Probably the worst pogrom and ethnic cleansing ever witnessed in the last two centuries, was that in Nazi Germany, under the fascist dictatorship of Adolf Hitler - and his evil cohorts. And until that unstable period in our own history, I would have thought it impossible to replicate. If anyone told me we were about to do the same, and use historical fact as a blueprint, I would have accused them of insanity.

Once George Shaw, The Angel of Death instructed me to concoct a fabricated policy with Professor Richard Bane, and then sell it via every media outlet in Britain, all hell broke loose throughout the United Kingdom. Shaw encouraged party members to exacerbate events, and allowed Bullit's notorious Black shirts to be unleashed in an orchestrated orgy of violence, murder and mayhem, against the ethnic community. The Thursday after our TV interviews, I woke to hear the news; not that I needed to hear it, as all senior party officials were informed before hand.

George Shaw intended to reproduce the 'night of broken glass', and replicate what the Nazis did in Germany, when they systematically destroyed every Jewish shop or home within their remit. And Britain produced exactly the same methodology. On Shaw's instructions, Bullit's black shirts took baseball bats, pick-axe handles and anything else heavy they could lay their hands on, and smashed every shop front, every house window, temple and Synagogue where ethnic minorities gathered, under the basis those innocent people carried a transmissible plague. The police remained idle, they did nothing.

When I tuned into breakfast news, Thursday morning, the image before me was appalling, and had my fingerprints all over it. I was the instigator of that bedlam, even though I was ordered to construct it on George Shaw's direct orders. Camera images panned slowly across towns. All along high streets seas of broken glass glistened in the early morning sunshine, and daubed across countless walls were red crosses, the words "Unclean" written in three foot high letters, and racial language to wicked to mention. (It was frightening.)

When George Shaw instructed me to pursue his orders, I didn't realise the consequences the action might cause and affect people in such a personal way. And I know that sounds stupid. But it's like the bomber pilot who can drop munitions because he doesn't see the target up close. I didn't think I'd have to witness the target up close, stain my conscience and sully my mind with the poisonous hated that seeped through the very life-blood of my fellow countrymen. I was shocked, lost for words as I seated myself on my sofa, and aimlessly sipped a cup of strong black coffee. Yet worse was to come.

When local groups of ethnic citizens started to congregate, mainly to protect their families, Bullit prepared a State segregation order that literally made all people of ethnic origin, non-citizens: they became outcasts in everything but name. And all motivated under the false belief they carried a deadly disease that was about to wipeout the indigenous population of our beloved land.

During that calamitous Thursday, events spiralled beyond anyone's control, not that anyone in the party hierarchy wished to control them: they wanted anarchy, a reason to move in Bullit's newly expanding army and introduce radical action for the good of everyone, or at least that's how the official press release read. Just like in Northern Ireland in the late sixties, and early seventies when British soldiers were ordered onto the streets to quash sectarianism, Bullit wanted the call to come from the ethnic community themselves, and create a smoke screen the world wasn't in a position to denounce.

The Angel of Death, had also provided his subordinates with guns to accelerate the hatred, and forbid local authorities removing any graffiti painted across walls and buildings. Gone were the good old days when local councils removed racially offensive graffiti within twenty four hours. The BIP changed council policy, ensuring pensioners and schools were priorities, and any councillor breaking the new policy faced treason charges and imprisonment.

The ethnic's were exclusively on their own. Abandoned.

I received a telephone call from Bullit's office later that morning, to inform me The Guardian acted up once again; Emily Rooker in particular. Apparently, Ms Rooker witnessed the revolutionary councils (kristallnacht), 'broken glass' policy first hand whilst out interviewing people, and her newspaper printed a large colour photograph of certain activists, activists well known for party membership. Bullit, instructed me to call her, and warn her one last time, otherwise detention. Rooker was furious, but she got the message. And no, I don't particularly feel proud of myself. But I had my orders!

Later that evening, the first reports of indiscriminate murder started to permeate party headquarters, as a second night of direct violence manifested in the most brutal proportions. (Next time blood not glass was on our streets.)

