BIRTHRIGHT
Birthright is the first novel in the Daniel Moss trilogy (published in 2018). Below is an extract from Chapter 7
The sharp pulse of the alarm clock awoke Daniel from all too short a sleep, and the moment of looking forward to the day ahead was immediately eclipsed by a sense of foreboding. Daniel still did not know what to do, even after lying awake most of the previous night, trying to come up with a solution to his dilemma. He had kept going over the same questions. What had gone so wrong in the UK security services that they would not act immediately on credible Intel regarding the assassination of the Prime Minister? Why was The Guardian relying on him, an information manager, to solve the puzzle? What was the supposed Anglo-Russian link all about? What was Peter Romanby’s role in the intrigue? Daniel realized that he was in a dangerous position. The Guardian could withdraw his patronage at any moment and deny all knowledge of Daniel’s enhanced security clearance. This would lead to an investigation, which would almost certainly throw up the tinkering – Daniel did not like to think about it in terms of illegal espionage – that he and Tina had carried out.
An hour later, he felt no better. He sat on the Tube and pondered his options, falling slowly into a trance-like daydream. The rhythmic sounds of the train that only a fortnight before had seemed to presage a continued life of drudgery, now seemed to mock him more insidiously, bullying him towards a destination and a conclusion that he was too scared to consider, and which made him yearn for the uniform bleakness of his earlier life.
The short walk from Embankment tube station to the MOD was no easier for Daniel. The dark February skies and the temperatures hovering above freezing gave the icy road a deathly, pallid hue, and a hunched Daniel made his way slowly along the slippery pavement towards Whitehall. A tingling sense of unease in his neck was the only indication to Daniel that anything was wrong, but the feeling mounted with every step that he took. He recognised this sensation from his childhood, and he knew that it would be folly to ignore it. He was being followed. A sixth sense that had accompanied him since childhood now served him again. He knew enough about spy craft to make it seem that he really had dropped his mobile phone on the icy ground, but as he made a subtle show of swearing and bending to retrieve it, he turned to his right, glanced behind him, and his fears were confirmed.
Thirty metres behind Daniel, and on the other side of the road, was a well-dressed man, standing immobile, seemingly fascinated by the bark of a tree. Even in London, where the density of weirdoes per square mile is as its greatest in the western world, his behaviour screamed out a warning to Daniel. The man was clearly not a vagrant and did not have the dishevelled air of a lost soul. Indeed, he seemed – Daniel could think of no other satisfactory description – to be somewhat official looking. In a split second, Daniel was back on his feet, walking along as nonchalantly as he could. He had seen enough thrillers to know that he had two choices. Either he could attempt to throw off his pursuer, or he could act as if he was unaware of the man’s presence. Both choices were fraught will their own particular perils. To try to outrun the other man, or to finesse him into showing his hand, would alert him – and his masters – that Daniel knew he was being followed. Daniel recalled his recent keyboard conversation with The Guardian, who had hinted that he knew about Daniel’s weekend activities. Was this man The Guardian’s pawn? Daniel tried to push that thought out of his mind. On the other hand, to do nothing, and to allow the shadow to follow him would be fatal if his orders were somehow to take Daniel out of the game. However, there was one distinct advantage also. Daniel could possibly keep the man on his tail, use a fortuitous moment to photograph him, and use PANDORA to ascertain his identity. That way, at least, Daniel might be able to determine who was interested in him. Daniel made his decision, ostentatiously checked the time on his watch, appeared to realise that he was going be late, and hastened to the MOD.
The man, a professional in every sense that Daniel was not, also made a quick decision. He thought that his prey had spotted him. If he had, and if the man’s cover had already been blown, then he would need to revert to Plan B. Soon. Daniel Moss would be in for a surprise.
Daniel was lightheaded with a double dose of fear and exhilaration as he reached the entrance to the MOD. Peter Romanby’s portrait, which even on the best of days looked down contemptuously on visitors, had taken on a new expression, it seemed, and Daniel wondered for a brief, illogical moment, whether even the portraits on the wall could sense his uncertainty. ‘Don’t be stupid, Daniel,’ he muttered to himself, ‘Pictures don’t talk…’
‘But wall have ears,’ whispered a cold voice beside him, and Daniel realised both that he had spoken out aloud and that he had chosen the very moment that Cristobel Hammond walked past him to talk to himself like a lunatic. He swallowed, turned, and stammered.
‘Just…er… thinking about a new… er…processing format for…’ he soundlessly mouthed the word PANDORA, which even here in the MOD, was top secret. Cristobel’s arched eyebrows shot up further in disbelief but she said nothing and stalked away down the corridor. Daniel took a deep breath, hoping that he had got away with it once more.
