. The Qur'an was his gospel, the very foundation on which he lived his life. He had built his life around its teachings, and his holy masters in the training camp had brought his interpretation and understanding of its wisdom to a whole new level. When he had heard about groups of infidel standing around a campfire burning copies of the Holy Book in the streets of his town, his blood boiled with rage and frustration at this heinous insult to Islam. His masters told him that there would be trials to be faced, battles to be fought against the non-believers who sought to oppress peace-loving followers of Islam, and this made the jihad such a noble and honourable goal. Not until every last one of the infidel had been wiped from the face of the earth would the jihad be truly successful, but his masters had promised him that someday it would come. However, there were fierce battles to be fought before the jihad achieved its ultimate aim.

They had not directly told him everything about the operation, only what he needed to know, but despite his relatively young age and lack of maturity, they'd welcomed him into their discussions and treated him with new found respect when he had volunteered for the mission. As a result, he was intimately acquainted with the finer details of the mission. He had not told his parents. The leaders had advised against it, and it made perfect sense. Even his brother, who would still be lying in hospital if they had not sent him home, claiming a shortage of beds, was not as devout as Faisal. His parents had objected at first when he had left home to live at the camp nearly a year before, and his brother had merely shrugged his shoulders and gone off to worship in his own way. After a visit from the Council leaders they had relented but his relationship with them had become more strained. In the intervening period he had returned home scarcely a dozen times, and each time was more awkward than the last. He could not bring himself to tell them. They would only try and persuade him to come home, or worse still, wail and cry, mourning him as if he had already passed on. He could not stand that. His new family was in the training camps. Could they not see that he had moved on?

He looked around him. The sky was bright and the air carried a scent of blossom unfamiliar in this heavily urbanized area. It was probably from the rose garden across the road, an oasis amongst the jungle of concrete and steel that dominated this area. The roar of traffic was constant, and when he turned, the more familiar pungent odour of carbon fumes drifted up his nose. It was especially busy now. The whole area for miles in and around Wembley had been a hive of activity for several days. The streets surrounding the famous old stadium had been barricaded with huge yellow metal poles placed horizontally atop metal supports, and each was manned by several police officers. It had made even walking around the area unrealistic unless you were heading to the stadium for the big event. Each time Faisal arrived at one of these barricades, his heart began racing and he had to breathe deeply as the elders had taught him. He had his Stadium Pass and it was the most beautiful forgery, something that would have been quite impossible to create, with the complex holographic imaging, if they had not received inside help. Even so, every time it was inspected at a barricade there was always a short moment of panic that the Pass would be rejected. The police officers and security guards invariably looked hard at him, not just because of his features, but also his youth. They probably wondered how an immigrant of his age had secured entry to this monumental event, when the authorities had given out so few. However, he had ample papers to show that he was the head of the local branch of the Muslim Youth Council, another forgery, but no one had asked for those papers yet. It would have been worse if he had not shaved off his beard two days before.

He looked toward the stadium, the main structure hidden behind buildings but the huge lattice arch curving gently across the deep blue sky, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. It dominated the immediate skyline, and the huge off-centre arch that spanned the length of the stadium acted as a beacon, gravitating people toward it like some siren from an old nautical tale. Everywhere he looked, people were flooding in droves in the direction of that arch. He joined the throng, self-consciously pressing his hand against the C-4 plastic explosive expertly molded and woven around his vest and taped to his chest. It was highly effective because it could be molded into any desired shape and would escape the metal detectors, and it was effectively odourless, so even the sniffer dogs would not discover it. The creator of this vest was barely two years older than Faisal, but a highly accomplished bomb maker, more proficient even than those who plied their trade in the Gaza Strip.

Even so, he was careful to avoid the police Alsatians that strained at their leash along part of the long route into the stadium. The explosive had been moulded into the vest so that it looked like part of his torso, as if he had been working out, and it was covered by his brown leather jacket. If he stayed calm and serene, no-one would ever suspect him. He had spent many hours with one of his mentors in meditation and breathing exercises, and how to control one's body so that the tension stayed within. It was all part of the preparation for the time ahead so that he would stay focused and clear-headed when it mattered most.

The other advantage was that the explosive was very stable and could not be easily detonated. Even a gunshot or an extreme impact would not set it off. Only a shock-wave such as a detonation would set off the explosive, which meant it could be easily controlled, and he had no need to worry as he was pushed and jostled by the crowds now filing like devotees toward the great shrine.

He fell in with the crowd as it moved slowly along the wide pedestrian concourse, the vast stadium with its sleek curves and glass offices rising tens of stories high, stretching out in front of them. The huge arc could now be seen in its full glory, and despite the bright evening, was already lit, as were the arc lights dotted at intervals around the top of the structure. There was a buzz of excitement amongst the crowd, a sense of expectation. He could feel it in the mass of people as they pushed forward, in their faces and in the snatched pieces of conversation he happened to overhear. He had always been a watcher of people, a silent observer, always on the periphery, never comfortable being the centre of attention. He smiled to himself at the irony. If all went well, he'd have a bigger audience than he could ever imagine. The speech was being beamed live on television and through the social networks all over Britain, although the State controlled broadcaster had prohibited its transmission abroad as far as current technology could allow.

The crowds around him were the privileged ones, those who had been selected to attend in person at this great cathedral, usually a place of worship for the soccer faithful. With their contacts the leaders had secured him the forged ticket, but he had to make sure that he arrived early at the designated Gate J. When his forged pass was waved through, he would be recorded in the system and whoever held the genuine ticket for his seat number would be turned away; as long as he arrived first.

Despite the crowds pressing together, he had a sense that he was being silently followed, his every move watched and analyzed. He looked quickly around him, but saw only a throng of bodies all shuffling forward, no-one interested in him or even aware of his existence. But then he saw a figure in a trench-coat emerge from the throng and look directly at him. His tired looking face, framed by a mask of short grey stubble, somehow appeared vaguely familiar, but it had that intelligent gaze that seemed to bore right through Faisal, as if the stranger could see inside his jacket through the heavily wired vest underneath. The man scratched his stubble three times with a downward motion and with relief Faisal returned the gesture. It was rumoured that the contact was a police detective, but he was still a sympathizer to the cause. They were watching him closely and had his back in case of trouble.

As he neared Gate J he arrived at the first of the security cordons around the perimeter of the stadium. This one, he had been advised, was merely a cursory check, the more extensive searches occurring at the gates. However, as he filtered through the crowd funnelling toward the checkpoint, he saw another Alsatian firmly held by his police handler, its jaws dripping with saliva as if it were itching to bite somebody. He shuffled through and felt the tension knotting his neck muscles as the blank-faced officer quickly checked his ticket and waved him through. He had no backpack to check. It was important to travel light and reduce the risk of being stopped. As he took the ticket back with a clammy hand and moved past, the dog gave him a perfunctory sniff and looked up at him with doleful eyes. He quickly moved on and to his relief the dog lost interest. First barrier negotiated.

There was another similar barrier to steer through before he reached Gate J and this time the security officer frisked him, scowling at him deeply as if his olive skin was the wrong shade for this event. However, he checked the ticket over thoroughly and grudgingly allowed him to pass. Gate J would be easier and as he neared the entrance he checked his watch. He was one minute ahead of schedule and so he hung back. He looked desperately for his contact, the face burned into his memory from the endless briefings and simulations prior to the mission. His leaders had warned him that if Faisal could not locate the security manager, then something was fundamentally wrong and the mission would be aborted. There were so many opportunities for this mission not to succeed, but he felt an icy tingling down his back as he looked ahead and recognized his contact.

It was impossible to know how the elders had found him, but the bald, round-faced security manager with a pasty complexion had been a willing supporter, even helping to arrange the forgery. It was critical to have inside help on an operation like this and it was rumoured that the manager had been carefully profiled as a dissident, his wife being Iranian and at risk of being deported. It was reported that he was just waiting for the papers or the knock on the door, so he had enthusiastically agreed to participate in the operation. He recognized the manager immediately from photos he had been given and memorized, and as he drew nearer he gave the pre-arranged signal, a scratch of his left cheek three times, when he was certain the security manager had spotted him.

The manager moved forward to the barriers as Faisal shuffled forward in the herd. There was still a buzz from the crowd and Faisal could hear a few loud complaints about the security slowing them down, but as he moved forward for his turn the security manager stepped forward and said to his colleague, a pony-tailed, beefy looking steward, "I'll take this one," as he pointed to Faisal. His colleague shrugged and as his boss moved Faisal to one side, he began to check the next in line. The security manager scrutinized the pass for what seemed a long time, and for a horrible second he thought that he had made a huge mistake. His face remained as still as a poker player as he had been trained, but a drip of perspiration rolled down his back underneath the shirt. However, it was all part of the carefully orchestrated plan, and after being searched thoroughly by the manager, he passed through a metal detector like airport security. It beeped loudly and again his anxiety squeezed him like a vice before he was asked to take his watch off, and then passed safely through. The security manager continued his search and when he was satisfied, he discreetly patted Faisal's vest where the explosives were sewn in. The manager briefly locked eyes with Faisal, holding his gaze for an extra second. Apart from that, there was no other sign that the manager knew or recognized Faisal. He passed through the turnstile and was now inside the stadium.

There were hot dog stands and beer vendors, just like there was at the soccer matches or concerts that usually played here. He only ate halal meat and he had been disciplined in the training camp to resist the debilitating effects of alcohol on the brain. He needed to stay alert and focused, and avoid any decadent western drug. Even so, he suddenly felt hungry. They had given him a celebratory 'last' meal which he had hardly touched, in part because, he was afraid to admit, he was horribly nervous. He had gone to the mosque to pray alone, kneeling in supplication before a small statue of Allah and asking for the strength and courage to see his mission through. He spoke to his one true God like he had never done before, pouring out his worries and insecurities as if to an old friend, but the graceful symbolic edifice had stood unmoving, silent and static. Although Muslims worshipped only one God, who has no image or statues, the statue had been placed there purely as a symbol for those believers who could not understand this concept, to have some physical manifestation of the deity, and he certainly found it comforting.

He had been taught by his mentor that this life full of injustice was merely a trial, a test to prepare for the wondrous, everlasting afterlife that awaited him, and where true justice would be dispensed based on your actions in this life. He had never doubted the veracity of that belief for a second, but hoped that Allah would speak to him, to reassure him that he would be strong enough, and that paradise awaited him on the other side. Instead there was only a stony silence in the mosque and in his head, no great revelations or insights.

He took deep breaths to calm his frayed nerves, the realization dawning on him that having escaped the security barriers, this operation would proceed as planned and he would surely die. Though his mouth was dry, he emptied his bladder in the nearby toilet, a foul-smelling concrete block, dirty and crowded. He rarely used public washrooms, and he was disgusted by them, washing his hands feverishly. He checked his ticket and headed to the block where his seat was located and emerged out onto the running track area level with the pitch, although the ground was completely covered with a thick brown tarpaulin to protect the turf.

Toward the far end of the pitch stood the elevated stage where the Prime Minister would be speaking. Set high up in the stands were two huge televisions screens whose focus was the stage where at present technicians were working, testing equipment and making final adjustments to the sound quality. The stage rose about ten feet above the ground, and he could see the wide steps that Pelham would mount when he arrived for his speech. Already there were suits, like ants from this distance, milling about, framed in black against the brightly lit stage. As he moved closer a steward checked his ticket and directed him to his seat, in a segregated block ringed by a small fence and clearly marked 'Foreign Delegates,' but the section was closest to the stage. He was eight rows back from the front, but he was at the end of his row, so he could immediately leap the fence and move into the aisle between the seating blocks and dash toward the stage unobstructed. The stage was set back from the front seats, like a castle surrounded by a moat, but it was not fenced off or obstructed. As he took his seat he ran through the procedure again in his mind. He had pictured it many times, but now he was here, he could visualize it more clearly and it was very similar even to how he had dreamed it last night. That was a good sign. It meant that destiny was calling.

A steward approached him, his bright orange vest framed against the stage as he made his way smoothly down the aisle. His features looked Mediterranean, or maybe Algerian, it was hard to be sure. He looked blankly at Faisal, a small instrument in his hand used for checking the tickets. Faisal handed his over and it gave a reassuring beep. The forgery had been really impressive. As the steward handed the ticket back, he quickly slipped something hard and cold, like steel, to Faisal. It was held underneath the ticket, not visible to any casual observer. His face was completely without expression as he nodded his thanks to Faisal and was on his way, checking other tickets. Faisal knew what it was without looking. The small flick-knife was a contingency that could prove vital when the time came.

He checked his watch. Half past five. One and a half hours to the speech. He was early, but even so, there were a number of people already seated in his section. He glanced at the faces around him. He saw in their expressions a range of conflicting emotions, excitement and anticipation, but also apprehension and fear about the possible content of the speech. Why were they here? It was the people in these seats that had the most to fear from the infidel's regime. Already some of his Muslim brethren were being arbitrarily rounded up and transported to deportation camps and it was impossible to tell who would be next. This was why his mission must succeed. He was fighting for the noblest cause imaginable and as he considered this, his heart swelled with pride and a surge of strength and determination flowed through his veins.

The only uncertainty was exactly how long the speech would be, but he had been instructed to wait until the speech was nearly over and the security men would be just a little more relaxed, thinking that the danger of an attack had passed. His elders had done their research and most attacks statistically occurred either before or during the speech, less often after the speech. The secular crowd would be on their feet cheering, perhaps, and in the general melee he would grasp his opportunity. There would also be a commotion at the far end of his section which would distract the security men before he made the dash onto the stage. He watched them, all black suits and sunglasses, talking into their earpieces, the contour of their guns protruding from under their suits. Now all he had to do was wait, although that might be the hardest part.

## CHAPTER 27

The motorcade that took Pelham to Wembley Stadium stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile. The beautiful old Cadillac limousine, a gift from the President of the United States to the previous Prime Minister Wallace Bentley, glided smoothly along the worn roads of the capital north toward the stadium. The stately vehicle had a military grade armour chassis five inches thick, not only bulletproof but able to survive intact a rocket propelled grenade attack. The windows were made of super thick toughened glass so that they could withstand a spray of machine gun fire without harming the occupants. The same glass separated the passenger area from the driver's section, and its thickness required an intercom system to communicate with the driver. The vehicle had no keys and access to the passenger area, once sealed, was virtually impossible.

Even the undercarriage had titanium inner plating that could absorb the blast from a medium sized bomb placed under the vehicle. In any event, the fuel tank was leak proof and explosion resistant. Most car bombs were designed to detonate when the engine was engaged, and apart from the usual security sweep around the car, the chauffeur, a highly trained MI5 Security Service operative, would always start the car and keep it running before Pelham was allowed to get in. The vehicle also had its own impressive array of weaponry, such as tear gas and smoke grenades, and its specially designed engine could be used to accelerate the vehicle from trouble like a Ferrari, despite the size and weight of the chassis. The vehicle was perfectly sealed against a biochemical attack, and also had its own independent oxygen supply and firefighting equipment in the trunk.

Surrounding the Cadillac was a convoy of four police motorcycles at the front, riding two abreast, a long line of other cars carrying his staff and bodyguards in front and behind the main car, which was flanked by several more motorcycles and completed by a further four police bikes making up the rear. The motorcade, totalling over forty vehicles, raced at speed through the streets, the path already having been cleared in advance, although the exact route had not been made public and a number of diversions made in case of attack.

Seated inside the limousine with Pelham was Chamberlain, a pair of grey spectacles perched on the edge of his slightly pointed nose, poring over the text of the speech on his tablet and occasionally tapping away at the on-board communications centre on the central console. He had been making slight corrections to the speech all day, striking a word here and adding emphasis there. He was desperate for it to be perfect and he was continually coaching Pelham, who in turn wished that he would just shut up.

Also present in the spacious air-conditioned interior was a sulky looking bodyguard whose large frame nearly touched the roof and whose solid face was a mask behind the dark sunglasses. Chamberlain had assigned him to ride in the car and the man appeared completely devoid of personality, but then it was not their job to have one. These hulks were like silent, brooding sentinels, only coming to life when danger presented itself.

Of far more interest to the eye, sitting opposite him was his shapely personal assistant, a former intern who he had promoted through the ranks, mainly on the strength of her incredible bedroom gymnastics. Only Chamberlain knew of their occasional trysts, which happened far less often than Pelham would have liked. Several times Chamberlain had warned him to be discreet, and had even gone so far as to obstruct them getting together when there was the least chance of the media getting wind of a scandal. Pelham, however, was adept at keeping secrets. Despite the media's inevitable intrusion into his life and background, he had managed to keep from them his biggest secret of all, the one that had shaped him into the person he was today. He had somehow, or at least Chamberlain had, kept his current private life out of the news, so that no-one really knew that his wife Helen had a secret female lover. He had made a pact with Helen that suited them both. The First Lady would keep a low profile and never flaunt her lover or reveal her existence on any of the social media sites, and she would not have to read or hear about his own indiscretions. It was an arrangement that suited them both, as she had the status that she so desperately craved and knew that this status and her own reputation, as well as his, would be severely harmed if the media found out the truth.

They had agreed that one day, when he was no longer in power or had nothing to prove, they would quietly divorce and go their separate ways. This agreement had kept their relationship amicable and to the Press they kept a cordial, if not affectionate appearance of unity. Of course she did not know that a divorce probably would not prove necessary. There were many dangers in today's society and one day Helen would meet with a nasty accident, and the former First Lady would be mourned by an adoring public and given a send-off befitting her status.

His P.A. Miss Rachel Thomas was busy taking notes and she looked up and caught him staring at her. She merely gave that alluring smile, her long lashes fluttering and her mascara tinted eyes dancing with mischief. He turned away only because Chamberlain was there trying to brief him on part of the speech, although he was trying to zone him out. He could stare all day at her curvy figure, tightly contoured in a grey power suit, the pencil skirt riding up high as she crossed her tanned legs and revealed more of her well-toned thighs. She was the paradigm for the type of people he wanted to populate Britain. Miss Thomas, or Rachel in the bedroom, was fit and healthy, and her ash blond hair and sparkling china-blue eyes suggested a degree of genetic purity. She was twenty years younger, and sometimes he found it hard to keep up, although he enjoyed trying. She was always patient and respectful, never forgetting his status even when his trousers were draped around his ankles. That was what made her so refreshing. She was witty and intelligent, but also knew her place. She did things to him that his prim wife would never do even when they had been monogamous. He had never quite been the dominant force in the bedroom with Helen that he was in the political arena, and that was probably why he liked Miss Thomas so much.