Within three days of operations beginning, the body count rose to over four hundred dead, five hundred wounded, and all shops, pubs, clubs, restaurants and service providers were ordered not to serve anyone of ethnic extraction. It broke my heart to walk along thoroughfares as I casually did, and see all the hurriedly prepared signs. Written on large plaques, were the words:

'No Blacks! No Asians! No Ethnics!'

The streets gradually filled with white people, who wore surgical masks over their faces, because of the warnings we issued about a potential Ebola plague outbreak, spread by members of the Afro-Caribbean community. One police station in the South saw a queue of people over two miles long, as people desperately tried to obtain masks, as panic disseminated among an ignorant, ill informed, ill advised, mislead public, and it frightened me to see what ignorance and bigotry could do when delivered from a sensationalistic view point.

We finally lit the blue touch paper on a race hate war, and that was its wicked consequence. People fell from the pavement. They rather risked being run over than pass the occasional black person who still punctuated the white faces on our city streets: Mothers quickly gathered children in arms whenever a black person neared or approached, and if white men appeared in more than ones or twos, black people were set upon, sometimes with ruthless and animalistic repercussions; as hatred generated hatred.

One blackman in Swindon, was literally torn limb from limb in the street as an angry, out of control mob took a vigilante attitude towards him. They congregated, and then sought reprisal for a disease they believed existed, but in essence, never did. They dragged him from his car, punched and kicked him with a thousand blows, and then attached him to the bumper of a vehicle by a length of rope, dragged him behind for over three miles, until all that remained was a chunk of blood drenched torso that was once a human being.

And still I had to justify all of that in the media, the radio, the television. I told the world, society was scared for their own safety, and that of their families; and as my excuses excused the primordial acts committed, people read what they wanted to read, heard what they wanted to hear, and they saw what they wanted to see. It was an indictment of human savagery, delivered by me to an unassuming public. But one which allowed us to progress to the next action Bullit and Shaw wanted undertaken: the collection and evacuation of the masses of ethnic immigrants which filled the UK over the last sixty years. There was to be no exception to that policy; everyone was to be liquidated.

Our final solution!

After seven days of direct, insidious violence against the black population, which I might add started to spread around the globe, policy was decided on. The immediate removal of all undesirables from our shores.

I had to personally inspect George Shaw's new concentration camp on the Isle of Man and compose a series of articles for the newspapers; and issue them with photographic evidence of how acceptable the conditions were for the new arrivals at Camp 51 on the Isle of Man. Or at least that's what George Shaw told me. I ordered a Merlin EH101 Army helicopter to take me from Horseguards parade in London, out to the North end of the Island, where Camp 51 had been constructed with some ruthless efficiency.

I waited alone on Horseguards, at the back of Downing Street, dressed in my uniform, my long leather trench coat, peaked cap, briefcase in hand, and savoured my thoughts. It was one of them personal moments when reality has a habit of provoking those deep, dark, distant recesses of the mind, and makes you question your true worth to the human race. I felt worthless as I stood there, as I waited, while the rest of the country went about its business, obliviously unconcerned. I had been ordered to formulate a contemptible strategy and make the unacceptable, acceptable. Which I did.

A small black dot appeared amongst the broken, grey rain clouds, on the distant horizon, and I prepared myself as the image grew and the hum of propellers increased. Within seconds, a large green camouflage helicopter landed, the side door fell away, and a crewman dressed in green one piece fiight-suit, and matching helmet ushered me forwards with a flapping, glove covered hand. I placed one hand on my cap to stop the rotors blowing it off, arched my body and trotted to the waiting transport. The door was pulled up behind me, and I seated myself in the cramped, Spartan, gloomy conditions. The helicopter lifted effortlessly, with a roar, into the London sky, banked and commenced its laborious journey north. And If I thought my moment of solace on the parade ground gave me time to think, then the hour and thirty minute trip to the Isle of Man concentrated my mind still further.

What was I doing for Christsakes?, and more to the point, how the hell did I ever get involved with this butchery.

The flight was uneventful. I spent most of the excursion peering longingly from a tiny window, deep in thought, and only punctuated that with the occasional glimpse of the crew members eyes, which tacitly looked upon my uniform as some evil incarnate he despised. I didn't blame him, each time I viewed myself in the mirror, I didn't particularly like what I saw either.