All that Friday morning, Daniel worked with little of his normal concentration. He reviewed his daily tasks as normal and carried out his regular checks on PANDORA, but was not concentrating with his usual razor sharp mind. Daniel was waiting for word from The Guardian, hoping for a sign that he was on the right path. He keyed in The Guardian’s address code again and started a conversation.
MossD: Sir, I need to talk to you…
MossD: …about the matter we spoke of earlier this week.
But a silence frostier than the London weather greeted him, and Daniel knew that he could do nothing to force The Guardian into a more communicative mood. Or was there? Daniel thought back to the morning’s events, and weighed up his options. He was desperate now, troubled by his pursuer that morning and worried about the plot against the Prime Minister. What if…?
He turned back to his computer screen, initiated PANDORA, and began to type.
Search: The G… GO Advanced Search:
Daniel paused, certain that this was one way to get his superior’s attention, but like a cur that barks and capers only to be beaten by its master, Daniel doubted that The Guardian would welcome the intrusion.
Search: The Guardian GO Advanced Search:
‘Here goes…,’ he whispered and pressed the Enter key. The result was certainly dramatic.
ALERT: Security Breach – System Timeout
No sooner had a horrified Daniel fully grasped the gravity of being locked out of his own computer system, than the insistent ring of his office telephone gave him one more shock: the voice was unearthly, metallic, and clearly scrambled, like a sci-fi automaton. The message, however, was as clear as day.
‘Listen, you little shit, I am The Guardian. I don’t answer to any piss ant, menial, librarian, who thinks that a bit of security clearance turns him into fucking ‘M’. Are you listening?’ The voice did not pause for a reply. ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again, Moss. I thought I could trust you. Did you think that you could ever have the balls to look for information about me? Without me knowing about it? I’m beyond your reach. No one can touch me. No one! Now get back to work. Follow up the leads I told you about. Track down the Russian link. And THINK ABOUT MARC!’ This last sentence was delivered with a fury that even the scrambler could not hide, and Daniel, shivering with fear and with tears in his eyes, replaced the receiver and turned again to his computer.
ALERT: Security Breach – System Timeout
ALERT: System Timeout – OVERRIDE (external)
Welcome to PANDORA: Daniel Moss
Search: GO Advanced Search:
Daniel tried to clear his mind, but the implicit threat from The Guardian had been clear: Daniel was to do as he was told, find out about the threat to the Prime Minister, and serve faithfully. Gone was the urbane wit of The Guardian’s earlier communications. Daniel had been privy to a man in full power, and that power was frightening. It seemed now to Daniel that it was The Guardian who had shown his hand, and shown it much too early and in a fit of pique. Daniel remembered that he had never met the man behind the title, never seen his face, and never had any real evidence that The Guardian was on the side of the just. The possibility entered Daniel’s mind that it was the Guardian, and not Peter Romanby who was treating him like a puppet. But for what reason? The world of espionage had always been murky: finding the truth was never an easy option.
An hour later, he felt no better. He sat on the Tube and pondered his options, falling slowly into a trance-like daydream. The rhythmic sounds of the train that only a fortnight before had seemed to presage a continued life of drudgery, now seemed to mock him more insidiously, bullying him towards a destination and a conclusion that he was too scared to consider, and which made him yearn for the uniform bleakness of his earlier life.
The short walk from Embankment tube station to the MOD was no easier for Daniel. The dark February skies and the temperatures hovering above freezing gave the icy road a deathly, pallid hue, and a hunched Daniel made his way slowly along the slippery pavement towards Whitehall. A tingling sense of unease in his neck was the only indication to Daniel that anything was wrong, but the feeling mounted with every step that he took. He recognised this sensation from his childhood, and he knew that it would be folly to ignore it. He was being followed. A sixth sense that had accompanied him since childhood now served him again. He knew enough about spy craft to make it seem that he really had dropped his mobile phone on the icy ground, but as he made a subtle show of swearing and bending to retrieve it, he turned to his right, glanced behind him, and his fears were confirmed.
Thirty metres behind Daniel, and on the other side of the road, was a well-dressed man, standing immobile, seemingly fascinated by the bark of a tree. Even in London, where the density of weirdoes per square mile is as its greatest in the western world, his behaviour screamed out a warning to Daniel. The man was clearly not a vagrant and did not have the dishevelled air of a lost soul. Indeed, he seemed – Daniel could think of no other satisfactory description – to be somewhat official looking. In a split second, Daniel was back on his feet, walking along as nonchalantly as he could. He had seen enough thrillers to know that he had two choices. Either he could attempt to throw off his pursuer, or he could act as if he was unaware of the man’s presence. Both choices were fraught will their own particular perils. To try to outrun the other man, or to finesse him into showing his hand, would alert him – and his masters – that Daniel knew he was being followed. Daniel recalled his recent keyboard conversation with The Guardian, who had hinted that he knew about Daniel’s weekend activities. Was this man The Guardian’s pawn? Daniel tried to push that thought out of his mind. On the other hand, to do nothing, and to allow the shadow to follow him would be fatal if his orders were somehow to take Daniel out of the game. However, there was one distinct advantage also. Daniel could possibly keep the man on his tail, use a fortuitous moment to photograph him, and use PANDORA to ascertain his identity. That way, at least, Daniel might be able to determine who was interested in him. Daniel made his decision, ostentatiously checked the time on his watch, appeared to realise that he was going be late, and hastened to the MOD.
