At least his security detail would be pleased at the unpredictability of his small hours arrival back at Heathrow. Even though the darkness might provide cover for those who wished him harm, on balance his protectors considered it would also make a repeat of the previous attempt on his life more difficult.

Rampling recalled the incident once more: In truth he could rarely keep it out of his thoughts as it constantly preyed on his mind. The event had occurred ten months ago upon his return from a visit to China, a new trade agreement just signed. The Prime Ministerial convoy was driving along this same motorway through the western outskirts of London when he was startled out of his dawn jet lag by a loud crack-crack and sudden appearance of two multipointed white stars surrounded by coronas of newly frosted glass on his rear window.

His bodyguard, realising an attack was in progress, yelled a codeword over the radio while his driver and the rest of the motorcade accelerated to a frightening speed in an attempt to escape the area. Five terrifyingly high speed miles and a change to an alternative route - along with an alternate destination - later, the immediate danger was deemed to be over.

The subsequent investigation revealed the bullets which struck his limousine had been tipped with depleted uranium; the remaining fragments of which were analysed. Their unique radiological fingerprint pointed to their originating from an American reactor. It was surmised the material had come from cannon rounds first fired by a ground attack aircraft, most likely over Syria or Afghanistan, or else it was the remains of an anti-tank warhead. Someone had taken the trouble to gather some misshapen scraps of the spent munitions and refashion them into amour piercing bullets which might, had the circumstances been more favourable, have penetrated the bombproof window glass.

The marksman, who had yet to be caught, was obviously good at their trade. They'd managed to set themself up in a spot overlooking the motorway, take the shots and depart from the area undetected, taking their weapon with them; leaving scant forensic or surveillance video clues behind. Their motive remained a mystery: Was it money or ideology? Rampling's fear was the rabble of a small but increasingly popular anarchist resistance who wanted to see his government overthrown by force had entered into an alliance with an implacable enemy of the UK. Whoever it was, the shooter - now characterised by the media as 'The Shadow Man' - was still out there and might be biding their time; planning to try again. The thought chilled Rampling to the core..

But right now the unquantifiable threat of another assassination attempt was the least of his problems. His immediate concern was closer to home where Stuart Pullman - his deputy - had no doubt been busy plotting against him while he was out of the country; and while the cat is away...

The Prime Minister knew he ought to bring the issue to a head, and stamp his authority on the cabinet; maybe demoting Pullman to teach the young upstart a lesson, but the truth was Rampling neither dared to, nor cared that much any more. Never mind being in an assassin's cross hairs, just the continual stress of the job was wearing him down, and he had become jaded with it all. Had his predecessor not surprised everyone by anointing him as heir apparent when they retired mid-way through their term of office it was doubtful if Anthony could have ever gathered the support required to win the post on his merits; but after a series of party splits and short-term leaders the job had unexpectedly fallen to him so he'd had to make the best of it.

The pundits considered Rampling to be a disposable stop-gap candidate; someone thrust into the position because he was the least offensive to the divided factions within the party. It was a given the unpopular government would be voted out of office at the next election, and Rampling's leadership would fall with it: Then the real contenders would declare themselves.

But events didn't happen as predicted. The feeble Opposition once more snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and against all expectations Rampling managed to stay in power, but with a greatly reduced majority. His many critics were forced to hold their peace for the time being. Though now, midway through this parliament, the concerns within the party about the direction the government was taking were beginning to surface again.

The PM knew his time was coming to an end. He'd managed to pull off the surprise victory (with the aid of a little careful gerrymandering in a few critically important marginal seats; but of course that never happened) though there was no way he could repeat the feat. With his government suffering mid-term unpopularity, the sharks - led by Pullman - sensed his blood in the water and were circling closer before going in for the kill.

His cabinet he could keep at bay, at least for a while longer; but it was the others he couldn't ignore, those who really held power. Rampling had met Them before on numerous occasions. Some of their number were well-known public figures, though the true extent of their influence remained concealed; such as Euan Rees, the son of the deceased global media magnate, who's Connect Media Group of companies proved stubbornly resistant to scandal, regulation and government influence. Stepping into his late father's shoes Rees' opinions were even more extreme, and he was only too eager to use the electronic means at his disposal to manipulate the views of those they misinformed around to his way of thinking.

The names of the other kingmakers were unknown to the general public, yet it was they who were even more powerful. It was at a recent unpublicised 'informal' meeting at Chequers - the Prime Minister's official country mansion - when Anthony realised the tide was turning against him and their support for him ebbing. The puppet masters didn't spell their concerns out in direct language; instead they spoke in nuances and code, but one who understood the subtleties as Rampling did was left in no doubt as to their meaning: They weren't happy with the way things were going; and expected to see an improvement soon or...

Anthony understood only too well what the Or... would be. Words would be whispered into the ears of the tame political hacks; murmurs of disquiet would surface within the parliamentary party. Speculation regarding a possible leadership challenge would gather momentum; the intimation that events had been getting on top of the poor tired man would coalesce into a private delegation of party grandees regretfully expressing the fact he no longer had their confidence... His deposal would be polite, but equally quick and brutal; done according to the unwritten conventions which governed this sort of thing. Then he'd be elevated to the House of Lords as a reward for his services as long as he didn't kick up a fuss, which of course he wouldn't.

Yes, Anthony knew The Rules, but also understood his seniority allowed him a certain amount of leeway. He could grasp the nettle himself, and decide to bow out with dignity at a time of his choosing on his own terms. And frankly he was tempted to; but not just now. He might yet begin to turn things around; to regain the wavering support of his paymasters for long enough to really leave his mark behind as a Man Who Made A Difference. But in order to cultivate such an image he'd have to stop skulking around like a thief in the night. From now on his prime ministerial travel arrangements would have to be bold as befitting a Man Of Action, and proudly visible in the light of day.