Our dress by that period in the revolution's history could strike terror into even the strongest men's hearts, as our black uniforms carried absolute authority, an authority that wasn't allowed to be questioned or overruled, and any attempt to do so could carry swift and instant justice for the individual. I, like every other high ranking party official had the power of life and death, and if I so chose, I could have extinguished life with my pistol. Not that I ever did.

We landed on the North of the Island, where I was met by George Shaw's prodigy Bill Malley.

Malley was a heartless, wicked man the Devil himself would reject, given the opportunity. He was nearly six foot, muscularly built and carried a scare the length of his face, from the hairline to the base of his chin, that distorted his features on the way down to the point of pernicious ugliness.

His vile disregard of blacks came from the day he, and George Shaw tried to make a drugs arrest. Malley, was Shaw's Sergeant, when they were both detectives, and during a raid on a seedy drugs den in Brixton, Malley was struck in the face with a single swipe, from a razor sharp machete, that opened his flesh to the bone. Afterwards, he started to drink. He watched his wife leave him for another man, lost his job, and then his home.

Malley spent nearly two years in the gutter, before George Shaw stumbled across him, cleaned him up and put him on the British Independence Party payroll. George Shaw always insisted he could find work, without exception for good men, and insisted Malley was the best of the lot. Because Malley obeyed his orders without question - and without hesitation.

Bill Malley seemed to hide the right side of his face as he greeted me warmly with a solid hand shake, and I wasn't certain whether the draft from the helicopter blade caused that, or whether he was just so subconscious about his disfiguration, that he couldn't bear people to look him in the eye. I must admit, the fusion of flesh made the deformity more pronounced than it otherwise might have been, and the way his eyelid had reset at two different levels, and his cheek, remained embedded, offered the impression he was crippled rather than scarred. If he just accepted the cicatrix, it probably wouldn't have been so obvious. It was Malley's own indignation of the blemish that stunted his ability, and I guess, destroyed his confidence to.

Before me, as far as the eye could see, barrack huts had been constructed, and then surrounded by perimeter barbwire fence, with watch towers, a mine field, and an outer fence to ensure anyone who passed through the gates, only passed back out with permission.

We approached the camp, which was guarded by soldiers from Shaw's new Secretariat division. A thirty thousand strong unit compiled from Scotland Yard's hate crimes list. That invaluable document, with over thirty thousand names on it not only allowed Shaw to instantly compile a dossier of the most nefarious people in society, but it also allowed him to use a troop with an axe to grind. And everyone of those individuals dressed in black and grey fatigues, with jet black berets, and silver skull and crossbones emblem had personal business to finish at Camp 51.

A railway line was positioned near the ferry terminals, where ships eventually docked each day, from the Liverpool embarkation points: it ran all the way up to the camp, through the main security gates, and then slipped off to the sidings where undesirables were segregated from the main body of the compound and its other inmates. The disembarkation point was where the necessary paperwork was carried out, where personal effects were removed, and where the first stage of the liquidation began.

Malley ordered the main gates to be opened by two sentries dressed in combat uniform, who held large snarling German shepherd dogs, that strained at their leashes, and warily I sidelled past. I angled my body from the snapping jaws and passed through. On the inside, Royal engineers had placed the finishing touches to the barrack huts only days earlier. And dozens of men milled around with rifles and machine guns slung over their shoulders, as I walked between two main barrack blocks in horrified disbelief at what I saw. Even to this day, I still have trouble coming to terms with my memories. They're not the type of memories I'd wish on anyone.

"Three thousand in each, Sir," promised Malley, as he viewed the huts.

"It's a nightmare!" I mumbled, horrified and quietly to myself.

My boots echoed hollowly up the slatted wooden steps, as I slowly climbed, and then entered the first hut, marked P1. My mind concentrated as the door swung, with a creak, in on itself, and revealed the claustrophobic conditions inside, where timber framed, wooden bunks, four high, were racked side by side to accommodate as many human beings as possible. There was no washing facilities, no sanitation; just a huge steel can, cut in a hole in the centre of the chipboard floor, that acted as a latrine for over three thousand detainees each day. Malley promised me, with a hate filled smile, that he wouldn't let "the vermin" empty that too often either.