The man, a professional in every sense that Daniel was not, also made a quick decision. He thought that his prey had spotted him. If he had, and if the man’s cover had already been blown, then he would need to revert to Plan B. Soon. Daniel Moss would be in for a surprise.
Daniel was lightheaded with a double dose of fear and exhilaration as he reached the entrance to the MOD. Peter Romanby’s portrait, which even on the best of days looked down contemptuously on visitors, had taken on a new expression, it seemed, and Daniel wondered for a brief, illogical moment, whether even the portraits on the wall could sense his uncertainty. ‘Don’t be stupid, Daniel,’ he muttered to himself, ‘Pictures don’t talk…’
‘But wall have ears,’ whispered a cold voice beside him, and Daniel realised both that he had spoken out aloud and that he had chosen the very moment that Cristobel Hammond walked past him to talk to himself like a lunatic. He swallowed, turned, and stammered.
‘Just…er… thinking about a new… er…processing format for…’ he soundlessly mouthed the word PANDORA, which even here in the MOD, was top secret. Cristobel’s arched eyebrows shot up further in disbelief but she said nothing and stalked away down the corridor. Daniel took a deep breath, hoping that he had got away with it once more.
All that Friday morning, Daniel worked with little of his normal concentration. He reviewed his daily tasks as normal and carried out his regular checks on PANDORA, but was not concentrating with his usual razor sharp mind. Daniel was waiting for word from The Guardian, hoping for a sign that he was on the right path. He keyed in The Guardian’s address code again and started a conversation.
MossD: Sir, I need to talk to you…
MossD: …about the matter we spoke of earlier this week.
But a silence frostier than the London weather greeted him, and Daniel knew that he could do nothing to force The Guardian into a more communicative mood. Or was there? Daniel thought back to the morning’s events, and weighed up his options. He was desperate now, troubled by his pursuer that morning and worried about the plot against the Prime Minister. What if…?
He turned back to his computer screen, initiated PANDORA, and began to type.
Search: The G… GO Advanced Search:
Daniel paused, certain that this was one way to get his superior’s attention, but like a cur that barks and capers only to be beaten by its master, Daniel doubted that The Guardian would welcome the intrusion.
Search: The Guardian GO Advanced Search:
‘Here goes…,’ he whispered and pressed the Enter key. The result was certainly dramatic.
ALERT: Security Breach – System Timeout
No sooner had a horrified Daniel fully grasped the gravity of being locked out of his own computer system, than the insistent ring of his office telephone gave him one more shock: the voice was unearthly, metallic, and clearly scrambled, like a sci-fi automaton. The message, however, was as clear as day.
‘Listen, you little shit, I am The Guardian. I don’t answer to any piss ant, menial, librarian, who thinks that a bit of security clearance turns him into fucking ‘M’. Are you listening?’ The voice did not pause for a reply. ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again, Moss. I thought I could trust you. Did you think that you could ever have the balls to look for information about me? Without me knowing about it? I’m beyond your reach. No one can touch me. No one! Now get back to work. Follow up the leads I told you about. Track down the Russian link. And THINK ABOUT MARC!’ This last sentence was delivered with a fury that even the scrambler could not hide, and Daniel, shivering with fear and with tears in his eyes, replaced the receiver and turned again to his computer.
ALERT: Security Breach – System Timeout
ALERT: System Timeout – OVERRIDE (external)
Welcome to PANDORA: Daniel Moss
Search: GO Advanced Search:
Daniel tried to clear his mind, but the implicit threat from The Guardian had been clear: Daniel was to do as he was told, find out about the threat to the Prime Minister, and serve faithfully. Gone was the urbane wit of The Guardian’s earlier communications. Daniel had been privy to a man in full power, and that power was frightening. It seemed now to Daniel that it was The Guardian who had shown his hand, and shown it much too early and in a fit of pique. Daniel remembered that he had never met the man behind the title, never seen his face, and never had any real evidence that The Guardian was on the side of the just. The possibility entered Daniel’s mind that it was the Guardian, and not Peter Romanby who was treating him like a puppet. But for what reason? The world of espionage had always been murky: finding the truth was never an easy option.