CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

In Downing Street, the reaction to Beauregard P.'s predicament was consternation, mixed with a certain amount of ill-concealed glee. The Lord Chancellor and the Attorney General were summoned to the Prime Ministerial presence, along with the Foreign Secretary to give diplomatic cover and Angus Crawford to provide spin for whatever they might decide.

"It's a bloody disaster," Jack Hay said aggrievedly. "I know we've been trying to dispel the impression that this country has become the 51st state, but this is ridiculous. You just don't arrest serving heads of state, even if they are criminal lunatics. Who authorised Customs to turn over Air Force One, anyway?"

"Apparently they acted on their own initiative," Bland said. "Nobody told them he was coming. For that matter, nobody had the courtesy to tell us. So they treated it like any other aircraft landing at Heathrow."

"Stupid bastards," said Angus Crawford. "Can't they recognise a President when they see one?"

"We are all equal under the law," intoned the Lord Chancellor.

"Oh do shut up, Derry." Bland was irritated. "We're not in chambers now, and I would remind you that your bloody court system has compounded this mess. If you hadn't been so keen on 'fast-track justice' we could have got Beauregard out of there before he ever went in front of a magistrate. We'd have dusted him down, made an abject apology, and the whole thing would be over and done with. As it is, we've got the poor bastard banged up in Brixton on remand, and the Americans are getting incandescent. Next thing you know we'll have the 5th Airborne parachuting into Whitehall."

"What did he come over for; do we know?" asked Jack Hay.

"Charlotte tells me he wanted to pose for that picture I've been thinking about."

"Christ Almighty!" Crawford exploded. "That bloody thing again. I suppose you do realise, Tony, that this daft idea of yours has cost us more aggro from the media than the Iraq war, top-up fees, and the firemen's strike combined."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Bland protested.

"Well, it bloody wasn't. The question now is what can we do to get ourselves out of this mess?"

"Nothing we can do. The law must take its course," opined the Attorney General.

"Bollocks," retorted Crawford. "Who's running this bloody country anyway?"

"Some people think you are." The Lord Chancellor had never forgiven Crawford for releasing the story about his expensive taste in wallpaper. "And the AG is quite right. If we were to step in now it would undermine everything we've ever said about the primacy of the law."

"What about the Crown Prosecution Service?" Bland was clutching at straws. "Couldn't they find that there was insufficient evidence to pursue the case? Charlotte thinks the cocaine and firearms charges are fairly weak."

The Lord Chancellor pursed his lips. "I suppose that's a possibility. Depends whether we can get that policeman to withdraw his evidence."

"How much do you think that will take? What's the going rate for forgetting a black eye? Charlotte said he seemed pretty upset."

"Are you suggesting we offer a bribe to pervert the course of justice?" The Lord Chancellor sounded offended at any such suggestion.

"Yes."

"Well, in that case, five hundred ought to do the trick. It doesn't do to spoil these people, you know."

"Make it a grand," Bland said. "I don't want to take any chances with this one. Will you arrange it?"

"Certainly not. Can you see the Lord Chancellor of England walking into a police station with a wad of fivers and buying off a witness?"

"I'll do it," said Crawford wearily. "And if the bastard won't take the money I'll black his other eye."

************

As resident psychiatrist at HMP Brixton, Elizabeth Tomlin was not unaccustomed to the vagaries of human nature. She had been in the job for ten years, was now 36 years of age, and very little surprised her. Men, she had long ago decided, were beasts. Which was one reason why, though passably attractive, she had remained unmarried. There were times when she longed for the more lucrative and comfortable conditions of private practice, but somehow the sheer fascination of the horrors recounted by her prisoner patients kept her anchored within the bleak and grimy walls of Brixton.

None of which had prepared her for Beauregard P. Shrub.

In truth, she had been looking forward to the interview. None of her colleagues, so far as she knew, had ever had the privilege of analysing a Head of State, and she had dressed for the occasion with care in her best suit. It was a navy-blue number, offset with a white blouse and a neat black bow at the neck. A little Thatcherite, perhaps, but she was fond of it. Prison rules said you weren't supposed to wear anything around the neck, just in case a prisoner took it into his head to practice a little strangulation. But she was sure that there was nothing to worry about on this occasion. This would, thought Elizabeth, make a significant chapter in her memoirs. She already had a working title: Nuts Behind Bars, which she thought was rather cute. Unfortunately, that was all she had. Maybe this encounter would inspire her to start writing.

They faced each other across the plain steel table which was, like the chairs, thoughtfully bolted to the floor. She checked, as she always did, that the green panic button was within easy reach. She doubted she would need it on this occasion, though the glare which greeted her from the President's hard blue eyes made her think twice. Finally she reached a decision. After all, if you couldn't trust the President of the United States, who could you trust?

"You can take the handcuffs off," she said to the prison officer who had retired to a corner of the room after dumping Beauregard P. in his chair.

"You sure, miss? This one can get a bit violent like."

"I'm sure you'll be on your best behaviour, won't you, Mr. President?" Beauregard P. merely grunted. His glare continued unabated.

"Well, perhaps you're right." She smiled at the warder. "But I think we can trust him. Take the cuffs off and wait outside. I'll ring if I need you." Elizabeth inclined her head towards the panic button.

Somewhat reluctantly, the prison officer did as he was told. "I knew there was going to be trouble," he told his friends later. "Silly bitch wouldn't listen. They always think they know best."

Elizabeth smiled brightly as she arranged her papers and switched on a tape recorder. "Let's begin, shall we?" she said, and pushed a card towards him which bore a strange ink-blot. "This is the Rorsach Test. I expect you've heard of it. I want you to tell me what this shape reminds you of." Beauregard P. looked at her as if she, not he, were quite mad.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at?" he asked rudely.

Elizabeth was quite taken aback. Not that she was any stranger to bad language in the course of her work. It came with the territory. But she knew Beauregard P. to be a Texan and had always heard, whatever their other habits, that Southerners were gracious towards women. Not this one, apparently.

"This is simply a test to establish your pattern of thinking," she said calmly, determined not to be upset by his attitude. "Now," she tapped the card with her forefinger, "what does this remind you of?"

"Horse shit," said Beauregard P. Shrub.

Uncertain as to whether this was a genuine answer, or merely a valid criticism of the Rorsach Test, Elizabeth hesitated before retrieving the card and substituting another. She looked at the first and decided that it could, very possibly, be interpreted as a pile of equine manure.

"And this one?"

"Crap."

"Ah." She made a note. Patient suffers from scatological delusions, possibly related to an anal retentive personality. "Very good, Mr. President. And now try this one." The next ink blot bore a distinct resemblance to a butterfly. In fact most patients said it was a butterfly; any other interpretation was regarded as distinctly abnormal.

Beauregard P.'s reaction was somewhat different. Losing patience with the whole charade, the pent-up fury which had been accumulating ever since his arrest finally erupted. He uttered a snort of rage, rose from his chair and lunged across the table, seizing the startled psychiatrist by the velvet bow around her neck. She fell backwards, making a vain attempt to reach the panic button on the wall behind her, and toppled to the floor beneath the thrashing President. Elizabeth let out a strangled scream, the door to the interview room burst open, and Beauregard P. was dragged off her by two muscular prison officers.

Her blouse was torn, her hair awry, and the velvet bow hung forlornly from her neck. There were bruises she would discover later, but otherwise Elizabeth was unhurt. With calm determination once the warders had departed, dragging Beauregard P. between them, she took a form from her briefcase and wrote on it briefly: Recommended that the patient be transferred to a secure hospital for further observation. "See how you like that, Mr. President," she muttered.

 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"It's simple," said Condoleeza Pasta, brushing cookie crumbs from her skirt. "We leave Beauregard P. where he is - you all know we can get on very well without him - and we take ourselves a hostage."

"Anyone particular in mind?" asked Dick Shiney.

She seemed surprised that the question should be asked. "Tony Bland, of course."

Donald Runstein grinned insanely. It was the same expression he assumed when describing the incineration of Afghans or the failure to discover weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. "I'm ahead of you on that one, Condy," he said. "A detachment of the Green Berets is on its way to Lakenheath right now. We've got the CIA watching his every move, and as soon as the moment's right we'll jump the bastard."

Colin Trowel winced. "I don't think that's a very good idea," he said.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it could upset a very delicate diplomatic situation. Before this unfortunate incident happened, the President was on the brink of bringing off a major coup with the British. In fact we at the State Department believe that that was why he was there. This story about a picture was just a blind to Divert the media."

"You gonna tell us about it" growled Shiney, "or are we going to have to drag it out of you? I'm the President right now. I reckon I have a right to know what we're up to."

Reluctantly, Trowel opened his briefcase and brought out a thin sheaf of papers. "There's only one copy," he said, "so you'll have to read it in turn." He passed it to Shiney. "This is the transcript of a telephone conversation between Tony Bland and Beauregard P. nine days ago. I want an assurance from each of you that its contents do not leave this room." They each nodded in turn.

"Jesus fucking Christ," hissed Shiney as he began to read. "Is this thing kosher?"

"You have my word on it."

"Holy shit!"

*************

 In Rouvenac there was a growing sense of frustration. The arrest of Beauregard P. had dominated the news for the past three days, though now that he had been charged and placed on remand the UK reporting restrictions were cramping the style of the media. They were reduced to discussing the implications of the case for international law, which was less than fascinating for the Great British Public.

"The story's dying on its feet," Jamieson said as the three huddled around the table in Marie-Rose's kitchen. "It'll wake up again when he comes back to court, but right now might be a very good time to get our stuff out."

"Who do we start with?" asked Cruickshank. They had spent their time sorting through Roderick Jones' telephone intercepts, arranging them in order of personalities, subject matter, and news value.

"I've changed my mind about that," Jamieson said. "I had intended to start with the small stuff, get them interested, and then weigh in with the really sensational material. I thought we'd make more out of it that way."

"Sounds good to me," said Roderick Jones, whose reluctance to profit from his exploit was diminishing by the day. "As a matter of fact, boyo, I've got an item here which might fit the bill very nicely. It had only just come in when I made my run for it, and it got separated from the rest, see, because it was on my desk waiting to be filed. So you haven't seen it yet, and I haven't read it properly."

"More sex?" asked Cruickshank. He was becoming rather sated with the sexual appetites of the nation's politicians.

"Oh no, nothing like that, look you. I think you'll find this much more interesting." He passed the papers to Jamieson, who began to scan them quickly.

"I can't believe this," he said. "Here, let me read it to you. This is a transcript of an intercept by GCHQ at Cheltenham of a conversation between Tony Bland and Beauregard P, dated nine days ago. The heading is "Most Secret." It begins:

Prime Minister: Good morning, Beauregard . What's the weather like in Washington?

President: How the hell should I know? I'm in Texas.

Prime Minister: Er, sorry about that. Should have known. Beauregard, can you spare me five minutes, I've got something rather important to talk about?

President: No problem, Tony. Your dime, my time.

Prime Minister: Yes, well, it's like this, Beauregard . Things haven't been going too well on the home front. My ministers keep resigning, and people just don't seem to believe what I say any more. Nobody seems to trust me; I can't think why.

President: Fuck 'em, that's what I say. You're the Prime Minister, aren't you, like I'm the President. What we say goes. Hey, ain't it great? I bet your daddy's proud of you. I know mine is.

Prime Minister: Beauregard, I mean, you know, it's not so easy over here. I've got an election coming up in a couple of years, and the way things are going I might lose it.

President: Hey, you want some advice on how to win elections, you've come to the right place. All you need is a brother who's a governor in a key state, plus a chief justice appointed by your daddy, and there's no problem.

Prime Minister: I'm afraid our system's a bit different, Beauregard. And on top of all that I'm having trouble with the Europeans. Chirac and Shroeder….

President: Those two slimy bastards. I remember them. They tried to stop me getting the oil in Iraq. But we showed 'em, didn't we Tony.

Prime Minister: Yes, well, they seem to have this idea that I want to become President of Europe - which I do, of course - and they seem determined to stop me. And then there's the Euro, and the Common Agricultural Policy, and foundation hospitals, and top-up tuition fees, and the bloody firemen, not to mention Gordon Green, and I tell you Beauregard it's beginning to get on top of me.

President: Let's cut to the chase. How can I help you, old buddy?

Prime Minister: I was wondering, just wondering Beauregard, if you'd consider making us the 51st state? I mean, I know we're practically that already, but it would be nice to have it on a formal basis. We could change the pound for the dollar, get rid of the bloody Europeans, and I could be State Governor. I mean, once we've introduced the sort of electoral reforms we were talking about just now, I think I'd be pretty secure, don't you? Oh, and it goes without saying that you'd have a monopoly on North Sea oil. What do you think?