At first Pelham had felt guilty about his nocturnal habits but the more he indulged the easier it became to ignore his conscience. His wife, tired of his philandering, had sought comfort in the arms of one of her girlfriends, who rapidly became so much more. He could hardly blame her, and as Pelham's career moved from strength to strength and his profile developed, he had to limit his womanizing, although the stunning, curvy blonde girl opposite was quite enough for now. Under his mentoring, she would enjoy a spectacular political career.

Chamberlain scowled at him. "Are you listening to me Lance?" he said disapprovingly.

Pelham gave a tight smile. "Oh yes, sorry Giles, I was just enjoying the view."

Miss Rachel Thomas let out a girlish titter and Chamberlain rolled his eyes. "Of course the backstreets of London look lovely at this time of year," he replied sarcastically. "Now in your speech-"

"Relax Giles," he interrupted. "I have everything ready and prepared." He tapped his temple. "It's all up here you know."

Chamberlain uttered a deep sigh. "Very well, have it your way. I need hardly remind you that this is the most important speech of your career."

"No," snapped Pelham, "You don't need to, so please just stop fussing."

Chamberlain lapsed into a morose silence, staring out the window. They were near the stadium now, and the motorcade had begun to slow down. The arc lights around the stadium were brightly lit, and Chamberlain saw hordes of crowds streaming toward the stadium like disciples. It was an interesting analogy, he pondered to himself, because in so many ways Pelham was like an evangelist, able to command a following of almost religious fervour, through his sheer charisma and force of presence. In less than two months, he had already seen Pelham have a profound effect on the country, bullying and coercing his way to achieving legislative and constitutional changes that would support his vision, and engineering social conditions that were openly hostile to those people he considered surplus to the regime. He had clearly shown that he would let nothing stand in his way. While his strength of character and clear sense of purpose was widely admired, Chamberlain knew that there were far more complex motivations driving Pelham forward. His grip on power was growing stronger daily, but already Chamberlain secretly harboured concerns about his leader. It was almost as if the power of office had become like a drug, addictive and all-consuming. He had been bursting with an almost maniacal zeal in the past few days, convinced that tonight's speech would consolidate his power, to make it so unassailable that there was nothing he could not achieve in the pursuit of his vision. Perhaps he was right and whatever happened tonight, it would prove to be a milestone in his leadership.

The motorcade swept past the fringes of the crowds, most of who stopped and stared as the procession, with its blaring horns and flashing blue lights, reached a heavily cordoned area in the car park to the rear of the stadium. As the cars parked up a team of eight security men clustered around the main car as the chauffeur opened the heavy door of the Cadillac and the small entourage stepped out. They were greeted with a sycophantic handshake by the manager of the stadium, a tall but gaunt man in an ill-fitting tweed jacket whose overly strong cologne masked his own nervousness. He introduced himself as Boothroyd, but Pelham instantly forgot his name, and the man babbled inanely as he quickly ushered the party through the bowels of the building to a luxurious suite overlooking the pitch, where they enjoyed an elevated view of the stage. They were treated to a dish of the finest lobster thermidor in a tarragon vermouth sauce by the resident chef, who flounced out of the kitchen to express his gratitude that they had condescended to try his humble food. From their vantage point, they could see the stadium filling up and the camera podiums in place and ready, including the aerial camera suspended on a wire above the stage. Everything was set and time passed quickly, until they received a courteous knock on the door and Boothroyd stuck his sharp nose around the door.

"Mr Prime Minister, Sir, it's time."

Pelham glanced at his watch and smoothed down his immaculate herringbone Savile Row pinstriped suit that Rachel had picked out and dressed him in. She had the finger on the pulse of the current style, one of her many attributes. He followed Boothroyd onto the pitch level and paused at the tunnel entrance, like a pop star waiting for his cue. Then he strode purposefully out onto the red carpet across the pitch and up the short but wide flight of steps onto the improvised stage, while the stadium erupted into a wild cacophony of thunderous applause at his appearance. He subtly flicked a speck of dust from his shoulder and quickly slipped the cue cards from his jacket pocket and placed them on the lectern. Not that he'd need them. He knew the speech to the letter but even if his prodigious memory failed him, he could improvise like a rock guitarist free to dazzle the crowd with a solo. This speech was from the heart. As the lights around the stage swung his way and bathed him in a harsh yellow glare, he adjusted his bright blue tie, the Party colour. He checked his lapel and stood in front of the lectern, soaking up the applause. A feeling of invincibility swept over him as he surveyed the crowd stretching into the darkness as far as he could see. He was born for this, to lead the country back to greatness, no matter what it took, what sacrifices were to be made. This was his time, his destiny.

It took more than two minutes for the rapturous applause to die down. Seated at the end of Row Eight of the Foreign Delegates Section, Faisal stood and mutely applauded with the rest of them. He had politely curtailed any conversation with his neighbour who had sat next to him thirty minutes earlier. As he looked up at the stage, his quarry looked stately, almost larger than life, an impossible target. Maybe he should call it off now. His prey was so near yet so unassailable, as if a chasm separated them. His body felt weak, sapped of energy, and he forced himself to remember the meditation training from his elders. He took in deep breaths and immediately felt calmer and stronger. It was too late to back out now, the shame would be too great, and paradise was waiting on the other side.

Outside the stadium, the speech was being broadcast on two huge screens set up especially for the occasion, and hordes of people milled around the pair of screens that beamed a huge close-up profile of Pelham's handsome, distinguished face. Amongst the crowd stood a lone figure carefully watching every detail on the screen, a microphone and earpiece discreetly attached to his ear. He spoke gently into the microphone, his words carefully coded so as not to arouse suspicion from anyone in the boisterous throng around him that might overhear. Even if they listened intently, it would sound like he was explaining this historic moment to his family, and no one would begrudge him that.

His 'family' however, were positioned in a tiny vacated apartment two blocks from the stadium. The place was dark and empty; another victim of the surge in repossessions, and it had been easy for the small team to quietly break in. One of the four men kept a close watch on any neighbours that might be suspicious of the activity in the apartment and stray too far, but up to now this decaying apartment block had been deathly quiet. As they peered out of the window, the stadium rose majestically above the rooftops of the nearer apartments until it felt like it was within touching distance. It was important that they stay close to the stadium. The remote controlled detonator had a range of two hundred metres so it was imperative that they remained as close as possible. The detonation pin, an electrical circuit inside Faisal's jacket, was capable of a manual instruction, or could be detonated by remote control. The latter was in case Faisal lost his nerve at the final moment. Nothing could be left to chance. For the leaders of this small band of jihadists it was now a case of watching and waiting.

The leader of this cadre, a hardline Palestinian who had been forced to flee to these shores five years before, made a call on a cellphone he had stolen. This was a small precaution in case he was being monitored. Even so he was careful to say very little and definitely no names, and the Irish voice on the other end was equally vague. "Everything is ready my friend. The actors are in position."

"Understood. Keep me informed."

The leader, known as Yousuf, looked at the phone quizzically. Why the need for updates? He would see the events unfold live on television. This would be the most high profile suicide attack in history.

## CHAPTER 28

After a long interval, the crowd finally settled down, returning to their seats, but a buzz of anticipation bubbled around the arena. At points around the stadium a wave of chanting broke out, as if the crowd were urging on their favourite soccer team, the usual actors in this vast arena, but it quickly faded. Although seven o'clock on a summer's evening meant that there were still several hours of daylight left, the stadium roof had been partially closed so that the crowd in the stands were cast in gloom, accentuating the radiance of the elevated stage, lit like a beacon. The Prime Minister strode around the stage, seemingly waving at unknown figures in the crowd, as if he could see them against the intense glare that was fixed on him. The television cameras moved around the stage, profiling the country's leader like an object of veneration, and the journalists were poised in the Press Box to the side of the stage, ready to hang on to his every word.

Pelham strode forward to the edge of the stage while the security men placed at strategic intervals behind him shifted anxiously, knowing that if an intruder attacked him on stage now, they would lose vital split-seconds in reaching him. The lectern and the cue cards were left behind as he addressed the crowd, his discreet but effective lapel microphone working perfectly. A close up of his infectious smile was beamed onto the huge TV screens either side of the stage, as well as the screens outside the stadium.

"Ladies and gentleman, dignitaries, members of the press, but most importantly, people of Great Britain," he began. Carried by the amplifiers, his resonant voice reverberated around the vast stadium. The smile faded and his voice turned more sombre. "I stand before you today as the head of a nation that has been weakened and spoilt from within, a shadow of its former greatness. The unity of our great nation has been splintered and dissolved before us by economic and social turmoil, but most profoundly by the invasion on our shores of ideologies and motivations that owe nothing to the loyalty of this country. Ever since the triumph of the Second World War our great nation has been in a long, but steady and attritional decline, accelerated by our open arms of friendship and generous welfare that has been exploited and manipulated by those who seek gain only for themselves. Our nation's pledge to help the weak and vulnerable has only served to support the feckless and greedy. I look at our nation today, and I see a confusion of heartbreaking disunity. Because when Britain lost its political and economic place in the world, it also lost its unity of spirit and will."

He paused dramatically, surveying the audience that had suddenly become very quiet. The slight delay in the amplifiers caused his voice to seemingly hover above the crowd. "It is true that the rest of the world has suffered too, so that we stand on the precipice as a human race, blinded by our own vanity and driven to the edge of extinction where the Bomb once again dominates our thoughts; while all around us the despoiling of our environment regularly brings catastrophic consequences from the heavens. But our great nation has suffered greatly, and is in danger of being overwhelmed by the crises that have befallen it."

His voice rose in pitch and he looked directly at the camera, as if he was addressing each of his constituents personally. "But it is not too late for solidarity. While millions in this country suffer poverty and sacrifice, even the formerly affluent middle classes, there is still a way forward. It will take courage and conviction. Gone are the days of weakness and lassitude of the Labour Government of the last eight years, a period that saw the terminal decline in Britain accelerate and expand. Never has there been a time for the great citizens of this country to show their fortitude and resilience. For the path will be long and steep and rocky. There will be obstacles and forces lying in wait to deflect us from our goal." He pumped his left fist in the air and his voice grew louder. "But we shall not lose focus!" Enthusiastic applause rang out from the crowd.

"The warning signs for our collapse have been apparent for far too long. The insidious attack on our culture and our religion by the Islamic faith, by Judaism, by Hinduism, Sikhism and Buddhism and all the other non-Christian faiths has threatened to submerge our nation in a tide of political correctness. Our country is unrecognizable from the glorious untainted nation that brought us victory in the Second World War. Our proud history is full of great stories of repelling invaders. It is a thousand years since our nation was ruled by an invading force, and eventually even the Normans were forced from our land. But this latest invasion hasn't been with weapons of war, it has been a long and insidious war of attrition over many years, so that we were virtually blind to what was happening right in front of us; and in doing so those invaders have taken our jobs, our livelihood and our spirit. But we will prevail. The indomitable spirit of the British people will rise again, and we will faithfully and resolutely fulfil the task conferred upon us. The Government will support the British people and we will regard as our first and foremost duty the revival of the nation's spirit of unity and cooperation. We will preserve and defend those basic principles upon which this great nation has been built. Christianity is the basis of our national morality and the family is at the core of our modern social life. But where are they? We will bring them back. We will enforce strength and discipline as the guiding principles of our national life, and those institutions which are the strongholds of the energy and vitality of our nation will be taken under the special care of the government. These will include the media outlets and many businesses that are currently in foreign hands." The arc lights above the stage swung around, sending beams of light into the crowd. Pinpoints of light sparkled in the crowd like stars against the night sky as people lit candles and lighters in solidarity.

"We have a five year vision to rescue this nation, but I warn you. There is a storm coming. The path we intend to follow will not be easy. There will be sacrifices along the way. The task we face is probably the hardest that any British statesman has ever faced in living memory. There will be tough, unpopular decisions to be made, but, I stand before you today to promise you that everything we do, every policy, law and diktat, will be undertaken with the best interests of the nation and its indigenous people in mind. Nothing and no-one else matters.

"It was the Roman Emperors of the Byzantine Empire, leaders such as Constantine the Great, who taught us the values of a centralized autocracy. It was characterized by strong and focused leadership, often visionary in nature, creating dynasties that lasted for centuries. Those same principles are needed now in modern day Britain, and while I cannot promise a dynasty, I can promise that I will lead us out of the economic wilderness back to prosperity, but only through autocracy, and even then it will take five years."

He continued, his voice rising for emphasis. "In those five years we will seek to bring our nation back to genetic and racial purity. The miscegenation that has weakened our people has persisted for far too long. We will outlaw such activity and destroy the mongrel elements in our society. The weak and the feckless will not be allowed to breed and overrun us. Only a healthy, pure race can take this country forward from its current quagmire.

"In order to achieve our goals, we need you the people to support our vision. Only a determined and disciplined effort will ensure we achieve our aims. This country has spent many decades living in fear, diverting its valuable resources to fighting terrorism on its own shores and abroad. We will continue to fight the cancer of terrorism but we will double our efforts and we will crush our enemies with an iron fist. There will be necessary limits on freedom, but it's for the greater good. We will restrict the media and access to the Internet so that the terrorists' lies and misinformation are choked off, preventing their cancerous propaganda from distracting the decent average citizen from the goal we have set ourselves. Licences for marches and demonstrations will not be provided unless the organizers can convince the authorities that they will be peaceful and orderly, and serve the interests of the nation." He now spoke with an implacable rhythm, his notes long discarded, arms raised like an evangelist preacher.

"Those restrictions will be rigorously enforced and it is you the average citizen that can help us do this. We will provide helplines for you to tell us if your neighbours or friends do not share our vision. Those who seek to derail our efforts can expect a draconian response. Today a bill was signed into law that will impose the death penalty for a range of offences considered to be treasonous. The State cannot and will not show mercy. The future of our country is far too important to consider the rights of the individual, particularly the criminal element." Another murmur rose from the crowd and Pelham heard a few angry, isolated shouts from the nearer sections. The black suits of the security team began to move forward as if challenging the people to shout again.

"We will create an internal security force that will investigate and prosecute any action against the State, and I will ensure that it is given the widest possible legal and constitutional powers, including the powers to stop and search without the need for a warrant, and powers of detention without trial. It will be used to protect the State and to work with the regular police and the Armed Forces to eradicate terrorism and dissent on our shores. We will create sophisticated communication systems and databases that will allow a coordinated effort to identify and root out those dissidents."

He turned directly to the large wheel-mounted camera hovering close by on the stage. His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. "For those of you watching who plan to oppose the will of this government, you have been warned. Anyone who obstructs the work of the State will be regarded as a traitor to Britain and dealt with accordingly." He paused, allowing the threat to percolate across the crowd, a few isolated sections of which had started to become restless.

"But this great country has not fallen to its knees merely from those who would seek to destroy it from within. It has been blighted by economic catastrophe so great that over a third of our people are living in poverty, and so many of our people cannot find work. We have inherited the legacy of an administration that was weak and fiscally incompetent, a government that was dictated to by the European Union at the expense of this country's sovereignty and economic progress. We will take back our sovereignty and we will make our own decisions. We will engage in a program of public works and investment that will improve our decaying infrastructure and provide full employment to all those prepared to work.

"How will we finance this? We will do so by seizing back the riches stolen from this country by foreign business and landowners, those who cast covetous eyes on our wealth and have manipulated our generous legal system to create personal wealth and prosperity with absolutely no benefit to this country. We will impose taxes on foreign-owned assets and foreign-earned income that will be rightly considered punitive, and we will seek ways to return those assets into British hands. Never again will this country be regarded as an easy target for the foreign opportunist or those that seek to exploit the nation's generosity. We will revoke British citizenship for those who do not meet the test of lineage set out in the Minorities Registration Act. This is not a violation of their rights as citizens because they will have no rights under the law." Another uneasy wave of stirring rippled across the crowd.

"Many of those same people currently hold positions of influence and power in our society, power that should be held in the hands of British citizens. Millions of our own countrymen are suffering below the poverty line while the foreign classes have taken many of our most lucrative and responsible positions. This cannot be allowed to persist. We will pass legislation that will ban immigrants from certain professions, such as teachers, doctors and lawyers. We have a sufficient pool of talent amongst our people to more than compensate. Private businesses will be offered incentives to transition their employees accordingly. Of course we understand that these foreign workers have valuable skills which I'm certain will serve them well in their own country. Therefore, they will be allowed to stay while they transition their roles to British people before they are repatriated." An isolated but abrasive shout rang out from the Foreign Delegates section. One of the bulky security men began to move menacingly forward to the edge of the block, and hovered, waiting and watching.

"Similarly we will restructure our national health service. We have one of the most generous health systems in the world despite the fact that it has been on the brink of bankruptcy for the last forty years. Once again our generosity has been exploited so that we have a system whereby immigrants come into this country and expect to use our sophisticated healthcare without charge while our own citizens who have contributed for years are forced to stand in line behind these people. It is wrong and it is unjust, and no other nation allows this. Instead of applauding Britain for its benevolence, the other states merely scheme about how they can most effectively exploit us. No more, I say to you. Only British people are entitled to healthcare under the National Health Service. If you are not a citizen, you should pay for it just like you would elsewhere.

"We live in troubled times, and these changes to our constitution will be radical and at times they will be painful. None of you will be unaffected, but if you are truly British then you have nothing to fear. There will be times of austerity, but you the British people have given me a mandate to govern and I can promise that I will devote every ounce of energy, every fibre in my being, to making this country great again, so it can once again hold its head up high amongst the world elite."

He moved to the edge of the stage, looking out appealingly across his crowd of constituents, all faces turned to him, fading away into the dark distance. "People of Britain, give us five years and then pass judgement upon us. In accordance with His Majesty King William's command we shall begin now. We will need strength and wisdom to accomplish our task, and we sincerely ask for your trust, for we are fighting not for ourselves but for a united Britain. Thank you."