My footsteps continued to echo along the wooden floorboards as I ventured deeper inside the hut, free from Malley's commentary. He waited patiently for me by the door, and complained about the lack of oxygen and the dust riddled environment. And there wasn't even people placed in there at that time.

Shafts of sunlight, that intermittently broke through the morbid clouds outside, penetrated small ceiling skylights, giving the hut a kind of reverence. And as Malley's large bulky frame, haloed in the doorway it offered the impression that it was a throwback to a dark and distant period in human history, a period in history humanity believed had vanished forever. But it hadn't. We managed to resurrect the past in a tangible, satanic sense, and as I stood immersed in a shaft of light, I felt some malevolent, sardonic force mock me. Involuntarily, my body chilled, as if someone crossed my gave, and unexpectedly, I shivered. I had to vacate myself of that depressing situation, and taste the freshness of outside air.

Bill Malley found it disturbing as I pushed past, as I started to cough violently on the steps, as though I was about to be sick.

"Something wrong, Colonel?"

His prophetic statement provoked a truth hidden inside me, as I lifted, and tilted my head, and viewed him. I thought him absolutely right, there was something wrong, but like him, I saw no way out. You didn't just tend your resignation as a Minister with the British Independence Party, because if you did, and they investigated you, they would quickly find some jumped up charge, arrest you for treason, and then make an example of you.

Once the trains arrived from the docks, undesirables were processed with their personal details, they were segregated by age, gender and health conditions. The old, didn't even make it to the holding barracks. They went directly to a separate area of large white huts, beyond the far perimeter wire, and were immediately exterminated.

Malley led the way, between the rows of huts, to a place approximately half a mile away, where we passed through a secondary gate system of wooden planks and barbwire fencing. There was no need for extravagance when Camp 51 was constructed, because, even if inmates did escape there was no where for them to go. The Isle of Man is situated in the middle of the Irish sea, surrounded by some of the most hostile waters around the United Kingdom, and any attempt to break-out was a futile one.

I remember how Malley, and myself spoke, as we walked gemini towards the death huts, as I tried to gage the intent of his incredibly selfish nature, who like Shaw, he had an obsession with the eradication of an entire species of ethnic people. But I had to be exceptionally careful with him, for I knew, every word I spoke would find its way back to his master, George Shaw, and the dreaded Secretariat in London. And all Shaw needed was an excuse to arrest me.

"How will they die?" I asked, curious. It was a genuine question.

"Cyklon B." He answered unemotional, and briefly viewed me.

"Like the Jews!"

"We're not doin' the Jews here, worse luck."

"I meant like the German's did the Jews, not us?"

"Right!" Said Malley, and mused my reply as a second gate opened. We passed through, and the gate swung shut behind us. The guards locked it automatically with a heavy steel chain and thick, chunky padlock.

"Just to get people used to things," explained Malley when he observed my confused look. We were locked in an area about 4 acres square. There was thirty or so huts, each painted brilliant white, with a huge red cross on the roof.

"For US satellites," he added, as my eyes scrutinised the design.

"Any confusion, as to whether these are isolation huts can be argued. We can't see them wanting to send too many people into investigate, especially when we infect any initial personnel investigating with Ebola. You must be very proud, Colonel!" He continued, in a terse, complimentary way, without invitation to do so, and his complement threw me, to the point where I questioned it.

"How d'you mean, proud?"

"To have dreamt all of this up. The Home Secretary told me how you invented the theory of spreading a scare story about a contagious disease, and then got that academic idiot at Oxford to back it up. Most of the guys here think you're an absolute genius. Would you do a few autographs for some of the lads after your inspection, Sir. It'd mean a lot."

Malley was an evil little man, who stood there glaring into my eyes with some sort of schoolboy admiration, and then it suddenly dawned on me, George Shaw had set me up. He placed my name on the brutal exercise for public consumption, but claimed credit for it back in London. And one day, I eventually hoped to make him pay a heavy price for his duplicitous action. I wasn't even in a position to deny it, because if I did, Shaw would report me to Bullit as a trouble maker, and inform him I didn't support the revolution's big idea. So I lied, and preyed to God Malley would keep his mouth shut.

