The Shadow Directorate

Blurb:

In the year 2058, Victor Kingsley is thrust into a world of temporal espionage, armed with the extraordinary gift of time travel bestowed upon him by the mysterious Guardians. Tasked with a daring mission, he becomes the guiding force behind Britain's new clandestine agency, The Shadow Directorate, committed to preventing the imminent apocalypse threatening Earth's existence in the year 2086.

Prepare for an epic odyssey spanning centuries, from the pivotal signing of the Magna Carta in 1215 to the lavish streets of 1913 Vienna, and onward to a future ravaged by the relentless onslaught of climate upheaval. Alongside his remarkable comrades, Victor hurtles through time, racing against the clock to thwart the malevolent exploitation of advanced technology poised to unravel the very essence of our world.

With twists lurking around every corner and pulse-pounding action at every turn, The Shadow Directorate promises an exhilarating voyage that will grip you from start to finish. Will the shadows of time engulf us all, or can Victor and his allies rewrite destiny before it's too late?

The first few pages:

Vienna, Austria, 1913

Lyra Thorne was elated. She was in her favourite place, The City of Music. But it wasn’t the version she had encountered on her last visit.
That had been ruined by the trappings of mass tourism. Walking its streets had become a test of endurance against relentless sales pitches for various attractions, diluting the authenticity she so cherished. No, this version of the city – now – was the real deal, Vienna's true essence – and she was witnessing its elegance at its zenith – and there wasn’t a ticket tout in sight.

As a time-traveller, she understood the harsh and unforgiving nature of time. However, today it was being kind, assuming the role of a gracious escort, leading her along cobblestone pathways, past grand buildings and opulent cafes.

As the sun sank below the rooftops, bathing the cityscape in a warm, golden hue, her eyes were drawn to the distant silhouette of St. Stephen's Cathedral. Its delicate stone lacework spires reached skyward, as if yearning to capture the last remnants of the fading light.
She strolled down Graben Street, towards Kohlmarkt, a bustling avenue renowned for the elegant boutiques and distinguished shops that tempted her to linger and revel in the display of rich fabrics and exquisite jewellery. But lingering wasn’t part of her schedule; time was a luxury she couldn't afford to squander – which was a fine irony, considering her ability to travel through it.

“Time should be always on my side,” she murmured, “But it never bloody is!”

As she arrived at Herrengasse, the cobbled street echoed with the clatter of iron carriage-wheels and the distained clip and clop of horses' hooves, a suitably harmonious backdrop to the conversations drifting from her destination: the magnificent Café Central.

As Lyra approached, she couldn’t help but be captivated by its ornate pillars and polished brass lanterns. They cast a warm and inviting glow upon the evening breeze, carrying tantalising aromas of baked pastries, roasted coffee, and expensive tobacco.

“Well, aren’t you a beauty,” she whispered. “You more than live up to the photos I saw of you.”

Suddenly aware that she was talking to herself, – something she often did, but quietly – she paused to smile at her reflection in one of the café's arched windows.

She was the very vision of elegance and sophistication: draped in a dust-pink, ankle-length chiffon dress, its fitted bodice and high neckline boasting lace and intricate embroidery, each thread a demonstration of dedicated craftsmanship. The waistline was fastened with a white ribbon belt that failed to subdue a skirt that billowed and swayed with her every cheerful step, while a wide-brimmed hat sporting pale blue ribbons and a solitary dove feather that danced in the breeze tamed her auburn hair. This unmistakable grace was accentuated by white gloves, their wisps caressing her wrists. A pendant necklace, a brooch, and stud earrings completed the understated elegance.

Unsuspected by any observer, concealed beneath her skirt and strapped to her right thigh was the standard field pack carried by agents of The Shadow Directorate (SHADO), a secret British Intelligence agency established one hundred and forty-five years in the future.

Attached to her left thigh was a semi-automatic pistol, the FN Model 1900, notable for pioneering the use of a slide mechanism among handguns. Developed by the renowned John Browning, its innovative design revolutionised the era's firearms landscape and garnered favour within military and law enforcement circles worldwide.

Lyra had dedicated ample time to mastering the pistol's operation. Initially, she found the single-action trigger mechanism somewhat tricky, requiring manual cocking of the hammer before the first shot, but she adapted, even to the extent of commissioning the design of an extended magazine. Now equipped with ten rounds instead of six, she was prepared for any challenge.

Lyra passed beneath a sculpted stone façade and entered the café, immediately drawing appreciative glances from both women and men alike. She was welcomed by a mix of hushed conversations, the soft rustling of newspapers, and the occasional tinkling of fine china. Polished marble tables, arranged in precise geometric patterns, showcased porcelain cups and saucers, each decorated with the café's distinctive emblem. The establishment resounded with discussions in a range of languages, all of which Lyra understood, quickly making out a mix of German, Russian, French, Czech, and Polish.

She couldn't help but smile, enchanted by the scene. The gentlemen, in their tailored suits and groomed moustaches, were immersed in discussion, eyes gleaming with unshakeable conviction. The ladies added to the finesse of the gathering, their voices intermingled as they shared ideas and observations. The waiters, in immaculate black and white, moved through the crowd with a seamless blend of professionalism and charm, tending to patrons with the grace that marked their calling.

As she looked upon the oil portraits of former patrons on the walls, Lyra couldn't help but find their stern, watchful expressions unsettling.

“What's got you so sour?” she asked.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, she surveyed her surroundings, assessing the room's inhabitants. This floor of the café had earned its nickname, the Chess School, because of the dedicated chess players who used it for that purpose. But today, there were no matches, and nothing noteworthy to observe. Satisfied, she returned to the main salon, hoping to find someone or something more interesting.

In this café, she might have met a fascinating array of characters, some destined for great renown. Freud, Stalin, Tito, and Trotsky – for example – were all regulars here, but, these men were not the ones she was looking for.

Her target was a twenty-four-year-old from the northwest of Austria. He was an aspiring painter, rejected twice by the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. Leading a bohemian lifestyle, he was often seen at coffeehouses and hostels in the city – a young man named Adolf Hitler.