At first there was little reaction amongst the large crowd to Pelham's speech, but within a second there arose a muted wave of chattering across the expanse of people. At first it was hard to distinguish whether the chatter was hostile or not, although a number of angry shouts could be heard above the low level of noise. However, as the wave spread it became louder and within half a minute had turned into a resounding burst of cheering and applause, while the Prime Minister, standing hesitantly in front of his constituents' just seconds before, began to strut imperiously across the stage, waving to his supporters.

It was clear however that the support was not universal. A group of six or seven people, all men from the Foreign Delegates section about twelve rows back, got up and began hurling abuse at Pelham. Despite the sound of the crowd, they were close enough and loud enough to the stage to get the attention of the black suits, a number of whom seemed to speak rapidly into their mouthpieces before running toward the source of the commotion.

Faisal had to turn to look behind him, as they were a number of rows behind him at the opposite side of the seating block. He saw the security men congregating toward the trouble spot, and glanced at Pelham on the stage, relaxed and waving, oblivious to the protesters. As he looked at Pelham, he saw that, extraordinarily, he had a clear line to the Prime Minister, with no security guard blocking his way. He might not even have to kill to get to Pelham, but his window of opportunity was limited. Without even thinking, his body moving automatically as if its muscles and sinews belonged to someone else, he found himself vaulting the small partition and sprinting down the aisle, focused on his target standing on the stage, less than fifty metres away.

## CHAPTER 29

Faisal sprinted toward the stage, oblivious to the noise and confusion around him, intent only on his mission. Out of his peripheral vision he saw his target glance down at him, staring fixedly, rooted to the spot. The roar of the crowd had reached a crescendo and it served to draw attention away from him.

He was now in the moat at the base of the stage and he ran around the side until he reached the wide set of steps that led onto the stage. He expected at least one security guard to block his way, but miraculously there was none, and his target remained at the top of the wide stairs, as if immobilized. It would be over in seconds. He said a quick prayer and bounded forward up the steps only to be brought crashing down awkwardly on the steps. His right ankle was gripped tightly by an unseen hand and as he looked back a black-suited security guard was trying to pull him back. He spun round, barely conscious of the pain caused by the awkward fall on the steps, and kicked out as hard as he could at the arm. His assailant gave a muted cry of pain but hung on grimly to his ankle, at the same time trying to clamber up the steps to reach Faisal.

The grip on his ankle loosened imperceptibly, but it was enough. He slashed at the arm with his knife, drawing a deep wound that bubbled with blood, and a second kick with the heel of his boot was enough to dislodge the arm with a sharp crack and the bodyguard fell backwards down the steps. Faisal quickly clambered up the remaining steps, his path to Pelham now unobstructed. The Prime Minister had stepped back but his reactions were slow, as if his mind could not process the fact that he was about to be assassinated. Faisal came sprinting across the stage toward him, dropping his bloody knife and reaching for the detonator underneath. With a feeling of elation he realized that all the planning and preparation had paid off, that his mission was going to be successful and that the next few seconds would take him to an eternity of paradise as a celebrated martyr of the Holy War.

He had lost a vital few seconds in fending off the bodyguard on the steps but it would not matter. The detonator was almost within his grasp and the target was less than five metres away. From the side he saw a black shape accelerate toward him but it was too late to react. He was hit across his body like a sledgehammer, the force of the blow immediately knocking the breath from his lungs. He sprawled over on the stage, gasping, and as he tried to scramble to his feet another black-suited figure slammed into him. He heard a sharp crack and felt an excruciating stabbing pain in his side, as if his whole ribcage was about to collapse. Teeth gritted in agony, he reached for the detonator. In the melee he saw his target being hustled away, but he was still close, maybe, just maybe, still within range. The mission could still be completed. Despite the searing pain around his abdomen, he yelled at the top of his lungs "Glory to Allah" and his arm moved quickly to find the small switch neatly stored under his vest. Just before he reached the switch, the bodyguard caught his movement and grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip.

He's wired to blow, he heard one guard, who now had him pinned down, scream at his colleagues. The man's knee pressed his arm down and the weight of the two burly guards made it impossible for Faisal to move. He struggled hard, ignoring his cracked rib, but to no avail. A further guard jumped on him like a rugby scrum and began tearing at the discreet wiring around his padded vest. Another guard produced a long-bladed sheath knife and cut away his shirt, exposing the array of wiring taped with black masking tape to his bare chest, and feeding into the contoured plastic explosives woven into the vest. Faisal saw the shock and revulsion in his eyes, but they merely flickered for a split second before he ripped the wires and explosive vest from Faisal's chest. Holding the ripped vest, its texture like putty where the explosive was sewn in, with wires trailing like the entrails of a dead animal hunted for sport, he quickly glanced around.

Outside the stadium the crowd watched the dramatic disturbance on the big screen. A few isolated scuffles broke out in the crowd and the lone figure with the earpiece found himself being jostled and pushed as the restlessness surged through the crowd. His eyes, however, were fixed intently on the screen, watching the extraordinary events unfold, ready and waiting to give the instruction. The cameras, as he had expected, showed everything in detail and for a brief moment, he saw Faisal sprinting along the stage toward the Prime Minister and in a moment of elation he was convinced that the mission would succeed. Then he saw the bodyguards slam him to the ground and he realized he had no choice. It was why he was here in the first place as back-up. Although Pelham was out of picture, he had been there moments before and there was still the possibility that the size of the bomb would cause a blast sufficient to take him out.

He shouted into his mouthpiece, "Now, now!"

In the tiny apartment the back-up team received the call, but this was not the plan. They had built in a contingency but had hoped not to have to use it. There was a momentary but fatal hesitation before Yousuf smashed his calloused fist onto the round, red detonator button, and a further split second before the electromagnetic pulse carried through powerful, specialized frequency radio waves triggered an electrical charge in the detonator.

At that precise moment back on stage, the bodyguard holding the vest, seeing no-one immediately close, hurled it to the opposite end of the stage where Pelham had now been quickly bundled off and herded down the tunnel from which he had triumphantly emerged less than thirty minutes before. Before it had even hit the aluminium floor, the vest and its trailing wires burst into a huge fireball that sent a blast of searing hot air ripping across the stage. Faisal heard the deafening bang followed by a whoosh as the shock wave from the blast hit. The two bodyguards on top of him caught the full blast and were propelled by the blast into the air and thrown off the stage, landing heavily on the ground ten feet below. Faisal himself, lying prone on the floor, was able to escape most of the blast but he still felt the surge of scorched air clawing at his skin. The pain was intense and he felt his hair begin to crackle. The sharp report of the explosion had left Faisal almost deaf, and the sounds were muted and numbed, as if he were hearing them through thick glass. He tried to get up but the pain of his burnt legs was too much, though he managed to lift his head. Most of the stage was a charred mess, and he saw the scorched figure of a cameraman still clutching the mangled wreckage of his camera, lying motionless not far from where the blast had hit. He could not however, see Pelham or his remains and as he slipped out of consciousness, his last anguished thought before the blackness enclosed him was that the glorious mission had failed.

Harry watched the faces of the group squeezed like sardines into the living room. Some were lucky enough to grab any chair they could find, the rest stood up until they spilled out into the doorway. All of them stared intently at the screen, as if willing something that the force of their concentration could make happen. An air of anxiety hung over the group like a black cloud, but there was little emotion until the end of the speech. Watching the thwarted suicide attack live on television, the cameras rolling in with close-ups of the Muslim perpetrator in their usual sensationalist way, the mood was grim. Luka, sitting near the front, uttered a stream of Serbian obscenities and threw his glass of beer against the wall with such ferocity that the glass shattered on impact and the liquid traced a slow brown trail down the yellow wall.

Sean merely cursed and stormed out of the room and Harry looked at Julianne, her face a blank canvas of despair, and then he knew. He looked at the other faces, a mixture of cultures and ethnicity, many looking lost and confused and others grief-stricken. The commentator on the TV continued to describe the events unfolding in great detail, registering a shocked tone as he talked about the historic speech and the extraordinary events that were still taking place, the cameras capturing every moment for posterity. He talked about how the country was going to be a different place after tonight, and as Harry examined the faces of the people around him, he could tell they knew that too. Even the normally implacable Chen looked deeply upset.

With everyone lost in their own private grief, no one paid attention as he slipped out of the room into the kitchen. From the window he saw Julianne outside in the yard. There was still plenty of daylight left, but the light had dropped as thick clouds rolled in, painting the sky an iron grey, and a light summer drizzle began to gently fall. She was alone, her attractive pale face set like alabaster. He stepped out of the thick oak door onto the path at the side of the house and caught up with Julianne as she strode quickly up the slight incline of the field, her body bent into the slope, toward a small bank of trees near the barbed wire perimeter.

Harry quickly caught up with her as they passed the chicken coop. Even now, there was some pretence that this was a working farm. "Julianne."

She heard his voice but did not look around. She carried on walking, her long legs propelling her forward so that Harry had to almost jog to keep up. "Julianne," he repeated. "Slow down."

She spun round. "What do you want?" she said, her tone betraying her irritation at being disturbed. "You know Sean won't like it if he sees you talking to me. He hates you as it is. He'll probably send you down to the cellar again."

Harry stared intensely at her. "What is it you're all afraid of? I am not the enemy. That monster on the television is the one you need to be afraid of. You kidnapped me remember!"

Julianne's slender fingers shook as she lit a cigarette and took a deep draught, expelling the smoke into the damp, cloying air. "It doesn't matter now," she replied dismissively.

"What does that mean?" He continued to study her and she turned away uncomfortably and continued her march toward the perimeter trees, as if they offered some form of sanctuary. He followed her closely. "It was the attempt on Pelham's life wasn't it? Your group had something to do with it."

Julianne hesitated, unsure how to answer.

"Look, haven't I shown you I can be trusted?" persisted Harry. "I told you everything I know about the five year plan. The least you can do is to be honest with me Julianne."

She gave a deep sigh and stubbed her cigarette on the damp ground. Her hair had turned a darker red, slick with rain, and her delicate pale face had a translucent quality in the fading light. "Not everyone in our cell knew about it Harry. We had to be discreet. It's difficult to know who to trust. We had to work through an Islamic cell, not our usual bedfellows but we shared a common goal. If they had pulled it off then there was at least some hope for this country."

Harry held up his hands in despair. "I just knew you were somehow involved! I wouldn't be too hopeful even if you had succeeded. Removing Pelham opens the door for Chamberlain and he's nearly as psychotic as his boss. But the fact is you did not succeed. You had one chance and failure was not an option. How long will it be before they trace the attempt back to this cell? They're relentless and they will find you. Don't you see Julianne? Your group is now living on borrowed time!"

Her freckles seemed to redden with fury. "Don't you think I'm aware of that!" she retorted.

Harry stepped back, surprised at the ferocity in her voice. She had always been feisty, but it was always controlled and mixed with playfulness, as if she never took life too seriously. Since they'd met again, he had sensed an air of seriousness about her, as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Perhaps it was being around the Irish terrorist too much, he mused. His tone was placating. "So what do you plan to do now?"

She slumped onto the stump of what must have once been a large oak tree. "I don't know Harry. Christ I can't think straight. Sean had pinned his hopes on this plot succeeding, he hadn't really thought beyond it - if it didn't work that is - and neither did I. Jesus, how did we ever think we could be any sort of opposition to this government, a rag-tag bunch of refugees with no military training, no strategy and no proper leadership, with a small cache of weapons that would be no match against even the smallest regiment? We were living a fantasy. We don't stand a chance."

She looked up at Harry and he saw that her face was wet, and not just from the rain. Her hazel eyes had dulled and her long lashes were streaked with tears. "I'm scared Harry," she sobbed. She stood up and fell into his arms and he felt an overwhelming wave of compassion for his former lover. The summer air was disturbed by the distant thunder of a jet fighter streaking across the sky.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY MIDNIGHT JUNE 22ND - BREAKING NEWS

Following the highly controversial speech by the U.K. Prime Minister Lance Pelham, and the extraordinary assassination attempt on him, security forces across the country have been placed on high alert. The Cabinet has called in the Home Guard, a special division of the Armed Forces, Britain's equivalent of the U.S. National Guard, and has imposed a curfew across the nation which, current indications suggest, has been completely ignored. Opposition politicians and community leaders have been quick to condemn the speech, some calling it 'divisive' and others using stronger rhetoric, one going so far as to call it 'incendiary.' Even the spokesman for the BNP, the nation's official Opposition, has termed certain aspects of the speech as 'unfortunate.' However, they also condemned the attack as the work of 'foreign terrorists.'

Pelham has now set out his agenda for the country, and whilst the vision of a stronger nation emerging from the ashes of the old and weak constitution of the Labour government is clear, the likely collateral damage of achieving his vision is the focus of everyone's attention. He has made it apparent that the path he envisions will require sacrifice, but his policies threaten the survival of millions who emigrated to England and built a life from overseas. As a result of the U.K.'s generous immigration policies in the past, the nation is one of the most cosmopolitan in the world, but Pelham has vowed to change all that under his dictatorial regime.

The indicators to his style of government have been apparent in his short spell in office. His prodigious stream of legislation, including the Minorities Registration Act, the continued work on setting up deportation camps and the constitutional changes that have furnished him with unrivalled power have been achieved with extraordinary alacrity and almost caught a traditionally apathetic British population by surprise. The problem is that his changes, already made possible by a huge majority in Parliament and an Opposition that realistically is one in name only, have consolidated his power to the extent that he is like a modern day Emperor, somewhat ironic given his reference to the Byzantium.

The burning question is whether Pelham is already too powerful to be held accountable. He can carry out his actions with impunity, virtually free from legal, constitutional or military challenge. The only potential contest to his position is the weight of popular opinion and the will of the people, but history has often shown that in a dictatorship supported by military power, which is virtually what Britain has become after tonight's speech, the will of the people rarely prevails, usually because of fear and intimidation. Pelham swept to power through a landslide victory despite persistent rumours of vote rigging, but how many of his supporters will remain faithful now that the man has truly revealed himself from behind the mask?

The tone and message of the speech itself has been likened to Hitler's Proclamation to the German Nation on his accession on February 1, 1933. The speech itself was not provocative and at first glance appeared to be an assertive and impassioned plea for the country and its people to pull together. It was the nature of his actions following his accession to power that really put the speech into context. It is likely too, that tonight's speech will be placed into some form of historical perspective based on the subsequent actions of the Prime Minister and how he takes his vision forward.

Undoubtedly, what will render this day truly historical is the incredible scenes that unfolded at Wembley Stadium live on television and the streaming social media networks before an audience of several hundred million. Never before have our media screens brought such dramatic live footage of an attempted assassination of a Head of State, particularly from a suicide bomber, the modern scourge unleashed from the ranks of extremist terrorism, a weapon itself that in its modern form can be traced back to Lebanon in the early 1980s in the civil war between Christian and Muslim militants.

Reports indicate that the explosion killed two security personnel and a cameraman, although its devastation was limited due to the swift actions of one of the P.M.'s personal bodyguards. The bomber has been positively identified, although his name has not yet been officially released to the media. However it was stated that the name of the bomber had circulated on Twitter within two minutes of the arrest. There has been no word from the police on the condition or whereabouts of the bomber, although it's clear even from the footage that he must have suffered significant trauma injuries from the blast. This appears to be a closely guarded secret that not even the invasive social media networks have been unable to prise open.

Similarly, the current location of the Prime Minister is unknown, rumours suggesting that a purported after-speech party had been cancelled. In his absence, the Cabinet Office was quick to set the curfew through an Order-in-Council, a form of secondary legislation enacted by Ministers laid before Parliament through a positive resolution procedure. In effect, it enables them to pass a statutory instrument that makes changes in the law at very short notice, particularly useful for dealing with unexpected or emergency situations. The curfew prevents anyone from being out at night after eleven o'clock unless they can show just cause, for example because they are at work. Certain classes such as emergency, health and law enforcement personnel are exempted the curfew. The National Guard has also been given standing powers to question, detain and if necessary use 'appropriate force' on anyone defying the curfew.

An unnamed Government spokesman said that these measures were necessary to preserve a state of peace across the country, but they've been largely ignored and at present the country is anything other than peaceful. There have already been some lethal shooting incidents by the Home Guard, apparently against looters, and this has further inflamed the unrest and anger simmering across communities, many of which are still cleaning up after the last riots that ended just two days before. Those areas around immigrant enclaves such as parts of South London, Manchester and Merseyside have endured a tense ceasefire, needing little reason to spark the confrontation again. Pelham's speech and the extraordinary attempt on his life have fanned the flames of antipathy in spectacular fashion.

However, the areas worst affected are those with large Muslim populations, including Tower Hamlets in London (where over 50% of residents are Muslim), Bradford, Birmingham and Luton. These areas have this evening witnessed another upsurge in violence, with reports of widespread rioting and looting. Frightened residents in the Small Heath area of Birmingham called their street a war zone, full of burning vehicles and shop fronts completely destroyed, and several mosques set on fire. A disturbing trend arising is the copycat Qur'an burnings. This damning insult to Islam has been clearly perpetrated and encouraged through the social media, the usual forum for such movements, whereby a message can spread like wildfire and reach millions of users within minutes. So far the Home Guard has not moved in and at present the police are standing by with riot shields as Muslim community leaders angrily condemn the police for their apparent inaction and failure to protect their people from youths showering them with bricks, stones, Molotov cocktails and any other weapons to hand.

Adam Griffiths, the head of the FREE movement, made a statement to the media condemning the attack on the Prime Minister and accusing Islamic communities of encouraging and creating the atmosphere for this attack. He made a vociferous appeal for the death penalty to be imposed, and under the draconian anti-criminal Bill recently signed into law, the powers are certainly available for the courts to impose this. He stated that 'Muslim communities have long called for their own Sharia law in the U.K. for certain matters, and in practice they have, within their own closed and insular communities, practised this offensive law in direct breach of the prevailing national law that regulates us all, whatever our race, creed or religion. If they want this law then it should be applied equally. Let their law, which in some cases advocates death for those found guilty of attempted murder, apply to those who would seek to destabilize our great nation for their own nefarious aims.'

His statement has served only to heighten tensions, but whilst the Muslim sector has been worst hit, there have also been a spate of anti-Semitic attacks, and also attacks on Chinese, African and even Eastern European communities. It seems that no one in the ethnic population is safe from the tide of violence sweeping across the country, but in considering Pelham's speech this evening commentators have argued that this is exactly what he wants.

