Retribution

By Andrew Mooney

Former banker James Addington has armed thousands of explosive devices the length and breadth of the United Kingdom.

 

Only Addington can disarm the bombs, and he has only one demand. The entire Royal Family, and all those in line to the throne, must abdicate and relinquish all their lands and titles.

 

Only abdication will serve as retribution for the tragedy inflicted on Addington's family decades previously.

 

Fail to abdicate, and the bombs will start to explode.

 

Rachael Walker, newly promoted to head the CIA's London office, receives a tip that puts her on the trail of Addington. Only her team is close to finding the bomber; fail, and innocent victims will die. And the economy will grind to a complete halt if nobody is safe from destruction.

 

Separately, disgraced investigative journalist, Scott Anthon, is commissioned to write a 'fluff' piece on the former high-flyer of the London finance scene, James Addington. A 'fluff' piece that turns into a serious investigation. Perhaps, stopping the bomber will atone for his own awful crime. A crime he committed years ago for which he has never forgiven himself.

 

Retribution is a suspense thriller that will appeal to readers of the 'Just one more chapter' style of book. You know you should put the book down and go to sleep but ….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Mooney
• Release date: May 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648802822

Book preview

PROLOGUE

BELGRAVE SQUARE, BELGRAVIA, LONDON, ENGLAND.

21 October, Just before midnight. 2020

James Addington stared, unseeing, hypnotised by the flames licking the pine logs in the open fireplace. Time seemed to have slowed, and he had lost focus. He looked at the antique grandfather clock ticking softly in the corner of the study and shook his head angrily. Now is not the time to get distracted, he chided himself. He still had several minutes before he needed to make the final decision. He had been planning this moment for close to two decades, and he knew, subconsciously, what his decision would be. He had always known what his decision would be.

He rose from his chair, stretched to his full height and automatically assumed the military pose that his grandfather, Lieutenant Colonel Nicholas Addington, had taught him all those years ago— shoulders back, stomach in. He was standing so perfectly to attention that a casual bystander might have believed that Addington was, in fact, in the military. He was tall, just over six feet two inches in height and obviously fit. Years of training showed in his toned muscles, and he carried no excess weight on his spare frame. His haircut was standard military short back and sides. Even his clothing looked military; a pair of tan slacks with a razor-sharp crease, white button-down shirt and highly polished brown shoes.

He walked to the burr walnut cocktail cabinet in the corner of the room and studied the black and white photo encased in an ornate silver frame displayed on the surface of the cabinet. From the two turbaned individuals holding large fans, it was clear that the setting was in the Indian subcontinent, and the image showed his grandfather dressed in army uniform and standing behind his wife. She was sitting in a wicker basket chair, holding a baby. Standing next to his grandfather was a young boy of around eight years of age, and James knew him to be his father, Christopher Addington. Seated at his grandmother’s feet were the couple’s younger twins, a boy and a girl, both around six years of age.

As was the custom at that time, everybody in the photograph had a stern demeanour. James knew that this was the last, only surviving photo of his grandparents and their children.

James Addington withdrew the key to the cocktail cabinet from his trouser pocket. Even though he lived alone and never allowed anybody, not even the cleaner, into his study, he always kept the cabinet locked.

He knew that it contained only two items: a bottle of 1947 Black & White Whisky that had been a birthday present to his grandfather from his grandmother, and a single crystal whisky glass. James now had roughly four minutes to make a decision. A decision to commence or abort an operation that he had spent more than ten years planning. And spent tens of millions of pounds to bring from conception to fruition.

* * *

11:59 p.m.

James Addington opened the bottle, and the peaty, smoky smell of the almost ninety-year-old spirit was intoxicating. He poured two fingers of whisky into the glass and raised it in a toast to the photo. For the first time that day, he spoke out loud, For Nicolas Addington, justice shall be served. He took a small sip of the whisky, For Evelyn Addington, justice shall be served. Again he took a small sip and repeated the mantra, For Christopher, Thomas, Margaret and Kathleen Addington, justice shall be served. As midnight chimed, he drained the glass, his decision made.

James Addington threw the crystal glass into the fireplace and watched as it disintegrated into a million shards, each one twinkling a reflection from the fire.

He crossed the study to the antique mahogany desk that had been in his family for generations. On top of the burnished surface sat a state of the art laptop.

