Unseen Path

de Pavilly JD

Description

When Andy Bowson of the Counter Terrorism Police witnesses the shooting of a suspected Jihadi, he finds himself embroiled in a violent world of politics, fanaticism and distrust. He must work quickly to confront escalating acts of terror and counter-terror, whilst finding himself confronted with an increasing number of questions. Why has his wife Sally suddenly disappeared? Who is the enigmatic 'Henry' of the intelligence service? What is the unknown force attacking the terrorists, while the government steadily loses control?The more Bowson and his team investigate, the deeper the mystery becomes. Nothing is certain anymore and he must decide who he can trust to help him discover why a war has broken out on the streets of Britain and the authorities seemingly half-hearted in their attempts to defeat it.Meanwhile, Sally finds herself in the midst of any increasingly strange mystery. Can she ever be reunited with her husband and does she want to be? Something ancient, lost and long forgotten has decided to involve itself in the affairs of modern Britain, but why?

Sujets

• Gran Londres
• Greater London
• Dartmoor
• Parc naturel du Dartmoor
• Thriller
• Grand Londres
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789019667
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 J.D. de Pavilly

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781789019667

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Contents
Explanatory Note

It begins
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday, a fortnight before Easter
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
It pauses, Monday before Easter, Holy Week
Maundy Thursday, Holy Week before Easter
Good Friday
Easter Sunday
Easter Monday
Tuesday after Easter
Wednesday after Easter
Thursday after Easter
Friday after Easter
Saturday after Easter
Sunday, a week after Easter
Monday, second week after Easter
Tuesday, second week after Easter
Wednesday, second week after Easter
Thursday, second week after Easter
Friday, second week after Easter
Saturday, second week after Easter
Sunday, a fortnight after Easter
Monday, third week after Easter
Wednesday, third week after Easter
Epilogue, late May



For the Armenians, in the centenary of their genocide, the Greeks, the Syrian Orthodox, the Yezidis, Nestorians, Assyrians, Mandaeans, Zoroastrians and others too many to mention. May all things be restored one day. They will. And to my wife, Samantha, who restored me and still does, every day.
For those who encouraged me to publish despite the discouragements. To my friends Susanna Smith, for proofing, cover design and the use of her photography, to Stuart Beaker, for starting me down the publication route, and to Brian Firth for the first editing. And to Going Postal (www.going-postal.com) for allowing me a voice in a time of increasing obstacles in the path of new authors, especially those of a book like this.





Explanatory Note
The section headings used in this novel relate to the ancient Celtic church’s Easter dating system, which was used in much of Britain before the progressive adoption of the Roman Latin church’s method of dating Easter, following the old Anglo-Celtic kingdom of Northumbria’s recognition of papal authority at the Synod of Whitby in 664 AD. The differences between the two traditions as to the calculation of the falling of Easter in any one year led to occasional disagreements as to on which Sunday Easter day should fall.
For reasons that will become apparent, this story employs the Celtic Easter cycle, whereas some of the characters within it are following the modern western usage of Easter dating. This may cause some confusion in the mind of the reader, for which the author does not apologise on the assumption that any reader that enjoys this novel is both sufficiently intelligent and curious to cope with this and other antiquarian references. They are important components of the book’s central premise.
To Calliope,
Please understand that while forms change,
intent does not
Falling, falling, deeply falling,
Down towards the rosy glow,
Passion claws and fires rage,
Strength fails and grip erodes,
The tide pulls, the current gains,
Fight against where they’ll go.
Attraction overpowering, mortal weak,
Gravity catches and desires bite,
So love twists and hopes elude,
And then down fall to the trap below,
But faith endures and will must fight
Against the honey scent of glorious night.
We live by day and dream long of light
That love persists and true hearts know.
© JD de Pavilly





It begins
The man about to die pulled the green framed glass door shut and glanced furtively up and down the street before locking the door and placing the key in his jacket pocket.
His would-be assassin stretched his right index finger to relieve tension and took a slow deep breath to reduce his heart rate before cradling the rifle stock firmly against his shoulder. Using the open rear window of the van, his mobile hide for this hunt, to frame his target, he carefully sighted on his intended victim through the sniper scope attached to his weapon. The light remained weak in the overcast early morning conditions and he flicked on the scope’s target illuminator. It was taking too long for the target to turn around to face the street so that he could get a final identification, but long enough for the tension to build again though, for his heart rate to rise and his palms to feel clammy, long enough for the doubts to begin anew. He knew that killing his first human quarry, even a man such as this, put him on the far side of something, but the far side of what: a moral or spiritual chasm with only Hell for an escape? Whatever it was, he only knew there could be no way back once the trigger had been squeezed.


Chief Inspector Andrew Bowson stretched out to shake his slumbering colleague into consciousness. Their third long night of surveillance on the bounce was coming to an end and the muggy atmosphere of the van was proving particularly soporific on this early spring morning. As the dawn established itself he put down the night vision viewer and picked up the binoculars, allowing him to get a good look at the man they had been observing, firstly from a distance and now more closely, for the last six days. Five-nine, wiry build, curly black hair and beard, non-descript clothing – all perfectly normal in this immigrant populated part of Birmingham – but there was something about the way he carried himself though, an arrogant assurance that ensured he stood out to the trained eye. It was definitely him, another ideological psycho, a walking bomb, primed to explode at any random moment.
These people took up all his time now, most of that of his colleagues in the other Counter-Terror teams too. How many had he investigated, watched, then raided over the last few years? Far too many to recall, that was for certain. When Andy first considered joining the police family he was told that this should be where to specialise: exciting, vital, high profile, all the requirements for the ambitious young man on the rise. All true, but what he hadn’t really appreciated was the addictive intensity, the inability to ever turn off the adrenal tap, the career narcotic that demanded increasingly more of him as he rose through the ranks. His family life was suffering too, his work consumed him, and they were paying a heavy price; he’d need to make it up to them and soon.
“What’s up?” Detective Sergeant George Edward said stretching into life, his reddish-blond hair now complemented by thick stubble.
“He’s just coming out of the house, let the relief team know he’s on the move and he’s all theirs now; we can stand down.”


The sniper watched the target glance surreptitiously right and left up both sides of the street. A sign of training, a marker of suspicion, further, but not final, confirmation of his identity. Now he was looking down the street leading directly away from him in front, lined on both sides with cars and vans, the red brick terraced housing gently cascading down the hill and rising again up the other side of the low valley, intersected regularly by other roads, until it ended at another residential street, perhaps two thirds of a mile away.
“Target confirmed.”
The rifleman grunted assent to the confirmation of his spotter beside him, exhaled gently as the target pulled a car key from his trouser pocket, and squeezed his index finger, doubts stifled by the habits of long training and the impersonality of it all, and then saw his target, one Mohammed Amallifely, hurled back into the green door, his chest a fragmented red mass slumped against a now shattered front portal. Already the shooter’s rifle chamber was recharged, he was barely aware of the action, the aiming point varying just a fraction, steadying, exhaling, trigger finger pulling for the second time.


“My…”
Andy Bowson never got the chance to finish his profanity as a sound like the air being torn asunder by a street level ballistic missile engulfed his vehicle and resounded down the street. The suspect was thrown backwards like a rag doll into and partly through the now broken front door, glass, wood and blood clouding the air like sea spume. As the body settled against the door’s remains, the banshee-like scream came again, only this time his shaking binoculars saw the victim’s head struck by the invisible force, flying backwards in a red mist.
“Get the support team and an ambulance here soonest, and let local liaison know as well,” Bowson ordered Edward as he reached for the van’s sliding door.
He retained enough self-awareness to know that he was in shock, but adrenalin