LIFELINE
Lifeline is the second novel in the Daniel Moss trilogy (to be published in late 2018). Below is an extract from Chapters 1 and 2
High above London, in a large office protected by white noise interference and continuously swept for intercept devices, The Guardian was reviewing her work of the past months. Estelle Salter had always wanted to be The Guardian. In her last role as head of GCHQ, the government’s vast listening post just outside of Cheltenham, she had been brought in to sweep the place clean and restore order. And she had done exactly that. At least that is what she had thought. But the events of the last months had taught her an important lesson. She could never give up, never be satisfied, and never become complacent. Right under her nose, a coup plot had been hatched. The Establishment had become rotten. Peter Romanby’s plot had almost worked. As Minister of Defence he had held untold power. He had plotted against the Prime Minister, allowed the poor man to be sacrificed, assassinated in Hamburg by a madman, and once Prime Minister himself, he had danced with the devil. His plan had been decades in the making. He had allied himself with Nicholas Cooper. Together, the two men had sought to re-align European politics, return a symbolic Tsar to the Russian throne, destabilise the status quo, and profit immeasurably from the ensuing chaos. And then along came Daniel Moss, a man with a birthright so stunning that top echelons of society now knew of him. Or thought they did. Daniel had been groomed without knowing it, manipulated like a simple puppet, and only told of his own role days before the coup was to be unleashed. Pretender to the defunct Russian throne. And now he had disappeared from public view as quickly as he had appeared on TV screens around the world.
Estelle Salter looked at the files spread out in front of her. Whispering voices had said that she was too soft, too feminine, to be The Guardian. That she would falter in the face of the big decisions. But she had silenced them all. Some of them permanently. It was she who had taken control in the days and weeks after the assassination and coup attempt. Whilst the politicians and flunkies had floundered, she had realised the precarious nature of the U.K. And she had unleashed retribution with vicious and violent effect. Her revenge had cut like a scythe through the Establishment, emasculating the traitors, murdering the plotters, and removing the toadies and hangers on.
She looked up from her files, and stared out over the London skyline. ‘I am justice,’ she whispered.
But now the country was in peril again, and once more it was a threat from within the Establishment. It was almost comical. The very strand of society that had been robbed of its authority centuries before now had in its hands the power to destabilise the nation. Not content with watching the U.K. brought almost to its knees, they were now intent on making it bow in ancient fealty. She would not let it happen. Thankfully, there was one man could help her, and he was very well connected. She pressed a small button on her desk, knowing that the line was staffed at all times. Without greeting or introduction, she said, ‘Get me Air Chief Marshall de la Foraine, please.’
And from Chapter 2
The Guardian’s office, and her whole operation, was housed in an anonymous-looking building near Trafalgar Square. Hers was a secret world, and few people knew that she existed. The more public security arms of the government, MI5 and MI6, now had websites, open days, and press officers. The Guardian had no such public face, no star quality, and no need for PR. Her job was to coordinate information gathering and strategic dissemination, and oversee the security services, the most secret of the armed services, the SAS, and Special Branch. It was post of enormous power and influence. In times of crisis, it was she, and not a government minister, who chaired COBR, the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, also know as the Platinum Command, and she alone who took all but the most political of decisions.
Today, however, The Guardian’s work had to be carried out away from central government, and well away from her own office. Estelle Salter usually shied away from grand gestures, but today she had had no choice. The stakes were too high. She was seated at a small mahogany desk, around which two other seats had been arranged. But this was no ordinary office. The Guardian was travelling twenty-five thousand feet in the air, at over 650 miles per hour, in the government’s new Gulfstream 650 private jet. She had dispensed with the normal crew. The captain and first officer were her own men, vetted by her personal security staff. There was no steward, and the door to the small flight deck was securely locked. The aircraft’s jamming equipment would keep the conversation completely secret. Forever. Estelle Salter looked up from her ever-present files at the man and the woman opposite.
‘You will understand the need for complete security today. There will be no record of this flight, no hint as to its passengers, and no leaks. If the need arises – and I trust that it will not - we will deny that this conversation ever happened. Your diaries simply state that you are enjoying private time in your residences. Your staff will not be enlightened.’