He powered up the laptop and, once activated, called up a program that he had designed himself. Two decades in the making, his plan was meticulous in its every detail. Every step had been analysed from countless angles and every contingency considered. And his computer program was an example of that, as Addington had designed an intricate security protocol to guarantee that it could not be hacked. If he failed to enter the correct details at any level, the program would abort, and the computer’s solid-state hard drive would self-destruct. The drive would be physically destroyed along with the flash-chips and security controller. He had to provide a twenty-four-numeral passcode, followed by a digital scan of his fingerprints, a retinal scan, a facial recognition scan and, finally, a voice recognition test.

Once all these security protocols had been navigated successfully, the screen displayed a question: PROCEED? And the obvious options, YES and NO.

James glanced over at the photo on the cabinet for reassurance. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, as if he knew the ramifications of what he was about to trigger and wanted to squash any second thoughts before they had any chance to be born.

Opening his eyes, he pressed down on the ‘Y’ key, and the computer program took over. Within microseconds, the computer relayed instructions from a powerful modem to a virtual private network. And within a few more microseconds, roughly 350,000 improvised explosive devices scattered all around the United Kingdom were activated. Each one had been set with a specific detonation time on a particular day, and the settings had all been chosen randomly by a program that James Addington had designed himself. A program that only he could activate and deactivate.

MOTIVE

CHAPTER ONE

GENERAL HEADQUARTERS BRITISH INDIAN ARMY, DELHI

July 1947

Even though he was still a relatively young man, Lieutenant Colonel Nicholas Addington had been a professional soldier his entire adult life, and he came from a long line of professional soldiers. His ancestors had fought at Waterloo, in the Crimean conflict and the frontier wars in Afghanistan, against the Boers in South Africa, in the bloody waste now known as the Great War, and even in the unknown war against the Russian Communists in 1919. There was a good chance that an Addington had been front and centre in any war zone where the British Army had been deployed over the last two centuries, proudly serving King and Country and continuing the family tradition.

At thirty-two years of age, Nicholas was young to be holding the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. After finishing his education at a small but prestigious private school in Cambridge, he had entered the Royal Military College, Sandhurst. After a one-year course, he had graduated with the rank of second lieutenant and had immediately applied to join the British Indian Army. An army where all the ordinary soldiers were recruited from India, but the officers were all British. His career was fairly typical until the outbreak of the Second World War. It was then, in a series of military campaigns, that he had begun to shine and quickly rose through the ranks. In Malaya, he had fought the Japanese valiantly and against overwhelming odds. He was seriously wounded fighting the same enemy in Singapore and had been evacuated before that country fell. After a six-month recuperation period, he had transferred to the Burma campaign, again fighting against the Japanese.

He had distinguished himself time and time again in battle, and his superior officers regarded him highly and earmarked him for service in the high command, should he wish to stay in the army once the war had ended. Addington gratefully received all these honours, but of more importance to him by far were the love and affection shown to him by the men under his command. To a man, they adored him and would have followed him anywhere. He had a glittering future ahead of him, but he was glad when the war ended and the enemy had been defeated. At Sandhurst, a quote he had learned from Ulysses S. Grant had always stuck with him: ‘Although a soldier by profession, I have never felt any sort of fondness for war, and I have never advocated it, except as a means of peace.’

Rather than return to England at the end of the war, Addington had chosen to remain in India with his wife and three children. He knew that Great Britain had promised the sub-continent independence, and he wanted to play a part, however small, during this historic time. On his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, he had been transferred as Commanding Officer to the Sikh Regiment, stationed in the city of Baramulla in the province of Kashmir.

Soon after settling at Baramulla, he was surprised to receive a telegram ordering him immediately to Delhi. He had made his way straight to British Army Headquarters in the city, and upon arrival, a Regimental Sergeant Major had shown Addington the quarters assigned to him— a small room with a single bed, a small desk and a chair and not much else. After a quick wash, he followed the RSM to the meeting room, where he had been waiting, alone, for the last forty-five minutes. The room was sweltering, and the outside temperature topped one hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit with humidity in the high eighties. The ceiling fan turned slowly, almost as though it knew its desultory efforts were in vain, and it was just going through the motions.

The air in the room was oppressive, and soon sweat started to trickle down Addington’s back and from his scalp. Just when he thought he could not stand the discomfort anymore, the door crashed open and in walked General Matthew Pechey, leader of the Northern Command and Nicholas Addington’s direct superior while he was in Delhi. As was his custom, the general was wearing his serge battledress uniform, and he barked, Stay seated, Addington, no need for formality. The general took a seat and shouted for somebody to bring some tea and a more substantial fan. Blast this infernal weather. I have lived here for almost fifty years, and I still cannot get used to the heat. Mildred and I are looking forward to the end of this year when I retire and move back to our small farm in Kent. How are the wife and children? Settling into your new digs?