President: Say, that's a great idea Tony. We'd just love to have you under our wing. But do you think you could get it through your Parliament?

Prime Minister: With my majority? You have to be joking. We'll have to get it wrapped up before the next election, but right now what I say, goes. There might be a few rebels on the back benches, but I'll just give them junior jobs in the government and then they'll have to vote for it. All we need is your invitation, Beauregard.

President: Would it help if we invaded? That seems to be a pretty good way to get people on the right side.

Prime Minister: Thanks for the offer, Beauregard, but that really won't be necessary. Besides, I don't think we can afford another war right now.

President: OK, I'll give it some thought, but it sounds good to me. What say we get together when I come over to sit for that picture by that Tracy Nomen lady?

Prime Minister: When will that be, Beauregard ?

President: Don't know exactly. I'm kind of busy on my vacation right now. But soon, baby, soon.

Prime Minister: Looking forward to it, Beauregard, and thanks for your time. My regards to Laura. 'Bye for now.

President: And you give Charlotte a big kiss from me, y'hear me.

CONVERSATION ENDS."

The three men sat stunned.

"Are you sure this is on the level?" demanded Jamieson.

"GCHQ never lies," said Jones. "Well not often, anyway. You've only got to look at the heading to know that it's genuine, and this is an original, see, not a copy. I don't suppose anyone outside of GCHQ has even seen it."

"If this gets published," Cruickshank said, "I don't think even Bland can survive. The country will go ape-shit."

Jamieson thought for a moment. "The question is," he said, "will anyone dare to print it? We need someone with lots of money to fight any legal action; someone that Bland won't dare to cross; and someone who hates Europe and loves America."

The three looked at each other. "Uncle Rupert," they said in unison.

 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Prime Minister slumped, head in hands, bemoaning his bad luck. If only he hadn't made that bloody telephone call. If only that fucking idiot in the White House hadn't taken him seriously and decided to fly over unannounced for secret negotiations. If only the Americans had a sense of humour…….but no, that was asking too much; they couldn't even spell the word properly. At least there was one consolation: Beauregard P. didn't seem to have told anyone in his Administration of the "offer", otherwise the diplomatic traffic would be flowing thick and fast. Just as well, too, that the call had been made on a secure line via GCHQ. If the blasted thing leaked he might as well resign and have done with it.

Now all he had to do was to extricate the damned man from Brixton, get him back aboard his fancy aeroplane, and wave him a sailor's farewell. That meant convincing Cratchit to turn a blind eye - not difficult - and getting the high-and-mighty legals to find a good reason for forgetting the whole episode. Hell, thought Bland, they'd managed to produce a legal excuse for invading Iraq; this little job should be child's play.

A shadow fell across his face, and the Prime Minister looked up to see the bulk of Angus Crawford obstructing the light from the window.

"I didn't hear you knock," he said.

"I didn't."

"Well, kindly do so in future." Bland sounded irritated.

"Ja, mein Führer," Crawford clicked his heels and raised his arm in a mock Nazi salute.

"And stop taking the piss, Angus. I'm not in the mood."

Crawford dropped his arm. "Bad news I'm afraid, boss," he said.

"Oh Christ, what is it now?"

"They've moved Beauregard P. to Broadmoor."

Bland's expression froze in a rictus of pain. "Why the hell did they do that?"

"I gather he assaulted a female psychiatrist in Brixton. She decided he was dangerous and had him sectioned under the Mental Health Act."

"Well, tell them to un-section him, p.d.q. This is the President of the United States, for God's sake. We both know he's certifiable, but if we start chucking him in the loony bin we'll have Weapons of Mass Destruction coming down every chimney in Whitehall. It's bad enough that we caught him with cocaine up his nose and a gun in his pocket."

"Look on the bright side, boss."

"What bloody bright side?"

"Well, if he's unfit to plead the court case will have to be dropped."

"Ah, good idea." Bland brightened. "I'll get Charlotte on to it right away. Now all we have to do is to get him out of Broadmoor. I suppose that's down to the Health Department. Who's the minister now? We've had so many of them lately, I can't remember his name."

Before Crawford could answer, the Mickey Mouse telephone began its raucous chorus. Bland snatched up the receiver before the first missile could land.

"Bland."

"Ah, Tony, Dick Shiney here. How're you doing?"

"I've had better days. What can I do for you, Mr. Vice President?"

Shiney chuckled. "It's Mr. Acting President now, Prime Minister, and all due to you. I was just calling to say thank-you."

There was a pregnant pause while Bland absorbed this message. "You mean you don't mind that we've arrested Beauregard P.?"

"Mind? Hell, no. Best thing that's happened in years. Between you and me the guy was becoming an embarrassment. Now we can really get on with our agenda. Say, you're not going to let him out any time soon, are you?"

"Well, er…"

"Appreciate it. Any time after the next election would be just fine, if you see what I mean." Shiney laughed. "There was something else I wanted to discuss with you, Tony. About that telephone conversation you had with the President a few days ago…"

Bland's heart sank. "That was a private matter," he said huffily.

"Hey, I don't mean that cockamamie picture idea. That's between the two of you. I mean your offer to become the 51st state of the Union. I can tell you that's got us really excited over here."

"Wait a moment." Bland cupped his hand over the receiver and looked up at Crawford, hovering over him with his ears positively flapping. "Do you mind, Angus? This is a private call."

"Private, my arse," muttered Crawford under his breath, but he left the room and shut the door behind him. Bland hunched over the telephone.

"Sorry about that, Dick. What were we talking about?"

"Your offer to join the United States."

"I never made any such offer." Bland's voice assumed the tone of righteous denial which had served him well over the past few years.

"Sure sounded like it to me. I've got the tape right here. Like me to play it back to you?"

"That won't be necessary. Now that you mention it, I do recall the conversation you must be referring to. It was a joke, that's all." He forced a nervous giggle. "Just a joke."

"Ah, so you're a fellow of infinite jest? That's Shakespeare."

"I know," Bland said coldly.

"Well, this conversation with Beauregard P. doesn't sound like a joke to me, buster, and we're not treating it as one. Our ambassador will be calling on you tomorrow to start serious negotiations, and Colin Trowel should be over some time next week. That OK with you?"

"No, it's damn well not…" Bland began, then realised he was talking to an empty telephone. He slammed down the receiver and sunk his head in his hands once more.

*************

 

Mike Jamieson presented his passport rather nervously at Stansted airport when the Ryanair flight from Carcassonne landed and disembarked. To his relief there was no Special Branch man waiting at the barrier and his arrival went unnoticed. It had been decided among the trio that a face-to-face meeting with Uncle Rupert would be the only way to sell the story. Only Murdoch himself could sanction a syndication deal with all his 179 newspapers spread across the world, not to mention his galaxy of television stations. It ought, Jamieson thought, to be worth megabucks, but he was still not relishing the meeting.

A series of cautious phone calls had established the fact that Murdoch would be working from his London headquarters this week. Jamieson took the train to Liverpool Street, hailed a cab, and asked to be taken to the News International building. As he passed through the revolving glass doors, he was uncomfortably aware that he had forgotten to bring a long spoon with him.

 

Clutching a large manila envelope, heavily inscribed with "RUPERT MURDOCH - EYES ONLY" "MOST URGENT" and "PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL", Jamieson talked his way past a series of officious female obstructions until he reached the great man's sanctum. Another secretary, presumably Murdoch's private guardian, barred the way. She was fiftyish, her grey hair cut severely short, and dressed in a business suit which looked as though it came from Saville Row. And probably did. Charm, Jamieson decided, was going to be wasted on this one.

"Boss in?" he enquired.

"No." She eyed the envelope. "You'd best leave that with me."

"Sorry, no can do." He indicated the labelling. "This has to go straight into Mr. Murdoch's hands." Jamieson treated her to a conspiratorial wink. "It's really hot stuff."

"Oh, very well. He should be back in ten minutes. You'd better sit down and wait."

Jamieson slumped on to a modernistic leather settee, surveyed the range of News International titles laid out on a glass-topped coffee table, and decided he would rather enjoy the panoramic view of dockland from the picture window. The contrast with his own office at PressWatch was not just ludicrous, it was obscene. It was almost half an hour before a small nondescript man entered, wearing a shabby fawn raincoat of the type much favoured by flashers on Clapham Common. Rupert Murdoch, it was clear, cared more for money than appearances.

"This man," said the secretary, indicating Jamieson with a gesture of disdain, "has something for you, sir. He wouldn't leave it with me." She sniffed. Jamieson was on his feet in a trice, proffering the envelope. Murdoch took it, glanced at the inscription, and disappeared into the inner office. Jamieson sat down again.

"You can go now," she said.

"Give me a few minutes," Jamieson replied. "He'll want to see me once he's read that."

He was right. Not two minutes later the door to Murdoch's office flew open. The magnate was looking distinctly flushed. "Did you bring this?" he demanded. Jamieson nodded. "Has anyone else seen it."

"No."

"You'd better come in."

  

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Haunted by memories of the "Hitler Diaries", which had been exposed as forgeries after being published in one of his most prestigious papers, Rupert Murdoch was not about to take Jamieson's documents at face value. He could see their enormous commercial potential, not to mention the political damage they would do to a Prime Minister with whom he had long since fallen out of love, but the whole scenario looked far too good to be true.

"Mr. Jamieson," he said bluntly, "I don't know you from a bar of soap." His Australian twang was so far unaffected by years of dearly-purchased American citizenship. "How did you get hold of these papers?" Jamieson explained. "So you admit they were stolen? That could put us in a difficult position if we publish. They could get us for receiving stolen property, let alone the charges they could fling at us under the Official Secrets Act."

Jamieson had thought of that one. Indeed, he had been thinking of little else. "The way I see it," he said, "you could start off by publishing overseas - America, Australia, Canada - you've got papers in all those countries. Then the story will get picked up over here by the entire media, and you'll be in the clear."

"I'll lose my bloody exclusive," growled Murdoch.

"So what? Exclusives don't last for more than ten seconds in this day and age anyway. The point is that you'll not only have broken the story, you'll have bought exclusive control of the original source, and he's safely overseas where the Brits can't get at him. He's got a stack of material like this. I know; I've seen it."

"Hmm." Murdoch was thinking this over. "And who is this guy?"

"His name's Roderick Jones. He was a senior man in MI5 before Bland had him fired for no good reason. Now he wants to get his own back."

"I suppose he wants money, too?" Rupert Murdoch was a man with short arms and long pockets.

Jamieson shrugged. "He has to live, like the rest of us. And no one's going to employ him after this lot breaks."

"And I suppose you'll take a slice?"

"Naturally. We're partners. There's one other guy involved - the freelance photographer who took that naked picture of Tony Bland. He's in hiding too; you can guess why."

Murdoch thought about it, then made up his mind. "I'm going to have to see your Mr. Jones, and I'm going to take my lawyer with me. Where is he?"

"Let's talk money first," said Jamieson, greatly daring.

They talked money.

************

 

Rupert Murdoch's Cessna Citation may well have been the first executive jet to attempt a landing on the Puivert strip. It was also, according to the sweating Australian pilot as he guided the craft back towards the hangar, damned nearly the last. "I don't get paid to land on fucking handkerchiefs in the middle of mountains," he grumbled, though as Murdoch pointed out, they'd come to rest with at least fifteen metres of runway to spare.

The faithful Raymond, complete with battered van, was waiting for them in the shade of the hangar. Jamieson had telephoned him in advance, after considering ordering a conventional taxi from Quillan and then abandoning the idea. It would do Murdoch good, he thought, to travel in more plebeian style than usual. Besides, that raincoat was so grubby already, a few Raymond-induced stains were neither here nor there. The lawyer, more nattily attired, at once insisted on riding in the front. Which left Jamieson and the media magnate squatting on the floor at the rear, their knees touching.

"You get used to it after a while," Jamieson said cheerfully as the Renault's soft suspension lurched around the first of five hundred corners. The response was a low growl to the effect that this fucking story had better stand up, or else. Jamieson didn't bother to enquire what "or else" Murdoch had in mind. He was sure there were a variety of options available.

At last they reached the gîte and the ever-welcoming Marie-Rose, flanked by Jones and Cruickshank. The two looked nervous, as though Murdoch had come to arrest them - he did indeed bear more than a passing resemblance to Peter Falk in Columbo. Refusing Marie-Rose's offer of refreshment, which sent a cloud over her shining face, Murdoch and the lawyer hustled Roderick Jones into an adjoining room and shut the door. From time to time, as they enjoyed the wine and chatted about the weather, Jamieson, Cruickshank and the French couple heard raised voices and what sounded like an overturned chair. Raymond had to be restrained from bursting in. "Just a business discussion," Jamieson said calmly.