The Guardian looked at her guests directly, making very sure that her message was sinking in. She was not the ranking member on the passenger manifest today – not that any such list would ever exist – but it was clear to all three who was in charge.
‘I am required to request that you read this report. It details just a fraction of the Intelligence that has been collected in the past month. Most of the sources have been expurgated, for their and your protection. Only I have the un-sanitised version, and nobody is seeing it. For our purposes today, the Freedom of Information Act 2000 does not exist. Please read the report carefully now. This is the only chance you will have to read it. And again, if I have to, I will deny that the report exists, that you have seen it, or that this meeting ever took place.’
The Guardian’s guests struggled to keep their composure. They were not used to being addressed this way. Nobody had ever dared to treat them so high-handedly. But there was nothing that they could do, and nothing to say. They had overplayed their hands and were being punished for it.
Minutes passed as the pair read through the report thoroughly. The man finished reading first, closing the dossier, taking off his tiny glasses, and regarding The Guardian with unconcealed hostility. The woman followed a few moments later, her young face grave.
‘You see, the United Kingdom cannot continue to accept this situation. The attempted coup earlier this year in Moscow, and the undeniable links to the U.K. will haunt us for decades. The economy is in a shambles, and the markets are in freefall. The British Establishment is in tatters, and the government is weak and ineffectual. Our enemies are poised to manipulate us, threaten our currency, attack our borders, and kill us off from within.’
Estelle Salter stared at the pair balefully, ready to deliver a stinging indictment.
‘And you two think that this is a good time to launch your petty war? You think that Britain is strong enough to survive a constitutional crisis of this magnitude? Do you really think that government, the security services, the armed forces… that our society has any time, any stomach, for this?’
Estelle Salter was usually able to conceal her real emotions. It was a given that one would. But not today. She had worked ceaselessly for over thirty years to ensure the safety and stability of the nation. And the pair in front of her would not be permitted to threaten that. She felt the aircraft veer to the left, steadily losing height. She gathered her thoughts and addressed the man and woman seated before her.
‘You will stop this foolishness now.’ The man made to rise and speak, but Estelle Salter shouted him down. ‘I insist that you do this immediately. You will remember who you are. You will remember the role that we all play in the constitutional framework of the realm. We will tolerate no continuance of this situation. We will countenance no deviation from the course that is being laid out to you. I trust that I am making myself clear.’
The pair were silent. She had faced them down. And she had won. Minutes later, the aircraft landed at an RAF base in the Home Counties. A pair of armour-plated cars approached the plane, which had taxied into a large hangar. Nobody would see the passengers as they stepped out of the aircraft. Estelle Salter, perhaps the only Guardian in history to have amassed so much power, stood and accompanied her guests to the door of the Gulfstream. As they passed, she bowed her head slightly and addressed the pair.
‘Your Majesty. Your Highness. I wish you a safe journey home.’ The young Queen and her uncle looked at her, their faces mask-like, and left the plane. The Queen strode confidently towards one of the cars, and Prince Henry to another. There would be no cosy trip back to London together for The Queen and her uncle.
Estelle Salter followed the pair off the plane, and waited for them to drive away. Taking out her secure phone, she pressed a series of buttons and waited for the call to connect.
‘It worked. At least I think it worked. They were not pleased… we didn’t expect that they would be. But I think we have them both on the run. Of course, I may find myself in the Tower… but I think we’re safe for now.’ The Guardian disconnected the line, and walked over to a third car, which had just drawn up to her. Smiling, she climbed in, satisfied at a good day’s work. Now it was time to see Moss.
True to her word, the car that The Guardian had sent drew up to the kerb outside the south entrance precisely when the driver said it would. With trepidation, Daniel got in, warily viewing the back of the driver’s head.
‘I suppose,’ the driver’s accent was a lot less street than Daniel had expected. ‘That the boss’ll’ve told you to be careful of me. That I’m a trained killer on the slippery slope, a manic psychopath?’
Daniel spluttered, unable to answer.
‘It’s not true of course. She just wants to give you the willies. If you’ll pardon my language. I’m Ben.’ The young man twisted in his seat, offering Daniel his hand. Daniel hesitated. ‘It’s OK. I don’t bite. And anyway, I think all of the really mad guys are off around the country…’
‘Oh? Are they on holiday, then?’ Daniel was trying to be conversational.