Addington knew that this was the general’s style and that they would make small talk until the tea arrived, The children have made the move well and are thriving at school. My wife, Evelyn, is struggling a bit with her pregnancy, her third, and the doctor has expressed some concern and ordered her to rest as much as possible.

Just then, there was a discrete knock on the door, and Pechey bellowed to enter. The tea-wallah entered and served them the local chai mixture, blended with cinnamon, cloves, and ginger that Pechey favoured. The general took an appreciative slurp of the aromatic tea and then got down to business, Addington, you have been following this partition movement, have you not? Addington nodded but said nothing more. General Pechey continued. Well, man, what do you think of the whole blessed nonsense? Speak frankly. Nicholas Addington took a few seconds to compose his answer. General, I know that Lord Mountbatten has held several meetings with the Indian National Congress, the Muslim League and the Sikh community over the past few months. These meetings were convened following Prime Minister Attlee’s announcement in early February that British India would be granted full self-government no later than the third of June next year.

General Pechey, who looked testy, quickly jumped in. Yes, that’s true, but things are moving much more quickly than planned. Lord Mountbatten recommended, and the Prime Minister has just agreed that independence will be brought forward to the fifteenth of August this year, and what we know as ‘British India’ will be split into two new countries, India and Pakistan.

Addington shook his head in amazement. Sir, allow me to speak frankly, but that’s an impossible deadline. Nobody is ready, and there are still major disagreements about partitioning certain areas, particularly the Punjab and Bengal provinces. Does anybody seriously think that this will be resolved in just five weeks? Nicholas Addington stood in frustration, knowing that he was almost helpless to change the decision being made from higher up, This could be a disaster. You will have millions of Hindu people on the Pakistan side who will want to get to the Indian side and millions of Muslim people on the Indian side who want to get to the Pakistan side. Millions will be leaving their homes, their livelihoods, and their businesses. It will be chaos, and there is a real threat of this sparking into a war. He ran his hand through his thick hair and continued, Sir, I am begging you. Implore Lord Mountbatten to delay until all the issues have been resolved.

Sit down, Addington. Stop fussing, old boy. Our Lords and Masters have thought of everything. They have sent a man out from London who is going to fix this.

In five weeks? Addington retorted. Respectfully, sir, they must be delusional. Who is the miracle worker?

Well, the Prime Minister and the Foreign Office think they have the right man for the job. Sir Cyril Radcliffe arrived yesterday, and he is meeting Lord Mountbatten today. Then he will travel to Lahore and Calcutta to meet with the two Boundary Commissions that will decide the new borders for Bengal and the Punjab, the General explained.

"Sir Cyril Radcliffe? ¹ I have never heard of him, sir, and I have been in this part of the world for over ten years. What experience does he have of British India? And what experience does he have in drawing boundaries between countries?"

Matthew Pechey looked down at his fingernails, and Addington could see that the General was uncomfortable. Well, Addington, the truth of the matter is this. This chap Radcliffe is a lawyer, and he has never travelled any further east than Paris. He has no experience of British India other than a rudimentary knowledge probably gleaned from the newspapers, and, to the best of my understanding, he has never drawn a boundary map in his life.

Nicholas Addington knew that governments and bureaucracies sometimes did very stupid things and sometimes made senseless decisions. But he had never heard of anything more asinine. A decision to split the provinces of Bengal and Punjab, a landmass covering 450,000 square kilometres— twice the size of Great Britain— and which was home to a population of 88 million people, would be made in five weeks by somebody who knew nothing about the area. Lunacy, absolute lunacy. He implored the general, Sir, you have to know this is madness! It must be stopped!

General Pechey looked at his subordinate, Nicholas, I love this area. You know that. I have lived here most of my life. I met my wife here. I got married here. My children were born here. But there is nothing to be done. Our instructions are clear, and we will hand over power to the Indian and Pakistan governments by the fifteenth of next month. Let the chips fall as they may. He gave a heavy sigh.

Nicholas Addington shook his head in despair.

The general smoothed the front of his uniform and quickly got back to business. Now that I have brought you up to speed, I need you to brief my staff and then return to Baramulla and to get your troops ready. There is no knowing how this could turn out.

Nicholas Addington stood and saluted his superior officer. General, I guarantee you that this is going to end very badly.