At length the trio emerged, Murdoch forcing his face muscles into an unaccustomed smile. The effort seemed to hurt. "OK," he said, "I'm satisfied. Mr. Jones is what he says he is, and the documents are authentic. Christ knows what will happen when we print them. In the meantime, Simpkins here - he gestured towards the lawyer - has got contracts for you to sign."

Jamieson grabbed his copy and began reading avidly. "No need for that," Murdoch said sharply. "It's just the standard boiler-plate for this kind of deal."

"Since when did you sign a contract without reading it?" Jamieson retorted. "No offence, but I've been caught by the small print before." The lawyer intervened. "It's very simple," he said. "Basically, in return for a certain sum of money, you all agree to hand over the documents and any interest in their publication in any media in any part of the world. You also agree to indemnify News International from any legal action which their publication might incur."

Jamieson laughed. "You can cross out that last item straight away," he said. "What you're saying is that we take all the risks, and you get all the profit. We haven't gone to all this trouble to pay our fees straight back to the lawyers."

"It's standard practice," protested Simpkins.

"Not for us it isn't. We're selling you the exclusive rights on the biggest story since September 11, and if you won't agree to strike out that paragraph the deal's off. We'll sell the evidence to someone else. OK, we may still be subject to arrest - at least Roddy will be if they catch up with him - but I'm damned if we'll take responsibility for any civil actions."

Roderick Jones and Cruickshank shifted their feet nervously. What did Jamieson think he was playing at, defying one of the richest and certainly one of the most powerful men in the world?

But Murdoch seemed merely amused. "Strike it out," he said to Simpkins, "and stop farting around and give them the cheque. I've got a pilot waiting, and he's not going to get out of that strip in the dark." Muttering under his breath, the lawyer did as he was told and the contract was passed round for signature. Then he produced the company chequebook, holding it firmly as though loath to let go.

"Who shall I make it out to?" asked Murdoch, taking a cheap ballpoint from his pocket.

"Cash," they said in unison.

"If I were you," Murdoch said, "I'd hop across to Switzerland with this p.d.q. I don't think your local branch of Barclays is going to be able to cope with three million pounds."

*************

 

Transcript of BBC "Today" programme: interview with Foreign Secretary Jack Hay. September 19.

John Humphrys: Good morning, Foreign Secretary. Thank you for sparing us the time.

Jack Hay: A pleasure to be here, John.

John Humphrys: Yes, well, we're hoping you can tell us about the Government's plan - it's in all the papers this morning - to turn this country over to the United States. To make us, in fact, the 51st state.

Jack Hay: As you know very well, John, I was invited here to tell you about the Government's policy on Afghanistan, which I will be pleased to do if you give me the chance. As to your question, I really have nothing to say. In fact, I don't know anything about it.

John Humphrys: Really? Well, if I may say so, you seem to be the only person in the whole wide world who doesn't. I have here the transcript - published in this morning's Times - of a conversation between the Prime Minister and the President, in which he says…..

Jack Hay: I know very well what it says….

John Humphrys: Oh, I thought you said just now….

Jack Hay: If you'll let me finish, John, I was about to say that I know what the Prime Minister is alleged to have said. There's not the slightest evidence that such a conversation ever took place. If you'll forgive my saying so, this whole thing has been got up by the media to discredit the government of which I'm proud to be a member."

John Humphrys: Well, if this story is true, you won't be a member much longer, will you? Colin Trowel will be doing your job.

Jack Hay: The story is not true. And if I may say so, John, it ill behoves a programme like yours to give it the slightest credence.

John Humphrys: Whether it behoves us or not, the fact remains that it has been published in newspapers throughout the world, and the source appears to be impeccable - it comes from a transcript of a telephone conversation monitored by GCHQ at Cheltenham.

Jack Hay: As you very well know, John, such documents can be forged.

John Humphrys: Are you saying this is a forgery?

Jack Hay: I didn't say that.

John Humphrys: It sounded very much like it to me. Anyway, let's pass on. According to The Times, they obtained this document from a former officer of MI5, a certain Roderick Jones, who took it after he was fired from his job on the orders of the Prime Minister. Do you know if that is true?

Jack Hay: That's not my department. You'd have to ask the Prime Minister, or the Home Secretary.

John Humphrys: Well, maybe I will, if I get the chance. They weren't available for comment this morning. But foreign affairs are very much your department, so if this story is true you are going to be very heavily involved, are you not?

Jack Hay: I've already told you, John, the story is not true.

John Humphrys: Well, in that case I'm sure you can tell us what you and Colin Trowel are going to be talking about when he comes over tomorrow? According to a press release from the State Department, he's coming precisely to discuss the terms of Britain's accession to the Union.

Jack Hay: You know very well, John, that we never reveal the subject of such talks in advance. No doubt there will be a press conference afterwards, to which you will be invited.

John Humphrys: That's very kind of you, I'm sure. In the meantime, can you assure our listeners that the government has no intention of doing what The Times' leader this morning describes as "selling our birthright for a messy cottage." I'm sorry, I'll read that again: "selling our birthright for a mess of pottage."

Jack Hay: I have nothing further to say.

John Humphrys: Briefly, Foreign Secretary, could you tell us something about the present status of President Shrub, who we understand is currently under detention in Broadmoor?

Jack Hay: Look John, you know and I know that this is a matter for the Home Secretary, all right? I came here to talk about Afghanistan, and I would like to say that….

John Humphrys: I'm sorry, but we seem to have run out of time. Another day, perhaps. 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The two ministers stood before Bland's desk like recalcitrant schoolboys in front of the headmaster. The Prime Minister was not in a happy mood. Cratchit's guide dog snuffled morosely at his feet, thinking dark canine thoughts as her master came under attack.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, sending the President to Broadmoor?" demanded Bland.

"It was the psychiatrist's decision. The man had become violent," Cratchit protested. "I had nothing to do with it."

"It's your responsibility, goddamnit. I want him out of there. I want all the charges dropped. And I want him back on Air Force One and on his way home before those bastards decide to send in the Special Forces to rescue him."

"Can't be done, Prime Minister. No man is above the law."

Bland raised his voice. "What the hell do you mean, it can't be done? I run this bloody country, not you. Either you do as I tell you or you can start looking for a job as caretaker at St Dunstan's." Understanding every word, Cratchit's guide dog gave a low growl and launched itself at the Prime Minister's ankles. He gave a yelp of pain.

"Can't you keep that bloody dog under control?"

"She's only protecting me. That's her job."

"Well, tell her she's fired and get yourself another one." Bland pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet as the dog bared its teeth and snarled. "And as for you," he said to Jack Hay, "your performance on the Today programme was a disgrace. You let Humphrys walk all over you."

The Foreign Secretary was in no mood to be penitent. "What the hell was I supposed to do?" he demanded. "You dropped me right in it, telling Shrub that we wanted to become the 51st state. That transcript in the papers this morning was absolutely bona fide. You know it and I know it. And if I may say so, Tony, I'm fed up with having to appear in public and tell lies just to get you off the hook. The Iraq affair was bad enough, but this is the last straw. You can have my resignation any time you want it."

"It was a joke, goddamnit. Can't you see it was just a joke? Christ, we'd have a revolution on our hands if I really tried to do something like that. It would be worse than trying to ban fox-hunting."

"The Americans don't think it was a joke," Hay said. "They're over the moon at the prospect of taking us over. They'll get North Sea oil, they can build as many Star Wars radar stations as they please, and the whole country can become a forward base for whatever invasion they decide on next. I've got Colin Trowel coming over tomorrow, no doubt clutching a draft document of accession. What the hell do I tell him?"

"I don't give a damn what you tell him, as long as you don't sign anything. Those clowns in the White House are just using this as blackmail to get their stupid President back. Tell Trowel he can have Beauregard P. with my compliments, just so long as they put out a statement denouncing the telephone transcript as a forgery."

"Don't you think the media are going to find it odd that the same telephone conversation was intercepted by both our intelligence service and theirs, and both had identical transcripts?"

"I don't give a shit what the media think. We just have to keep on denying it, and in the end they'll get bored and go away. They always do."

"There's something else you ought to know, Prime Minister…..STOP THAT, LUCY." The voice came from the floor, where David Cratchit was struggling to control his canine friend. Robbed of her prey, the guide dog was peeing copiously on the PM's Persian carpet. Finally, her bladder exhausted, she turned to lick her master's sweating face. Bland peered over the desk and viewed the spreading pool with horror.

"Oh, for Christ's sake get that animal out of here."

"I was just going to say…" said Cratchit, staggering to his feet…"I don't care what you were going to say," Bland retorted. "That carpet cost ten thousand quid. How the hell am I going to explain this to the Treasury? One of you take the other out of here, right now."

"What you were suggesting just now," said Hay, as Cratchit left the room muttering in his beard, "isn't going to work, I'm afraid."

"Why not? It's a perfectly fair deal: they get their President back, and we get to keep our country."

"But they don't want him back. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Shiney and the others have always been running the show behind the scenes, of course, but now they've got the real power and they don't want to give it up. At least, that's what our man in Washington tells me."

"Shiney himself told me the same thing," Bland said gloomily. "Only I thought he was joking. You know, I mean, just like I was with the 51st state idea."

"Americans never joke about power; you ought to know that."

"So what are we going to do?"

"We could simply deport him," Hay said hopefully. "Sneak him on to a BA flight without telling anybody, then they'd have to take him back."

"On what grounds?"

"Why not 'undesirable alien'? After all, we want to stick as close to the truth as possible."

"It might work," Bland mused, "if only we could send him to some place other than the States. He's going to be mad as a wet hen about what's happened to him over here, so once he gets back in charge of all those missiles….." He shuddered at the thought.

"I've got it," said Hay, who was a man with a sense of history. "Remember the last time we arrested a Head of State?"

Bland looked blank. "You mean Pinochet? Christ, that was a complete balls-up. We don't want to go through that again."

"No, not him, the one before."

"I give up."

"Napoleon, of course," Hay said triumphantly. "And we've still got St Helena in the empire. Come to think of it, it's about all we have got. Let's send him there."

Bland clutched at the straw. "Jack, you're a genius. And to think I was going to sack you this afternoon. Do we tell Trowel?"

"I don't see why not. It could be a good bargaining chip. If he'll drop this 51st state idea we'll save him the embarrassment of getting his President back. And I'm sure Shiney will go for it."

"Right," Bland said, "that's settled then. I'll get the RAF to provide the transport - nothing too comfortable I think; a Hercules should do nicely. And I'll get Cratchit to arrange the release from Broadmoor."

"David isn't going to like it," Hay warned.

"I don't give a shit whether he likes it or not."

************

 

At that moment the object of their decision was languishing in one of Broadmoor's padded cells and feeling distinctly sorry for himself. Where the hell was everybody? The White House should have been making the wires red-hot by now; the State Department should have had the ambassador pounding on the door. And as for that wife of Tony Bland who was supposed to be a shit-hot lawyer, he'd have gotten better service from a public defender in Boise, Idaho.

The Judas in his cell door slid open, revealing a pair of hard eyes. An equally hard voice told him to get against the far wall before the door opened. They were taking no chances with Beauregard P. Shrub. The President complied.

One of the two white-coated attendants who entered was carrying a canvas garment with sealed arms and heavy straps. Beauregard P. shuddered, recognising the straight-jacket that he'd been forced to wear on the drive from Brixton. "Do we need this?" said the man. Beauregard P. shook his head. "OK then, if you'll behave yourself, but you'll have to wear these." He brandished a pair of handcuffs and the President stretched out his hands obediently. Doing as you were told, he had decided, saved an awful lot of trouble. But just wait until he got out of this damned country. His options ranged from a nuclear attack to punitive sanctions on Scotch whisky, with a wide range of alternatives in between.

"You've got a visitor. Come this way." The attendants led him through bleak corridors to an equally bleak room containing a table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor. Charlotte Bland rose from one of them as he entered.

"Beauregard , I'm so sorry about all this. Are they treating you OK?"

The President's reply was terse, explicit and unprintable.

"Yes, well, you were a rather naughty boy, weren't you? I mean, you shouldn't have tried to strangle that lady psychiatrist."

"The bitch was trying to prove I'm crazy," he muttered.

"She was just doing her job, and in this country we don't try to strangle people for doing their jobs - however great the temptation may be," she added, as a vision of the Lord Chancellor flashed across her mind. "Anyway, that's all over now, and everything's been fixed. You'll be out of here in no time."

"Thank Christ for that. You mean they're going to let me go home?"

