Free The Whitehall Syndicate: A time travel conspiracy thriller by Malhar Patel Page A

swept over the giant concrete structure. There were a few cars obscuring her view but it appeared empty. She was just paranoid. Nobody knew she was here. She wasn't going to get caught.
    Walking again, she heard nothing further except her own feet. It must have been her imagination. Even so, she found her frayed nerves had her pacing more rapidly. Reaching Dr Lewis' car she plunged into her pocket and fished out the keys she had swiped off his desk a few minutes ago. Her nerves were taut as piano wire now, and the cocktail of excitement and fear was making her giddy.
    She glimpsed around one more time and, convinced she was alone, yanked opened the door. Reaching into his car she pulled out a bundle of paper scraps from his glove compartment. Hopefully this was what she was after. With a step back, she placed the stack of paper on the roof and used it as a counter-top to sort through them. Most were unpaid parking tickets, newspaper articles or other irrelevant titbits. Then a red-paged document caught her eye, with the title: MICHAEL GREEN PROJECT.
    She reached over to grab it but her hand only got halfway. With a flash of black sinking across both eyes, a piece of fishing line whipped round her throat without obstruction, pressing down violently on her soft skin. A jagged, burning pain took hold of her throat and she felt herself gagging. Floundering her hands around, she trying desperately to tear off the wire or hit whoever was behind her.
    Her body was aching now, being leached of oxygen. Her head was light and she felt like giving up. Flailing like a fish on a hook she began to taste blood in her mouth. It felt oddly sweet on her aching, smouldering throat, the friction becoming scorching. As small streams of brilliant red drooled from her mouth, her muscles relinquished all energy and her eyes glazed over. Her limp body, released of its hold, sagged lifelessly to the ground.
     
    Michael Green senior sat on the couch, the trio of cohorts staring at him confusedly. Now that his long trench coat was off, they could clearly see a metallic object intimately attached to his skin. The macabre item was flat and rectangular, running down from his neck to somewhere inside his shirt, and it seemed to be riveted to his flesh.
    “I realise this must be a shock for you,” he began grandly, “But I assure you I am Michael Green.”
    “How can we be certain?” pressed Jack.
    “Do what you like. DNA, Retinal, fingerprints. I have nothing to hide.” His clandestine look of caution jarred against his words. Jack left the girls for a second and retreated to the corner of the room. Getting out his mobile, an antique by contemporary standards, he sent a message to his brother. Ever since the incident at his work, he had told Bob to stay away from him, for his own safety. As expected, Bob had vehemently objected and Jack was hoping that meant he would reply to the message.
    According to Anisha, there was a certain list of high-risk people across the country whose personal security was considered paramount. It included all MPs and a large handful of other miscellaneous government officials. This special list didn't require access clearance so if Bob agreed to help, he could send Anisha a copy of Michael Green's fingerprints. Jack waited for an incredibly long minute, and finally his phone beeped with a reply. Concise and not revealing too much, just as he had requested, it simply said 'I'm sending it now'.
    Jack told Anisha to ready her phone for a transfer and within a few minutes she had the file. The senior Michael, who had been waiting with impressive patience, stuck out his hands, eager to get the task out of the way. One by one, Anisha printed each of his fingers. Finally when it was complete she pushed a few buttons and exhaled with a smile, announcing, “It's a match.” An expression of relief crossed Green senior's face and, finding a room full of eager faces, he realised he now  had the floor.
    “Excellent. That proves