I wanted to remind Malley what happened to the Nazis in the end, how they failed, how most were hung, but to do so might have unleashed a capital sentence against myself as he may have been out to trap me. Bullit's paranoia appeared catching. It wasn't worth taking the risk, so I played along, and in doing so linked my name directly to the entire operation: something I swore I would never do. But when circumstances accelerate beyond your natural control you're not always permitted the luxury of many options, and back then, I had only the one: accept the kudos bestowed and act dumb.

I viewed out across the distant horizon, and saw at least half a dozen steel framed static T-cranes. They worked relentlessly by the bay, and to distance myself from Malley's earlier invitation, I enquired as to their labour.

"They're building the crematoriums, Sir." He confessed. "When we get fully operational in the next few months, and start to gas the new arrivals, we'll need to dispose of their remains. We intend to use a long feeder pipe and wash any evidence out to sea." Concluded Malley, cold and lifeless.

That was Bullit's idea. Shaw, wanted the bodies ground-up into pet food, an idea he floated at a previous meeting, but Bullit decided on marine dispersal to ensure all evidence was removed, and ensure it couldn't be forensically traced.

"You know what happens when the inmates are gone?" I asked, laconic.

"We bulldoze the camp; pretend it never existed. The Secretariat have estimated the entire programme will be complete in seven to eight years; by the ninth, no one will care what we did with the blacks, the Jews and the undesirables. Then, Colonel, we'll have a society of racial purity, a country that once again can establish itself as a world leader, not that sickly nation of followers previous administrations gave us. We'll reclaim our national pride; and indigenous identity. But I don't need to tell you that."

Once processed, those people, approximately 7 million in all according to the national statistics office, began their journey through the Secretariat's cleansing system. And after the rigmarole of identity, personal possessions and any outside assets was complete, and the segregation of age, gender and health was finalised, inmates moved through two separate stages. The old and sick were immediately extracted, and then taken to the barrack huts I visited, before they were formally terminated via the quickest route. From the huts, a long narrow path had been built, the path to heaven, which was the size of any normal street pavement, and meandered to the top of a tree-Iined hill.

Over the brow, and situated out of sight was the gas chambers themselves.

"I'll show you them," promised Malley, and he enthusiastically led the way. Together we strolled the three hundred yards or so, reached the apex and there below, as I stood judgemental, as the wind flapped my coat and chilled my body, I saw what first appeared unassuming brick buildings. There was six of them, and they stood in twos, their characteristics strikingly similar to any ordinary building, except there was no windows, and their roofs were flat rather than pointed.

Basically, I suppose they were just huge, brick, concrete chambers with no other purpose than to act as death cells.

"We can exterminate two hundred people in each block, each time," calculated Malley, as he informed me of their ruthless efficiency.

"So, that means we can probably terminate somewhere in the region of 1200 per hour, or a quota of 15,000 per day, 365 days a year, which makes a grand total of 438,000 a year; but we'll double that prediction in year two; maybe treble it in year three."

"It all sounds very plausible," I agreed, as I stared horrified at what stood blatantly obvious before me; a scene not witnessed on earth for the last sixty years, if we exclude the camps created by the Soviets and Chinese of course, and I had trouble coming to terms with it all, and I asked: "How the hell am I supposed to take pictures of all this, and get the newspapers to print them. How can I even begin to show acceptable living conditions?" I said.

"Why d'you want to do that?' Asked Malley, confused.

"Because it's my damned job," I barked, harshly at him.

"The Home Secretary informed me you were here to examine the camp, then sign the final decree, ordering the immediate process of all undesirables. He never mentioned anything to me about pictures, just the final certificate of completion. I've got it for you to sign back at the administration block. We can go back there now if you want, Sir...' offered Malley, helpful.

I found it incredibly hard to believe, the way George Shaw had set me up, and that is exactly what he had done, he had set me up to initiate a policy doctrine of genocide, and I couldn't, for the life of me see any way out. I asked Malley to give me a few moments so I could telephone George Shaw, and speak with him in confidence about the whole problematic scheme. But George Shaw wasn't available, he wasn't in his office, wasn't at home and made damned well sure he didn't answer his mobile either. The bastard !