"Well, not exactly, Beauregard . I don't know quite how to tell you this, but the people in your Administration don't seem to want you to go home just yet."

"Why the fuck not? I'm their President, aren't I?"

Charlotte decided she ought to choose her words with care. "You see, Beauregard, they've used their powers under the 25th Amendment to the Constitution to have Dick Shiney appointed as Acting President while you're suffering this, er, inconvenience."

"I understand that, but now you're letting me go I can get straight back into the saddle. Right?"

"I'm afraid not, Beauregard. You see, when you launched your campaign against drugs you made the possession of cocaine a pretty serious offence. In fact your people consider it qualifies as a high crime and misdemeanour, and they want to impeach you for it."

"They can't do that!"

"But they can, Beauregard; it's in the Constitution. Article 2, Section 4, if I remember rightly," she added helpfully.

Beauregard P. sank his head in his manacled hands. "So what's going to happen to me?"

"Well," she said, adopting her most businesslike tone. "First we'll get the charges against you dismissed on the grounds of temporary insanity." He glared at her but said nothing. "Then we'll have one of the psychiatrists here certify that you've totally recovered. It won't be necessary for you to see her," she added hastily. "After that, we'll take you out of here and fly you to a very nice little island we happen to have, where no one will bother you. It's got a lovely climate, and you can get all the American TV shows on satellite television."

Beauregard P. looked at her with growing suspicion. "What's the name of this nice little island."

"Er, St Helena."

The President racked his memory. Geography had never been his strong suit, but he seemed to remember the name from a long-ago history lesson. "Isn't that where….

"Yes," she said.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Colin Trowel, US Secretary of State, arrived at Heathrow in Air Force Two - Air Force One having been impounded by HM Customs and Excise - complete with a bevy of lawyers and a phalanx of reporters. It had been his intention to make a stately progress to Downing Street in the shiny row of black limousines drawn up on the tarmac, but an urgent message from the US ambassador to London shortly before the aircraft landed forced him to change his plans. London, reported the ambassador, was in a state of utter chaos. Crowds estimated at three million by the organisers - and 30,000 by an innumerate police spokesman - had blocked every road within a square mile of Whitehall.

Trowel switched on the satellite TV in his cabin and selected CNN. The ambassador had not exaggerated. The pictures, taken from a helicopter, showed a seething mass of humanity filling every road from side to side. The mood was clearly not festive. As the camera zoomed in he could clearly see the banners carried by the crowd. "Yanks Go Home," was the least offensive, vying with "Fuck Off Beauregard P." and "Save Our Country From US Domination" for prominence. The marchers were of all ages and, it seemed, from all classes and sexes. And they moved with implacable determination towards the seat of government. Here and there lines of police formed, then broke under the pressure of numbers. Helmets rolled. Mounted officers tried to hold the line, striking with batons at those below them. One by one they were dragged from their terrified mounts and the crowd rolled on.

Colin Trowel was a soldier first; a diplomat some way behind, and a man of some discernment. He could see there was a problem. It was not, he supposed, his problem. He was tempted to tell the pilot to head for the nearest runway and high-tail it back to the States, but something prevented him. His long-time ally Tony Bland was clearly in a bind, and his sense of duty would not allow him to desert a friend. The man might be an asshole. Hell, he was an asshole. But he was their asshole, and to abandon him would be against Trowel's Code of Honor.

The forces at his immediate disposal were not exactly impressive: a bunch of panty-waisted lawyers and a few reporters - half of them drunk. The hospitality on board Air Force Two had been generous. What he needed, and needed badly, was a battalion of Special Forces, a few M1 tanks, and preferably some air support. He turned to the aide hovering at his shoulder. "What do we have in this god-damned country?"

The aide busied himself at a computer terminal. "Mostly Air Force, Mr. Secretary," he said. "There's a squadron of B52s at Lakenheath, a dozen F16s and the same number of Stealth Fighters. Full nuclear capability, of course, plus cluster bombs and the usual array of smart weapons." Trowel considered the options. "Nah," he said finally, "too much collateral damage. We can't use that sort of weapon with all these reporters around. What about nerve gas?"

"We're not supposed to have nerve gas, sir."

"I know we're not supposed to have the damn stuff. I know we're supposed to have sold it all to Saddam, and he went and lost it before we could find it again. That wasn't the question. I asked you if we had any over here." The aide returned to his computer.

"Nothing lethal," he reported, "but we do have stocks of that experimental knockout gas that the army's been playing with."

"You mean like they used in that James Bond film about the attack on Fort Knox?"

"I don't think that was for real, sir. And if I remember rightly it didn't work."

"Oh really? I thought it was real. Anyway, the point is: does our gas work?"

"The army thinks so, but they're not sure. They've been having trouble finding volunteers to try it on."

Trowel gestured at the TV screen. "Well, here's their chance." He turned to the Communications Officer. "Connect me to Lakenheath."

*************

 

There were worried faces in Downing Street. At either end of the short road, through which in happier days the public could stroll at will, a line of armed policemen in flak jackets stood guard in front of the heavy wrought-iron gates. They fingered their MP5 submachine guns nervously. Inside Number 10 Tony Bland presided over a council of war. Well, less a council of war than a council of desperation. Crowded into his study were the Home Secretary, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, the head of MI5, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chancellor of the Exchequer - for no good reason that Bland could think of - and Angus Crawford. Outside, raucous demonstrators called for his resignation, or his head; it was hard to tell which through the bullet-proof double glazing.

The Prime Minister lifted his hands in despair. "This is worse than the fox-hunting crowd," he mourned. "It's even worse than the anti-war demonstrations over Iraq. What the hell am I going to do?"

"Do what you always do," said Angus Crawford.

"What's that?"

"Ignore the bastards. It's only the bloody public. Since when did you give a damn what they say?"

"That's not fair, Angus. I'm the People's Prime Minister. You know I am."

"Try telling that to that lot out there." Crawford gestured towards the window. "They're convinced that you're about to give their country to the fucking Americans."

The hands fluttered. "They must know that it was just a joke. I mean, y'know, surely they understand that I would never do anything like that?"

"Why should they? You've been crawling up the President's backside ever since you came to office. The way they see it, this is just a logical progression."

"Maybe I should just go out there and talk to them. Explain that it's all a ghastly mistake."

"I wouldn't advise that, Prime Minister." The Commissioner was firm. "It's all my lads can do to stop them breaking down those gates and coming to get you. I can't be responsible for your safety if you step outside that door."

The study door burst open to admit a breathless Foreign Secretary. "Ah, Jack, I was wondering where you'd got to. Been communing with our American friends?"

Jack Hay paused to catch his breath. "Colin Trowel's stranded at the airport," he said. "Can't get through the crowds. But he's just sent me a coded message. Would you like me to read it?"

"Of course I want you to bloody read it," Bland snarled. "I suppose there's no chance that he's going to go home and leave us alone?"

"Quite the reverse, I'm afraid. He's offering military help to disperse the protestors."

"He can't do that," said David Cratchit and the police chief in unison. "He's got no authority."

Bland shrugged. "I don't think the Americans feel that they need authority any longer," he said. "What does our dear friend have in mind? A nuclear attack, or just a daisy-cutter in the middle of Whitehall?"

Hay was about to reply when the Mickey Mouse telephone began its manic jingle. Bland snatched up the receiver furiously. With Beauregard P. on the way to St Helena he thought he'd heard the last of that damned thing.

"Yes," he barked.

"Tony, my old friend, that you?"

"Who's this?"

"Dick Shiney, of course. Say, Tony, I've just been watching Fox News. Seems like you've got a bit of trouble over there."

"You could say that. And it's all your bloody fault for not being able to take a joke."

"Don't be like that, Tony. We're here to help. You know, shoulder to shoulder and all that crap."

"We don't need your damned help, thank you very much. We can cope with this situation on our own." Bland looked out of the window as a volley of shots rang out. The police were firing over the heads of the demonstrators, who were falling back in alarm, but the pressure behind the front ranks was so great that they were being forced towards the gates again.

"Doesn't look like it to me," Shiney said wryly. "Anyway, like it or not, help is on the way. I've just been talking to Colin Trowel. He's ordered a squadron of F117 fighter bombers from Lakenheath."

"Jesus Christ!" Bland could not believe what he was hearing. "You mean you're going to bomb the demonstration? Do you have any idea what that's going to do to my poll ratings?"

"You'd rather be lynched? Anyway, not to worry, this is what's going to happen. Our guys are loaded with a special kind of smart bomb. It's kind of experimental, but don't worry your head about that." Bland blenched. "They'll be coming over at about ten thousand feet, just in case your terrorist types down there have got any ground-to-air missiles, and the bombs will explode at two thousand, so that no one gets hurt. Oh yes, and they've got GPS guidance systems, just to make sure they don't land on anyone they shouldn't. Like you." Shiney laughed.

"Then what's the bloody point?"

"I was coming to that. When the bombs explode - just little explosions - they'll release an invisible gas which should knock everyone cold within a thousand square yards. They'll stay unconscious for a couple of hours or so - long enough for your guys to round up the real troublemakers - and then everyone can get up and go home with nothing worse than a bit of a headache. I was really just ringing to warn you people in Downing Street to put on your gas masks."

"Gas masks? We don't have any gas masks. Do we?" Bland looked around the room to be met with blank stares and shaking heads. "And when is this act of deliverance supposed to happen?" There was a pause. Shiney was obviously consulting his watch.

"Should be round about now," he said. At that moment there was a deafening explosion above their heads. In the seconds before he lost consciousness, Bland reflected that he had never really believed those stories about smart bombs.

  

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Transcript of Channel 4 News item - Interview Jon Snow/Colin Trowel.

September 20.

Jon Snow: Mr. Secretary, we've just screened one of the most extraordinary news stories that I can ever remember; up to the time when our camera team, along it would seem with half of London, was knocked unconscious by some form of gas. Are you going to deny that the United States was responsible for this attack?

Colin Trowel: No, Mr. Snow, I'm not going to deny it. In fact I can confirm that this action was taken on my direct orders.

Jon Snow: If I may say so, that's a remarkable confession for a statesman to make. Frankly, we're not used to politicians being quite so candid. If you don't mind my asking, how do you justify what would seem to many people to be a gross interference in the internal affairs of another country?

Colin Trowel: I don't mind you asking. The fact is that the British government, who are our loyal allies, appeared to be in considerable danger. The Prime Minister and his colleagues were literally under siege. In these circumstances we did what any good friend would do: we stepped in and rescued the situation.

Jon Snow: But Mr. Secretary, you dropped bombs on the people of London.

Colin Trowel: If you care to put it that way, yes. I might add that I acted with the full authority of the Acting President, Dick Shiney.

Jon Snow: Was Mr. Shiney asked by Tony Bland to drop those bombs?

Colin Trowel: Not exactly.

Jon Snow: What does that mean - not exactly?

Colin Trowel: Well, all right, it means "no". Tell me, Mr. Snow, are all British television interviewers as tough as you? We're not used to this sort of questioning in the United States.

Jon Snow: I appreciate the flattery, Mr. Secretary, but I must press you on this point. If Mr. Shiney and yourself were not acting at the request of Mr. Bland, surely your action constitutes a blatant act of aggression in contravention of international law?

Colin Trowel: What were those last two words again? I didn't quite catch them.

Jon Snow: I asked if you weren't acting in contravention of international law.

Colin Trowel: I'm sorry, I really am getting rather deaf in that ear. Anyway, there was very little collateral damage, although I must apologise to the Prime Minister for the fact that one of our bombs suffered a technical fault and landed on the roof of 10, Downing Street. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Jon Snow: You say there was very little collateral damage, Mr. Secretary, but the latest figures available to us say that thirty-five people died of heart attacks, ten more were killed when a bus went out of control and ran into the crowd, and the hospitals are overflowing with the injured. What would your definition of major collateral damage be?

Colin Trowel: I meant we didn't damage any buildings. Apart from Downing Street, of course. We're going to pay compensation for that. I'm sure if you look into those people you'll find that they had Al Queda connections.

Jon Snow: Al Queda? Are you serious? There were fifteen old age pensioners, three babies in prams, and five housewives from Tooting.

Colin Trowel: These people get everywhere.

Jon Snow: Well, it doesn't look as though we're going to get much further on that subject. Let me try something else. What can you tell us about your meeting with the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary tomorrow, assuming that they're sufficiently recovered to take part?

Colin Trowel: I'm afraid that must remain confidential until after the meeting, Mr. Snow.

Jon Snow: It's no secret that you have a large number of lawyers in your party. Would it be fair to assume that they're here to draw up a treaty of accession to the United States.