## CHAPTER 30

Pelham stood in his study at 10 Downing Street, clutching a crystal cut glass of gin and tonic tightly. Behind him, set in neat rows rising up to the high stuccoed ceiling, stood volume upon volume of large hard-backed political tomes, an intellectual treasure trove of generations of British Cabinet leaders, charting their observations about British politics and its evolution through the whole of the last century and the first few decades of the current century. Formerly housed in the Cabinet Office but moved by the previous incumbent to double up as a library as well as a study, this collection would be a political historian's paradise, Chamberlain mused. He watched Pelham closely. Despite the Prime Minister's grip on his glass, Chamberlain noticed his hand trembling.

Within the relative safety of Downing Street, Chamberlain was now more relaxed, but his boss was still shaken, his sculpted face drawn with faint lines of strain. He paced to the window and opened it out to the night air. It was nearly eleven o'clock and as he looked out from his elevated position on the third floor, he saw the night sky glowing with a faint orange tinge on the horizon.

"Don't stay too near the windows," advised Chamberlain softly. "There may be snipers."

Pelham glared at him, the muscles on his neck taut. "Is this going to be my life?" he cried angrily. "Afraid to show my face in public for fear of some crazy terrorist waiting to strike me down?" He moved away from the window and slammed his drink on the ornate oak coffee table, spilling half of its contents. "I will not be a prisoner in a gilded cage. I am a man of the people and those who matter support me and what I am trying to achieve."

Chamberlain stood up and saw the fiery glow from the window, staying safely back from the frame as if it were a cliff edge. No point in taking a bullet for the P.M., especially if it were mistaken identity. "There will always be opposition from some quarters to what we do, but we must not alienate those who are in support of us. The streets are in turmoil. There are reports of more rioting across the country. It's going to be a long and brutal road before we achieve our vision. We have to see it through. We have too many important benefactors with vested interests to let them down."

He paused, running a finger around the circle of his own glass, as if preparing himself for what he had to say. "Maybe we are trying to move too fast. The speech was brilliant but is the public ready yet for the measures we're proposing?" He pointed to the glow at the window. "Are we being too ambitious?"

The lines on Pelham's face stretched even tighter. His voice was low and threatening. "Are you questioning me?" he growled.

Chamberlain knew when to take a conciliatory approach. Since Pelham had taken power, his mood and style had become steadily more autocratic. "No I'm not. We're in this together. It was never going to be easy to transform a country that has been in decline for so long. But we have to be careful that we don't alienate the very people we are trying to represent."

Pelham let out a deep sigh, his posture rigid with tension. The anger was palpable in his tone. "Screw the people. They don't even know what's good for them. It's why this country has deteriorated so badly. For far too long they've wallowed in a comfortable democracy and they didn't even see the signs creeping up on them. This country sold its soul to the devil a long time ago, Giles, and now we are suffering because of it. We allowed ourselves to be ruled by faceless European bureaucrats from across the Channel that had no concept, and more importantly, no interest in what was truly good for Britain. They forced us to accept immigrants under the free movement of workers principle and people flooded in to take advantage of our generous welfare system. Workers? Huh." He snorted with derision.

"As if we did not have an immigrant problem before the European Union stuck its claws into us? They're parasites sucking the lifeblood and the vitality from this country, and we have been dragged down by a combination of political correctness and secularism. Jesus, most of our schools are no longer allowed to celebrate Christmas because it might offend the little Muslim children in kindergarten, yet our kids are forced to watch their neighbours celebrate Ramadan and see them march in the streets every May on the anniversary of Bin Laden's death. Nearly ten per cent of our population, seven million people, are Muslim. The number has escalated in the last fifteen years alone. They have no desire to integrate and seek to compel the authorities to accept their own Sharia law in this country in preference to the law of the land. Next they will be asking for their own independent state. I ceased to ask myself a long time ago what the world is coming to, I am no longer interested. But I have to ask myself what this country is coming to? At least I can do something about that and whether I have the people on my side or not, I will see this through. Remember the people that really matter, the people who financed my campaign for office are the only ones that we need to answer to. Let them judge me when the project is complete."

Chamberlain said nothing, merely nodding in agreement as they both flopped back into their comfortable Queen Anne style high backed leather chairs. He knew all about the 'benefactors' of Pelham's campaign for office, but not their identities. Although all Party donations had to be studiously recorded, the larger ones followed a circuitous route through offshore accounts and shell companies that made it impossible to trace the real donors. He was not even sure that Pelham knew them all; only that they were very powerful and influential. There was a tacit, unspoken agreement between them that Chamberlain would never ask and Pelham would never tell.

It had been a long day, but he had to admire Pelham's tenacity and doggedness. Apart from the strain visible on his face, he looked as fresh as if he had just arrived for work, although he had sent Rachel home long before. The poor girl had been traumatized at the near death of her mentor and lover. Even so, his suit was still immaculately pressed and his blue tie still held the tight Windsor knot from that morning, the starched white shirt still buttoned under his chin. Even away from the public and in moments of great stress, Pelham had impeccable style, as if he looked impervious to all pressure. Chamberlain knew that the attempt on his life had shaken him, but the man had a habit of showing a steely resolve in times of adversity. It would take more than tonight's events to steer him from his course.

Pelham had calmed down a little, but he gazed at his deputy with piercing eyes. "What went wrong with our security?" he said in a low voice.

Chamberlain shifted uncomfortably. He had been expecting that question, but sounded unconvincing even to himself as he answered. "I don't know yet, but I have ordered a full and thorough investigation. We are pulling the files on every single steward at the gate and in the grounds, checking out their personal history, any contacts, any grudges, anything that would tell us how and why they allowed this terrorist to get inside. Our bomb squad team are piecing together the fragments of the vest from the blast. It could be days before we discover how it was developed, but their initial comment was to praise it as a highly professional job, very difficult to detect without sensitive monitoring equipment."

"Which we had, right?"

"Well yes."

"Then there was a mole amongst the security team. I want you to stop at nothing to identify who was behind this. What about the suicide bomber?"

"His name is Faisal Khorasani, a nineteen year-old undergraduate from Bradford and a member of the local Sunni Muslims. We know he is not a lone wolf. He's a product of what we think is one of the secret jihadist training camps that have sprung up in Muslim controlled ghetto areas. So far he has refused to say little else, but we're working on him. He will tell us everything. He's just a kid, it shouldn't take long."

"Will we torture him?"

"Of course," replied Chamberlain casually. "But we have to tread carefully. As we are a signatory to the United Nations Convention Against Torture, we have to consider the optics. The world press will be clamouring around this situation and organizations like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch will be demanding transparency regarding his treatment. I have the lawyers working on it. If we can demonstrate that the nature of the crime is such that there is a national security issue at stake, we can make a strong argument for advanced interrogation techniques that fall outside the U.N. Convention. Equally we can make the case on the same grounds and that in light of the terrorist threat his trial should not be held in open court, then we don't have to show him to the world or answer any questions regarding his treatment. We can seek to try him through a special military tribunal, much like the Americans did to terror suspects held in Guantanamo Bay before they eventually closed it. The jurisdiction of these tribunals is primarily for war crimes, but I think we can make a strong case to say that terrorist attacks of this nature constitute a war against Britain, even if the nation has not officially declared war. Such terror suspects would then be exempt from the convention and fall under the purview of the military courts. We could keep him out of the public eye and claim national security privilege in doing so. Not even his family will be allowed to see him and we can keep him in solitary confinement for as long as it takes and gather every bit of information he has quickly and efficiently. "However I doubt he knows that much about the leadership of the organization. Suicide bombers rarely do. The leaders would never sacrifice themselves. They regard themselves as too valuable to do the dirty work, and they don't have the courage to do it anyway. As long as they can indoctrinate operatives like Faisal to blow themselves up on some empty promise of paradise, then they remain in business. This is why they recruit among the young and impressionable and take them from their families. It's much easier to brainwash a kid who has been effectively isolated."

Pelham paused, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. "So Faisal is merely the stooge in a sophisticated network, the tip of the iceberg? We need to find the people behind the plan and eliminate them. We have to be ruthless and show absolutely no mercy, and we need to demonstrate to the watching world that if the cancer of terrorism is here within our shores, we will cut the tumour out. Their actions tonight give us justification for stepping up our campaign. We can use this attack to our advantage. No one likes terrorists in their backyard, and we can use the media to support our actions as totally necessary and in the public interest. I want you to get onto it and get the media circus rolling. We can make a lot of political mileage out of this. We have strong reasons to step up our deportation program and instigate a crackdown on the Muslim population. Who knows which of them are terrorists? Tar them all with the same brush and we can't be accused of repression, because you can't really repress terrorists. We need to strike hard and swiftly. Griffiths gave us a hundred men tonight but I think we will need the whole FREE movement, not just for the boycott of the businesses and the deportation camps but also to quell home-grown terrorism."

Pelham paused again, deep in thought. Chamberlain could almost see his brain working overtime, and he knew better than to interrupt him in these moments, when sometimes he could be inspirational. "We need to select and train Griffiths' best men," he said finally. "They might be thugs but they can be effective. I need a strong security force to work alongside or instead of our existing detachment of bodyguards. Those goons from MI5 were bloody useless."

Chamberlain frowned but said nothing. Those 'goons' were highly trained officers whose split second actions had almost certainly saved the Prime Minister's life. Two of them were dead and another two were now in hospital in critical condition. Pelham's issue, which Chamberlain had to admit was a valid one, was that they had allowed Faisal to get as far as the stage in the first place.

Pelham continued. "I need an elite squad, a private army, a core of whom are by my side at all times. I need to be with my citizens Giles; I will not hide behind walls and distance myself from the public. I built my campaign on strong and visible leadership. I will not compromise those principles. I know I'm a target but I will not be a recluse. They have to be the best of the best Giles, whether we recruit from FREE, the police or army or the Secret Service. They must protect me, but I want them to be proactive in doing so. Prevention is always better than cure. I want them to root out and eliminate anyone who opposes me. Our plan is too important to let my opponents stand in our way. It will only deflect us from our mission and delay what this country has been crying out for since the turn of the century."

Pelham drained the last of his gin and tonic and looked at his deputy intently. "I need you to organize my private army Giles. I have an address next week to the Confederation of British Industry. I don't want to give my speech behind a bulletproof glass screen. I want my private army up and running by then. Can you do it?"

Chamberlain knew it was not a request, more an order phrased as a question. He gave a non-committal nod and mentally made a note to call up Griffiths as soon as they'd finished. Pelham turned to him, and there was a glint in those trenchant eyes. "You know Giles," he began. "I'm almost glad about what happened today. It's like a message of affirmation for what I am trying to achieve. I don't believe in destiny, you know that, except the ones we make for ourselves, but I truly believe our plan is preordained. We have another compelling reason for our policies and personally it has stiffened my resolve. We will see this through no matter what it takes. If I was not convinced of that before tonight, I certainly am now."

Pelham stood up and glanced out of the window, where the orange glow on the horizon showed no signs of fading. No doubt as soon as he had finished with Chamberlain his assistants would be running to him with reports of the civil war that was erupting on the streets. His vision of a peaceful but homogeneous Britain was as far away as it ever could be, but he was not worried. These were early days, and he was confident in his plans. He turned to Chamberlain. "Maybe the time has come for our biological solution."

Chamberlain stared at him, his face as white as a sheet. He wanted to argue that it was far too early in their plan, but Pelham's face was set in solid resolve. Chamberlain knew that he would not sleep tonight.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL JUNE 29TH

It has been an extraordinary week in Britain precipitated by Lance Pelham's historic but antagonistic speech and the events that immediately followed. In the aftermath of the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister in front of a global audience of millions, simmering tensions again burst into open conflict as groups of rampaging youths and members of the FREE movement, which has styled itself as the unofficial paramilitary wing of the Conservative Party, took to the streets nationwide. They attacked Muslim communities in a series of coordinated pogroms, looted and ransacked their businesses throughout London and all major cities with significant Islamic populations. The burning of the Qur'an has continued, which, while largely symbolic, the razing of several mosques is not. Angry mobs have taken to marching through residential areas and taking sledgehammers and axes to houses, forcing the terrified residents to flee for their lives.

However, this time, the Muslim community, now battle-hardened from having been under siege virtually since the day that Pelham took power, was prepared to fight back and this led to pitched battles on the streets.

A worrying development apparent in the most recent spate of violence is the number of guns used. Until now, the licensing of guns was tightly controlled and access to them limited for ordinary citizens, a miraculous position considering that Britain often follows the policy in the United States, which despite its own enormous social problems, is still incredibly lax on gun ownership. Despite the restrictions, bursts of gunfire and isolated bomb blasts have led to scenes reminiscent of a civil war in the country. Small office blocks and shops have been reduced to heaps of rubble in several town centres, and with the curfew being largely ignored, fighting has continued throughout the night for the last few days. The Home Guard is closely monitoring the situation but initially, were surprisingly reluctant to intervene, prompting Muslim leaders and clerics to complain of a lack of protection. In fact, there are rumours that in some cases the soldiers had sided with the pogrom. It is apparent that they've done little to stop looters from smashing up and stealing from shop fronts in mainly Muslim areas.

Amid the general chaos, there have also been reports of atrocities. In Leeds a sacred Islamic cemetery was desecrated and daubed with offensive language and also with various symbols, including the eponymous Nazi swastika, but also the Celtic cross, which has become notoriously associated with the FREE movement. Many Muslims have been beaten up but in a sickening incident in Tower Hamlets three Asian men were cornered by a hostile group numbering about twenty. Two of the Asians were handed lead piping and forced to beat their friend senseless while the group looked on and cheered. As the gang fled, the two Asian men were then arrested for assault by Home Guard soldiers. The fate of the Asian men is unknown, but it's highly likely they will end up in the deportation camps. In fact the primary role of the Home Guard appears not in engineering a cessation of fighting, but in rounding up Muslim men, women and children and carting them off in the caged trucks for delivery to the deportation camps. The sight of these trucks, with their rusty steel cages pressed full of anxious, desperate and demoralized immigrants is becoming a sinister but familiar sight in Pelham's new order.

The pitched battles have claimed scores of lives and even more injuries, with a number of hospitals, already stretched to the limit in peace time, working around the clock to treat the victims, many of them women and children caught up in the fighting. Even so, some hospitals, following the tenor of Pelham's speech, are refusing to treat the injured without proof that they're not registered minorities. The irony is that in spite of the number of innocent casualties, the most high profile death, and the one that has caused the most anger, is that of a soldier, Lance Corporal Adam Davidson, a member of the Home Guard who was pulled from his army jeep and set upon by an angry mob outside a mosque in Birmingham`s Small Heath area, scene of some of the worst fighting. The attack on the jeep was recorded by surveillance cameras which were released immediately, uploaded to YouTube and quickly went viral. His savage death prompted a fierce outcry and extensive coverage on all the media networks, which portrayed L.C. Davidson, twenty-four, as a young family man and a patriot doing his duty. The extraordinary and shocking footage has elevated him to the status of martyrdom within forty-eight hours. While the frenzied attack had clearly been borne out of deep frustration and revenge for the persecution that the Muslims have suffered over the last few months, it is fast proving to be a huge propaganda own goal, with any sympathy for their plight evaporated by the abhorrence felt at the brutality of the murder. The Council of Muslims, generally regarded as a moderate body, has been quick to distance itself from the attack, claiming it to be the work of frustrated extremists, but the damage has been done, and there has been no sign that the Council is prepared to offer up the perpetrators.

The statement by the Council was clearly an exercise in damage limitation and had little impact. The reprisals by the Home Guard have been as severe as they were expected. Following the attack, the Home Guard moved off the sidelines and engaged in a series of arbitrary arrests on both sides, but mainly focused on the Muslim community, prompting the accusations of soldiers supporting the pogrom. Indeed, many members of the Islamic community, fighting for their property or their families, were arrested for assault or other unspecified charges, as if they were expected to meekly stand by and allow their property to be destroyed or their families to be harmed. They were processed and subject to 'administrative detention,' a form of arrest and incarceration without trial for security reasons, to ensure that the offenders no longer pose a threat. In spite of its clear breach of civil and political rights, administrative detention has been used in many democratic countries to combat terrorism, where proponents argue that existing legal systems are ill-equipped to handle the unique challenges presented by terrorism. Equally in undemocratic countries it has been used to protect the ruling State by suppressing dissent and imposing sanctions against government opponents. It is particularly effective because detention is indefinite and requires no burden of proof that has to be tested at trial. Under this procedure these men have been torn from their families, uncertain when and if they would see them again. The irony is that in Pelham's own words the family forms the core of the social life under the Conservative Government. It would appear that this message has not reached the authorities in charge of the deportation camps.

The United Kingdom is fast becoming an international pariah, with predominantly Muslim countries such as Pakistan and Indonesia, as well as several Middle Eastern states, having broken off diplomatic relations in protest at the treatment of their religious allies. The Ambassador to the United States has also been recalled to Washington, although the U.S. has not yet broken off diplomatic relations against its 'long standing friend and ally,' evoking the image of a dear old friend having a temper tantrum that will eventually calm down.

The precarious state of British politics continues to affect English expatriates worldwide, despite their lack of affiliation, and in some cases, denouncement of the new regime. The U.K. Foreign and Commonwealth Office has warned its citizens overseas to remain vigilant following a number of reprisals, including a failed attempt to torch a British owned nightclub in Kuala Lumpur. Many companies employing U.K. expatriates have stepped up security for their employees and their families, a luxury not available to ordinary U.K. citizens who have emigrated and found employment locally. At the moment they are extremely vulnerable, anxiously reviewing the developments in their homeland that have stirred up so much controversy and resentment.

Undeterred, the Prime Minister made his first public appearance since his speech at the Confederation of British Industry (CBI) annual dinner, a prestigious event in the City of London's business calendar. The security was so tight that Pelham's security team almost outnumbered the delegates, all of whom had been subjected to a rigorous and undignified body search that was worse than international flights to the United States. There was little compromise for the stature of the business leaders attending, all of whom were iris-tested. In the speech Pelham repeated his calls made in his Wembley speech for the imposition of punitive taxes on businesses whose ownership is less than half British, reiterating his desire to see British assets returned to British hands.

