Project Icarus

by R D Shah

  Project Icarus

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by R.D. Shah

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  To James. For all the times I was there and all the times I wasn’t.

  Prologue

  Another volley of silver flashes lit up the night sky, illuminating the black Jaguar I-Pace as it drew closer to the German Chancellery located in the very heart of Berlin. UK ambassador David Breams leant forward and gazed out of the passenger side window as a horde of enthusiastic reporters continued snapping pictures and bustling for a good spot behind the blue separation banners.

  Even after all these years of diplomatic service he still found it absurd that such an announcement could cause this intense interest, but it flattered him nonetheless, and a haughty smile spread across his face. In days gone by, the simple welcoming of a new ambassador to his role would have enticed only a few uninspired reporters to the scene, but these days, in the era of twenty-four-hour rolling news, one couldn’t burp in public without attracting a media swarm, all salivating at the chance to ruin a public official’s reputation.

  Breams expelled a satisfied sigh and stretched back in his seat, the grey leather creaking beneath him. They were already ten minutes late because some idiot had screwed up the schedule, but even this blunder did little to dampen his enthusiasm. This was a momentous occasion for him personally, and one he had been privately coveting for many years. Still, someone would pay for that mistake, of that he would make sure.

  In the seat next to him, a grey-haired man raised his eyebrows cheerfully, then proceeded to rub his palm firmly along his thigh, flattening the small wrinkle which had developed along his charcoal, pinstriped suit trousers. “You deserve this, David,” the man said graciously, “your work for the party and the country has been exemplary, and the PM feels the same way.”

  “I appreciate that, Jacob, and thank you for your support. I doubt I could have got here without it.”

  “Utter tripe, my friend,” Jacob said, maintaining his perfected politician’s smile for the cameras as the Jaguar began grinding to a slow halt upon the asphalt driveway. “You’ve earned this off your own merit, so for God’s sake, enjoy it.”

  Breams’s nostrils flared slightly with pride as a blonde doorman dressed in a long black overcoat and blue cravat strode over to the passenger side and grasped the handle. “Yes, Home Secretary. I will.”

  The Home Secretary nodded in approval, but still sensing some anxiety he gently patted the ambassador on his forearm. “Remember, David, all our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them… and pursue them you have.”

  The adage appeared to bolster Breams’s demeanour, and his shoulders relaxed a little. “Who said that, Churchill?”

  “No,” the Home Secretary said, “it was Walt Disney, so enjoy yourself. That’s an order!”

  The door swung open, bathing the Jaguar’s interior in a crescendo of dazzling flashes, and Ambassador Breams stepped out onto the red carpet before offering a tight-lipped smile to the eager press.

  He didn’t want to look smug.

  Breams remained there, somewhat stiffly, until the Home Secretary had joined him, and then they began to march up the tethered walkway side by side, in unison, towards a man standing patiently at the far end.

  “Does your appointment signal even closer relations with Germany, Ambassador?” shouted one of the waiting photographers before he was sucked back into the frenzied pack, to be replaced by a female reporter literally hurling her microphone towards him.

  “Who will you be supporting in the European cup final, Manchester United or Liverpool?”

  The question was obviously a joke and Breams stopped for a moment. “Neither of them,” he said, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “I’m a Tottenham Hotspur supporter.”

  The off-the-cuff remark received a few chuckles from the crowd and after a polite nod the ambassador continued calmly up the red carpet to the grey-suited man with short blonde hair who greeted them warmly.

  “Chancellor Schenk, it’s good to see you again,” Jacob said cordially, “and thank you for meeting us here today. I apologise for the delay.”

  The Chancellor was already shaking his head. “Not a problem, although another few minutes and we were about to call it off and go for dinner.”

  All three men laughed jovially as the Chancellor now extended his open palm towards Breams. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Secretary Ryan, and of course Ambassador Breams.”

  Breams took the Chancellor’s hand and shook it firmly. “The pleasure is all mine, Chancellor.”

  The three men stood posed for a moment as the flashes intensified and, once satisfied the photo opportunity had been milked to the max, the Chancellor retrieved his hand and proceeded to usher his two guests inside and through the impressive entrance of the Federal Chancellery building.

  Built at the end of the twentieth century, the Federal Chancellery building, or ‘Bundeskanzleramt’, as it was known, had been built to house the various German governmental institutions following the relocation of the German capital from Bonn to Berlin at the end of the Cold War. It also housed the Chancellor’s main office, and was within a stone’s throw of the Reichstag, the seat of German Parliament and the world-famous Brandenburg Gate. In humble comparison to the domed Reichstag building, the Chancellery itself was not that impressive, with a white, two-storey building at its centre flanked by long rectangle corridors on either side, but it offered a style of symmetry that expressed the perfection at the heart of Germany’s soul. As with cars and industry, the country’s architecture offered something different, and while Breams followed behind the two leaders he found his thoughts drawn to the top of the building. On the roof above, numerous pear trees had been planted, each one symbolising a different German leader, and with the latest polls out that morning, Breams wondered if Chancellor Schenk’s leaves had perhaps wilted of late. Of course by the end of the week they would no doubt be flourishing once again. Such was politics… and the polls.