* * *

Baramulla, Kashmir Province, Two days later

Lieutenant Colonel Nicholas Addington was glad to be home in Baramulla, located on the banks of the river Jhelum, gateway to the mountainous Kashmir valley. The weather in this part of the sub-continent was far more pleasant than the oppressive humidity of Delhi, and the late afternoon sun had thrown the far away mountains into shadow.

As he drove down the dusty road towards his living quarters, he reflected on his weeklong trip to the city, his initial meeting with General Pechey and the blur of follow-up meetings with the general’s staff. He still could not believe that the British were just going to walk away, having drawn an arbitrary line in the sand, hoping that everything would work out well. Addington had warned that dividing the Bengal and Punjab provinces between India and Pakistan would throw the whole area into conflict. He also cautioned that Kashmir had yet to decide whether it wanted to be annexed to India or Pakistan.

Addington had briefed the meetings in detail about the princely state of Kashmir, a vassal state, under a regional ruler called a Maharaja, in a subsidiary alliance with the British Raj. The region had a fractious and violent history, going back centuries, with hostility from all sides; Hindu, Muslim, Sikh. How the current maharaja was a Hindu and wanted the province to be part of India, but the overwhelming majority of the population were Muslims who wanted to annex to Pakistan. To avoid any suspicion of favouritism, the Maharaja had signed an agreement with Pakistan that he hoped would allow continuity of trade, travel and communication between the two regions. At the same time, however, he dithered about deciding annexation. And Addington knew that this dithering made the uncertainty surrounding the whole independence situation much worse for the ordinary man and woman in the street. One slight mishap could spark conflict.

But he would have to dwell on these matters later. For now, after several days away from his family, he was looking forward to seeing them again. As he drove up the long tree-lined, gravel driveway to his house, he could see his oldest son, Christopher, starting to run towards the front door of their home as fast as his eight-year-old legs could carry him. He knew that the boy wanted to reach the front steps ahead of him, so Addington slowed the car to allow his son to win the race.

Christopher skidded to a halt just before the car came to a stop. Before his father could get out of the vehicle, he snapped to attention and gave his father a textbook perfect salute. He held it until his father acknowledged it with a salute of his own. Then, getting out of the car, Nicholas shook hands with his oldest son and, at the same time, mussing his unruly brown hair with his other hand. Hello, young man, are you well? Have you been looking after your mother and the twins like I asked you to? The young boy was still slightly breathless from his running. Yes, father. I was the man of the house while you were away. Mama is feeling poorly and is in her room. She says that the baby is trying to kick its way out of her womb. I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds painful. And Thomas and Margaret have been ever so good, hardly any fighting at all. Did you bring us something special from Delhi?

CHAPTER TWO

BARAMULLA, KASHMIR PROVINCE, TWO MONTHS LATER

Lieutenant Colonel Nicholas Addington was exhausted, frustrated and angry. Since his meeting with General Pechey in Delhi in early July, he had been run off his feet, often working twenty hours a day. There simply were not enough hours to achieve everything that needed to be accomplished, and the ever-growing pile of paperwork heaped frustration on top of his exhaustion. Addington’s warning to the general that any rushed move to achieve India’s and Pakistan’s independence from the United Kingdom would have catastrophic results had proved correct. And as he read the newspapers that had arrived from HQ, he could feel his anger mounting. All the chaos and misery was so preventable, and he was angry that he had not managed to convince anybody that they were rushing into a foolish decision.

Lord Mountbatten had administered the independence oath for the new country of Pakistan on the fourteenth of the previous month. And he had then travelled to India a day later to grant the rest of the country their independence from Britain. And, as Addington had foreseen, chaos and tragedy had prevailed ever since. Independence had seen the old British Indian Army split into two forces: 260,000 Hindu and Sikh soldiers were transferred to India’s new military, and 140,000 Muslim soldiers went to Pakistan. Comrades one day, enemies the next. Kashmir had yet to commit to either country and ostentatiously acted as though it was independent of India and Pakistan.

Addington had followed the historical events through the newspapers and radio broadcasts. He recalled the deep voice of the broadcaster who intoned, "Two days after Partition, which officially took place on 17th August, 1947, the Radcliffe Line came into effect, cutting through Bengal in the east and the Punjab in the west. This sparked the largest mass migration in human history. Millions of Muslims trekked to East and West Pakistan, leaving places and communities where they had lived for generations. Millions of Hindus and Sikhs headed in the opposite direction, leaving places and communities where they had lived for generations. The world has never seen anything like it. Fifteen million people uprooted, and communities that had lived peacefully, side by side, for hundreds of years, attacking each other in an appalling wave of sectarian violence. Never has two groups been so intent on inflicting complete genocide on each other."

