Number Ten

Robin Hawdon

Description

Unknown forces attempt to assassinate radical new British Prime Minister, James Torrence. No-one knows whether they were organised by business magnates, criminal oligarchs, or jihadist extremists, all of whom are threatened by his rule. What is known is that they are getting information from inside Number Ten Downing Street. Paul Gunter, bright young member of the PM's staff, is arrested by MI5 in the middle of the night, and finds himself falsely implicated in the assassination attempt. He has to fight for his life against all involved parties, using his inside knowledge of Downing Street processes, and the reluctant help of senior staff member, Andrea Holt, to extricate himself. Will the pair survive against vastly superior forces? Will James Torrence and his fragile government endure amidst the revelations? Will love win out against political intrigue? Suspense, romance, and high action ranging across modern London's extraordinary cityscape and beyond.

Sujets

• Jihad
• Djihad
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Brown Dog Books
• Date de parution: 09 avril 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839520013
• Langue: English

Extrait

NUMBER TEN
NUMBER TEN
ROBIN HAWDON
First published 2019
Copyright © Robin Hawdon 2019
The right of Robin Hawdon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and The Self-Publishing Partnership, 7 Green Park Station, Bath BA1 1JB
www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk www.robinhawdon.com
ISBN printed book: 978-1-83952-000-6 ISBN e-book: 978-1-83952-001-3
Cover design by Kevin Rylands Internal design by Andrew Easton
Printed and bound in the UK
Contents
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Other books by Robin Hawdon
PRELUDE
Night-time. An intercity train speeds through the half-sleeping countryside. The light from its windows flashes over fences and hedges, banks and bridges – a racing reflection of itself. The dark trees along the embankment appear to lean in to gain a sight of the approaching intruder, then recoil at its velocity and are left with summer foliage waving helplessly in the wind of its passing, like outraged ladies assaulted by a charging bull.
A long echoing whistle as the train approaches the tunnel mouth. It enters the abyss at over a hundred miles an hour, the noise of the leading engine muffled and then dying, replaced by the rumble of the dozen-odd carriages as they follow. Their noise too gradually fades until there is no sound left. The landscape returns to its slumber, broken only by the last goodnight from the wood pigeons and the distant bark of a farm dog.
Then from the depths comes a muffled, elongated roar as from some alien monster aroused in its lair. The earth shudders slightly for half a mile around. A second’s pause, then a great burst of fire and smoke erupts from the tunnel mouth, illuminating the scene as if dawn had jumped ahead of itself. The roar explodes in a thunderous boom along with the flames. The countryside reawakens. Time stops and the world waits, all chance of sleep now banished for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER ONE
If one had the choice, would one choose to see the future? Now there’s a question.
He didn’t try to answer it, but stared at his morning face in the mirror instead. A touch haggard with the night of sleep, the days of having to be constantly on the ball. But his eyes were clear. He wondered whether one could be both worn and primed at the same time. A soldier would say yes. But then he wasn’t a soldier. His battles were all mental ones. The confrontations of opinion.
He grimaced at his reflection, then rubbed his scalp briskly with the fingers of both hands. He liked to imagine it helped kick-start his brain. All those tiny connections stirring to face the new day’s demands. Because if they didn’t stir there could be serious repercussions. Nations could fall, he thought drily. Or if not nations, then at least his job.
He yawned, left the bedroom and crossed the passage to the bathroom. As he reached it the door opened and a girl came out wearing nothing but a pair of knickers.
‘Oops!’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
He stood aside. ‘My pleasure,’ he said.
She made no attempt to hide her breasts, threw him a friendly smile and padded down the passage to where his flatmate John had appeared in the next bedroom doorway, running an electric shaver over his chin. The two men exchanged the glances of long-standing mates, and he continued into the bathroom resisting envious thoughts. It had been a while since he had woken to a naked form beside him.
His own bathroom ritual was meticulous. Just as his brain could not be ungroomed, so with his appearance. ‘State of dress shows state of mind,’ as his father used to say. But then his father was a soldier. And for soldiers there was little uncertainty about anything. For him it was different – however it might have looked from the outside. The fact was that he, Paul Gunter, fit, bright, personable – junior aide and research assistant to the Prime Minister of Great Britain – did not know where his life was going. And at twenty-eight it was high time he did.