  The inside of the Chancellery felt like a hospital, and exuded cleanliness. With numerous floors on either side, all painted in a dazzling white, it was an assault on one’s senses, akin to being caught in a blizzard. For a moment Breams felt snow-blind, the media’s camera flashes only adding to the intensity.

  “Gentlemen,” Schenk declared as they reached a set of open white double doors, before pointing inside towards two microphone-adorned podiums, which faced a crowd of eager reporters all sat impatiently on black plastic chairs. It was a tight fit, with attendees sat shoulder to shoulder, and the numerous secret service guards lining the room’s edges looked particularly concerned and hampered by the num
ber of hot, sweaty bodies that had been squeezed in for the press conference.

  The three men made their way inside, with Schenk and Breams taking the central podiums. Secretary Ryan stood off to the side as the Chancellor raised his hands pacifyingly and the room rapidly descended into silence. Not until he was satisfied did the German leader begin to speak, in English.

  “Thank you all for being here today. I would personally like to extend my gratitude to Home Secretary Ryan for the drive he has displayed in the organisation for this occasion. As you all know, this type of event is not in line with the usual protocol between countries, but since the United Kingdom has left the European Union, and given the strong, unyielding bond we have with them, it seemed suitable for us on the continent to show our continuing friendship and the ties that bind us as nations…”

  As the German Chancellor continued to reel off his prepared speech, Breams found himself slipping off into something of a daze. At first he put it down to low blood sugar, having not eaten all day but, as his mind began to slip deeper into an ever-developing trance, the reasons seemed more immaterial with every passing second. Even the invasive camera flashes began to melt away into the background, and a single idea came to the forefront of his mind. An idea that not only seemed highly rational, but necessary. In fact, it was without doubt the most important idea he had ever had. It sent a wave of euphoria rippling through his body, and he wiggled his fingers lightly, the tips tingling pleasurably.

  Beside him the German Chancellor was coming to the end of his short introduction and as yet another flurry of flashes flickered unyieldingly he returned his attention back to the task in hand.

  “…and despite some lone voices within the press who have tried to insinuate that there is a great division between Great Britain and the European Union, I am here today to assure you that our countries are closer than ever before, with a vested national interest in each other’s success. With that in mind, allow me to introduce you to the incoming UK ambassador, David Breams.”

  Ambassador Breams cheerfully grasped at the stationary microphone with all the zeal of a nightclub singer and gazed out across the crowd before him. He waited for a few seconds, allowing the crowd to settle, all the while biting his cheek in an attempt to stem the building excitement that was now filling every part of his body.

  “Thank you, Chancellor Schenk, and may I begin by saying how proud and honoured I am to have been chosen to act as the diplomatic link between our two great nations. As many newspapers have recently written, it is a link that goes much deeper than simply title. My father was born here in Berlin, no more than a mile from where we now stand…” Breams paused, then gave a gentle, disbelieving shake of his head as a proud smile crept across his face. “When he sought refuge in Great Britain as a Jewish refugee at the beginning of the war, he often felt that his ties with his homeland had been cut permanently. But if he had been told that eighty years later his grandson would return as ambassador to the country he loved, to play his part in maintaining the crucial connection between our two great nations… well, to say it would have warmed his heart and his soul would be an understatement. So, it is with thoughts of him that I thank you for my welcome, and on behalf of the British government, I say to you that we look forward to continuing our robust relationship, which has lasted for so many years. I’ll leave you with this one thought that I know my grandfather would have shared. As individual countries we are strong, but together we are unshakable.”

  At first there was dead silence, but as Chancellor Schenk raised his hands and began to clap, the rest of the delegation did likewise and Breams stepped back from the podium, nodding gratefully as even a few of the press corps now put their hands together. There was nothing sweeter than basking in the glow of appreciation and he lapped it up for a few moments, allowing it to engulf him like the warmth from an open hearth. Then, as the sound began to fade, he moved back to the microphone and smiled once more. “And with those words having been said… Let’s get this party started.”

  With his left hand, Breams reached into the inside pocket of his Savile Row suit, pulled out a black Walther 9mm handgun, pointed it directly at Chancellor Schenk’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  Every single person in the room flinched in unison as Schenk’s head violently snapped backwards like a Pez dispenser, spraying blood across his closest advisors, who stood there, rigid with shock, as the German leader collapsed backwards to the floor with a thud. Still grinning gleefully, Breams now swung his weapon towards the press corps and began unloading his weapon indiscriminately, one of the bullets catching a first-row reporter in the jaw and sending bone and cartilage flying into the eyes of her nearest colleague, blinding him instantly.