When challenged about the aggressive groups standing outside foreign owned businesses such as retail stores and offices, Pelham was non-committal, announcing rather smugly that the 'the people have spoken, and their will would prevail.' He was vociferously questioned by renowned Sri Lankan business leader Ravi Kumarisinghe regarding his possible complicity or implied assent in these actions, particularly because the Home Guard had not stepped in to prevent this happening. However, Pelham was robust in his response and as the exchange became heated, Mr Kumarisinghe was removed from the auditorium after ignoring demands to desist in his line of questioning. Coincidentally, he was later issued with a deportation notice. Pelham's regime has set the tone for this type of confrontation amongst business and community leaders, which will escalate significantly if Pelham's plans for a transition to British ownership are allowed to continue.

The scenes up and down the country of intimidating groups hanging around outside businesses, barring entry and threatening potential clients is not unprecedented, but has certainly created scenes not seen in Britain since the coal miner's dispute in the nineteen-eighties. There is widespread consternation not just at this turn of events but with the Government's inaction, mainly because it suits their agenda. Of course so many businesses have online clients, rendering such boycotts largely symbolic in those cases, but it is the optics that raises so much concern. It is rumoured that many of those boycotting businesses are members of FREE, leading to suspicions of complicity within Whitehall. That suspicion magnified intensely when during an extraordinary radio interview Adam Griffiths, the notorious head of the FREE movement, claimed that his organization had a mandate from the government to protect the security of the new regime, a claim that was instantly and flatly discredited by a government spokesman.

Meanwhile the key figure at the heart of the current troubles has not been seen in public and the authorities are refusing to reveal his whereabouts. Faisal Khorasani, the young Muslim would-be suicide bomber is due to face trial for attempted murder but also for treason, the one offence that carried the death penalty even before the current regime's fast track legislation to reintroduce capital punishment for a wider range of crimes. There is no doubt that prosecutors will seek the maximum sentence, and given the overwhelming evidence, the nation is facing the prospect of the first death sentence carried out on British soil since 1964 when Peter Allen and Gwynne Evans were hanged for the murder of a laundry van driver.

While the focus of the current troubles in Britain is centred mainly on the vitriol against Muslims following the assassination attempt on Prime Minister Pelham, it's clear that no immigrant of any creed, colour or race is safe, not even in the short term. The Minorities Registration Act spelt the start of a program of persecution against immigrants, but the events of the last week appear to have signalled a possible turning point from political, economic and social persecution to physical attacks, murder and incarceration.

## CHAPTER 31

The message had come through on his 'secret' cellphone, whose number was known only to the members of the executive committee. Apparently someone else had the number, and had sent a cryptic text message. The message commanded him to meet at the top of One Canada Square just before dawn the next morning, and it left him confused. The building located at this address was the second tallest building in England, the iconic Canary Wharf tower. However, its security was tight following a bombing attempt during the Great Recession, when the building was held up as a symbol of all the greed and avarice that had pushed the country into deep crisis. It had certainly endured a chequered history since its completion in 1991. It was not the type of building that one could easily approach and travel up to the top floor, even in earlier days.

The message was, however quickly followed by another text instructing him to enter the north side of the building and take elevator eight, for which his associates had arranged access. Both messages were unsigned but one was followed by a link to an image of the National Maritime Museum taken from an elevated position, and then he knew instantly.

Griffiths knew that he had no choice but to go, and he had to confess to feeling a little nervous. His movement had gone from strength to strength, to the extent that they had moved smoothly into the mainstream of public consciousness. The Pelham regime, having initially distanced itself from FREE and its activities, had now brought his movement into the fold to such an extent that their supply of foot soldiers to Pelham's private army, and the recent protection at Wembley, was a ringing endorsement of his movement. Things had gone so well that Griffiths had confidently spoken on national radio about FREE's mandate to protect Pelham and his regime. He saw his opportunity for political gain, but on hindsight felt that maybe he had been a little premature. His interview had not been authorized but, he reasoned, what right did they have to tell him what to do? He was the head of a movement that was growing in political power daily, and he was no-one's pawn. His power and confidence had grown with the upturn in FREE's fortunes, and he had to admit to feeling a touch of arrogance.

As he took the creaking, graffiti filled Docklands Light Railway to Canary Wharf station, he tried to bolster himself with that arrogance, but it was little use. His FREE contacts, installed as part of Pelham's security team had advised him that the Prime Minister was fuming over Griffiths' radio broadcast, and he could not help wondering if he was heading for a dressing down.

At this time of day, there were very few commuters on the line. At four-thirty in the morning, it was far too early for rush hour, except for a few bleary-eyed workers who headed to the office early or maybe late from the night shift. There was the usual human detritus, drunks, beggars, the homeless and the drug addicts, those who had lost any hope of salvation. Griffiths had nothing but contempt for them, but he was not complacent. He felt the warmth of his small handgun against his thigh, a useful insurance policy. He did not enjoy the luxury of a security force like Pelham's, although he amused himself with visions of achieving the power and status he desperately craved, and wondered whether he would be as obsessive about security as Pelham undoubtedly was. It was understandable given the circumstances.

The creaking train screeched loudly to a halt at the Canary Wharf station, once a modern, vaulted steel and glass cathedral, but now decrepit from years of neglect, the array of cracked and broken windows a monument to the decay and ruin that symbolized much of the country. He stepped out and walked briskly out of the station, knowing that the long walkways offered muggers a good opportunity to strike, particularly at this early hour when the lights were dim.

The paved walkways to the base of the building were quiet, populated only by a few vagrants, lost in their own private alcohol-fuelled world, and he had soon reached the north side of the huge marble lobby with its elaborate stained glass windows depicting the Docklands area. Below was the shopping mall that stretched for miles underground. At the security desk he encountered a burly but tired looking security officer who stood up to bar his way. Griffiths said nothing but waited while the officer checked his tablet and his features softened as he nodded his assent. However as Griffiths brushed past, the officer laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry sir, I can't permit that," he said, pointing to the bulge around his hip formed by the holster.

"But I never travel without it," Griffiths protested.

The officer was insistent, his body tensed for trouble. "You can have it back when you come down."

Griffiths cursed as he handed it over, and as he flew up the high speed elevator, his ears popping, he felt naked without it. It took less than two minutes to reach the top although in days gone by he knew it had only taken forty seconds, but the hydraulics and steel cables were now getting old and in need of maintenance, rather like a sprinter who had become progressively slower as the years took their toll. One day it would just stop working altogether. The elevator slowed down perceptibly before stopping at the top floor and the doors slid open. He stepped out onto the concrete floor, the huge stainless steel pyramid rising forty metres above him. The floor he was situated on, although the furthest the elevators could go, was really just a narrow walkway that ran round the edge of the building, the bulk of the floor space taken by the massive pyramid that defined the building. As he looked up, the dark sky was getting lighter as the sun prepared its ascent above the horizon, but the aircraft warning beacon still flashed with the regularity of an atomic clock.

As he looked to the east he saw the sun emerge over the horizon, instantly bathing the city sprawled before him in a faint orange glow that seemed to spread over the cityscape like a wave as the sun crept higher. It was going to be another choking hot day, the humid air already catching in one's throat so it made breathing an effort. In the distance, he saw several palls of smoke rising from destroyed buildings, some still burning, and it seemed few parts of London had escaped the recent carnage. Within a minute, as the sun cleared the horizon, he was already sweating. The heat had been so fierce recently that there was no opportunity for the ground to cool down, even at night. The area was desperate for rain, and even from here the parks he could see had parched and yellowing grass, the whole land looking like a dust-bowl.

He became conscious of a movement at the edge of his vision and he instinctively reached for his gun, suddenly remembering it was no longer there. Like an apparition his contact suddenly appeared before him, and Griffiths jumped back in surprise. He quickly recovered his composure and regarded his contact with detached amusement.

"It's a little warm for a long trench-coat and a hat isn't it?" Griffiths said wryly.

The voice was terse, impatient. "We didn't come here to discuss fashion tips. Let's get down to business."

"As you wish," replied Griffiths, offended. "So why am I here?"

It was difficult to tell any expression behind the dark sunglasses but his voice was hard. "You upset a lot of people with your radio interview. What the hell were you thinking?"

Griffiths gazed out at the sprawling city stretched out before him into the distance. Far below, the Thames was already glittering in the sun as it snaked its way through the city. "I make my own decisions. What harm is there in telling the truth, especially if it benefits my organization."

Griffiths felt the intensity of the eyes staring at him, despite the shield of the sunglasses. "We thought you were wiser than that. There are some political forces at play here that you could not even begin to understand."

"Then try me," parried Griffiths, affronted at this insult.

"You don't need to know Mr Griffiths. We all have a part and we only know what we need to know. And your role, and that of FREE, is to support the government and not to shout out what you are doing over the rooftops. That sort of publicity in the current climate is highly dangerous. You do not speak or blog or communicate with the media in anyway unless we give you permission. Our project is too important for loose cannons. Is that clear?"

Griffiths felt a surge of anger. How dare he question him? He sized up the man in the trench-coat. He looked slim and wiry even beneath the shapeless coat, but Griffiths was highly capable of looking after himself, his skills as a pugilist honed in the field at many marches and demonstrations. He fought the urge to lash out and instead shouted at him in fury, his face so close that the brim of the stranger's hat touched his forehead.

Griffiths waved his finger angrily in the man's face. "Don't you tell me what I can and can't do? I run my movement how I decide and if I want to talk to the media, that's up to me."

The stranger remained impassive behind the glasses, completely immobile despite the FREE leader yelling in his face, his cheeks red with fury. "You could not be more wrong," he said simply.

Unable to control himself any longer, his raw instinct for violence overriding his senses, Griffiths raised his fist and took a swing at the stranger. With lightning speed, however, the stranger stepped aside and grabbed his wrist, levering it to twist Griffiths' arm behind his back. Griffiths gave a cry of surprise and had no choice but to spin around as his arm was twisted to avoid it being broken. Facing away from the stranger and toward the skyline, he was propelled at speed to the parapet, unable to twist his arm free of the stranger's iron grip. The stranger kept pushing him forward until he slammed into the parapet, which was a series of bars the highest of which was barely above the waist. This was not a public viewing area so the usual safety barriers were not in place and Griffiths found himself staring into the abyss with just the bar stopping him from falling, but the powerful weight of the stranger pressing against him. His arm was freed but the stranger, with uncanny strength, immediately flipped him over the bars and grabbed his wrists, taking the weight of Griffiths' body. The FREE leader clawed to find some purchase on the slippery concrete, but he found he was kicking at air. His mind racing with turmoil and fear, he knew that in the space of a few seconds his life was in the hands of this hostile stranger. He merely had to let go and Griffiths would fall to a certain death. "Please," he entreated his tormentor, "pull me up!"

The stranger at first said nothing but his iron grip slackened just slightly. Griffiths was a wiry one hundred and eighty pounds and the stranger surely could not hold on for too long. Tears of fear and humiliation stung his eyes as the stranger, the strain evident in his voice, said, "I can easily let go of you now. That's how easy it would be to eliminate you. Don't ever forget that. At the moment you're too useful to us but that could easily change. You belong to us and we tell you what you can and cannot do. You remember that or the next time my hands might be a little more slippery."

With an enormous heave, the stranger hauled Griffiths back over the rails and the FREE leader dropped heavily onto the concrete floor, rubbing his wrists but relieved to feel solid ground beneath his feet. Suddenly the view was not so appealing anymore. He stood up, keeping his distance from the other man, who regarded him coolly. Griffiths choked with rage and humiliation but he wisely suppressed it. His instinct was to get away as soon as possible, wary of his adversary's power, but the stranger moved toward the elevator entrance first and called it. The elevator doors opened and as he stepped in he issued a final warning. "Don't forget Mr Griffiths, we're watching you." The doors closed with a faint whirr from the descending elevator, leaving Griffiths alone on the walkway, still trembling with shock and anger.

## CHAPTER 32

Faisal had no idea how long he had been inside the pitch black cell. The seconds, minutes, hours and days seemed to merge together so that time in essence had no meaning. His whole life seemed to lead to this moment of silence, darkness and isolation, as if the life he had lived before the all-consuming blackness belonged to a different person. They had beaten him, kicking at the charred skin on his legs until he had passed out from the excruciating pain, and he had gained consciousness in this dark hell-hole. He only knew the dimensions of his cell by pacing it out, painful as it was to stand, as he could not even see the moist walls. There was a threadbare mattress laid on the pitted concrete floor but no blankets to protect against the cold, damp conditions. It also took a huge effort of will not to focus on the pain in his legs. The rest of his body had mercifully been shielded from the blast by the two security officers who had jumped on him, but the untreated skin on his legs was constantly sore and felt rough and pitted to the touch. He was glad he could not see just how bad his legs looked in the darkness.

The only sound that pervaded his senses was a dull squeak from a passing rat. He hated the filthy creatures and was almost thankful he could not see them, although he had felt them occasionally brush against his leg. When they did, he would lash out at them, kicking aimlessly into the darkness and he'd hear them scamper away with an annoyed squeak. The only other sound was the rough growl of a grate being opened and closed every so often, he figured around twice a day. He knew that this signalled food time, and he had to react quickly before the rats began sniffing at the tray, as the grate was just above the floor. He would feel for the bowl of slop, accompanied by a paper cup of putrid water, forced to pick it up with his hands as the bowl was always stuck to the tray, and hungrily feed on the foul smelling, turgid porridge-like substance.

It felt like it had no nourishment, and there was never enough, so that he felt as if his already slim body was starting to shrink through malnutrition. One time he had been sick from eating the porridge, and he had managed to direct the vomit into the commode that languished in the corner for his bodily functions, but which had long since overflowed, filling the fetid air with a stench so strong that he could almost taste it.

It was a relief when he heard the sound of a human voice, even if it was a hostile one. The gruff voice told him to stand rigid, not to move, and then he heard the click of a key. The heavy door swung open lazily and immediately a bright torch light was shone in his face, burning his light-starved retinas and forcing him to shield his eyes. "Put your hands down now!" shouted the voice, disembodied behind the dazzling light that eclipsed everything. Two others rushed in and immediately wrestled his hands behind his back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. They roughly shoved him out of the cell, but he was too weak to react. One of the men gagged and held a cloth to his face. "You're a filthy bastard aren't you," the man with the torch said.

Despite their insults and the taunts that the slop they fed him was pig's entrails, he was relieved to have some human contact again. The isolation was like a festering wound, growing worse with every moment left untreated. It was a prelude to what he perceived to be about two days of repeated questioning, shouted at him over and over again. They hosed him down first, and the biting cold of the water hit him like a hammer blow, but they gave him a dry orange jumpsuit. He was denied sleep, and the interrogators, usually two of them present at all times, took it in turns to shout, threaten and cajole him into revealing his accomplices. He remained resolutely silent despite the exhaustion and hunger screaming at him to give in to their promises of good food and a warm cell if he gave them the names.

They did not beat him again but they did kick away his chair and make him stand for hours on end until his frazzled legs were about to collapse. Every so often the interrogators would get in his face, shouting and screaming at him like a drill sergeant, so that he could see their neck bulging with throbbing veins and their red, angry eyes boring into him. And then in a dramatic switch, they'd act like his best friend, understanding him well and not blaming him for what he had done, but telling him that he had been coerced into doing it and that it was in his interest as well as theirs to get to the people who were really behind the plot. Ironically enough, it was these times that were the most convincing, because it led Faisal to question whether he had been manipulated. Up until the moment he had carried out the failed mission, he had always held an unshakeable belief that he had acted of his own free will, not threatened or forced to act in any way. These bullish, hostile men with sleeves rolled up and taut muscles under tight fitting shirts suddenly raised doubts, and in a moment of weakness he had nearly revealed the name of the jihad movement.

However, the moment quickly passed when they resumed their threats and bullying, and Faisal stood firm. He was proud of himself when they finally hustled him back into the black pit, but as they did so he was tempted to scream out that he'd tell them anything they wanted to know if only to avoid this rat infested hole again. However, they said they would come back in a day, and the cell no longer carried the inhuman stench of faeces and vomit that had become part of its fabric.

They were true to their word; it could have been no more than a day, although in that blackness time just seemed to crawl by, as if the mind deliberately slowed down time to extend the punishment. The mind could be the biggest enemy in a place like this, your thoughts becoming as much your enemy as the people who had put you there. So when they came for him again, there was a sense of relief every bit as powerful as the first time they had come for him, even though he sensed that his first stay in the 'hole' had been much longer.

This time his arms and legs were shackled, forcing him to waddle forward, but he was not taken to an interrogation room. They led him up a set of stairs and seated him into a small but brightly lit holding room. It was bare and functional, just a plastic table and two white plastic chairs on either side. He was seated in one and his captors left the room except one who stood guard by the barred door they had entered.

He waited there for a while, the guard at the door staring fixedly at him as if challenging him to make a move. It did not bother him. He was just relieved to be out of the hole. Eventually a buzzer sounded and the electronic door swung open, and in walked a small ferret-like man in an ill-fitting taupe coloured suit that seemed to hang off his bony shoulders. His face was gaunt and his skin an unhealthy pallor. His teeth looked too big for his mouth, and when he smiled he reminded Faisal of a ventriloquist's dummy. The smile soon disappeared as he sat down and he wrinkled his sharp nose disapprovingly. Faisal knew he must still reek, but he had become so accustomed to the smell that it hardly registered with him.

The man declined to shake Faisal's hand, greeting him only with a cursory nod before sitting down opposite Faisal and slamming a thick wad of papers down on the small plastic table, as if he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. Despite his dire circumstances, Faisal found this small man in the crumpled suit almost comical, especially as his movements were twitchy and staccato and he had a habit of picking at a large red boil on his neck.

When he spoke his voice was high-pitched and reedy. "Mr Khorasani my name is Peter Stanworth. I have been assigned to be your state appointed lawyer in the trial against you."

"I want my own lawyer," Faisal interjected.

Stanworth gave a long sigh, as if he had the bother of explaining a basic rule to a child. "I'm afraid that's not possible. This case is of such a unique and special nature that it will not be tried through the ordinary courts. You are an unlawful enemy combatant Mr Khorasani. An interesting term, one first used by the Americans in Guantanamo Bay, although I guess you're too young to remember that. The case will be tried by a military tribunal and will not be made public. Everything that takes place will happen behind closed doors. The normal rules of evidence will apply, but there is no jury, just a Presiding Officer and four other army lawyers. Decisions are taken on a majority, but a sentence of death needs a unanimous decision." He grinned sheepishly, the teeth protruding awkwardly. "I have to advise you that the tribunal rarely disagree on matters."