Colin Trowel: You can assume what you like.

Jon Snow: So you don't deny that that's what this meeting is about?

Colin Trowel: No. I'm simply not going to tell you. Is that clear enough?

Jon Snow: Yesterday's demonstration seems to prove that the people of this country are overwhelmingly opposed to such a move. Doesn't that worry you? You're not exactly winning hearts and minds by dropping bombs on them and gassing them in the streets.

Colin Trowel: Yeah? I guess you're entitled to your opinion, Mr. Snow. But we have a saying in my country: "When you've got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow." Will that be all?

Jon Snow: Mr. Secretary of State, thank you very much.

**********

 

"You know what I'd like to do, Jack?" The Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary were closeted in a room at No 12 Downing Street, No 10 being temporarily uninhabitable, discussing tactics for their meeting with Colin Trowel.

"What?"

"I'd like to catch the bastard who leaked that story and string him up by his balls."

"Good thinking," Hay replied, "but not a lot of help right now. We know who he is, but we don't have a clue where he is. The police and Special Branch have combed this country, and there's no sign of him. And there isn't any record of a Roderick Jones at any of the ports or airports. He may have been using a false passport, of course, but in that case he's long gone to God knows where."

"I bet I know someone who knows where he is," Bland said.

"Who?"

"Rupert fucking Murdoch. He bought the transcript from Jones; it's no coincidence that the story first appeared in Murdoch papers all over the world, and he must have met him to clinch the deal. Murdoch's a canny bugger. He wouldn't have bought the transcript without being sure it was genuine."

"Maybe if we ask him nicely," said Hay, "he'd tell us where to find him. After all, Murdoch did win the last election for us, and the one before that. He must be on our side."

"For God's sake, Jack. Does it look as though he's on our side? This little episode is just a case of spite because we wouldn't let him buy Channel 5. He's decided he'll do better with the Tories, so he's seized this chance to get rid of us. Bastard."

"Shall I get David to have him brought in for questioning? A little third degree might do the trick."

"Christ, can you imagine what his media would do to us if we tried something like that? We're in enough trouble already. No, let's get someone to find out where he's been lately. It's my guess he would have used one of his company jets, so find out where they operate from and put some pressure on the pilots."

"The trouble is," Hay said morosely, "that the horse has already bolted. We can shut all the stable doors we like; the fact is that Colin Trowel is sitting on our doorstep and we've got to find some way to get rid of him."

The door opened and Angus Crawford came bursting in, brandishing a sheet of paper. "I thought you ought to see this, boss," he said.

"Won't you ever learn to knock?" Bland said plaintively. "For all you know I might have been having it away with one of the secretaries. OK, what is it now?"

"Flash from PA. They're reporting a constant flow of American transport jets into Lakenheath. It looks as though the Yanks are building up some muscle. What are we going to do about it? Any moment now I'm going to have every hack in Wapping demanding to know what the hell's going on."

"What can I do about it? It's their base, and they can do what they damn well like with it. As to what's going on, I haven't a bloody clue. Maybe Colin Trowel will have the courtesy to tell me when he arrives in half an hour, but I'm not banking on it. Tell the media that this is a joint exercise, years in the planning, blah, blah, blah. You know the routine."

"They're not going to believe me, boss. Not after yesterday's episode. They're going to say this is an invasion."

"Angus, I'm going to leave this to your fertile imagination. Sex it up a little if you like. No, forget I said that. Just try to get the media off our backs; that's what you're there for. And I'd be grateful if you'd leave Jack and me alone for a while. We've got some important decisions to make."

"Ja, mein Führer." Crawford raised his right arm, clicked his heels, and made a smart exit.

"I don't know why I put up with that man," Bland sighed.

"Because he knows too much?" Hay suggested.

"Yes, well, forget about him. How are we going to deal with Trowel?"

"Just tell him it's all been a dreadful misunderstanding and ask him politely to go home?"

"It's not going to work," Bland said despondently. "You know it and I know it. We're just going to have to listen to what he says and play it by ear."

A telephone rang. It was the purple instrument by Bland's left elbow, and he picked it up nervously, knowing where it was connected.

"Prime Minister speaking."

"This is the Palace," said a female Knightsbridge accent. He already knew that. "I'm connecting you to Prince Philip." Bland cupped his hand over the receiver and turned to Jack Hay. "It's Phil the fluter," he said. "But I don't think he's about to invite us to the ball." He turned his attention to the telephone.

"Your Royal Highness," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Having never served in the Royal Navy, Bland was unfamiliar with some of the epithets which assaulted his ear, but he got the gist. "I'll have you know," said the Prince Consort when normal vocabulary had been resumed, "that both Her Majesty and I were knocked unconscious by your damned American friends yesterday. Her Majesty was on the loo at the time, and I can tell you that when she finally woke up it was not a pretty sight. What are you going to do about it, eh?"

"The government is protesting in the strongest possible terms," Bland said. "I am seeing the Secretary of State personally in a few minutes time."

"Not bloody good enough," was the growled response. "Don't you realise, man, that an assault on the person of the Monarch is an offence punishable by death, even in this benighted day and age? I insist you find out who was responsible and string the bastard up." In point of fact, Bland had quite forgotten that the offence of treason had been omitted from the 1965 Homicide Act. But foreigners couldn't commit treason, or could they? He would have to find out. "I think that only applies to British subjects, Your Highness," he said tentatively.

"In that case it was an act of war. I insist - Her Majesty insists - that you mobilise the armed forces immediately."

"With the greatest respect, sir, I think you will find that Her Majesty's predecessors lost that power with the Bill of Rights in 1689. The prerogative of declaring war now rests with the House of Commons - well, with me, actually." He gave a nervous laugh. "Same thing, really. And I've decided that our American friends acted with the best of intentions, even if their actions were somewhat misguided, in every sense of the word."

"You impudent young whipper-snapper." Bland had the feeling that he may have overstepped the mark. "Are you trying to tell me what I can and can't do? Next time you come calling on my wife for a cosy cup of tea you're going to get a right earful, I can tell you. Ruined her best pair of knickers."

"I'm sure we can arrange for replacements," Bland soothed. "The privy purse would seem suitable in the circumstances. Will that be all?" he said hopefully.

"No, goddamn it, it won't be all. I want to know about this story in The Times, saying that you want to hand over this country to the Americans? I haven't read it all, because Baines - that's our head butler - burned a hole in the Royal Edition while he was ironing it. Half a mind to fire the careless bugger. So what's it all about, eh?"

"It's really nothing, Your Highness." Bland was beginning to feel decidedly tight around the collar. "It was just a misunderstanding about something I said to the President in jest. I'm sure we'll soon get it cleared up."

"In jest, eh? I must say you've got a bloody queer sense of humour. You're not queer, are you? Can't stand the buggers. Anyway, as I was saying, the Queen and I think it might be quite a good idea."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are you deaf, man? Don't you see? It would give us back the American colonies. Her Majesty and I would have something to rule over for a change. You just be a good boy and fix it up, right?"

"I mean, y'know, I don't think that's quite what the Americans have in mind…" Bland began, then realised that the line had gone dead.

***********

 At that precise moment, on the terrace of a five-star Geneva hotel overlooking Lac Léman, three contented conspirators were sipping a pre-lunch aperitif and reading the airmail edition of The Times.

"It looks as though we've started something," Jamieson said. "Here's to the power of the press." They raised their glasses.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary sat together in the back of the former's bullet-proof Jaguar for the short journey from Downing Street to Grosvenor Square.

"I can't see why we couldn't have had this meeting on our territory," Hay complained. "I offered them Lancaster House, but they insisted that we use their embassy."

"Probably think their bugs are better than our bugs," Bland replied. "It really doesn't matter. All we have to do is to say no, no, and no again, and then everyone can go home."

"You really think it's going to be that simple? I have a horrid feeling that we're in for some powerful arm-twisting. "Why else would Shiney himself be coming over?" Hay's bloodhound countenance assumed an even more lugubrious aspect than usual.

"Trust me." Bland was at his most emollient. "Have I ever let you down, Jack?" Hay, who had once been a convinced Socialist before attaining power and seeing the light, decided that silence was the most tactful answer. Offhand, he could hardly think of anyone that Bland had not let down in the past seven years, but this was hardly the time to say so. The Jaguar swerved gently around the concrete barriers which protected the US embassy from Osama bin Laden and slowed to a halt. Marine guards snapped to attention, and a third opened the car door with an immaculately white-gloved hand. Shiney and Trowel stood on the steps with water-melon smiles of welcome.

"Prime Minister, good to see you." Shiney stretched out his hand, which Bland managed to grasp while swivelling to place his smiling self between the Acting President and the television cameras. It was a trick he had honed to perfection in recent months, having had a course of instruction from one of the leading dancers at the Royal Ballet. "Let's go inside, shall we?" he said, before Shiney had a chance to get his own face on camera.

Shiney led the way to a conference room where the vast oval table was ringed with grey-suited lawyers. "You didn't bring your own attorneys?" he said in surprise.

"No need," replied Bland. "After all, we're not going to sign anything."

"Don't be so dogmatic, Tony," Shiney said, his voice hardening slightly. "You don't know what we're proposing yet."

"I know you want to make this country the 51st State, just because of a stupid joke I made to the President. I mean, y'know, I don't know how many times I have to say this: I WAS ONLY JOKING, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. There is nothing to negotiate; absolutely nothing." Bland, who had half-risen to his feet, sank back into his chair in frustration. Around him, the lawyers blinked owlishly. Jack Hay patted his shoulder in a gesture of consolation, at which Bland flinched as though the hand held a knife. Perhaps, metaphorically, it did.

"Ah yes, our dear absent leader. How is he by the way?"

"Bored out his skull, apparently. Just to keep himself amused, he's got the local natives building a small prison with its own death chamber. Says he needs something to remind him of home."

"Poor Beauregard P." Shiney sounded quite sincere. "I never did thank you properly for solving that little problem for us. Do you know the stupid bastard was planning to invade China next?"

"I thought it was going to be Syria and then Iran," Bland said.

"That was what you were supposed to think. Beauregard P. had bigger ideas. A couple of weeks from now he was going to offer you Hong Kong if you'd throw in what's left of your army and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him."

"I'd never do any such thing," Bland said indignantly.

"No? Well, it doesn't matter now. The point is that your brilliant move in sending him to St Helena has relieved us of the problem."

"And what thanks do I get? You come waltzing in here with a barefaced proposal to take over our country. MY country," he corrected himself. "The answer is: no way, José. So now I suppose you're going to invade us instead."

"Tony, Tony, whatever put that idea into your head?"

"All those bloody Marines you've been bringing in to Lakenheath, that's what. Not to mention the B52s you've brought back from the Gulf, plus the Stealth fighters, the F18s and God knows what else. Why the hell we should have provided you with all those bloody bases is a fucking mystery." Bland sounded genuinely bitter. "All I can be thankful for is that it wasn't done under my government."

"Don't get so uptight, Tone. You don't mind if I call you Tone?" Bland's expression made it clear that he did mind. He minded very much. "Makes me sound like a character out of some soap opera," he muttered to Hay. Shiney elected not to hear. "Those boys are just around to act in support of the civil power in case you should need them," he continued. "We thought there might be a few rogue elements over here who wouldn't want to become Americans, for some perverted reason."

"Bloody right," Bland said.

"Anyway, once you hear what we have in mind, I'm sure you'll go along."

"I know what you have in mind. You want to turn this country into hamburger heaven. You want to control our North Sea oil. You want to prevent us having any independent foreign policy. You want to stuff your benighted so-called culture down our throats until every town in England looks like every other town. Well I'm not having it. The answer is no, no and NO." Bland slumped back, exhausted.

"Tone," Shiney said mildly, "we've done all that already. Face up to reality for a change. You don't think we came over here without something positive to offer you, do you? I guarantee, when you hear what it is, you're going to change your mind."

"I never change my mind," Bland said, looking the Acting President straight in the eye.

"No? I've had one of our folks go over your record, just for interest's sake." He gestured to one of the lawyers who began pulling a thick sheaf of papers from his briefcase. "Shall we go through it together?"

"Certainly not. I mean, y'know, there's no need for that. I suppose you'd better tell me about this miraculous offer, since you've come all this way."

"That's better, Tone." Bland winced. "I knew you'd come to see it my way. So let me give it to you straight. We both know there's going to be an election in the States in about eighteen months. Naturally, the Republicans want me to head the ticket, and I guess I could win pretty easily. Trouble is, I don't want the job for a full term, and with this dickey heart I doubt if I'd complete it, anyway."