Ten minutes later he entered the kitchen, dressed and carrying the jacket of his charcoal-grey tailored suit. Like his other navy one it had been more expensive than he could afford on his modest salary. He wore the grey one when feeling innovative, the blue when feeling administrative. Today was innovative. He found the two others already there – John, in Jermyn Street shirt and tie and even more expensive suit, reading the Financial Times at the table, the girl, now fully clothed, making coffee at the work counter. The morning news rumbled from the TV set in one corner.
‘Coffee, toast, Paul?’ said the girl.
‘Thanks.’ He poured himself orange juice from the carton on the table – more from habit than desire – and went to gaze out of the window. The flat (rented of course, not owned – he should be so lucky) was three floors up in a once smart, but now a touch faded, nineteen-thirties block. From the window he could see the rooftops of St John’s Wood and, beyond, the rest of London stretching away to the distant pinnacles of Westminster and the City. Ancient and modern mingling in impregnable seeming contrast. He had looked at the view a thousand times, but he still allowed himself a touch of pride. Insecure or not, this was his domain. He was a component at the centre of things in this extraordinary place. A minor component maybe, but still at the centre.
Behind him, John rustled the pages of his newspaper. ‘Bloody Wall Street! Up and down like a whore’s bum.’
Paul glanced round. Did John ever look at anything other than the financial pages?
‘Such an exciting life you have, John.’
The other raised a blond eyebrow. Yes, well we can’t all live at the hub of power.’
Paul gazed at the distant Shard which towered above other buildings in the Square Mile. ‘Your hub’s probably more powerful than mine actually.’ John worked in the City doing things with billions which Paul never quite understood. Their rivalry was good-natured but distinct.
The girl put a mug of instant coffee and a slice of wholemeal toast on the table. ‘Breakfast,’ she said in her clipped business voice, as if handing over a set of accounts. She was an assistant manager at a private bank, also based in the City.
‘Thanks, Julia,’ said Paul.
She stood with hand on hip. Perhaps being extra provocative after he had seen her half naked? But then it wasn’t the first time.
‘Drafting the Queen’s Speech or anything today?’
He was used to such quips. His acquaintances sent him up because of where he worked, but the ribaldry disguised an envious curiosity. Evenings at the pub, or weekend games at the rugby ground, invariably involved subtle enquiries as to the goings-on at Number Ten, which he humoured with titbits of information but nothing actually enlightening. Security was a concern that hovered like a cloud over the heads of all staff members there.
He was about to respond to her, when something from the TV commentary caught his attention. He turned towards the set.
‘What...?’
The others looked round. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The picture showed a news announcer standing in front of the dark mouth of a railway tunnel, a microphone to his mouth.
‘....and we’ve heard of four incidents so far across the country. The worst happened here in the tunnel behind me which is just south of Leeds, and involved a large explosion on an inter-city train. There are at least forty deaths reported so far, with a large number of injuries. As you can see behind me, the emergency services are here in force, but it’s not known at this point whether....’ He rumbled on with the contrived dramatic delivery that all TV reporters are apparently trained to use when reporting from the field.
The three stared at the set. ‘Christ!’ murmured Paul. The brain connections sparked violently. He was caught between the shocked horror of a common citizen, and the instinctive responsibility of a civil servant. This was the kind of eventuality that his masters had been anticipating for a long time, but still it seemed surreal. If one had the choice, would one choose to see the future?
He flung on his jacket. ‘I must go.’
He downed his orange juice, grimaced at its acidity, grabbed his heavy leather briefcase from a corner of the room – chafing as always that he had to carry so much paper around in this digital age – and hurried out, leaving the other two transfixed – John by the TV, Julia by her smartphone.
It always took him between twenty-two and twenty-six minutes to get to Downing Street. Made up of four minutes’ walk to St John’s Wood station, grabbing at least two morning newspapers on the way, maximum four’ minutes wait for the tube (provided the staff weren’t on strike), twelve minutes’ ride to Charing Cross, then six minutes’ walk down The Mall and Horse Guards Road, arriving at the rear entrance to the legendary address.
Today the tube station