Unknown forces create terrorist attacks across the UK, and then attempt to assassinate radical new British Prime Minister, James Torrence. A bright young member of the PM’s staff, Paul Gunter, is arrested by MI5 and finds himself falsely implicated in the assassination attempt.

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Vocal Characteristics



Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)


British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the group reached the edge of the lake and took the path skirting the South Shore. Paul could hear a few snatches of conversations between torrents and his visitor. Religious extremism is one thing. Your country as well familiar with it, High commissioner. But you know as well as we do, it's tied up with extortion, drug, running, mass murder. And they still claim the moral high ground. The PM put a persuasive hand on the man's shoulder. I'm afraid we need a tougher stance, Mr Hussein. We're going to have to instigate more radical steps. I understand your position, Prime Minister, that deferential voice that masked such a long history of turbulent connection between two countries. Maybe he did understand, But Torrence persisted. I know you're doing your best, and you have to accommodate opposing points of view, just as we do. But matters are reaching the stage now where there can be no compromise. The talk went on full of the usual inferences, intimations and insinuations Paul could barely hear and only paid half attention. He had given his boss everything he had found, which might be relevant to the situation, which wasn't much. Torrance had expressed his thanks, but whether he was using any of it, Paul couldn't tell his thoughts. Wandered elsewhere inappropriately to the contrast between these urban manicured surroundings and his own wild Yorkshire dales, two different planets, his fidelity's were, as ever divided. Then, as the party reached the halfway mark along the side of the lake, Duncan Grant stopped pulling out his smartphone. Paul looked back mildly curious to see the man standing with the phone to his ear. He hesitated a second, sensing something was amiss. Grant waved him on. Speaking low into his phone, Paul continued on his way, a few steps behind the leading group. They had moved perhaps another 50 yards. The politicians in earnest conversation when suddenly there was a shout from the direction of some nearby trees. One of the plainclothes men had broken cover and was waving dramatically. The party stopped in unison. Instead, at the direction of his gestures, a man had burst from a thicket of bushes some 60 yards ahead of them at the edge of the park and was running fast towards them. He was young of Middle Eastern appearance, a thin beard outlining his jawline and embroidered kufi on his head he was shouting as he ran. Hello, Hello! One of the security men closest to the party ran forwards towards him. He had a heavy, cumbersome gate, but he was covering the ground quite fast, drawing his weapon as he went and shouting, Stop! Stop! There! The man ignored him and kept running, one hand hidden in the folds of his jacket. The whole group stood transfixed, as in some theatrical tableaux, whilst other guards ran from cover shouting, the one closest to the intruder kept running on a converging path across the grass, his automatic held high, his strident commands cutting across the man's own cries. A couple of sunbathers, caught between the two runners, scrambled hurriedly out of the way. The next few seconds seemed to take place in slow motion as Paul stood helpless watching the scene unfolding. The man was less than 30 yards from the prime minister and his companions. When the approaching policemen fired the shot hit him in the leg and sent him sprawling to the ground. The officer continued running at him, gun at the ready, despite urgent shouts from the others to stay back as he reached the writhing body the man was tugging at his belt, still mouthing his appeals to Allah. There was a flash, and a large explosion engulfed them both. The blast shook the trees for 50 yards around and held everyone within range to the ground. It's echoes reverberated into the distance, followed by long seconds of silence. While debris floated downwards through the air and smoke swirled across the park. Paul, prostrate on the grass, lifted his head to see what had happened to those in front. His vision was blurred partly from the shock of the blast and partly from the trickle of blood running down his forehead. He could vaguely make out figures as they pick themselves up from the ground. Coughs and an occasional groan split the silence. Guards were circling guns aimed outwards against further assault. There was a curse behind him, and Duncan Grant came running up already shouting into his mobile, he went to help James Torrance, who was staggering to his feet, but the latter shrugged off his grasp and waved him towards the high commissioner, who was kneeling with his head in his hands. Whether in shock or in prayer, it was hard to tell beyond on a scorched patch of grass where the smoke was still rising, lay a scattering of material and objects, the nature of which could scarcely be imagined.