"So why don't you let someone else head the Republican ticket?" Electoral politics were meat and drink to Bland. He was genuinely interested.

"I'll be frank with you, Tone. We've got a very sweet thing going in the White House right now. All the old boys from Beauregard Senior's time are still riding the gravy train, and we want it to stay that way. If I back out before the primaries, we're going to get some liberal idiot like John McCain heading the Republican campaign, and that's bad news. If McCain wins he's going to bring in his own people to clean house, and we can kiss goodbye to all those lovely contracts. If he loses, the Democrats will fuck the whole thing up. So you see we've got a problem."

"I sympathise, but I don't see what it's got to do with me," Bland said.

"I was coming to that, Tone. You see, we've had a bunch of our best political scientists going over your whole political record, and I can tell you they were pretty impressed."

Bland positively glowed.

"Yeah. They're not sure how you did it, but somehow you managed to worm your way into the top ranks of the Labour Party, take it over, and then beat hell out of the Conservatives with a bunch of promises you never intended to keep, because you were really a Conservative yourself. You were the Manchurian Candidate from Beckenham, or wherever you come from."

Bland jumped to his feet. "That's a damned lie," he shouted.

"Is it? Look at the legislation you pushed through Parliament in your first term and tell me different." Shiney began to tick items off on his fingers. "You said you were going to renationalise the railways. You didn't. You said you would never privatise air traffic control. You did. You promised great things for the health service. No one seems to have noticed much improvement. You said you would never make university students pay fees. It was one of the first things you did, along with stopping benefits for single mothers. You said that old age pensions would be coupled to average earnings. Whatever happened to that? Do you want me to go on."

"No, don't bother." Bland's hands were dancing like demented dragonflies.

"And in spite of all that," Shiney continued remorselessly, "you go and win the next election with another landslide majority. Now that's what I call chutzpah."

"I don't admit to any of that," Bland said stiffly. "But even supposing it were true, what has that got to do with what we are talking about today? You've admitted I've got a huge majority in Parliament, so what I say goes. And I'm going to tell the Commons that I reject your offer out of hand."

"Even if I can make you the next President of the United States?" The room suddenly went very quiet.

"But you can't do that," Bland said when he had recovered his breath.

"Oh yes I can."

"But surely the Constitution lays down that you have to be born in the United States to become President?"

"And so you will have been, once this treaty is signed. You'll be a native of the United States of Great Britain and America. The good old USGBA."

"But I was born British," Bland objected. "The Supreme Court would never allow it."

Shiney laughed. "So was George Washington, for that matter. As for the Supreme Court, they put Beauregard P. in office after his brother rigged the election in Florida. What makes you think they care a jot about the fine print in the Constitution? They'll do whatever the Republican Party tells them to do. Take my word for it." The lawyers around the table nodded solemn agreement.

Bland looked slightly shocked, but only slightly. "You're not suggesting that I should run as a Republican?" he said. "I mean, y'know, that would totally ruin my image. For God's sake, Dick, that would just confirm what everyone's been saying about me."

"You don't understand, do you Tone?" Shiney wagged his head in mock despair. "We want you to stand as a Democrat. Listen, this is the scenario: the Democrats are desperate to get a decent candidate. They haven't had one since Clinton, and currently there's no one in sight. You may not believe this, but you're a damn sight more popular with Americans than you are over here. You're their kind of guy. So once this treaty gets signed and word gets out that you're available, they'll grab you for that nomination before you can say gerrymander. I'll accept the Republican nomination, of course, and I'll go with tradition and pick some no-hoper as my running mate. Maybe someone who's Jewish or Hispanic; maybe even a woman. Then, mid-way through the campaign, my ticker starts acting up and I have to leave said running mate at the top of the ticket. Get the picture? You'll be a shoe-in."

"But I'd be a Democratic President," Bland objected. "That can't be what the Republicans want."

Shiney turned to the assembled lawyers. "Is this guy subtle, or is he subtle? I told you this was the right choice." He returned his attention to Bland. "It's quite simple, Tone. All you have to do is to repeat what you've done over here: get elected for one party, and then pursue the policies of the other. Believe me, we'll make it well worth your while. There'll be billions to go round. And I do mean billions."

Jack Hay, who had been silent thus far, suddenly had visions of becoming Secretary of State. It would sure as hell beat being Foreign Secretary of a second-rate power whose foreign policy was already determined in Washington. Also, since Secretaries of State were appointed by the President, not elected, there was an excellent chance that his blind loyalty to the Prime Minister would pay off at last. He tugged at Bland's sleeve. "I really do think that we should give this serious consideration," he said.

  

CHAPTER THIRTY

"What are we going to do about the monarchy?" Hay asked anxiously. The pair were on their way back to Downing Street, each clutching a draft copy of the Treaty. "You can hardly have a Queen reigning over one state out of fifty-one. And what about the House of Lords, and the Honours List, for God's sake? The Civil Service will go berserk if we try to take away their gongs."

"Well," said Bland, ever the pragmatist, "there isn't much point in having all those Orders of the British Empire when we haven't had an empire for more than half a century. We can just call it tidying up, adjusting to the modern world, and all that crap. And any excuse to get rid of the Lords will be more than welcome. They're a perpetual pain in the arse. I grant you though, the Royals are going to be a problem. What does the Treaty say about them?" They began leafing through their copies.

"Here we are." Hay found it first. "Well, I'll be buggered. It says here: 'Queen Elizabeth the Second, her heirs and successors, shall be given the honorific title of Queen (or King) of the United States of Great Britain and America, on the understanding that such title shall confer no political powers or rights over any State of the Union. Furthermore, the said Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors, shall have the right of residence in any State of the Union.' Are the Royals going to buy that?"

"Buy it? They'll jump at it. Phil the Fluter can strut his stuff all over the States, Charles can find ten thousand more worthy causes to support, and William and Harry can improve the gene pool by marrying lusty Americans. As for Her Majesty, she can still have her weekly têtes-a-têtes with me if she wants them. Only once I'm President she can bloody well come to my place for a change. Oh yes, they'll buy it all right. I wonder," he mused, "if we can persuade the Yanks to take a few of their hangers-on at the same time? - a sort of package deal."

"What about Europe?" Hay asked gloomily.

"What about it?"

"It may have escaped your notice, Tony, but we're bound by umpteen treaties into the European Union. How can we be a member of the EU and the 51st state of America at the same time?"

"Why do you always have to complicate matters, Jack? We've got a sweet little deal going here, with yours truly set up to occupy the White House, and all you can do is to bleat on about the boring Europeans. The answer, if you really want to know, is that we'll do what the French always do: exactly what we like, and let the rest of the buggers lump it. Look on the bright side, can't you? At least we can forget about the Euro; that should please Gordon."

"We'll have to convert to the dollar. It says here…" he rummaged through the treaty…" 'the pound sterling shall be converted to the US dollar at the rate of $1.20 to the £.' That's outrageous! The market rate was $1.80 to the £ when I looked this morning."

Bland was unperturbed. "It's only a draft, Jack; all these things are negotiable."

"Oh yes? And what about this: 'The UK Parliament shall become a State Assembly, headed by an elected Governor and divided into two chambers, a House of Representatives and a Senate, each of which shall be elected by universal adult franchise.' "

"What's wrong with that?"

"For Christ's sake, Tony. You've been fighting for years to avoid having an elected upper chamber. Don't you realise that this will be the end of Tony's cronies in the Lords?"

"Doesn't matter." Bland shrugged. "I won't be there any more, will I? What the hell do I care? And I resent your reference to 'Tony's cronies,' Jack - you're beginning to sound like The Guardian. Just remember that when it comes to patronage the President has got a damn sight more than any Prime Minister ever had. You might like to think about that."

Hay thought, and decided to keep his mouth shut. They completed the journey to Downing Street in silence.

Once inside the shining black door they hurried to Bland's private sanctum, clutching their copies of the draft treaty as though they might explode at any moment. Angus Crawford, standing in the corridor, was brushed aside with a curt instruction that they were not to be disturbed. He pouted, his lower lip thrust out, as he fumed at this blatant piece of lèse-majesté. Who was running this bloody government, anyway?

Safely ensconced, the two men spent the next hour poring over the dense legal text. "What I don't understand," Hay said, "is how they've got this together practically overnight."

"My guess," Bland said, "is that they've been working on it ever since they decided that Beauregard P. was a liability. "They had to find some way to push him off his perch, and we provided the perfect opportunity by sending the crazy bastard to St Helena. This has probably been sitting in some safe in the State Department for months."

"All the same, I don't see how we can possibly get it through in time for the American elections," mused Hay. "There's the referendum and the Bill to be drafted before we can even get it in front of the Commons."

"Who said anything about a referendum?"

"Well, this is a major constitutional change. We'd have to have a referendum on it."

"Are you out of your tiny mind, Jack? Put this thing to a referendum and we'd be bound to lose. The Little Englanders would be up in arms, and so would the pro-Europeans and probably the entire media. Even Uncle Rupert, though how he'd have the nerve to oppose it when he took American citizenship just to buy a few TV stations beggars belief. No, we'll take it straight to the Commons where we can do whatever we like. The payroll vote will do as they're bloody well told as long as we assure them that their jobs are safe, and we can kid the Tories that there's lots of money to be made on the American market. That just leaves the Lib Dems and our own awkward squad. They couldn't stop me going to war in Iraq, so I don't think we need to worry about this one."

"What about the Lords?"

"Fuck the Lords. We don't need them for the approval of foreign treaties. You're Foreign Secretary; you ought to know that."

"Sorry, I forgot. But there is one other thing…."

"What?"

"Well, when that transcript leaked you assured everyone that the whole idea of becoming the 51st state was just a joke. Aren't people going to be a bit upset when they find out that it wasn't? I mean, think what John Humphrys is likely to do to me on the Today programme."

"Jack, Jack," Bland moved around the desk and put an arm around Hay's shoulders. "Ever since this government came to office we've been saying one thing and doing another. It's the creed we live by. People are used to it. They don't expect anything else. And they vote for us just the same, so what are you worrying about?"

****************

 

At the hotel above Lac Léman the three fugitives were becoming restive. There had been no sign of pursuit, and with a million pounds each in their pockets - or at least in numbered Swiss bank accounts - they had begun to make plans. From the hotel porter, a practised connoisseur of prospective tips, they quickly learned of a source for false passports. Jamieson opted for an Irish document, but the other two stuck to English - on the grounds that their accents would be a dead giveaway - though Jones mourned the fact that passports for Wales were unavailable, devolution notwithstanding. For security, they decided that their new identities would be concealed, even from each other.

The Welshman had some research to do. His theft of the documents, he reckoned, would guarantee him at least twenty-five years behind bars if MI5 caught up with him, if not a charge of treason. It was essential to find a country which had no extradition treaty with the UK, and was not likely to be invaded by the Coalition in the immediate future. The latter condition narrowed the choice down quite a bit, and telephone enquiries made at various consulates in Geneva were greeted with understandable suspicion. "Why you want to know?" was the typical response. "You criminal on ze run?"

At length Jones plucked up the courage to ring an old friend in the Foreign Office, who turned out to be totally unaware of his predicament and gave him the information without a second thought. Jones studied it carefully, rejecting several options as too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry. Others were ruled out because they were controlled by dictators who could easily be bribed to give him up, because they had a history of military coups, or because they were downright inaccessible, except by canoe. At length, coming towards the end of the alphabet, he found the ideal solution.

"I'm off to the Seychelles, boyos," he announced triumphantly. "Lovely climate it is, no extradition treaty, and an international airport if I should ever change my mind. I don't even need a visa, look you."

The others congratulated him and contemplated their own futures. For Henry Cruickshank this was easy. He had already bought the most expensive digital camera he could find and was planning a globe-trotting tour as a freelance photographer under his new name. Jamieson was finding it more difficult. Common sense told him to stay well away from the UK, but a sense of loyalty to PressWatch and all who sailed in her was pulling him back. He could provide for them financially - had already done so - but that was not the same as having his guiding hand on the tiller of the organisation. Besides, he missed the work; missed the constant struggle with the media moguls and the Press Complaints Commission. Perhaps, he thought, just perhaps, so much else has been happening that Bland and his goons will have forgotten all about me.

"I've made up my mind," he said. "I'm going home."

"You're mad," they said.