"You want to look inside these?" Shouted Malley, as he stood by the entrance to the first building, that stood with its vacuum sealed door, open.

I thought if George Shaw could be a discerning bastard, then two could play that game. But I needed to deliver a response by stealth. You couldn't just shun your responsibility, and expect no further action to be taken against you. Shaw knew that, that's why I walked amongst that prophesy of death, rather than him. He understood what would happen if I phoned Bullit; he knew Bullit would scream down the phone at me to sign the papers, and have done with it. And I thought back then, If Shaw wanted to play dirty tricks, then I'd meet him on his own terms. I walked confidently across an open section of ground to where Malley waited, making my approach theatrical, as I played along.

"Show me then," I barked determined, and forced my way past him.

The death chambers were approximately three hundred feet long, maybe a hundred foot wide, constructed on the inside of white tiles, and almost nothing else, except three lights which hung from the ceiling, and a dozen or so shower jets that protruded the walls all around, to allow gas to permeate, and asphyxiate the condemned. My feet echoed hollow on the tiled floor, and I enquired as to why there were gullies cut ambient around the perimeter base.

"Drainage points for excrement and urine," replied Malley, simply. "Once gas enters through the shower points, and commences its invasion of the body, the condemned's bladder and bowels tend to weaken, and nature takes its course. Also, we expect, if our files our right from the Nazi death camps at Auschwitz and Treblinka, those being nullified to scramble for the door, and create mass damage to each other, produce copious amounts of blood and vomit. And so we need cleaning facilities afterwards to wash away the stench."

It was a sobering thought, to believe one section of society could casually gas another section of society, and mankind could manifest such endemic hatred towards each other in his pursuit of tribalism, and I considered the human race really to be vacuous after all. As I viewed them evil buildings, I wondered how we could let such acts happen. I assumed then we were about to embark on a road of no return, because I knew once the first undesirable passed through those far, distant gates, the rest of the planet would eventually seek its own revenge.

And I wasn't the only one to deliberate such beliefs. Bullit, raised the subject at a meeting we had in his office in late March, 2007, when he promised, if things went wrong, we'd all face a length of hangman's rope. The prospect amused him, and he insisted it should make our own determination more adamant, for if we failed we died also. He was right, there would be no forgiveness, nowhere to run, and so we might as well complete our mission with absolute efficiency, hide the evidence or pay the price.

As I ambled my way around the gas chamber, my eyes searched its blank white walls and ceiling. Malley joined me, pledging the process of death would be painless, as those being gased would feel little or nothing. He even suggested I shouldn't punish my conscience with unnecessary thoughts.

"You know, Malley, in the gas chambers at Auschwitz, the victim's fingernails engraved themselves on the tiles where they desperately fought to escape."

"I didn't know, Sir. Is there any significance to your comment?" He asked.

"No, Malley, no. I just thought I might stir a flicker of humanity in you, that's all, and see if there's even the faintest glimmer of compassion left in you."

"Oh, right, Sir, you were testing me. But you needn't worry, Sir, I'll carry out your instructions without question to the best of my ability. I don't feel anything for the subspecies or undesirables that have poisoned our society. As far as I'm concerned, the sooner we get started, the sooner we get finished. Will the politically correct lobby be joining them, Sir?"

Malley, didn't want to stop at the blacks, Asians and other ethnic peoples who came to our land; he wanted to punish and extinguish those that brought them here as well. He even managed a small smile as he considered the idea.

"It would be too difficult to locate them, Malley," I replied.

"If it would be helpful, Sir, I've got a friend, a former DS from the Met`, who over the years compiled an unofficial list of journalists, TV presenters, Councillors and sympathisers who orchestrated the poisoning of our beloved country. I can have a copy made available if you want, Sir?"

"I don't think so, Malley."

"Pass a copy on to the Secretariat then, Sir?"