‘No, sir. They’re off killing people. Traitors. Dozens of ’em…’
High above London, in a large office protected by white noise interference and continuously swept for intercept devices, The Guardian was reviewing her work of the past months. Estelle Salter had always wanted to be The Guardian. In her last role as head of GCHQ, the government’s vast listening post just outside of Cheltenham, she had been brought in to sweep the place clean and restore order. And she had done exactly that. At least that is what she had thought. But the events of the last months had taught her an important lesson. She could never give up, never be satisfied, and never become complacent. Right under her nose, a coup plot had been hatched. The Establishment had become rotten. Peter Romanby’s plot had almost worked. As Minister of Defence he had held untold power. He had plotted against the Prime Minister, allowed the poor man to be sacrificed, assassinated in Hamburg by a madman, and once Prime Minister himself, he had danced with the devil. His plan had been decades in the making. He had allied himself with Nicholas Cooper. Together, the two men had sought to re-align European politics, return a symbolic Tsar to the Russian throne, destabilise the status quo, and profit immeasurably from the ensuing chaos. And then along came Daniel Moss, a man with a birthright so stunning that top echelons of society now knew of him. Or thought they did. Daniel had been groomed without knowing it, manipulated like a simple puppet, and only told of his own role days before the coup was to be unleashed. Pretender to the defunct Russian throne. And now he had disappeared from public view as quickly as he had appeared on TV screens around the world.
Estelle Salter looked at the files spread out in front of her. Whispering voices had said that she was too soft, too feminine, to be The Guardian. That she would falter in the face of the big decisions. But she had silenced them all. Some of them permanently. It was she who had taken control in the days and weeks after the assassination and coup attempt. Whilst the politicians and flunkies had floundered, she had realised the precarious nature of the U.K. And she had unleashed retribution with vicious and violent effect. Her revenge had cut like a scythe through the Establishment, emasculating the traitors, murdering the plotters, and removing the toadies and hangers on.
She looked up from her files, and stared out over the London skyline. ‘I am justice,’ she whispered.
But now the country was in peril again, and once more it was a threat from within the Establishment. It was almost comical. The very strand of society that had been robbed of its authority centuries before now had in its hands the power to destabilise the nation. Not content with watching the U.K. brought almost to its knees, they were now intent on making it bow in ancient fealty. She would not let it happen. Thankfully, there was one man could help her, and he was very well connected. She pressed a small button on her desk, knowing that the line was staffed at all times. Without greeting or introduction, she said, ‘Get me Air Chief Marshall de la Foraine, please.’
And from Chapter 2
The Guardian’s office, and her whole operation, was housed in an anonymous-looking building near Trafalgar Square. Hers was a secret world, and few people knew that she existed. The more public security arms of the government, MI5 and MI6, now had websites, open days, and press officers. The Guardian had no such public face, no star quality, and no need for PR. Her job was to coordinate information gathering and strategic dissemination, and oversee the security services, the most secret of the armed services, the SAS, and Special Branch. It was post of enormous power and influence. In times of crisis, it was she, and not a government minister, who chaired COBR, the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, also know as the Platinum Command, and she alone who took all but the most political of decisions.
Today, however, The Guardian’s work had to be carried out away from central government, and well away from her own office. Estelle Salter usually shied away from grand gestures, but today she had had no choice. The stakes were too high. She was seated at a small mahogany desk, around which two other seats had been arranged. But this was no ordinary office. The Guardian was travelling twenty-five thousand feet in the air, at over 650 miles per hour, in the government’s new Gulfstream 650 private jet. She had dispensed with the normal crew. The captain and first officer were her own men, vetted by her personal security staff. There was no steward, and the door to the small flight deck was securely locked. The aircraft’s jamming equipment would keep the conversation completely secret. Forever. Estelle Salter looked up from her ever-present files at the man and the woman opposite.
‘You will understand the need for complete security today. There will be no record of this flight, no hint as to its passengers, and no leaks. If the need arises – and I trust that it will not - we will deny that this conversation ever happened. Your diaries simply state that you are enjoying private time in your residences. Your staff will not be enlightened.’
The Guardian looked at her guests directly, making very sure that her message was sinking in. She was not the ranking member on the passenger manifest today – not that any such list would ever exist – but it was clear to all three who was in charge.