Faisal had taken an instant dislike to the lawyer. "I don't want you. I have a constitutional right to appoint my own lawyer to defend me so why don't you bugger off and get me a proper lawyer!"

By the door the officer on guard remained impassive, but his mouth twitched. Stanworth frowned deeply and scratched even harder at his boil, clearly irritated. "Let me explain something to you, Mr Khorasani. May I call you Faisal? You're on trial for trying to assassinate the Prime Minister live on television and the media, with an audience of millions. The prosecution is pushing for the death sentence and they have a strong case. I can hardly refute the evidence or say that you weren't there can I? The only argument I can put forward is to make a plea for mitigating circumstances, to say that you were unduly influenced to the extent that you did not know what you were doing. That way I may be able to convince the tribunal to at least spare your life. But in order to do that I need you to tell me about your network, so I can understand what led you here. If you don't want to die on the gallows, I suggest that you tell me everything."

Faisal mulled it over for a second. "What if I don't?"

Stanworth sighed again. "That will make my job of defending you virtually impossible. We don't have much time. The tribunal hearing starts tomorrow. It is a fast track trial and it will probably last a maximum of two days. The tribunal has indicated that if a capital penalty is imposed, they will carry out the sentence swiftly. That means unless you start talking you could be dead within the week." He paused, scratching the boil again, his narrow face twisted in an odd grin. "Unless that is what you want. You are a suicide bomber after all."

Faisal ignored the underhand jibe. "I want to see my parents," he said flatly.

Stanworth leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking even under his slight frame. He steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. "I'm afraid that won't be possible Faisal. Defendants for this type of tribunal are not allowed visitors. I am however authorized to allow you one phone call." He pulled out a small cell phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to Faisal.

Faisal hesitantly accepted the phone and then looked at the lawyer expectantly. "I want to be alone to make the call."

Stanworth glanced at the officer standing guard. His face was impassive but the flicker of his eyes was enough. "That won't be possible Faisal. You make it in front of us or not at all."

Faisal hesitated, thinking, while Stanworth pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose, wishing that they could at least have hosed the prisoner down before he was sent in. Stanworth had to admit that it was an interesting case, one that would make headlines for a lawyer if it were tried in open court. However, he would never find fame with this one. The whole proceedings were secret and the only evidence that he had acted as Faisal's solicitor would be the tribunal's record of proceedings. They had made him sign the Official Secrets Act and made certain promises of what would happen if he breached the Act. He had never defended anyone facing the death penalty before – few lawyers in this country had, the legislation reintroducing it was too recent – but his track record in defending his clients was, he had to admit to himself, not exactly impressive. Yet they had approached him and so here he was. The payday was too good to turn down, and in any event if the client did not cooperate there was little chance he'd be spared anyway. At least the fee would pay some of the palimony arrears to his ex-wife and the two brats they'd brought into this miserable world.

There was a heavy silence and then Faisal made his decision. He dialled the number he knew so well, careful to shield it from the lawyer. His Farsi was fluent, as this was the main language of the camp. The phone rang for what seemed an eternity before it was answered. He spoke rapidly and the voice on the other end registered shock. The voice told him to hang on a minute and then presently the deep gravelly voice of his mentor came to the phone. Faisal could not know that the hesitation of his mentor was in accepting the call at all, but the damage if any had already been done. He had connected to them so he decided he may as well speak to Faisal, at least to get some indication of what he had revealed about them.

Faisal spoke rapidly, telling his mentor proudly that he had told the infidel nothing. He did not know where he was but told his mentor that he was facing the death penalty. His mentor already knew this from the news reports, but did not tell Faisal that. Faisal bravely told his mentor that he was not afraid to die, still anxious to impress him, but he was sad that his mission had failed.

Then he asked the question he had been so anxious to ask. Would he still go to the paradise that awaited him if he had been successful? Would he still be regarded as a martyr, the necessary qualification to enter the kingdom of eternal grace? But the answer from his mentor, despite him being an imam, was less than convincing. He hesitated and his answer was non-committal. Let Allah decide, he said, and forbade any further discussion on the matter. In fact, his imam was anxious to end the call and Faisal eventually hung up, deflated. He suddenly felt alone, isolated and vulnerable, his sense of resolve suddenly stripped bare. He handed the phone back to the lawyer, who had been waiting patiently.

"Are you ready to talk now?" said the lawyer, judging by Faisal's downcast expression that things had not gone well on the call.

Faisal nodded meekly. Anything was better than going back to the hole, and maybe if he did talk the lawyer could save him. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to live, that maybe life was precious and just maybe the peculiar, gaunt little man sitting awkwardly in front of him could help him. Yes, he was ready to talk.

Back in his office on the second floor of the mosque in Bradford, Imam Abu-al-Qasim, named in honour of one of the Twelver Imam who would re-establish the rightful governance of Islam and replete the earth with justice and peace, looked out of the small broken windows in his office, hidden deep within the mosque, one of many that had sustained serious damage in the riots of the last few days. They had just been repaired from the last time. A deep sense of foreboding swept over him like a tidal wave. The fool had compromised them all by calling here, even though he had called the unmarked cellphone and spoken in their usual tongue. How long would it be before the authorities located the camp? A few days, maybe a week?

They had managed to stay under the radar for so long, secretly receiving funds from their brothers in Kashmir through a network of banking transactions that made it virtually impossible to trace the source. At one time, as the Muslim population and its influence grew, there had been ambitions from their brothers that part of England could be turned into an independent Islamist Caliphate, but that had been little better than a pipe dream, quickly abandoned many years before when the tide of public opinion turned sharply against Muslims after the attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York. It was the one event that had defined the attitude of suspicion and mistrust against ordinary Muslims and had given racist organizations like the British National Party a platform on which to spread their twisted message.

In retrospect, the terrorist attack that had been hailed as such a glorious strike against the infidel had in fact damaged the Islamic cause in the western world to such an extent that it would take decades, if ever, to recover. He remembered that proud day over twenty years ago like it was only yesterday, when he and a number of other clerics had been summoned for an audience with Osama bin Laden, the great warrior and strategist. The leader exuded charisma and a deep sense of personal dignity, allied with a scholarly calm. His ambitions for the creation of a world in which the balance of power shifted toward the Arab Islamic world were expansive and plausible, and his tactical brilliance and ability to intimidate the Western infidel even as he hid out in mountain caves on the Afghan-Pakistan border were masterful. The video messages he released at strategic points had the effect of keeping the West on a state of permanent alert, often symbolic but designed to attack the psyche of non-Muslims, to strike fear in the hearts of ordinary men and their families.

He had been intent on destroying the Western capitalist economy, the foundation of which was greed and material wealth, and replace it with a more spiritual foundation, and the attacks on that sunny September day in New York had rattled the markets, yet they had bounced back. The attacks yielded a tide of hostility, including some from the Arab world, and sent the great leader running for cover for the next ten years before his demise in his compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan. Imam Abu-al-Qasim had been struck by the extraordinary clarity of thought and political intelligence of the man, his ideas completely untainted by any notion of personal vendettas, but rather on the larger picture, like pieces on a global chessboard.

The attacks had caused the entire might of the U.S. military and their allies crashing down on their heads, nearly destroying the al-Qaeda movement totally. The battle had been won in an audacious and historic attack, but the seeds had been sown for the loss of the war, despite later successes in London, Madrid, Mumbai and many other high profile cities. It was the beginning of the end of the dream to establish the Islamic states as the truly dominant global force in the world. Battles are won not just with guns and bombs but with propaganda, and the tide of opinion had turned, even among the more moderate Muslims.

His brothers had continued to support the jihadist cause in the hope that someday the opportunity would come again for resurgence in the dream for a new Caliphate, particularly as the Muslim population in England began to rise substantially. For Imam Abu-al-Qasim now, however, those glory days were long gone. In these troubled times, it was more a question of survival for his people.

Later that day, as he prepared for evening prayers, he had his answer. Through the broken windows he saw a line of police cars and several vans, lights flashing and sirens slicing through the still air as they pulled up in front of the mosque, surrounding the building. Out of the vans poured a swarm of armed police officers dressed all in black, like huge ants ready to attack. He had much less time than he had thought.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL – JULY 3RD

The fierce heat wave, particularly in the nation's capital, is showing no signs of abating. In the streets of London the rubbish-strewn streets have begun to smell with a pungency that has probably not been present since Victorian times. The buildings seem to trap the heat, forcing it into airless pockets between the buildings, creating areas of stifling, still air that seem to attract the insects. Indeed the mosquito population, a constant pest in the countryside since it invaded the nation's shores ten years ago, seems to have exploded and migrated into London and the big cities, so that their irritating and harmful presence is everywhere. It was not so long ago that one had to travel to tropical shores to encounter them.

Also, at this time of year, and with this incessant heat, the rats in London are bigger and more visible than ever, their numbers appearing to have escalated in the dry, hot weather, providing perfect incubation conditions for their hideous brood. Many have expressed concern about the onset of another Great Plague, and it is not just scaremongering. The rats are getting bolder and more confident, less concerned about being sighted, and a man recently bitten by a rat was hospitalized with an as yet undisclosed illness.

The political heat is almost as fierce as the unrelenting sun, with the unrest that followed the news of the first execution on British soil in over sixty years, leading the authorities to declare martial law. Faisal Khorasani was a graduate of a terrorist training camp in Bradford, and was notorious for the most audacious and high profile assassination attempt of a Western leader in modern history. He was tried before a special military commission and the sentence was carried out at Belmarsh Prison in Greenwich, south-east London, a prison once dubbed the British Guantanamo Bay after its detention of people without charge under anti-terrorism provisions. Just nineteen, the young Muslim radical was convicted of treason and aggravated attempted murder, as well as a range of terrorist related crimes. Reports suggest that the sentence was imposed immediately following the conviction and as a result he had only two days to prepare for the execution, as there is no appeal process from the military tribunal's decisions.

This time was needed to set up and test a gallows in the prison yard. Once the gallows had been declared operational, Khorasani was served notice that he would be executed at sunrise the following day. In a final cruel twist, he was denied access to his parents, unable to bid them farewell; a tribunal spokesman commented that his doing so would present a security risk. However, matters of security did not prevent the next cruel irony. It has been indicated that, as a matter of procedure all executions will be filmed. The Government has not yet given any reasons for this extraordinary course of action but the hanging was filmed in clear, excruciating detail by a prison guard. Within two hours of the execution, and just minutes after his parents had been informed of his execution, the video was uploaded to several streaming websites and quickly went viral worldwide, to such a degree that several of the websites had to go offline, unable to deal with the surge in traffic.

The video shows the young Islamic radical being led, still shackled by a contingent of six prison guards onto the raised platform, before being given the Muslim last rites by a cleric from the local mosque. He is not offered the opportunity to say any last words and he's quickly and efficiently positioned for the gallows. At one point he struggles, sobbing desperately, but is easily restrained before the mask is placed over his head and the noose around his neck. The executioner hits the switch and the hooded man drops through the trapdoor, swinging wildly before he stops with one final twitch. The process takes no more than thirty seconds, but the film continues as the guards wait for two minutes before cutting him down. The sheer mechanical efficiency with which the execution was carried out renders the film quite disturbing. Many of the cells look out onto the prison yard, and although there were no official viewers, a few muted cheers can be heard on the film.

Immediately the footage was released there was outrage in the Muslim community. This time it was the immigrant community's turn to go on the offensive, leading to further conflict on the battle scarred streets between them and members of FREE, who were caught off guard by these attacks. As the immigrant community went on the rampage, smashing up everything in their path not already destroyed from the previous week in a frenzy of hatred, the Home Guard were ordered to actively intervene to break up the fighting, with major cities across the country witnessing streets filled with cars set ablaze and smashed-up shop fronts and offices for the second time since Pelham's now notorious Wembley speech. It's as if the blistering heat had caused a summer madness, and reminiscent of the scenes during the general strike in the Great Recession not so long ago, the tanks rolled into the city streets, as the Pelham regime, losing patience and anxious to restore order following the violence after Wembley, declared a state of emergency under the Civil Contingencies Act 2004 on the basis that the violence posed a serious threat to the security of the United Kingdom and its subjects. The power of declaration has been invoked several times in the two decades since the Act was passed, and the emergency provisions and their resulting restrictions, curfews and arbitrary search and detention will continue for the foreseeable future.

The scenes in London were mirrored across the country. At first the rioters were urged to disassemble by the use of public address systems, but it was clear that they had no effect, and so the tanks quickly deployed tear gas and rubber bullets. As the fighting escalated, the troops left the safety of the tanks and supported by armoured trucks, began rounding up rioters from the immigrant community and throwing them into the cages set up on the trucks. Relieved of their restrictions, with authority to do whatever was necessary to restore order, the troops took opportunity to avenge their fallen colleague Lance Corporal Adam Davidson, quickly subduing resistance from mainly unarmed fighters but still having to defend against occasional sniper fire from behind buildings and rooftops, before rounding up groups of immigrant fighters. Witnesses report their methods as heavy-handed and brutal, and there have been isolated reports of atrocities committed by over-zealous troops intent on sending out a message.

As the sun set on a day of violence, and the heat failing to dissipate, it was if the sun had set on the United Kingdom as a democracy. With scores of injured and dying abandoned on the ground, the burst of occasional gunfire ripping through the air, and palls of smoke rising from still burning cars and buildings, the major cities and towns resemble a war zone, reminiscent of the chaos usually witnessed in the Middle East. The complete breakdown of law and order and the transition to martial law has been swift and relentless and the world is beginning to ask some serious questions of the autocratic Conservative regime that has presided over these troubles. They eclipse anything the mainland witnessed during the Northern Ireland troubles in the latter part of the last century.

As reports stream in of the Home Guard and the police rounding up immigrant dissidents, accelerating the process under the Minorities Registration Act of sending them to deportation camps, the United Nations is monitoring the situation closely, but has been warned by the regime that any attempt to bring in a peacekeeping force will be resisted. The U.K.'s representative at the U.N. was summoned to the Secretary-General's office and given a severe reprimand, and there has been talk of economic sanctions against Britain. Pelham has always maintained that he was prepared go it alone in restoring Britain to 'greatness,' but his actions have prompted worldwide condemnation, particularly in the way that the film of the young Islamist radical's death was allowed to circulate through the social media. More than anything this event has polarized views on the U.K. and many of its overseas diplomats have been expelled. Ironically, the country has started to see a significant rise in the return of expatriates, afraid that they will be deported as a reprisal for the government's actions, moving back on their own terms before that happens, especially where they have considerable wealth held overseas.

Equally troubling is the conditions in the deportation camps. Despite promises by the Government that immigrants awaiting deportation would be housed in reasonable and dignified conditions, while recognizing that the infrastructure had some way to go, the reality is quite different. The Conservative regime promised that the process under the Minorities Registration Act would be phased in over time so that immigrants would be advised in advance and given plenty of notice to make the appropriate preparations. Instead the succession of trucks transporting people in cages like cattle has become a familiar feature on British roads, and the volume of immigrants being forced into the camps has been far greater than initial estimates. Responding to criticism about the need for these cages, a government spokesman had defended them on the grounds that they provided both security and safety, although the accusations regarding the affront to the dignity of these people have been largely ignored.

When the immigrants actually arrive and are processed for removal, they face an indeterminate wait in these camps. So far the Government has not entered into any binding agreements with any countries to take back their people and this has left hundreds of thousands of people in a legal limbo, many separated from their families and uncertain of when and if they will be shipped out. All the while they are imprisoned in overcrowded, insanitary conditions, in camps that are no better than muddy fields with rows of tents. The registration centres at the camps have been inundated and barely able to cope, leaving long lines of people in the searing hot sun waiting to be issued with basic food rations, cooking utensils and shelter. Once they are finally issued with a tent and a few hooks it's a case of pitching up where one can find a space.

There is of course no running water and most of the camps are still lacking water points as the army and its recent influx of helpers, many rumoured to be from the FREE movement, struggles to set up the standpipes. Some more fortunate camps have a natural resource such as a reservoir or river close by, but even these run the risk of being polluted by the lack of proper sewage facilities causing insanitary conditions. In several camps the inmates have been put to work digging pits or trenches to act as latrines, but it's too late to alleviate the severe risk of cholera from contaminated water or food.

As if the threat of a cholera outbreak was not enough, a new more sinister and as yet unidentified virus appears to have already struck two of the camps in Salisbury and Bexhill. It has already claimed a number of lives and the post-mortem on the bodies, carried out under strictly quarantined conditions have been inconclusive, finding multiple organ failure and severe blood loss, but with no clues as to how the disease had been contracted. As a result, the few doctors on site at these camps have absolutely no idea how to treat it, or more importantly how to prevent it, but the cases are beginning to increase daily. The incubation period is unknown so it is difficult to project how many new cases will arise, and even less certain is how the disease is transmitted. Initial symptoms have been found to be similar to gastrointestinal anthrax, including ulcerated tongues and tonsils, fever, dizziness and fainting, acute abdominal pains and victims coughing or vomiting blood. This is followed within 48-72 hours by severe convulsions and respiratory failure, which is often the primary cause of death, although several patients have died from cardiac arrest.

The terrible events taking place at the deportation camps lends further support to the aura of despair that has settled over the nation, despite the propaganda issued from the now largely State controlled media networks. There has been little comment from the inner circle itself. Since his CBI speech, the Prime Minister has been neither seen nor heard, but a government spokesman merely commented that he had taken 'a well-earned vacation.' The speculation is that he has remained at Downing Street, surrounded by a security cordon that is more in keeping with a private army, much like the African dictators that still repress so many parts of their continent. His security patrols access a wide area surrounding Downing Street, automatic weapons clearly on display in a show of intimidation to anyone foolish enough to try to emulate the Islamist radical, whose supporting terror cell the Government proudly stated had been neutralized. It's going to be a long, hot and volatile summer in the nation's capital.

