The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

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Meenakshi Mehta, dressed in denim jeans, trainers and a bright-red shirt, was talking on the phone when her father emerged from his shower, ready to go to Parliament. He dropped a file on his daughter's lap. 'What do you think?' he asked, pulling out a chair. He sat down, poured himself a coffee and pulled a slice of brown toast out of the rack on the table.

Knowing her father's habit of interrupting, Meenakshi put her finger to her lips for him to be quiet.

'No, Lizzie, we're not going to be gassed,' she laughed into the phone, moving the file from her lap on to the table and glancing at the title. 'But father's heading off for work now, so I had better see him away in a manner that befits a prime minister.' She tapped her napkin at her cheek to indicate that her father had a speck of marmalade on his lip. Vasant Mehta wiped it off.

'I don't think so, but I'll ask.' She took the phone away from her ear, but did not cover the mouthpiece. 'Lizzie West says do you want a word with her dad?'

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