‘I am required to request that you read this report. It details just a fraction of the Intelligence that has been collected in the past month. Most of the sources have been expurgated, for their and your protection. Only I have the un-sanitised version, and nobody is seeing it. For our purposes today, the Freedom of Information Act 2000 does not exist. Please read the report carefully now. This is the only chance you will have to read it. And again, if I have to, I will deny that the report exists, that you have seen it, or that this meeting ever took place.’
The Guardian’s guests struggled to keep their composure. They were not used to being addressed this way. Nobody had ever dared to treat them so high-handedly. But there was nothing that they could do, and nothing to say. They had overplayed their hands and were being punished for it.
Minutes passed as the pair read through the report thoroughly. The man finished reading first, closing the dossier, taking off his tiny glasses, and regarding The Guardian with unconcealed hostility. The woman followed a few moments later, her young face grave.
‘You see, the United Kingdom cannot continue to accept this situation. The attempted coup earlier this year in Moscow, and the undeniable links to the U.K. will haunt us for decades. The economy is in a shambles, and the markets are in freefall. The British Establishment is in tatters, and the government is weak and ineffectual. Our enemies are poised to manipulate us, threaten our currency, attack our borders, and kill us off from within.’
Estelle Salter stared at the pair balefully, ready to deliver a stinging indictment.
‘And you two think that this is a good time to launch your petty war? You think that Britain is strong enough to survive a constitutional crisis of this magnitude? Do you really think that government, the security services, the armed forces… that our society has any time, any stomach, for this?’
Estelle Salter was usually able to conceal her real emotions. It was a given that one would. But not today. She had worked ceaselessly for over thirty years to ensure the safety and stability of the nation. And the pair in front of her would not be permitted to threaten that. She felt the aircraft veer to the left, steadily losing height. She gathered her thoughts and addressed the man and woman seated before her.
‘You will stop this foolishness now.’ The man made to rise and speak, but Estelle Salter shouted him down. ‘I insist that you do this immediately. You will remember who you are. You will remember the role that we all play in the constitutional framework of the realm. We will tolerate no continuance of this situation. We will countenance no deviation from the course that is being laid out to you. I trust that I am making myself clear.’
The pair were silent. She had faced them down. And she had won. Minutes later, the aircraft landed at an RAF base in the Home Counties. A pair of armour-plated cars approached the plane, which had taxied into a large hangar. Nobody would see the passengers as they stepped out of the aircraft. Estelle Salter, perhaps the only Guardian in history to have amassed so much power, stood and accompanied her guests to the door of the Gulfstream. As they passed, she bowed her head slightly and addressed the pair.
‘Your Majesty. Your Highness. I wish you a safe journey home.’ The young Queen and her uncle looked at her, their faces mask-like, and left the plane. The Queen strode confidently towards one of the cars, and Prince Henry to another. There would be no cosy trip back to London together for The Queen and her uncle.
Estelle Salter followed the pair off the plane, and waited for them to drive away. Taking out her secure phone, she pressed a series of buttons and waited for the call to connect.
‘It worked. At least I think it worked. They were not pleased… we didn’t expect that they would be. But I think we have them both on the run. Of course, I may find myself in the Tower… but I think we’re safe for now.’ The Guardian disconnected the line, and walked over to a third car, which had just drawn up to her. Smiling, she climbed in, satisfied at a good day’s work. Now it was time to see Moss.
True to her word, the car that The Guardian had sent drew up to the kerb outside the south entrance precisely when the driver said it would. With trepidation, Daniel got in, warily viewing the back of the driver’s head.
‘I suppose,’ the driver’s accent was a lot less street than Daniel had expected. ‘That the boss’ll’ve told you to be careful of me. That I’m a trained killer on the slippery slope, a manic psychopath?’
Daniel spluttered, unable to answer.
‘It’s not true of course. She just wants to give you the willies. If you’ll pardon my language. I’m Ben.’ The young man twisted in his seat, offering Daniel his hand. Daniel hesitated. ‘It’s OK. I don’t bite. And anyway, I think all of the really mad guys are off around the country…’
‘Oh? Are they on holiday, then?’ Daniel was trying to be conversational.
‘No, sir. They’re off killing people. Traitors. Dozens of ’em…’