By Tom Black, Jack Tindale
Harold Wilson ruled British politics for nearly twenty years. His political ability observed him make strong enemies and sour competitors, either contained in the Labour get together and out. Conspiracy theorists, a few in very excessive locations, even circulated rumours that he was once an agent of the Soviet Union. in fact, in fact, there has been no longer a shred of fact to those malicious claims.
But what if there had been?
In Agent Lavender, Harold Wilson flees Whitehall at the hours of darkness, with MI5 and the police quickly in sizzling pursuit. occurring in past due 1975 in a Britain weary of alternate union disputes and terrified of army coups, the institution needs to flow fast to revive order with out showing heavy-handed. yet nevertheless, the leading Minister has simply been outed as a communist spy…
Part-historical epic, part-pulpy mystery, and that includes a cavalcade of Nineteen Seventies public figures from Enoch Powell and Gerald Ford to Jack Jones and Michael Bentine, Agent Lavender takes readers right into a maelstrom of intrigue, civil disobedience, satire, chilly warfare tensions, and downright farce.
The winner of 8 Turtledove Awards together with most sensible tale, top chilly conflict Timeline and a number of most sensible personality awards, this acclaimed exchange historical past novel blends politics with espionage and provides a sprinkle of the absurd.
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Additional resources for Agent Lavender: The Flight of Harold Wilson
The tall, red-faced man in the grey suit threw a thick bundle of papers onto the table as he entered. Sir Michael Hanley, Director-General of MI5, was at his shoulder. The tall man spoke. ” Tony Benn’s pipe hit the floor. The cause of the commotion in Whitehall was, at that very moment, perched nervously in a hedge in East Anglia. The barn now a few hundred yards behind him, he had cautiously moved around the edges of the farm to avoid the increasing number of policemen and women searching the field where Tulip and Lily had had their date with buckshot.
I don’t know, Mr Wilson,” Reg began, “this all seems very—” There was a sound of tinkling glass followed by the sickening splintering of bone as Reg suddenly slumped out of the open window. Harold cursed and threw himself to the ground while Hampton span around, helplessly fumbling for his Browning. Then another soft thud sent him to the ground, a neat hole in his temple. Harold whimpered and covered his face with his hands, trying not to think about what he’d just witnessed. He heard a low whistle from the bushes.
He was reminded, as he bent to retie his shoelace, that he was not an active man in his thirties any more, able slip in and out of October Books on Commercial Road without anyone seeing him pocket the third copy of Das Kapital from the left. Sixty next year, he thought. Probably time to retire anyway. It was this sense of fatigue that had set his mind working, which was far less encumbered with age. Now, as he remained crouched in the hedge and his target – a slowly trundling tractor – approached, Harold licked his lips and scanned the newspaper under the driver’s arm.