  Screaming erupted throughout the room as reporters dived for cover, and as Breams swung the gun towards the Chancellor’s entourage, the sound of a short burst of machine gun fire thundered deafeningly throughout the room. Ambassador David Breams was sent plummeting backwards to the floor in a crumpled heap. With his chest riddled with bullet wounds, each haemorrhaging crimson bloodstains across his white shirt, the ambassador’s head rotated in jerks as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. His dulling eyes locked on to the secret service agent pointing an MP5 at him, as behind him Home Secretary Ryan was being rushed off stage by his security detail, all shielding him with their bodies. Next to him officials were rushing over to the lifeless body of Chancellor Schenk and attempting pointlessly to stem the flow of blood with their own suit jackets, as a few of the more seasoned journalists raised their cameras and began snapping off shots.

  The still twitching body of David Breams was for the final time lit up in the bright magnesium glow of camera flashes as the ambassador’s pupils began to widen and his body started to bleed out. He gazed into the horrified faces of the crowd, who were staring at him in disgust, and only one thought came to mind.

  What the hell was wrong with these people!

  Chapter 1

  Shimmering street lamps lit up passers-by as dusk swiftly fell across the city on that chilly spring evening. In the distance London Bridge sparkled its lights and busy shoppers hurried their way across it as beneath a tour boat lazily sailed past along the Thames on its final trip of the day. On the far side City Hall sloped to one side, its neo-futuristic design looking like a silver fingertip decked with solar panels. Across the famous river stood a line of seven-foot plastic domes filled with small groups, all enjoying a meal. The Coppa Club was as famous for its excellent Italian cuisine as it was its location and each plastic bubble, or igloo, as they were known, seated seven guests and offered a unique dining experience for the tourist masses who descended upon the capital all year round.

  It was a busy night, and even though all of the igloos were occupied by happy patrons, there was one that appeared to be creating more commotion than all the others combined. Inside, a tall man wearing a garish, floral green jumper, rose to his feet and held up his champagne flute.

  “Welcome everyone… except Bill,” the man said, raising his glass towards a man with short ginger hair wearing a worn blue Adidas tracksuit, “for almost forgetting to book this dinner, and the even worse crime of attending it so underdressed.”

  The other guests followed in raising their glasses momentarily, with Bill holding his higher than everyone else.

  “What can I say, Peter, I’m a slave to fashion,” Bill remarked, his Liverpudlian accent heavy and his tone smug and uncaring.

  The host’s eyes drooped and he lowered his glass slightly, peering over the rim towards the party’s worst-dressed guest. “Yes, quite, Bill, I just wasn’t aware ‘Hobo’ was in vogue this year.”

  Laughs erupted around the table and Bill offered a sarcastic smile and a dismissive swipe of his hand as Peter continued with his welcome.

  “Seriously, it’s good to see you all looking so well given the train wreck of events over the past few years. I can say from the heart that I am so happy to have the family together again.”
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  All the guests offered a nod of approval except one, a woman with short blonde hair wearing a black business suit with a white shirt buttoned up to the top. “If you mean a bunch of strangers thrown together by fate then sure… family.”

  “Now Abi,” Peter replied, raising his chin, “no matter the roads that led us here, we are all part of the same clan. Whether by fortune or misfortune, you represent some of the last alumni to graduate from Strawberry Field children’s home, and that bond is as indelible as blood itself. No one gets to choose their family, and we are no different.”

  Abi allowed herself a small yet content smile, and she was joined by Peter.

  “I may be getting ancient, but when I say this, I say it from the heart. I have been proud and lucky to be your mentor from the time I set eyes on all of you.”

  “Tyrant is more like it, Peter,” suggested a man with brown hair; he wore a silver suit and red tie, and sat directly to the host’s left.

  Peter craned his neck towards the man and he grinned mockingly. “Well, some were more of a pain in the arse than others, Trevor ‘I enjoy joyriding’ Roper.”

  “Never convicted,” Trevor replied, raising his finger straight up in the air and puffing out his chest proudly.

  The group now broke into laughter as Peter shook his head in mild despair and he waited for it to die down before continuing with his welcome speech.

  “Well, despite any ‘entanglements’ your formative years at Strawberry Field generated, I say again how proud you have all made me. And always remember, you may not share the same name…”

  The whole group now erupted in unison with the same dreary, monotone, “…but we share the same spirit.”

  Again the igloo was filled with laughter and Peter dropped back into his seat with the look of a father giving in to his children’s impudence.

  “Yes, yes, very funny. Let’s all take the piss out of the man who raised you.”

  Abi reached over and gently slapped the cloth-covered tabletop before him.

  “You know how we really feel about you.”