I turned to look at him, and through the gloomy artificial light, I saw an acolyte so intent to please others, that he was prepared to help murder hundreds of people who believed immigration was beneficial to us. It's true to say those who endorsed the policy were wrong. But did they really deserve to die? I know to say they were wrong might send consternation through anyone who reads these diary pages, but think about it logically, without emotion for a brief moment. As the Field Marshal once said: 'How can you replicate a global situation of different races, creeds and colours, yet not expect it to replicate history's hatreds. Once you've created a scenario based on contributory factors it will copy the original blueprint.'

The situation those motley proponents built was no more than a miniature microcosm of all global problems located on a tiny island, with a resentful population. Before their grand scheme the United Kingdom was a happy contented breed of people who sought little from life, other than to be left alone, expand their knowledge to far and distant lands, install democracies where there were none, and to civilise cultures where civilisation was wanton. And we had gone full circle: those we sought to mould in our image had shaped us in their profanity.

"You think the world will care, Sir?" Asked Malley, conversational.

I really wanted to tell him yes, of course the world would care, but in reality I thought the world wouldn't even concern itself with such matters, unless the media provoked a few politicians on television or undermined their ratings with the electorate. They never cared for genocide in the past, in Rwanda or Pol-Pots Cambodia, or in Russia or China; so why here? The only reason they cared about the Jewish Holocaust was because they had little or no choice; and given the opportunity, as the Americans and Russians did with Nazi rocket scientists they'd put their fortuitous nature ahead of anything else.

"No, Malley, they won't care, there's neither enough votes or profit in the black community to worry themselves with such trivia as genocide. Given a choice as to whether they should punish the fourth richest nation on earth, with its military might and ballistic nuclear missile fleet, they'll choose compromise. The Field Marshal's intimidation has already shown that," I said, assertive.

"You're probably right, Sir," he agreed.

"I took one final look around that awful place before moving out into the sunshine, that decided to break through the grey clouds in some reverend way, as though the heavens themselves wished to sit in judgement of our action, and as I stood on the steps, looking out towards the bay, panoramic, I savoured the moment of mankind's beastliness. The crematoriums rose from the water's edge like big boxed towers, and from their forward position huge chimney stacks stood phallic, idly waiting to dispense the burnt cinders of the human remains the State no longer needed or required.

"You care to sign the order now, Sir?" Asked Malley, openly.

"No, Malley, I wouldn't!" I snapped, authoritative, much to his frustration.

I informed him the base wasn't up to the high standards the revolutionary council expected; and if he wanted a warrant things needed to improve dramatically before I put my name on any document. What I really wished back then, was an excuse, an excuse to distance myself as far from that wicked project as possible; and so I began to find fault with Camp 51. "Have you tested the crematoriums?" I demanded to know.

"Not yet, Sir," came Malley's instinctive reply.

"Then I'll have 500 head of cattle sent over to you and you can experiment with them; only then can we begin to make the camp operational. George Shaw should have dealt with the basics," I criticised, just to make him look incompetent in Malley's eyes. "The Home secretary never instructed you to proceed with experimental projects first?"

"Never, Sir."

"Typical!" I tutted. "It undermines your professionalism, Malley, when you have incompetence to that extent. You can bet your life when the Field Marshal demands reasons why his project hasn't come forwards to fruition, George Shaw will drop you and your staff in the shit from a great height. How many supplies do you have?"

"Only what we've been sent, Sir!"

"Logistically Malley, the whole endeavour is a nightmare. And if you don't improve, the entire structure will collapse; and you'll get the blame. Here's what I'm going to do to get you out of the shit. When I get back to London, I'm going to recommend your promotion to Colonel, and offer you more authority in implementing the necessary needs of the camp, on a priority factor 1 basis. That means, Malley, you'll be totally responsible for day to day operations; no one else will interfere with your decisions. Come on," I said, as we walked back the way we came, towards the main gates and my waiting helicopter.

"So no operational certificate?"

"Not until we are 100% efficient. There's no point in only doing half a job, Malley," I asserted. "If you make the camp operational, then within a month it will collapse. If those crematoriums don't function properly; what then? But don't blame yourself, I'll have a word with Field Marshal Bullit when I get back; I'll point out to him how the Home Secretary neglected his duty."

"He's done everything in his power, Sir..."

