Day of the Phoenix

Neal James

Description

Steve Marshall was ready. This time there would be no mistakes - no-one to derail the plan, and no-one to step outside his ideas for the perfect Britain. Anyone standing in the way of progress would be brutally mown down. Infiltrating the British Democratic Party was the ultimate solution to the establishment of a Fascist state - a state controlled by him and him alone. Robert Grafton, the party's current leader, was going to be the perfect tool in the fulfilment of a dream, and would be just one more stepping stone on a path reaching back as far as the end of the Second World War.Marshall had toiled hard and long at the plan since the debacle of 1992. The Organisation had come within a whisker of success, and but for some strokes of outrageous fortune, MI5 and its head, the imperious George Watkinson, would have been all but consigned to history. This time it would be different.Neal James takes this sequel to 'A Ticket to Tewkesbury' into a frighteningly possible future. A future built upon the use of the ballot box to further the aims of a radical political society, and where the lessons of history are all too easily forgotten.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 07 août 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782283645
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Day of the Phoenix

The Sequel to ‘A Ticket to Tewkesbury’


Neal James
Copyright

First Published in 2014 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing Day of the Phoenix Copyright © 2014 Neal James Neal James has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Mobi eISBN: 9781782283607 ePub eISBN: 9781782283645 PDF eBook eISBN: 9781782283683 Paperback ISBN: 9781782283560 Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
In memory of Eileen Persse
4th May 1956 – 22nd May 2013

