Chapters (45)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- Prologue
- 2046
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- About the Author
Harry looks round his room too. Noticing the shutter and the door first. He checks his own body for injuries, twitching limbs and tensing muscles to see if anything is broken. He listens too. He must be in a German camp. The Boche must have dragged him from the water and brought him to wherever this is. They’ll know he is a commando from what happened in the fjord. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand that comes away with a smear of blood. His head is pounding. It feels like when he was training to dive and he came to surface too fast from deep water. He must have sunk down deeper than he realised in the fjord.
Safa stares round at her cell. It must be a cell. There is no doubt in her mind that it is a cell. Bare concrete walls, floor and ceiling. A single metal-framed bed and a single solid, metal-riveted door. No tables. No obvious cameras. No alarm cords or tablet screens anywhere. They think she had a part in it. The Prime Minister must have ordered her to be detained under the terrorism laws. His threat was real. She grips the rising panic and forces it back down as another possibility presents itself. What if the attackers got her? What if she is being held by the terrorists ready to be killed and put on the Internet?
Ben feels like shit. His head is pounding and he has to forcibly peel his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth. His throat hurts too. He checks to see if he is injured and wiggles his hands, legs, arms and feet but everything feels okay. Then he remembers that people who lose limbs still feel the lost limb and thinks maybe he is limbless and feeling ghost limbs. He pushes the blanket off, a weird synthetic thing, and looks down at the grey tracksuit covering his seemingly intact body. Concrete walls? Grey tracksuit? Is he in prison? He looks again at the shutters on the wall and over to the solid metal door with a fresh worry pushing into his mind.
Harry fingers the material of his tracksuit, nodding to himself at the quality of the garment. It feels like cotton but it’s not cotton. It’s thin, soft and strong too. He does the same with the blanket, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers. He nods again in respect. The Boche do make good stuff.