## CHAPTER 33

The atmosphere around the table was sombre and tense as Waseem, their main contact with the Muslim cell in Bradford, described the utter annihilation of the jihad cell. He was visibly distressed as he described what he knew, taken from covert blog messages posted before the silence fell. It did not take too much imagination to guess the fate of the key members of the Bradford cell, some of whom had become close personal friends during the proxy battle with the authorities. The key members, if they were still alive, would have been carted off to the nearest deportation camp if they were lucky, but more likely were locked in windowless cells on trumped-up terrorism charges to contemplate the possibility of a similar fate to their young apprentice.

Waseem scratched at his coarse, greying beard, a mannerism he often displayed when he was agitated, and looked around the large table as he finished his report. The lingering, unspoken question hung over the group like a black cloud; just what had the jihadists revealed about the network? Faisal would not have known of the existence of their group, but his leaders would and now they were at the mercy of the authorities. Even without the aid of the Islamist cell, it was surely only a matter of time before the authorities inevitably traced them. No one truly believed that just because over ten days had elapsed since Pelham's speech, they were safe. They were living on borrowed time.

In such times of stress, the group reverted to its equilibrium of fractious and divided debate that yielded few productive suggestions. Harry observed the group, still regarded as an outsider but invited to their discussions at Julianne's insistence. If it had been up to Sean, he would have remained locked in the basement cell indefinitely, but Julianne was persuasive and he was allowed to move relatively freely through the camp. However, it was clear his suggestions were not welcome and were usually swept aside contemptuously by Sean. The same debates continued as before, only with greater intensity and urgency. Sean and Luka argued that they now had no choice but to attack first before the army launched its assault on them. At least they would have the element of surprise to their advantage.

Chen stuck to his position. "This cell is finished as a clandestine operation. Our best hope is getting out alive. It is clear that the government is not prepared to negotiate. We don't stand a chance in a fight. They're highly trained and their weaponry is far superior to the ageing junk we have in our artillery stores."

There was a general chorus of approval but Sean shouted them down, accusing the group of being cowards, and further threatening that anyone attempting to flee would be considered a deserter and dealt with accordingly.

Harry spoke up. "That approach is no less autocratic than the leader you're trying to depose."

Sean glared at him, his ice blue eyes glinting with rage. "Shut your filthy mouth!" he snarled. "Yan, stick him in the basement and throw away the key," he demanded.

The African's smooth, polished face looked troubled but Kendrick interjected. "No Sean, please don't. Harry has provided us with some useful information and we need to stick together now more than ever. Sending him down won't solve anything. It will just prove his point about your leadership."

Sean had to accept the logic of this argument but his voice was hard. "Just tell him to keep quiet from now on." The tension in the air subsided a little.

Despite Kendrick's assurances that the group was not in any immediate danger, at least as far as he knew, those around the table were less than convinced. As a police officer he was better placed than anyone in the group to access some degree of inside knowledge but even this was highly limited, and he had to remain careful that he did not ask too many probing questions that would arouse suspicion in his superiors.

The meeting had broken up in an atmosphere of despondency, with no clear resolution. Harry heard a few snatched comments questioning the Irishman's leadership, afraid of what would inevitably come and wishing to leave, despite Sean's threat against anyone attempting to do so. It felt to Harry that the group no longer possessed unity and had lost faith in Sean. The assassination attempt had clearly been a wild throw of the dice. He had staked everything on it but it had failed, and he no longer had any ideas. It was a rudderless ship waiting helplessly for the storm.

Harry managed to catch up with Julianne as she stepped outside of the kitchen's French doors into the small walled garden at the rear of the property. Harry could imagine that this small area, with a huge stone vase in the centre from which narrow gravel paths radiated amongst beds of plants and bushes, must have been a tranquil oasis in happier times. The vegetation now was dry and withering, and the grass had turned a sickly yellowish brown, decimated by the heat wave. The blast of hot air hit him as he left the coolness of the farmhouse, and he felt himself perspiring immediately. Julianne stood against one wall, taking advantage of the shade it offered as she dragged on a cigarette.

"You should give them up," he began, smiling. "They will get you in the end."

She looked at him with a sardonic grin and blew smoke in his face. "Not unless something else gets me first."

"You've been avoiding me."

"I needed time to get my head together. You complicate matters."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

Julianne sucked in the tobacco smoke and exhaled deeply. "Don't you get it Harry? You know how I feel about you and having you back just makes it worse. It took a lot to persuade Sean and Luka to agree to snatch you, and now they – especially Sean – hate you. He has already warned me away from you, as if that would make any difference. The last time we were alone, by the woods, he slapped me hard round the face. I'm done with him, sick of his bullying and just want to get away."

"Why don't you leave then? We're sitting targets here."

"Where would I go? This is my movement as much as his. I formed this cell, and I have a sense of ownership and responsibility toward it. Anyway, it's not as simple as that. Do you think that Sean would just let any of us, let alone me, walk out of here? You heard him in there."

"Can you not escape in the dead of night?"

She absentmindedly flicked ash onto the ground. "Impossible. Sean has this place guarded day and night not just by sentries, but also by tripwires and alarms. Chen did most of the work on those devices. I bet he regrets that now. They're designed to detect intruders, an early warning system if you like, but they're equally effective at detecting people trying to get out. Like it or not, we are all virtual prisoners here."

"So you're just going to wait here for the government forces to come and wipe us out? That's not like you Julianne. You were always a fighter. It's one of the many qualities I admire about you."

Julianne gave a weak smile and dropped the cigarette butt on the floor, crushing it under her leather boots. "Maybe I should have fought harder for you."

Harry touched her arm briefly. "It wouldn't have made any difference Julianne. What we had was special but I have a family, it could never last. I let them down badly and now I think about them all the time suffering in that awful deportation camp, and here I am utterly helpless. It's torture. Every waking minute in this place is a minute lost toward saving them."

She turned to him, her hazel eyes glistening with tears. "I know Harry. It's alright; I understand how hard this is. You just could have let me down gently. Anyway if I do manage to leave here it will only be with you."

"Then you'll be a fugitive. Remember I'm wanted on a murder charge, and they probably still think I have the disc, not that it's of much value anymore. It's no longer a secret where this country is heading."

"I don't care Harry. I'll take my chances. Running with you is preferable to staying in this purgatory."

He touched her arm tenderly. "Then I will find a way to get us out of here."

His touch felt electric to her and instinctively she reached over to him, wishing she had not smoked that last cigarette and went to kiss him hard on the lips. Before she could do so she was interrupted by an angry shout. They both looked around to see Sean storming toward him, his mottled face red with anger. They quickly detached from each other but Sean marched directly at Harry as if he was going to walk right through him. Harry had no time to react before a solid blow to the chin knocked him to the ground. He sat up gingerly, the taste of blood in his mouth, his lower lip already swelling. Sean stood menacingly over his adversary, breathing heavily and waiting for another chance to strike. His voice was slurred from the alcohol. "So you want to steal my woman as well do you? I should have trusted my instincts. If I had my way I would have fed you to the dogs a long time ago." He reached around his waist toward his holster, and with horror Julianne realized his intention. She rushed to Sean, blocking him from Harry. "No Sean, leave him. It was my fault. I don't know what came over me. I only want you. Please!"

Sean ignored her and pushed her away. Harry got up warily, keeping a distance from Sean who was still poised like a prize fighter ready for another shot. "Sean, listen to me," Harry implored him. "You have to do something. We're all sitting ducks here. You know an offensive is out of the question. You don't have the resources to fight. Just let everybody leave – at least they will have a fair shot at survival."

Sean pulled out his revolver and clicked off the safety catch. Despite the drink, his movements were sharp and fluid. "Shut up. Why the hell would I ever listen to you? You know nothing. If I see you anywhere near her again I promise that those" – he pointed the gun between Harry's legs - "will be the first to go before I put you out of your misery." He waved the gun in the general direction of the woods. "Now get out of my sight!"

Harry felt a surge of fury at this volatile Irishman, mainly for Julianne. He was not worthy of her, and wanted to tell him, but now was not the time. As he stepped out of the walled garden looking anxiously at Julianne, she returned his gaze with a pitying look. Before he was even out of earshot he heard the sharp report of a slap across the face and a wail of anguish from Julianne.

## CHAPTER 34

It was another hot, muggy night and the closeness of the clammy, humid air caught in the throat. Harry found it hard to sleep normally, tortured by thoughts of Tamara and Byron, and the jumbled mass of thin blankets they had given him that served as his bed provided little comfort against the hard concrete floor of the outhouse, which still carried a rancid smell of old chickens, having once been used as a chicken coop. He often woke in the night and immediately a rush of thoughts and anxieties would squat in his brain, refusing to leave despite his best efforts to dismiss them. Finding sleep elusive, he decided to get up and go for a walk. It was bad enough that they were all effectively imprisoned here, but at least he was not confined to the basement. The air outside was not much better, but at least there was the slightest hint of a breeze that occasionally relieved the shroud of hot air that had settled over the farm.

He walked around the perimeter of the main house, its lights dimmed and standing tall against the moonless sky. He decided to head for the small copse away from the house to peer up at the night sky, not that he would see much. The hot air had brought a haze with it which blocked out all but the brighter stars, but at least the wooded area provided some solitude. Dawn was at least an hour away, and the only sounds were the occasional squawking of a pair of nighthawks. As he neared the kitchen window, he saw a soft glow and low voices drifting from the window, which had been opened slightly to provide some relief from the hot, static air inside. Out of curiosity he moved closer to the window and pressed himself against the wall. Although the voices were low and hushed, he was quickly able to recognize the Irish lilt of the group's leader, still slurred from the drink. He strained to hear what was being said, but his hearing soon adapted to the low voices. The second voice was husky and punctuated by bouts of coughing, and the Eastern European drawl marked him out clearly. He heard Luka mentioning the possibility of negotiation, but it was the third voice that surprised Harry. The youthful, gentle voice of Julianne drifting out of the window made him even more eager to listen and he stayed motionless, focusing all his efforts at hearing the conversation, only occasionally interrupted by nocturnal sounds. Julianne asked what they should negotiate with and it was Sean who answered. "We have very little to negotiate with but we have the journalist. If we offer him up now we may have a chance."

Luka was sceptical. "Then we blow our own cover," he growled.

Harry felt a chill as he heard Julianne answer and he shivered despite the heat. "Kendrick thinks that the police are close to cracking the cell network and that leads them straight to us. We have sat here for far too long waiting to be attacked. We have to get out now and disperse. That way at least some of us may survive to revive the cell later on. If we don't we will make it easy for the government forces. They get everybody in one hit. Don't be naive Sean. They won't be satisfied with Harry. They want all of us. Harry is no bargaining tool. He's just a liability."

The words felt like a hammer blow to Harry. He had begun to feel that old affection for her, even though he had tried to fight it, mixed as it was with empathy and indignation over her treatment by Sean. The implications of what she said were very clear when Sean answered. Even through the open window Harry could sense the anticipation in his voice. "Then we eliminate him now."

Harry had little time to contemplate her betrayal as a shadowy figure emerged from nowhere, heading in his direction. Harry darted from his position near the window and softly but swiftly padded around the side of the building so that he was out of sight in a dark corner, careful not to crunch on the gravel. He was convinced the figure must have seen him but he showed no sign of urgency as he came closer and walked past the open kitchen window, a large rifle slung over his shoulder. He stopped just past the window, directly in front of the corner where Harry was curled up in a ball, afraid to breathe in the still air. The sentry however, appeared oblivious to Harry crouching in the darkness less than ten yards away, and he merely lit up a cigarette and resumed his patrol, whistling softly to himself. He waited several minutes after he had gone and then Harry crept back to his previous position by the open window, but the voices had gone.

He had to escape and quickly. Having heard his own death sentence uttered clearly, he was stirred into action but his mind was a swirl of chaotic activity. He had no clue as to how he would get out of the camp, and even if he did, he was still a live target for the police to frame him. His short-term prospects looked bleak. Not knowing what else to do, he headed back to the outhouse to collect his meagre possessions. As he headed toward the small wooden shed-like building, however, he saw another figure silhouetted against the wall in the faint natural pre-dawn light. He quickly dipped into the shadows, hoping he had not been seen. Another figure emerged, a faint gleam of metal in his hand, and the familiar deep accented voice carried in the still air as they burst into the outhouse.

"He's not here," said Luka.

"Damn!" cursed Sean. "I told Julianne we should have kept him in the basement. That bitch should have listened to me."

Harry stayed still, pressed against the wall, out of sight. So, it was apparent that they intended to carry out their kangaroo court appointed sentence immediately. No fair hearing, no appeal, less justice than even the government had shown to the poor Muslim boy. How could these people earn the right to lead the fight against a corrupt and racist government? They were no better, dispensing their own form of twisted retribution against anyone who stood in their way, just like Pelham's regime. His sense of outrage, however, led to a lapse in concentration and he gave a muted cry as a hand touched his shoulder. Only it did not feel exactly like a hand, and not really an arm. He spun round, ready to fight, and saw Andrew, his stump now hanging loosely by his side.

"Sorry I startled you," he hissed.

"Jesus, Andrew what are you doing here?" whispered Harry.

"I couldn't sleep and it's nearly dawn. There's something happening. I can sense it and it's not good." The stockbroker had an uncanny knack of predicting events, which was probably why he had been such a good trader, able to read the market and analyze a variety of apparently unconnected events to extrapolate the direction of a particular stock.

"Stay down," urged Harry quietly. "Sean and Luka are there, waiting to take me out execution style."

It was too late though. In the dim light he saw Sean stiffen and turn toward them. "Did you hear that?" he said to Luka. He began to peer intently in their direction, straining to make out a discernible shape in the fleeting shadows. Luka joined him and they both advanced cautiously toward them, guns raised. Harry had no idea if they'd actually been seen, but he knew that if they tried to move away their moving shapes would surely catch the attention of the two gunmen.

"My God, they've finally gone over the edge," Andrew whispered harshly.

"Shut up," hissed Harry angrily.

Sean and Luka moved more purposefully in their direction, guns drawn and they stopped less than fifteen yards from them. Harry was convinced they would be seen now, even in the darkness.

"Come on out now or I will shoot," said Sean casually. "You don't want to take that chance do you?" Sean pointed his gun into the shadows directly at Harry, even though he was unaware of it. A random shot from Sean in the darkness would surely strike him. It was no use. Harry and Andrew emerged from the shadows, their hands raised in supplication. Harry saw Sean give a menacing grin, the stained teeth looking bright in the poor light.

"What have we here then? A couple of deserters running away in our hour of need? I'm disappointed with you Andrew. I thought you had more loyalty. You know a prissy little man like you wouldn't last five minutes out there, thoroughbred Englishman or not. Pelham's forces are rounding up the disabled just like the foreigners. The deportation camp is waiting for you. Where do you think they'd send you? You don't belong to any country but this one. They won't deport you. They will just dig a hole and throw you in with the rest of the people they deem to be of no use to them. I'd be doing you a favour by putting you out of your misery."

Andrew was about to protest but Sean cut him off sharply. "Silence!" He continued, his voice lower. "As for you Harry, I always thought you were a coward. I should never have listened to Julianne. I was blinded by my love for her and wanted to please her, and then I realize you're her former lover. So you can see Harry I have plenty of reasons to dispose of you. Most of the time killing is an act of necessity, a by-product of war. It isn't pleasant but it has to be done. But killing you Harry would give me a great sense of pleasure."

He looked up at the sky. The inky blackness was beginning to break up, faint tinges of red beginning to emerge to herald the first signs of the breaking sunrise. Harry felt himself perspiring freely.

"Don't worry," Sean continued. "I won't shoot you in cold blood. I am not an executioner; I have always killed for a good reason. I will give you a fair chance at escaping, two deserters taken down as they tried to escape the compound. I think it looks better that way. Who knows, in this poor light you might even dodge my bullets, although remember you have to get past the sentries and the barbed wire at the perimeter."

"Don't be stupid Sean," Harry pleaded, his eyes focused on the gun poised less than ten yards in front of him. "You need every man you can get to fight when they come. Forget me, I'm no threat. You need to show you're a true leader now. None of us have a chance if the group stays here waiting. A good general chooses his battles so he can win the war. Accept a loss here and we might all survive another day. It does not mean the end of the resistance, but it surely will if we stay here."

Harry was about to continue but Andrew put up a hand for silence. In the quietness of the pre-dawn his acute hearing picked up something else, a low rumble, and the faintest vibration in the ground. Luka came running to Sean's side, a look of deep concern on his face. Andrew could tell that he had heard it too. Luka turned to Sean. "Do what you need to but do it quick."

Before Sean could even respond the whole compound erupted into a cacophony of noise. The klaxons and alarms that acted as an early warning system for attack were triggered and the early morning stillness was abruptly shattered. Sean stood rigid in a moment of confused indecision, and Harry took the opportunity to leap at him. The force of Harry's body being flung at Sean was enough to knock him off his feet, and they grappled in the dirt, fists flying as they rolled on the floor in a frenzy of motion. Harry, with the advantage of surprise, emerged on top, pinning Sean down with all the strength he could muster, even though he knew Sean had at least thirty pounds on him. He grabbed Sean's wrist, trying to twist the gun out of his grasp. The bulky Irishman's grip was iron, however, and despite the pressure he spun his wrist around so the gun was pointing in Harry's face. For a fleeting second, Harry stared into the black abyss of the gun barrel, a part of him almost resigned to his death, as if he were just waiting for the moment. Time slowed down so that each second felt stretched out into precious minutes. Luka and Andrew could only watch in morbid fascination.

Harry braced himself for the shuddering impact that would spell his death, faintly wondering if in that split second it would hurt or whether the nerve endings in his brain would be destroyed so completely that he would feel nothing. But the impact never came. In his peripheral vision he saw a black leather boot emerge and kick the gun out of Sean's hand so that it was sent spinning across the dirt. He heard a voice calling to him, struggling to penetrate the clouds in his brain. It felt distant but its urgency snapped him out of his trance, and as Sean scrambled for the gun, cursing loudly, he quickly jumped to his feet to see Julianne grabbing at his hand.

"Come on!" she cried. "He'll be mad now. We have to get out of here fast." Harry stole a glance at her, the delicately beautiful features set in an expression of determined resolve. There was no flicker of emotion, no recognition of the betrayal that he had clearly heard less than half an hour before. The air was filled with the strident noise of the alarms and the low growl of tanks outside the compound, and this was rapidly filled with the confused cries of occupants woken from their slumber, their worst fears realized. Luka immediately began to corral them toward the bunker where the weapons were kept, his long, hard years of military training kicking in so that he remained calm and focused, directing and coordinating the group of people who had appeared as if from nowhere, looking for direction.

