Assault on England

Prologue

It was one of those days for Henry Wellsey, Britain's 55-year-old Chancellor of the Exchequer. It started at breakfast when his wife brought up the subject of a holiday again.

"You must have a proper holiday, you haven't had one in over a year. Weekends at Bayberry Hall simply don't count…"

Bayberry Hall, his mother's estate in Yorkshire, didn't count for much with Milicent anyway, he knew.

"You want someplace warm and relaxing. Spain, perhaps, or Italy. Or Yugoslavia… they say the Dalmatian Coast is marvelous."

"They'd probably say I was defecting," Wellsey said dryly, sipping his cocoa.

"Don't be absurd," his wife snapped. "Now don't try and put me off, Henry. You must see about a holiday. I warn you, if you don't, I'll speak to the Prime Minister myself!"

She would too, Wellsey thought glumly, sitting in the back of his Rolls 30 minutes later, and the P.M. was not in a holiday mood. It wasn't going to improve either. There was a special cabinet meeting that morning at the Prime Minister's residence and Wellsey was going to be late. A gray Jaguar and a lorry, arguing — fatally — over the right of way, had the London-bound traffic all tied up. It was liable to be another hour before the police cleared the accident scene.

Wellsey didn't miss all of the cabinet meeting; it dragged on through lunch. The Chancellor left Number 10 Downing Street feeling frustrated, as he so often did lately. International issues always seemed to take precedence over domestic ones. On impulse, he stopped at Cook's for some travel brochures. Maybe Milicent was right; maybe it was time for a holiday.

Back at his office, he'd just settled down at his desk when his secretary came in with the mail.

"Could you bring me some tea, Miss Tanner? I know it's a bit early but…"

"Certainly, sir." Miss Tanner, not too young, not too pretty but efficient, smiled.

Wellsey picked up the top letter and a letter opener — he liked to open his mail himself — but he put them down again and took out the brochures he'd collected at Cook's instead. He leaned back in his chair, studying them. Spain… the Costa Brava… Very nice, he understood, and not crowded at this rime of year, the man at Cook's had said. Italy… Rome… Venice… sinking into the sea supposedly. He shook his head. "Tour the Greek Islands." Now, that was a thought. He'd been to Athens but never to the islands. Mykonos… Lelos… Rhodes… Lovely…

The last thing Henry Wellsey saw in this world was the smiling face of a pretty young Greek girl holding an armful of red, red roses. The high-powered 7mm rifle bullet that entered the back of his head at the base of the skull made a fairly neat entry hole, considering it had to pass through the closed window first, but it smashed on through bone and tissue and when it exited, Wellsey's face disintegrated.

He slumped forward, his blood blending with the red of the roses of Rhodes.

Miss Tanner came in with the tea and found him and could not stop screaming…