Newspaper report after newspaper report chronicled the staggering brutality. The massacres that had become routine. Both sides were guilty. Rape and sexual abuse were commonplace, with 75,000 women violated and many savagely killed. Whole villages were set alight and British soldiers reported seeing women having their breasts torn off with bayonets, babies torn from their mothers’ wombs and spit-roasted over an open fire. The world was still coming to grips with the horrors that the Nazis had committed in the name of their ideology, and now, the same atrocities were being committed on the other side of the world. Ideology against ideology. Religion against religion. By the end of the migration, between one and two million people had died. And many more would suffer for decades to come. And the newspapers reported it all, dispassionately, in black and white.

Only Addington and a few others had foreseen the devastation that a rushed partition would bring. Not that he was congratulating himself on his foresight. The situation in Baramulla was still tense as the Maharaja had still not committed Kashmir to one side or another. The violence spreading throughout the region he ruled over made him even more reluctant to decide. No matter what he chose, people were going to die.

All Addington could do was ensure that his troops were at the ready. He had issued orders that the regiment was to drill every day, with particular emphasis on crowd control. He had also ordered that under no circumstances were his soldiers to fire first, even if provoked. They should only shoot if fired upon. He did not want his troops to be blamed should the region erupt into violence.

He finished signing the mountain of paperwork that accumulated every day and suppressed a yawn. Noticing that it was close to lunchtime, he called for his driver. He decided to surprise his wife and children by turning up to have lunch with them. He felt guilty that he had not spent much time with them recently, especially as his wife, Evelyn, was now eight months pregnant, the baby due any day.

* * *

Daddy! Daddy! You came! You came! Hooray for today! screamed six-year-old Margaret Addington as she spied her father arriving at the St. George’s Mission School and Hospital. She attended school with her brothers in one part of the building and where her mother was preparing to give birth in another wing that served as the local hospital.

The mission school had been founded in 1821 by nuns from the religious order, the Society of the Sacred Heart. Initially, the women had provided free education to poor children of the Kashmir region. Decades later, they then expanded by building a small hospital dedicated to the care of pregnant women. Their skill and dedication caused the infant mortality rate to plummet, and it wasn’t long before leaders from the nearby town begged them to start a School of Nursing. The nuns came from all over the world. Wandering the hospital corridors or visiting the classrooms, a visitor might hear accents from France, Belgium, Spain, Ireland, and Scotland, contrasting with the local Kashmiri nuns’ soft dialect.

Nicholas Addington was heading for the school, which his young daughter attended every weekday morning. He smiled when first he heard and then saw her. At first glance, her body seemed to be all legs, long gangly limbs, that always looked be ready to run somewhere. And her face seemed to be all smile, unashamed by the gap in her teeth where baby teeth had yet to be replaced. And a face framed by a riot of uncontrollable frizzy, curly hair.

Though he would never admit it, Margaret was the apple of his eye. Her sheer enthusiasm for everything she came across lifted his spirits and always brought out a soft spot in him. One day she would be imagining a world of princesses and dragons; the next, she would be with her twin brother, Thomas, in the pond, looking for tadpoles.

Margaret ran up the empty corridor to her father and wrapped her arms around his legs as though she hoped to hold him captive and never let him return to the realities of the outside world. Hello, poppet, why are you not in class like all the other children? Nicholas asked his daughter gently. Margaret looked up, eyes shining, and Nicholas knew that she was just about to launch into a long-winded and fanciful story, so, before she spoke, he quickly said, Can I have the short version, please? I need to see your mother before having a quick lunch with you terrors, and then I must head back to the barracks. Margaret giggled. I am the class prefect today, as she puffed out her chest proudly, and Sister Ludmilla asked me to go to the office and get her a new box of chalk as she had run out. Sister Ludmilla is my favourite teacher in the whole wide world.

A few minutes later, after a short walk across the perfectly trimmed grass in the school grounds, they entered the hospital building. Nicholas knew his way to the maternity ward, and they arrived there quickly. As children were not allowed to enter, he ruffled his daughter’s hair and said, Off you go, Margaret. Tell Christopher and Thomas that I will join you for lunch. He watched his daughter skip off back to the school building, already lost in her own world, before he opened the door to the private ward.

As he stepped into the dim room, he noticed that Evelyn was asleep. He sat down in the chair next to the bed and gently took hold of her hand. Though they had been married for over ten years, he still found her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But it was not just her beauty