Sean possessed no such discipline, his fury compounded by Julianne's mutiny, and as Andrew joined the pair in running hard away from Sean, he fired twice at them, oblivious to the bodies now running around him.

Julianne gripped Harry's hand tight as they sprinted away from Sean and Harry was relieved to see Andrew join them, his slender legs pumping hard to match their pace.

"He's going to shoot!" cried Andrew, wild-eyed. The three of them rolled to the ground, figuring that Sean would aim high for the torso. Harry heard a muted cry from Andrew, and his friend stayed on the floor, his body twitching. Julianne helped Harry turn him over and they saw him clutching his abdomen, the blood already trickling through the fingers of his good hand. Harry glanced at Julianne and the look in her eyes confirmed his worst fears.

"Keep going," hissed Andrew in a choked voice. As he spoke the blood began to pool around the corner of his mouth and drip slowly down his chin. His breathing was shallow and laboured, like the wheezing of an old man. "Leave me!"

Julianne glanced up and saw Sean heading menacingly toward them, his gun raised again. Harry briefly placed a comforting hand on Andrew's chest but his eyes had already rolled back in its sockets. There was nothing they could do for him. Harry staggered up and hand in hand with Julianne he raced forward aimlessly, threading his way past several women and children who were running, panicked, in the opposite direction. The resonance of the alarms seemed to pierce his brain so that it felt like the resounding noise came from inside him, and he could barely hear his own voice as he shouted to Julianne.

"Where are we going?"

She looked at him, uncomprehending, as a bullet whistled past Harry's shoulder. They kept running, head down. Harry braced himself for the inevitable impact of hot metal on flesh but his adrenaline kept him moving, his chest close to bursting in the baking air.

"Trust me, somewhere safe," she shouted.

Harry allowed himself a moment of reflection. Trusting Julianne was a distinct challenge because her allegiances seemed to be constantly shifting, but in the present chaos he had little choice, and the whistle of another gunshot and a searing sensation of burning as it grazed his shoulder focused his mind. He kept running, ignoring the burning pain and the stickiness of his shirt as the blood seeped from his shoulder. He knew it was only a superficial wound but it hurt like hell and the next time he might not be so lucky.

The sun finally emerged in the east, rising above the fields and flooding the compound with its harsh yellow glare, its rays scattering the last vestiges of night. The daylight brought clarity to the scene around them. Massing at the perimeter was a battalion of eight huge infantry battle tanks, their turret guns aimed squarely at the compound. The invading force was backed up by a number of military jeeps and armoured trucks, the engines throbbing with an ominous growl. The alarms continued ringing although everyone was up and running by now. Harry looked back at his pursuer and then at the perimeter where the first of the tanks accelerated forward, its caterpillar tracks crushing the barbed wire fencing and supporting barricade with ease, not even slowing down. The tank was in the compound and having blazed a trail, was quickly followed by several others. The first tank moved in and there was a high pitched metallic ping! as the khaki coloured tank deflected the bullets from a small group near the weapons bunker.

Julianne pulled him along but the tanks moved fast and suddenly one of them bore down on the pair as it bulldozed its way forward, its turret pointed at them. Harry knew that the momentum of the monstrous vehicle would not allow it to stop. Julianne saw it too, her eyes wide with fright. Bracing Julianne by the shoulders he pulled her forward and they dived out of the way just as the tank slammed forward into the space they had occupied moments before. Harry helped Julianne up rapidly as more tanks followed, but as he looked back there was no sign of Sean, the tank having cut off his line of pursuit.

"Come on," urged Julianne. "He might still be behind the tank."

They raced toward the edge of the compound where a solitary outbuilding stood on a small grassy incline. It was no more than a tumbledown wooden shack, with no apparent purpose, but Julianne sprinted toward it with obvious intent. It was set far enough away from the marauding invaders as to offer some respite but as Harry looked back, he saw that a number of soldiers had now emerged from the tanks, rifles with bayonets poised, and saw one unfortunate member of their group, an elderly Sikh man, smashed round the head with a rifle and shot as he lay on the ground twitching.

"Shouldn't we go back and fight?" said Harry guiltily.

Julianne's voice was firm. "What's the point? This will be a massacre. I told Sean and Luka enough times that we had to disperse. It's about survival now. No point in getting ourselves killed for a hopeless cause."

Harry could not refute the cold logic of Julianne's statement, but even so, he wondered to himself whether maybe Sean was right. He felt like a coward but as he looked back he saw a soldier, gun raised, spot them and come loping toward them, rifle in hand. He looked up at the high barbed wire fencing less than ten yards away. It would be impossible to scale it before the soldier was upon them, even if they could do so without being cut to shreds. He looked around wildly, seeing no hope of escape. However, with Julianne leading, they ran around the side of the small building so that they were temporarily shielded from the advancing soldier, and to Harry's surprise she flung open the rickety wooden door of the old shack and stepped in. She gave a weak smile at his perplexed look.

"Insurance policy," she said cryptically. "Quickly, help me with this."

The outhouse was tiny and claustrophobic, like an old storage shed, the white pasty mixture of bat droppings spread over the dusty wooden floor. In the corner a number of sandbags were heaped in a pile.

She began clawing at the sandbags, heaving at each one and flinging it to the side. Harry helped her until they had cleared most of the bags, revealing a small trap door of decaying, brittle wood and a rusty iron ring handle. Julianne pulled the ring hard, grunting with effort, but it did not budge. Harry took over and with an effort fuelled by desperation, forced the door open with a heavy creak, revealing nothing but blackness beyond.

As they stood contemplating the darkness beyond the trap door, Julianne suddenly turned and kissed him fully on the lips. She smiled radiantly. "For luck," she said. "It might be our last. You have to jump in and crawl forward head first. There isn't enough room to turn around once you're in the tunnel. I'll explain later. Close the door behind you." She dived into the blackness with a leap of faith and Harry heard the soft pad of her landing. Outside the building Harry could hear the crunch of heavy boots on the gravel entrance, and as he scrambled after her and swung back the door he heard the door slam open and the soldier come bursting in.

The blackness was complete but he landed evenly and lay forward as Julianne had instructed. He heard her whispered voice ahead, amplified in the cramped space. "Just keep crawling forward as fast as you can." The earth beneath was soft and slimy to the touch. The stench was nauseating and he felt like retching, but he kept moving forward. He was glad he could not see what he was crawling in. Behind him the trap door flung open and he heard the muffled voice of a soldier shouting. Next was the explosive percussion of a shot being fired into the tunnel but it landed harmlessly into the soft earth, the tunnel situated at right angles to the initial entry point. Even so, the pair crawled forward with renewed vigour. Harry propelled himself forward, his arms aching with the unfamiliar strain on them, but after several minutes it appeared that the soldier had lost interest in pursuing them down a long black tunnel with no idea of where it led.

Harry could not see but could only sense Julianne ahead of her, and he whispered sharply to her. "Where does this take us?"

"To safety," she whispered back. "You didn't think I relied totally on Sean? Not much longer now."

Harry crawled blindly forward trying to shut out the stench that seemed to catch in his throat, the silence only broken by their own laboured breathing as they scrabbled forward. It felt like hours that they'd been down there, although in reality it was probably less than one hour. They were completely insulated from the chaos going on above ground, and they appeared to have no pursuers as they crawled up what Harry perceived to be a gentle incline, but it was still a huge relief when Julianne proudly declared that they were nearly there, especially as he was finding it difficult to breathe. A minute later Harry heard her hammering at a door above them. She was now standing but could not dislodge the door. Harry joined her but even so it took them fifteen frustrating minutes to finally lever the door open. Eventually with a heavy groan it reluctantly opened a crack, but it was heavy with the weight of something on top of it. With all his strength he managed to swing the door open, dislodging the object weighting the door down. Together they pushed the door open, and bright sunlight came pouring in, stinging Harry's eyes as they struggled to adjust. They emerged, filthy and bedraggled, surrounded by trees and undergrowth. The small trap door had been covered in broken branches and leaves, and it opened out onto a wooded glade, the air fresh and sweet after the oppressive, cloying stench which still clung to their ruined clothes. They clambered up and collapsed on the ground, exhausted.

"We're safe for now. I discovered this tunnel a while ago but I never told Sean about it. The old farmhouse has quite a history. It's over four hundred years old and this old barn was used to hide women who were accused by the local Witch-finder General of engaging in sorcery. His success was measured on how many women he could have drowned or burned at the stake. He would let nothing stand in his way and cared little for the suffering of those poor women and their families in the pursuit of his own goals. Sounds familiar doesn't it? Maybe Pelham is a Witch-finder General reincarnated. They would hide out in the tunnels until the General had got fed up searching for them, complaining that they had used their necromancy to make themselves invisible to mortal souls. Sometimes they'd have to lie in the cramped tunnels for weeks at a time hoping the kind souls who protected them remained alive to supply them with food and water, which was a dangerous task in itself if they were seen. Eventually they'd be smuggled out the other side."

Harry looked at her. They were both smeared in sickly foul smelling-dirt and mud, their clothes tattered and torn from the exertion in the tunnel, but Julianne's pale freckle-faced skin still looked radiant in the morning sun. "How did you know we could get out at the other end?" he said.

Her lips curled into a soft smile. "I didn't."

"What?" gasped Harry.

She turned to him, resting her head on one elbow, her flowing red hair covered in dirt, hanging loosely to the ground. "How would I know if we could get out? I've never been through the tunnel. All I knew was that it existed. If I had told you that I figured you would never have followed me."

Harry breathed heavily, sucking in the fresh air. The light of the sun was stippled through the trees but the shade of the forest was welcome. "You're probably right, though I didn't have much choice. You could have asked me if I suffered from claustrophobia."

"Do you?"

"No but that's hardly the point."

She smiled and kissed him again and slipped her hand in his.

They were at the top of a small rounded hill, shaded by silver birch, maple and oak trees, and the farmhouse compound was sprawled out in the valley below. From the safety of their vantage point, looking out through the trees, they could see the carnage clearly in the shimmering light of early morning. The tanks were all within the compound, still rolling forward relentlessly, flanked by a number of mottled green military jeeps and trucks from which poured a flood of soldiers, heavily outnumbering the hundred or so people inside the compound. The distant rat-a-tat of machine gun fire resounded through the still air in the valley, and here and there a number of small explosions rocked the air. Four of the tanks surrounded the farmhouse in a pincer movement, pausing briefly before they opened fire in unison from their huge turret guns. Within seconds the farmhouse collapsed in on itself in a cloud of dust, and black smoke billowed into the air from small fires that broke out in the decimated building. Harry turned to Julianne and saw the tears running down her mud-spattered cheeks like a soiled river. He felt no great affinity with anyone in the compound, but they had been a part of Julianne's life for a long time. She wept freely at the horror that enfolded before them, and all Harry could do was to hold her tight in a futile gesture of solace.

Eventually she was able to compose herself, and rubbing her dirty tear-streaked face, she turned to Harry, her eyes red. "Where do we go from here?"

His voice was full of compassion but he took his hand away. "Julianne, I'm an alleged murderer of a high profile politician wanted by the police and the most despotic regime this country has seen in living memory. My life expectancy isn't likely to be terribly long. You would be better placed ditching me now. In any event I have to get Tamara and Byron out of that camp in Salisbury, that's if they're still there." He paused and added, kicking himself for his cruelty even as he said it, "That's all I care about."

Julianne's hurt look immediately flooded him with guilt, but she nodded in understanding, her tears flowing with renewed vigour. He suddenly realized through her brash and tough veneer how vulnerable she really was, which was probably why Sean had treated her so badly, seeing it as a sign of weakness. At least she was free of him, he thought to himself.

Who knows what the future would hold for them? All he could guarantee was that it would be a struggle, and the best they could hope for longer term was survival. They would go their separate ways, but for now he held her close, their bodies sticking together in the clammy summer heat as they mourned the loss of their small resistance group, certain that there was nothing to prevent Lawrence Pelham's dominance and power to shape the country according to his own perverse ideology. As he watched the last vestige of opposition in the compound fall under the crushing assault of the army, Harry Clarke concluded something that he had feared for some time since, as a political correspondent, he had charted the incumbent Prime Minister's rise. The United Kingdom in the 2020's was officially a dictatorship.

### REUTERS NEWS AGENCY EDITORIAL – JULY 6TH

The Pelham regime has exerted an iron grip on the country that has been augmented by the imposition of martial law and the presence of the military rolling down the high streets of Britain's towns like an invading force. But this is no invading force, not from some hostile neighbour at least. It is a symbol of Pelham's approach to his own people, the government moving from the role of protector to persecutor. The sight of large caged trucks full of dishevelled, miserable people rumbling along toward another deportation camp has become a familiar sight on Britain's roads. Even as the mysterious virus spreading through the camps continues to escalate, baffling medics, the army relentlessly piles more people into the infected area, oblivious to the expressions of outrage coming from abroad.

Over the past few days, in the staggering heat, Government forces launched a major offensive on a farmhouse compound in Kent, claiming it to be the central spoke in a wheel of terrorism that stretched nationwide and coordinated a number of terrorist cells, including the Muslim cell implicated in the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister. A government spokesman described it as one of the most sophisticated resistance movements they have encountered because of its reach through various cells, many of which are still to be identified. The spokesman declared it as a significant victory for the government in its fight against terrorism. It seems however, that what the government describes as terrorism may be loosely interpreted to mean any rebellion against its policies.

Since Pelham's speech, the process of identifying and crushing insurgents has accelerated, the regime determined to wipe out any opposition in a brutal show of force. Mass public demonstrations have been banned, and many liberals and human rights advocates have been forced into hiding. A number of prominent activists have already been rounded up as dissidents and are languishing in prison, with no prospect of a trial date in the near future. With the regime in effective control of all media outlets, television, radio and social networks, it is difficult to define the scale of the assaults. The British people are effectively isolated, subjected to the propaganda that is neutered and fed to them by a heavily biased regime, keeping its own people in the dark about the true extent of its activities. Foreign journalists have been banned and anyone found taking photographs of the army or police is immediately arrested and their cameras and phones confiscated.

A further restriction on people's freedom has been the passing of emergency legislation that prohibits people from travelling outside their own county unless they have applied for and been given a permit. This has created a bureaucratic nightmare with a small, understaffed office set up in each county inundated with applications, unable to cope with the volume and causing significant delays. The regime has promised that these restrictions are necessary while martial law is in place, and those attempting to travel without the necessary permits are soon turned back by the various military checkpoints and road blocks now in place. Foreigners targeted for the deportation camps, even if they have not yet received the dreaded yellow notice demanding them to assemble at a certain checkpoint at a certain time, are now finding it difficult even to flee the country, fearing that their chance to leave voluntarily has gone. The economic impact on the country has yet to be assessed but it appears that the Pelham regime is oblivious to that, even though it has stated that the travel restrictions are a temporary measure.

It seems at present that the only vehicles able to pass by the road blocks are the trucks taking people to deportation camps and any vehicles on government business, including the military and police units. In the fiercely hot days of summer, these immigration squads have turned up the heat on the opposition by rooting out immigrants and rounding them up, separating families and taking children from their mothers, uncertain of when they will be reunited. It seems that the Prime Minister's callous disregard for his own people has permeated into the attitude of his agents. This includes members of FREE, many of whom have been recruited into Pelham's private army and unhindered by any independent oversight, these openly racist hoodlums have apparently committed acts of savagery out of all proportion to the force necessary to support the immigration squads.

Any attempt at resistance has been ruthlessly crushed, and the sight of random pockets of rebel fighters in suburban areas being hunted down, the apartment blocks in which they are holed up ruthlessly torn down by tanks in a heap of rubble, evoke images of a Palestinian militia enclave in Beirut after a siege by Israeli backed Lebanese forces. Many pleasant suburban neighbourhoods have been reduced to war zones. Equally disturbing has been the images leaking out despite media restrictions, of trainloads of ragged immigrants being herded with cattle prods onto overcrowded freight cars with few windows and no seating, drawing chilling comparisons with the 'Sonderzuge' Holocaust trains heading to Auschwitz and the other death camps. The camps themselves are filling up and there are unconfirmed reports that the actual process of deporting immigrants has commenced. It is difficult to obtain any reliable information from the camps but there are rumours that ships are leaving port full of deported immigrants; strangely, however, there appear to be no specific agreements in place with other countries to take back their citizens.

The United States has placed a travel advisory against the United Kingdom, warning against any non-essential travel to its long standing ally. Indeed, many ports, both sea and air, have effectively ceased operations during the military clampdown, making travel in and out of the country challenging at best. This sense of isolation for the nation has been amplified by the fact that most diplomatic staff from the free world have been recalled, either in retaliation at the treatment of their citizens or because there is a real fear that the sectarian violence that has racked the country could explode into a full scale civil war. However, the Prime Minister is determined for that not to happen by taking out the insurgents in a ruthless military crackdown before the seeds of rebellion have a chance to take root. He has been benefited in part by the fractured nature of the groups he has targeted, which have traditionally been reticent neighbours with each other, divided in their own ideologies and culture, reluctant to integrate and work together even in the face of a common enemy. For example the divide between Hindus and Muslims, and paradoxically between Sunni and Shia Muslims, of which there are millions of each branch in the U.K., has made it easier for the regime to clamp down with little structured resistance. This is only one small example of the scattered cultural demography in the country which has facilitated the Government's plans.

The man at the epicentre of the hurricane sweeping across the country has rarely been seen in public since his speech to the Confederation of British Industry, protected by his private army so that he is effectively impenetrable. Yet his narcissism knows no bounds. His image has sprung up virtually overnight so that his beaming, well groomed face is everywhere, on posters and photographs and other shrines to his power, like some modern deity. On giant TV screens in town centres, his smooth, even tones are urging people to inform the authorities if they suspect an immigrant is in their vicinity, complete with hotline numbers, email addresses and social media notifications. There is even the promise of a reward for doing so. His virtual presence is impossible to escape and is a stark reminder to anyone living in the country that falls foul of the Minorities Registration Act, that they face a precarious, terrifying existence. Lawrence Pelham has truly become the first Dictator of Britain.

###
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.

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