"It's noble to defend him, Malley, but not at the expense of yourself. I placed my arm over his shoulder so I could turn him, and then whispered in his ear: "The Field Marshal has people shot for less than this, you really want me to go back to the Palace, and inform him that you and your staff are incapable of running a project on this scale; what do you think will happen? You know how volatile his temper is; he'll hit the roof. He'll start to look for someone to blame, and when he accuses Shaw, Shaw will apportion blame to you! You know how the arse kicking structure works, Malley. Bullit, kicks George Shaw's arse, and he in turn kicks yours. And someone will get shot: probably you!"

"I never saw it like that, Sir."

"It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself. George Shaw, has messed-up big time on this one, because he's always got other schemes on the go."

"Building his nest egg!" smiled Malley, as though envious.

"You know about that?" I enquired, surprised, and hoped he'd elaborate.

"The Home Secretary often sends me to Jersey with a large, locked suitcase, which I guess is filled with money; most of it is hush-hush."

I took my arm from around Malley's shoulder, and concentrated on what he revealed, while George Shaw's deceitful trickery motivated my actions more than anything else. If Shaw thought I would let him just walk allover me, then he was badly mistaken. Malley's information would prove useful. "What money? Where does it come from?" I asked, curious.

"You name it: backhanders from the large corporate businesses undertaking contracts on the revolution's behalf, friends taking over State industries and a percentage of lottery cash, supposedly directed towards good causes."

"And you're quite certain about that?"

"Absolutely. The Home Secretary has managed, with a little distortion to turn the lottery into his own personal theifdom."

"He just takes cash?"

"He transfers it, as I say, to an off-shore bank account, as though it's a consultancy fee from overseas business paid to him for services in city institutions. He uses a far-eastern syndicate to launder the money, and gives them a percentage. It's all rather iffy!"

"It sounds it," I muttered, as I thought some more.

Inadvertently, I believed Malley might have supplied me with enough information to convince Bullit that George Shaw betrayed the revolution. To fire Bullit's paranoid imagination you didn't need hard evidence, just a lot of circumstantial factors, and an opportunity at the appropriate moment to set the seeds of suspicion germinating in his over active mind. But I needed to convince him subtly, and not alert George Shaw of my devious idea's potential.

"You keep this information to yourself, Malley. If the Home Secretary hears you've been spreading malicious rumours about him..."

"But I wouldn't spread rumours about him, Sir. He's a friend."

"These are trickery times, Malley, you don't have any friends, just lots of enemies. If I repeated what you just told me, do you think The Home Secretary would consider you a friend, or a gossip? Think about it, Malley."

We continued to talk as we slowly carved a path back to the landing site where my helicopter waited. And once there, I offered my hand in friendship to Malley, and reminded him to keep quiet about what we spoke of, and still promised him that much sought after promotion. I could arrange a promotion without any problems as cronyism in the British Independence Party bacame fairly endemic, nearly as endemic as it was in the Labour party before us. Promotions were the usual way to obtain what you wanted, and senior party officials offered them around like sweets. It wasn't unheard of for lowly bureaucrats to accelerate up through the Whitehall structure in the space of a few months, providing they made the right contacts, greased enough palms, played the game how it was supposed to be played - and continuously turned a blind eye to the indiscretions of senior staff.

As head of The Ministry of Information and Propaganda I could dispense a promotion without the need to seek higher authority; and I guess Malley knew that, that's why he spoke with me. It might have been nice to believe the man was a cretin, but in all honesty I think Malley deliberately informed me of Shaw's extra curricula activities just to advance his own career, to line his own pockets. And I didn't blame him, because during the ten years I spent in power, that kind of habitual corruption became a normal way of life. Everyone was at it, including myself. (But the trick was, not to get caught.)

As I approached my helicopter, the blades began to swipe in anticipation; slowly at first, and then as the full power of the machine kicked-in, they turned fiercely in one continuous motion. The side door dropped open and with a friendly wave to Malley, I scrambled aboard. I ordered the crew to take me back to London where I could begin to draw-up a contingency plan against Shaw, just in case things went wrong in future. And if I could punish The Angel of Death for trying to attach my name to Camp 51's operational detail, I would.

It was George Shaw who created our personal dislike of each other, not me, and so he would have to weather the consequence.