‘From one editor to another’
Rob Eldridge
Acknowledgements
My appreciation goes to a number of people who have made significant contributions to the progress of ‘Day of the Phoenix’ since its inception in 2010.
Robert Eldridge – my editor. Without Rob’s enthusiastic commitment to the maintenance of standards in English grammar, I would not be in the position of having published six volumes of literary fiction. He is a tireless adherent to the correct expression of the written word, and I am also privileged to call him a friend.
Markus Stenzer – technical consultant. A long-time acquaintance from Bavaria, Markus has kindly advised upon the sections of the book relating to German translation, and also historical and cultural references.
Cath Anthoney – my reader. Cath’s pragmatic, no-nonsense approach is an invaluable resource to which I am fortunate to have access. As reader of the final draft, the reassurance that the story was on the right track was the final piece in the jigsaw.
My wife, Lynn. For patience and understanding throughout the formative stages, and for the continuous supply of alternatives when the ones I used were ‘lumpy’.
Pneuma Springs – for the constant support and flow of innovative ideas, my heartfelt thanks.
Prologue
The occupants of number 1, St Mary’s Lane had become a fixture in the village, but Julie and Doug Martin had never been able to make any acquaintance with them which extended beyond the nodding of heads in passing. The date is mid-2002, and at a social gathering of a number of friends at the end of the little road, a stranger who had not been seen there before rolled up in a Bentley. He was tall, fair haired and carried himself with the self-assured manner of someone accustomed to being obeyed without too many questions being asked. He entered the cottage at the end of the row without knocking, and Doug frowned from his front garden vantage point at this show of familiarity.
Those inside, however, showed no such concern for the man’s manner, and all greeted him with the warmth of a long-lost relative. It had been almost ten years since the purging of the Organisation from British political circles, and the blows delivered by George Watkinson had been all but fatal to the cause. The intervening time had been one of slow and painstaking progress, with meetings held in circumstances of the utmost secrecy, but now there was a hint of light at the end of a very long tunnel.
Steve Marshall, for it was he who had laid the foundations of today’s gathering, had kept his role within MI5, managing throughout the years to keep his political activities out of the all-seeing gaze of Watkinson. It had been, at times, an extremely difficult road to travel, but since the general election in 2001 the present government had been coming under increasing pressure in relation to its foreign policy. With an unpopular conflict in the Middle East now looking increasingly likely, it would probably be a good time to strike. Those around him were all still fairly young for the onerous mantles which they were about to assume, but he had been in their position himself at one time and was certain that they would cope.
Looking around at their expectant gazes, and to paraphrase one particular political cliché from some years earlier, he felt the hand of history resting upon his shoulder as he read from a prepared set of notes. Funds left in a secret bank account by Gerald Montgomery had been more than sufficient to finance the phoenix of a new organisation rising from the ashes of the old, and this time there would be no room for any sentiment. The aims were clear, and anyone standing in the way would simply be mown down as the steamroller of progress made its inexorable way forwards.
His speech received a rousing reception. Outside in the peace of a summer evening, and in his garden, Doug Martin wondered idly at the party atmosphere emanating from the cottage at the end of the row. There had been a series of arrivals from early in the morning, but neither he nor Julie had recognised the occupant of the Bentley. As he passed their garden at the end of the evening, and with the broadest of smiles upon his face, Steve Marshall bade them both good night and drove off into the gathering darkness.
1
It had been over twelve months since the meeting at the cottage on St Mary’s Lane in Tewkesbury, and more than a year of careful and highly secretive reconstruction. Carrying that out under the watchful gaze of all within the confines of Thames House had not been the easiest task which Steve Marshall had ever undertaken. Then there was George Watkinson. The head of MI5 had been led to believe that his own personal safety had been ensured with the killing of Gerald Montgomery on the platform of Nottingham’s Midland Station, and Marshall’s stock within the secret service had risen several notches on that fateful day.
Montgomery had had to go. Not the most stable of participants in the resurgence of the fascist group, it was by no means certain that under interrogation he would have kept his mouth shut. In the event the choice was clear, and the bullet took care of the rest.
Now it was time to move on once more. Those chosen few at the meeting in Gloucestershire last year were about to step up to the mark. Upon their shoulders now rested the entire future of the Organisation’s aims for Britain, and the ambitions of Steve Marshall personally.
Of those who had given their lives for the cause, Montgomery had been the megalomaniac. Useful at the outset with his financial clout, he was nevertheless a liability when it came down to the rhetoric. Too many eyes were being cast in his direction at a critical time in the plan. With Timson it had been status, and the chance to sit at the top table of something special, as opposed to being at the beck and call of transient politicians. Mason was the idealist; close and careful with his words, he would have been a true asset. Even he had lost it at the end, however. No, only Steve Marshall had the complete overview; only he was capable of steering the country towards its true future.
Staring out across the Thames into the city on a cold and grey November afternoon, he was interrupted from his musings by the shrill tone of the telephone. It was a private line, and not linked to the outside world in the same way as most of the others inside Thames House. There were only a few such connections, and Watkinson was the owner of one of the others. Marshall looked at the mobile number on the display and frowned. It was not one which he recognised, and a feeling of unease settled across his normally calm exterior. He could ignore it of course, but that would go against all of his instincts. He let it ring out a little longer before pressing the ‘connect’ key. He sat in silence. They both sat in silence. Nothing at the other end of the call gave the faintest clue as to location. The voice which broke the spell bore a grating edge and, initially, Steve did not recognise it.
“Steve?” There was the rasp of an old man in the tone and timbre.
“Who is this?” Marshall scowled at the familiarity of a voice which he could not place.
“Steve. That you? I’m deep in it, and I need your help.” A deep, guttural cough followed.
“Who are you, and how did you get this number?”
“Chris. Chris Morse. Remember me?”
Christopher Morse. The mole at the centre of so much of what Watkinson believed to be going wrong inside the agency, Morse had come close to bringing the entire thing down. Watkinson’s banishing him had been a stroke of pure luck; telling him to report in only to Marshall himself had been highly fortuitous. That had enabled Steve to leave the man to his own devices and simply forget all about what he had done. Until now. Now he resurfaces; now he needs help. Morse was completely unaware of Marshall’s status as a double agent, and this could be very dangerous; it would require handling of the utmost care.
“Where are you?” His finger hovered over the button which would place an automatic trace on the call. He thought better of the action and let his hand fall.
“Oh no.” The laugh was that of someone aged beyond his years. “Been there - seen it all, and done some of it as well. You won’t catch me out again that easily. Too many bad memories.”
“All right. What do you want?”
“Help. I thought you were supposed to keep in touch. That’s what Watkinson said, wasn’t it? I’ve been hung out to dry.”
“Okay, Chris. What have you done?” Marshall did not like the way that the conversation was going.
“The police are after me. I need somewhere to hide until it all dies down.” Morse’s voice, shaky at the start, was now breaking up.
“Calm down, Chris. What exactly has happened?”
“It was an ac