 

 CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The Deputy Prime Minister stood at semi-attention before the Prime Minister's desk like a schoolboy summoned before the beak. His eyes were round with innocence, his jowls quivering in nervous anticipation. The two rarely spoke, having nothing in common beyond a mutual greed for power, and Buscott was well aware that he owed his continuation in office to a need for some sort of gesture towards the left wing of the party, rather than any ability on his own part. He was occasionally hauled out of his broom cupboard to do the odd impossible job (like reforming the transport system, for God's sake) and put back again when he inevitably failed. The theory, he supposed, was to demonstrate to those on the left of the party that "old" Labour policies could never work. In point of fact, Buscott himself had not been one of their number since gaining office, but his verbal illiteracy served to maintain the illusion. A gift to the parliamentary sketch-writer, Buscott's mangled syntax was the despair of Hansard reporters who spent hours trying to instil some meaning into his speeches. Reported verbatim, they seemed to be couched in some arcane language known only to the inhabitants of Hull and Middle Earth. Fawning obeisance to his master was really all he had to offer, and in this he had revealed the talent of a latter-day Uriah Heep. He dreaded the moment when the axe would finally fall and one of the Jaguars would have to go, perhaps both, and Pauline would have to cut down on her hairdressing appointments. Was this to be it?

Bland let him stand and sweat. Finally he looked up, removed his reading glasses, and gave a smile of the utmost insincerity. "Ah, John. Glad you could come in. I expect you know what this is about?"

"No idea, Tony. Not a clue." Buscott produced a nervous little laugh and brushed back a strand of hair with a damp right hand. "Is it going to be a pleasant surprise?"

"Depends on how you look at it, I suppose." Bland suppressed the annoyance he felt at being addressed by his Christian name. "I presume you've read this draft Bill?" He touched the blue-covered booklet on his desk, turning it round so that Buscott could read the title.

"I…er…well…"

"I gather you haven't. Never mind, it doesn't really matter. In fact the less you know about the fine print, probably the better. This is the Bill, John, which will finally, irrevocably, link us to the United States."

Buscott, who genuinely shared his master's admiration for all things trans-Atlantic, grinned broadly. "Well done, Tony. Congratulations. So you've got that trade agreement at last?"

My God, thought Bland, where has this man been for the past few weeks? "Not exactly," he said. "I think you will find this a little broader in scope. Normally, of course, with something as important as this I'd be taking it through the Commons myself. But I've got to go to Washington on some urgent business, so I'm going to leave the job in your capable hands. Think you can handle it?"

"Leave it to me, Tone," Bland gave him a hard stare which he studiously ignored. Buscott picked up the draft Bill as if he had been awarded a valuable prize. "I'll have the House eating out of my hands in no time flat. You wait and see."

"Yes, well, you'd better be prepared to use the guillotine to cut short the debate. We can't afford to hang about over this thing."

Buscott tapped the side of his nose. "You mean you don't want them to spend too much time reading the small print? Don't worry. By the time I've finished they won't have a clue what they're voting for."

"Precisely," Bland said. "All the same, it might be a good idea if you read the Bill yourself before you introduce it."

"If you say so, Tone. You're the boss. Can't say I've ever found it necessary before, what with our majority and all."

"Humour me. There's a lot riding on this Bill." More than you could ever imagine, he thought. "We can't afford any slip-ups."

"I'll get down to it right away. Soon as I can find my reading glasses." Buscott gave a mock salute, tucked the draft Bill under his arm, and waddled from the Prime Ministerial presence. A moment later the other door opened to reveal a scowling Angus Crawford.

"You've been listening at keyholes again," accused Bland.

"Someone has to keep an eye on you, you daft bugger. What the hell do you think you're doing, giving control of the Bill to that clown? He'll make such a pig's breakfast of it that no one will understand what the hell's going on."

"That," Bland said dryly, "is the whole idea."

****************

 

"Can I help you?" Diane Tucker looked up as the PressWatch office door was pushed open by a burly figure in a grubby raincoat. The man stared at her, his clean-shaven face topped by the greying remnants of a crew cut.

"I know I've been away a long time," he said, "but I thought you might at least recognise your boss when you saw him again."

"Mike!" She was out of her chair in an instant, throwing her arms about him and planting a kiss on lips which had hitherto been hidden by dense foliage. He detached himself with difficulty. "Where the hell have you been, you bastard? I've been worried sick about you, and so have the others."

"Long story," he mumbled. "Have the police been round here?"

"Only the day after you went missing. Nothing since then. What the devil have you been up to, Mike?"

"Oh, just breaching the Official Secrets Act; trying to bring down the government; nothing for you to worry about. Have you been getting the money for everyone's wages?"

"Money?" She laughed. "That's the least of our problems. I keep getting cheques from Max Stafford; Bill managed to negotiate that grant of half a million from the Clarice Ditchwater Foundation - he says you owe him a raise, by the way - and lately there've been a couple of big transfers from some numbered Swiss bank account. Would you know anything about that?"

"Maybe." Jamieson was non-committal. He frowned deeply.

"What's the matter, Mike? I thought you'd be overjoyed to hear that our money worries seem to be over. Now we can go ahead with all those grand plans that you've been dreaming of for years."

Jamieson shook his head. "You don't understand, do you?" he said. "All these years we've been preaching the virtues of responsible journalism, attacking the tabloids for invading people's privacy, condemning chequebook journalism, vilifying the PCC, and all the rest of it. We've been standing there in a white sheet, as though we were the sole paragons of journalistic virtue. And the only reason we've got away with it is because we really did have a spotless reputation. Now look at us!"

"I take it you're using the royal 'we', like you usually do," Diane said. "I don't remember anyone else round here claiming those virtues, or abandoning them either."

Jamieson was nettled. "All right," he said, "if you're going to be pedantic I should have said 'I' did these things. It was me, me, me. Satisfied? I stood myself on a bloody pedestal and now I've fallen off it in a big way. All those new-found riches of ours come from intrusion, chequebook journalism, and the blatant theft of secret documents. How the hell can I carry on preaching against the very things that have made us - me - so much money? And you know the worst thing?"

"What?"

"I enjoyed it. I enjoyed every minute. Poking my finger in Bland's eye; ripping off Rupert Murdoch for all those millions. It was fun. It was a damned sight more fun than giving po-faced lectures about the importance of journalist ethics, I can tell you."

She put her arm round his shoulders. "Don't take it so hard, Mike. You didn't set out to do these things, Did you? I mean, they just sort of happened. Anyway, no one but us knows about it."

"You've got to be joking. Any good investigative journalist could find out in ten minutes flat. And don't think they won't be looking. We, sorry, I, have made a lot of enemies over the years. As soon as word gets round that PressWatch is no longer broke, they'll set the dogs on us and have a bloody good laugh when the story gets out. I'm afraid we're finished as far as the ethics business is concerned, Di, and it's all my fault."

"You really think PressWatch is important, don't you?"

"Of course. It's been my life for the past ten years."

"So what would you be prepared to do to save it?" An idea was forming in her mind.

"There's no way. I'd do absolutely anything, but there's no way out of this. We've had it." Depression was enveloping him like a black cloud.

"I think there is. You go to the Board of Trustees, make a full confession, and offer your resignation. Or you could let them fire you. Perhaps that would be best." She smiled consolingly. "You've got plenty of money, and if you want to stay in journalism the tabloids would have you like a shot. With a record like that you could command your own price."

"Fire me? Fire ME? They couldn't do that. Damnit, I AM PressWatch!"

"Oh Mike, face reality - just for a change. That may have been true once, but not any more. There's Bill and there's Terry; there's Anna and me and Charlotte and Wayne, and all those freelance trainers. You've built up a pretty talented and dedicated team over the years, only you've never let them have their heads. Now you'll have to - if you really want to save PressWatch, that is. Let the Board fire you for unethical conduct, and it's the one thing that will prove that we really do practice what we preach."

Jamieson put his head in his hands. "I'll think about it," he said.

  

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Extract from Hansard, September 10

A Bill to Make Certain Provisions vis-à-vis the United States - Second Reading

Mr. Speaker: The Deputy Prime Minister

Hon. Members: Yaroo. Resign.

Mr. Buscott: It gives me much pleasure to introduce this important measure to the House.

Mr. Kennelly: Will the Right Honourable Gentleman give way?

Mr. Buscott: No, I will not give way. I haven't started yet. As I was saying, it gives me much pleasure to introduce this important measure to the House.

Mr.Kennelly: On a point of order, Mr. Speaker.

Mr. Speaker: What is your point of order?

Mr. Kennelly: How can the Right Honourable Gentleman possibly derive pleasure from introducing a Bill which will strip this country of its sovereignty?

Mr. Speaker: That is not a point of order. Mr. Deputy Prime Minister…

Mr. Buscott: Thank you Mr. Speaker. I am grateful to the Right Honourable Gentleman for giving me the opportunity to refute the calumnies…

Hon. Member: That's a big word, John. Where'd you learn that?

Mr. Buscott: My honourable friend makes up in rudeness what he lacks in education.

Hon. Members: Oh.

Mr. Buscott: As I was saying, Mr. Speaker, I welcome the opportunity to refute the lies - there's a nice short word for my honourable friend - which have been spread about this Bill in the media. Notably, I have to say, by the BBC and the Guardian. I would expect such things from the Daily Mail or the Express, but these are supposed to be responsible organs of public opinion. It has always been my experience, Mr. Speaker, that the press shouts loudest when it has nothing to shout about, and for the past few weeks my Right Honourable Friend the Prime Minister has been subjected to a campaign of vilification based wholly on rumour and speculation which has caused him the deepest hurt and….

Hon. Members: laughter

Mr. Buscott: Hon. Members on the benches opposite may find this funny, but I can assure them that if it were not for his sense of responsibility my Right Honourable Friend would step down from his position and sue these scurrilous rags in the libel courts for every penny they and their editors possess. It is quite scandalous that these men, elected by nobody, should abuse the traditions of a free press in a manner calculated to bring my Right Honourable Friend into hatred, ridicule and contempt.

Mr. Ian Dudley Brown: Is the Deputy Prime Minister suggesting that his Right Honourable Friend is not both contemptible and ridiculous, and that by introducing this Bill he has justly aroused the hatred of every Englishman? And woman, of course.

Mr. Buscott: On a point of order, Mr. Speaker, do the rules of the House permit the sort of gratuitous insult just made by the Leader of the Opposition?

Labour members: withdraw, withdraw.

Mr. Speaker: I heard nothing that would justify my asking the Leader of the Opposition to withdraw his remarks. This is the ordinary cut-and-thrust of parliamentary debate, to which the Right Honourable Gentleman should be well accustomed by now.

Hon. Members: cheers and counter-cheers.

Mr. Buscott: I am aware that the Right Honourable Gentleman is speaking under the cloak of parliamentary privilege. If he would care to repeat what he has just said outside this chamber I would be delighted to accommodate him.

Hon. Member: Give 'im your right 'hook, John, like you did that bloke in Blackpool.

Mr. Speaker: Order, order. I must ask members to return to the second reading of the Bill. Mr. Buscott.

Mr. Buscott: Thank you, Mr. Speaker. As I was saying, with the exception of certain long-overdue reforms to this House and another place, this is purely a tidying-up measure which recognises the facts of life. Let's face it, Mr. Speaker, this country has long been a colony of the United States in all but name. The leader of the Liberal Party spoke just now of British sovereignty. What sovereignty? We go to war when the White House tells us to go to war, no matter whether we have any just cause or not. Our health service is being reformed at the behest of American drug and insurance companies. Our police forces are coerced into adopting American methods; there was a time when you never saw an armed British bobby - look at them now. Our major industries, what's left of them, are owned by American companies. We watch mindless American television; we listen to American music - if you can call it that - and we eat such vast quantities of American junk food that half our population is now obese.

Hon. Members: laughter

Mr. Buscott: I can assure Hon. Members that obesity is no laughing matter. (renewed laughter). I would remind them that I got this figure in the service of my country.

Hon. Member: The country you are about to betray.

Mr. Buscott: Not so. If the Hon. Member for Macclesfield has been listening, he would have heard me describe what has happened to us already; under his government as well as mine. We have become slavish puppets of the United States, unable to think or act for ourselves. So much for the 'special relationship'.

Hon Members: cheers and counter-cheers

Mr Ian Dudley Brown: If the Deputy Prime Minister feels so strongly about the United States, perhaps he could explain why he is proposing that this country should become the 51st State of the Union?

Hon. Members: prolonged cheers and counter-cheers.

Mr Speaker: Order, order. Honourable Members must give the Deputy Prime Minister a chance to reply. I am sure they will wish to hear his answer. Indeed, I should like to hear it myself.

