I wasn't in a position to agree, as my poor beaten face swelled to nearly twice its normal size, from the beating George Shaw administered a few hours earlier. But there was a certain poetic irony about it. Emma Preston had reached from beyond the grave to ruin his plans, and he cursed her for it, as he crushed a blue folder in his right fist. And cruelly he punched me, forcing my head to whiplash violently, and then barked:

"You devious bastard, Kline."

He was absolutely right, I was a devious bastard, but one who saw the writing on the wall of our revolutionary aspiration, many, many years ago. I understood perfectly the way those nasty individuals worked, how selfish they all were, and how human life, intrinsically meant nothing to them. They were the type of people who would steal the pennies off a dead man's eyes given half a chance; and so it was either join them, or be victimised by them: I chose to join them in their insidious behaviour, and although I'm not particularly proud of what I did, I am, still to this day, alive. Which I wouldn't have been if I hadn't betrayed Emma Preston's trust.

"You could have used this to save her!" Screamed Shaw.

"I chose to save myself!" I growled, through broken, bruised features, digusted by myself.

"Where's the original?" Demanded Shaw, as he closed on me.

"Safe." I retorted.

George Shaw understood I would not relinquish the whereabouts of the original set of documents pertaining to Emma's confession, as to do so would have condemned myself to a public beheading. And George knew, that in my own mind, my mendacity towards Emma Preston, was unequivocally justified by the time and circumstances we found ourselves in.

"There's also a verbal tape recording from Preston condemning you, George. And some faked pictures. You look quite the celebrity in them! If anything further happens to me, Bullit gets the lot."

"Let him go!" Ordered Shaw, speaking directly to Colonel De'ath.

"Harry Chambers too." I demanded.

Shaw Screamed: "No! You love money, I'll buy him from you, Kline!"

"Harry too," I shouted back at him the best I could.

It wasn't as though I was particularly that concerned for Harry, because I wasn't, but I knew how much it wounded Shaw having to accept the deal. And he had no other option but to concede to the inevitable, or lose his life. (It broke his wicked heart.)

"Release Chambers as well," said Shaw, softly, defeated.

Both Harry Chambers and myself were released from Belmarsh prison, clothed once again in our uniforms, which like our bodies bore the scars of the Secretariat's inhumane treatment, and for the first time in days, I tasted the fresh, invigorating scent of London air, which smelt wonderful after being incarcerated in that hovel of a jail they call Belmarsh. And I never noticed before, just how beautiful freedom could be, after taking it so often for granted. But, as both of us stood there, outside the prison gates, reality set in.

I knew it wouldn't take George Shaw long to retrieve the original documentation and his resolve would be painful for anyone who stood in his way.

That time, Harry and myself were fortunate, because of a bit of fortitude on my part: next time we might not find ourselves in such a position, and so I decided to pursue Bullit's offer with much more dedication, and distance myself from George Shaw. And I truly believed I could serve my country better, from more distant shores.

"This is goodbye, Harry!" I decided, as I offered the man my hand for the second time in four days.

"Why did he release us, Michael?" Asked Harry, as he took it.

"Luck, Harry, Luck." I whispered, and winked.

I didn't have the conviction or courage to inform Harry Chambers of the real reason why The Angel of Death released us; and assumed the fact I saved his life should be explanation enough. Harry Chambers, didn't need further equivocation from me, as I believed he was able to read between the lines.

I telephoned, from a call box some two hundred yards down the road, members of my own personal staff, and had a car pick me up; which naturally was tailed by Secretariat vehicles, and made my plans to leave my beloved country to join my wife. But my leaving needed to be conducted with the utmost secrecy, as George Shaw's un-predictability could result in him killing me. The man's spitefulness was legendary in party circles, and I had no desire to push him further towards the mental abyss, than I already did.

We drove from Belmarsh to my apartment, while Harry left in the opposite direction, with the advice to do likewise. Harry, like myself, was on his own in trying to outrun the Secretariat, and like myself his passport to salvation would almost certainly be a precarious one.