Mr Buscott: I am glad the Right Honourable Gentleman asked that question. It will give me, at long last, a chance to explain what this Bill is all about. Members will be aware that in recent years thousands have died in useless wars of American creation. Thousands more, perhaps millions, have starved to death in the poor countries of the world because of selfish American trade policy. The environment has suffered through her abdication of the Kyoto Treaty. International justice has been made a mockery through her refusal to join the World Court. And in America itself, children are at risk because, together with Somalia, the United States is the only country not to sign up to the UN Treaty on the Rights of the Child. In all of this, as America's 'loyal ally', we stand complicit in the eyes of the world. Complicit by our silence and our powerlessness.

Mr Speaker, we have a saying in my constituency: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And that is what this Bill is all about. It will give us equal rights of representation in Congress to that of any other State of the Union. It will give our able civil servants and diplomats the opportunity to employ their talents in a place where they can really make a difference. Our armed services will become a force instead of a farce. For the first time in British history, our people will be citizens and not subjects. Who knows, one of these days we may even see a British-born President of the United States.

Hon. Members: Where is he?

Mr Buscott: Mr Speaker, I have no idea to whom Hon. Members are referring. (laughter) The House will want to know about the other side of the coin: what are we going to lose as a result of this Bill? I will tell you. We will lose the House of Lords and the Honours List. I know the latter will come as a severe disappointment to those of us, myself included, who have not yet received their knighthoods, their life peerages, and their Orders of this and that. But as my old mother used to say, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. (laughter). As for the Other Place, the majority of members of this House have been trying for years to enact House of Lords reform. Now you've got it. The upper chamber will be replaced by a wholly elected body, with the same powers over legislation as that enjoyed by the senates in every other State of the Union.

Hon Members: Cheers and counter-cheers.

Mr Speaker: Order, order. Mr Ian Dudley Brown

Mr Ian Dudley Brown: Can the Deputy Prime Minister tell us whether Her Majesty has been consulted about this legislation, and whether she approves?

Mr Buscott: I can. She does. I will go further and tell the Right Honourable Gentleman that Her Majesty has greeted the Bill with enthusiasm. I think she feels that it goes some way to restore a careless error made by her ancestor, King George III. (laughter)

In summation, Mr Speaker, this measure will restore to this country the influence in the world which she has often deserved but rarely enjoyed for almost a century. The House may recall the wise words of the late President Lyndon Johnson: it is better to have your critics inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in. I commend the Bill to the House.

Hon. Members: prolonged cheers and counter-cheers.

***************

 

"Quite extraordinary," said the Home Secretary to Jack Hay as the latter guided him towards the 'aye' lobby. "I never heard John Buscott make such a cogent…such a comprehensible speech before. Has he found a new speech-writer?"

"No," the Foreign Secretary replied through gritted teeth. "It was all his own work, the stupid bastard. We were counting on him to get the whole thing so muddled up that no one would know what this was really all about. Now they do, or at least," he added bitterly, "they will if they have half a grain of sense. God alone knows if we'll win the division now."

"I don't understand," said Cratchit.

"You will," Hay replied. "You will."

 

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

"So you're the character who took Uncle Rupert for three million?"

Jamieson felt uncomfortable. He was unused to female editors, and this one had the reputation of being a man-eater. "You could put it that way," he said cautiously.

She grinned. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hold it against you. The Dirty Digger can afford it, and it was a cracking good story. Got right up Bland's nose."

"But I thought Murdoch liked Bland? He's always popping round for tea in Downing Street."

"Rupert likes the bottom line. Full stop. Bland needs him more than he needs Bland, and they both know it. Anyway, that story boosted his circulation right across the world, and that's worth a good deal more than currying favour with a Prime Minister who could be gone tomorrow." She changed the subject abruptly. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a job," Jamieson said bluntly.

"What the hell do you want a job for? You just pocketed three million."

"I only got a third of it. I gave half of that to the PressWatch Trust, and they've just fired me for unethical behaviour."

She laughed. "First rule in life: never do anyone a favour; they'll only hate you for it. Well, you're in luck. I do have a vacancy on the investigative team, and you've certainly proved your talent. I can offer you….." She named a sum that made Jamieson swallow hard. "Will that do?"

"Er, that sounds fine. When do I start?"

"You've already started. I want you to find the Prime Minister."

Jamieson's jaw dropped. "Why? Have we lost him?"

"You could put it like that. You know he wasn't in the House for the second reading of the 51st State Bill yesterday?"

"I read about it. Isn't he supposed to be in the States for talks with Shiney?"

"That's the story," she said. "Trouble is, he never turned up at the White House, and nobody knows where the hell he is. That crafty bastard's up to something, and I want you to find out what. Can do?"

My God, Jamieson thought, talk about being thrown in at the deep end. "I'll do my best," he said.

She picked up the telephone and made a couple of quick calls. "Right. Nip down to accounts and they'll give you some expenses. You're booked on the next plane to DC. Got your passport with you?" Jamieson nodded. "Driving licence?" "I don't drive," he confessed.

"Jesus Christ, a reporter who can't drive? Now I've heard everything. OK, you'll just have to use taxis or hire a driver. Make sure you get receipts." She turned back to a pile of papers on her desk. Jamieson stood uncertainly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it and get the story. I'll have a freelance photographer meet you at the airport. You never know - you might catch our beloved leader with his pants down again." She laughed. "Oh, and in case you're wondering, Uncle Rupert is all in favour of this 51st State caper. It'll let him buy up whatever he wants. You might remember that when you file your copy."

His mind whirling, Jamieson left the office and headed downstairs. He had an uncomfortable feeling that his new career might be rather short-lived.

**************

 

Beauregard P. Shrub was bored, and feeling very sorry for himself. He knew where he was: St Helena. The trouble was that he had no idea where that was. Geography had never been his strong suit. The one thing certain was that it was in the middle of some fucking ocean. Which fucking ocean eluded him. Not to worry, he had thought when he first arrived on the slightly perilous airstrip, someone in the State Department was sure to know. They would tell the Pentagon, the Pentagon would organise a rescue mission with Special Forces, and he would be off this damned rock and back in the White House in no time. Then he would get Bland; that treacherous bastard.

But that had been weeks ago, and no one had come.

Not that his captivity was onerous. He was housed, they told him, in the very building occupied by Napoleon Bonaparte during the last six years of his life. From the way they spoke, Beauregard P. implied that this man Bonaparte must have been something special. For himself, he had never heard of him. The furnishings were opulent, the staff polite, the food edible, and the affable British Governor came round for dinner every Friday. There was really no confinement; he was free to wander round the capital, Jamestown, as often as he pleased. This did not take long, the entire population of the island being less than 7,000 and the night life non-existent. Beauregard P. tried it a couple of times, but found himself stared at in a not-too-friendly fashion by the local inhabitants and retreated to his mansion. There, there was at least a library, which was good news. The bad news was that it had apparently been stocked by the previous inhabitant and the volumes were all in French. He did not speak French.

How he longed for satellite television. The Governor, he was sure, had one. But for all his affability, Sir Humphrey Bartlett-Tomkinson studiously ignored his broad hints that an invitation to Government House to watch The Simpsons, or even the Jerry Springer show, would be a welcome break. What did the man think he was going to do? Press the red button and cry for help? Come to think of it, that might not be a bad idea.

Most of all, Beauregard P. was starved of news. He suspected this was deliberate. They didn't want him to know what Shiney was doing to get him out of this place; they didn't want him to see the demonstrations for his liberation which were undoubtedly taking place all over the United States and in every freedom-loving country. It was inconceivable that the Leader of the Free World should be allowed to rot away, alone and forgotten, on some God-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. Beauregard P. stared blindly out of his bedroom window at the wide expanse of ocean and fat tears began to run down his stubbled cheeks.

**************

 

Tony Bland, on the other hand, was having a lovely time. His British Airways 747 was met at Dulles by a White House limousine with darkened windows, complete with motorcycle escort. A figure emerged from the aircraft, parked some distance from the terminal, and the cavalcade roared off in the direction of Washington, pursued by a posse of press cars. Bland, meanwhile, stayed in his first class seat until the people-transporter had driven up, merged with the crowd, and was intercepted by two men in dark suits who abstracted him neatly from the throng and escorted him outside to a waiting car. They drove off in the opposite direction, towards West Virginia.

"Tony!" The former President of the United States strode from the porch of an impressive country mansion and enveloped Bland in a bear-hug that threatened to crush his ribs. "Long time no see. They tell me you're about to become a citizen of the good old USA. Congratulations! They also tell me…" Clinton dropped his voice to a whisper, "…that you're going to be after my old job. That true?"

"Well, I, er, you see…." Bland's voice trailed away. He was never at home with a direct question. He extricated himself from the enveloping arms and took a deep breath. "You don't believe in foreplay, do you?"

Clinton looked offended. "I never had…." he began, and then laughed. "That's a joke, right? I thought for a moment you were dragging up the past. No, I don't see any point in beating about the bush. You know why you're here. We know why you're here. So why pretend otherwise?"

"Well, I have to admit the thought had crossed my mind."

A hearty slap on the back sent him reeling. "Come on, admit it: you've been thinking of nothing else since you managed to pack off my old friend Beauregard P. to the back of beyond. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Between you and me, Tony…" Clinton lowered his voice to a confidential whisper…"you're just what the Democratic Party needs right now. You're attractive, you're plausible, and we both know you're as devious as hell. Goddamnit, you're even religious. But above all, you know how to win elections. Boy, do we need you! Let's go and meet the folks."

With an arm draped round his shoulders, Bland was guided through the mock-Grecian portico and into a spacious hallway flanked by curving marble staircases which led to a balcony above. Among the dark-suited group of men awaiting him he recognised the former leaders of the House and Senate from the Clinton era, but the rest were strangers. "The money men," Clinton whispered in his ear before he made the introductions. "You're going to need them."

For an hour, once they were seated around the massive maple wood table in the mansion's main dining room, Bland was regaled with the fine details of the primary system, the legalities of "hard" and "soft" campaign funding, and the strengths and weaknesses of the other likely Democrat contenders for the presidency. His head was spinning. Finally Clinton stepped in.

"We don't have to bother Tony with all this shit," he said. "He's not going to enter any primaries, because he won't be a U.S. citizen until the season is well under way. He's got to get that Bill through parliament first and have it signed by the Queen before Britain becomes the 51st state. That's right, isn't it Tone?"

"Er, well, I mean, yes." Bland's hands began to dance as he realised, perhaps for the first time, the enormity of what was being proposed. What had once been a mere pipedream was coming uncomfortably close to reality, and the men who faced him had no notion of the understanding he had reached with the White House. What if they should find out before the election? "The Queen has to give her assent," he went on, "but I know Her Majesty is quite keen on the idea."

"So, no problem," Clinton said. "We all know that Shiney is going to run, and none of the seven dwarves we have in the race right now stands a hope in hell of beating him. So we keep Tony on ice until the Convention, and then produce him as a last-minute surprise candidate. Believe me, with his electoral record he'll sweep the floor."

"But what about the Constitution?" objected one of the money men. "Doesn't that say that the President has to have been born in the United States?" Bland recollected that the same question had occurred to him.

"George Washington wasn't born in the United States," Clinton retorted. "And if the Supreme Court can endorse what Beauregard P. Did to poor Al Gore in Florida last time round, I'm damn sure they can bend the rules for Tony." For quite different reasons, Bland was sure of that, too. "The important thing," continued Clinton, "is to keep Tony's candidacy a total secret until the Convention. If word leaks out, believe me the shit is going to hit the fan on both sides of the Atlantic. Right, Tone?"

"Dead right," Bland said, and felt a goose walk over his grave. Keeping secrets had not been his forte of late.

"Anyone got any questions?" Clinton looked round the table. No one had. "Right then, that's the business concluded. Time to eat, have a few drinks, and then we can have some fun. Just wait and see what I've laid on for you guys. You're staying the night, of course, Tony?"

Bland nodded mutely, wondering what the evening was going to bring. But he couldn't afford to offend his new-found patrons, and a glance around showed that they were positively salivating with expectation. Oh dear, he thought, why didn't I bring Charlotte? On the other hand, maybe it was just as well.

  

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

The photographer who greeted Jamieson as he passed through customs and immigration was a small, rat-faced man, carrying a large camera bag and a placard bearing Jamieson's name. They shook hands perfunctorily, and the photographer introduced himself as Charlie Pozzanno. "So, what's the story?" he said.

"I'm supposed to find the Prime Minister," said Jamieson, feeling increasingly that the task was going to be beyond him.

"Easy, the guy's at the White House. It was in the Post this morning."

"That's the problem - he's not. No one knows where the hell he is."

Charlie digested this news for a moment. "You reckon he doesn't want to be found?"

"It looks that way. Problem is, where do we start?"

"Reckon he's off with some bimbo?" suggested Charlie.

"I doubt it," Jamieson said. "Our Prime Minister is a depressingly moral man."

"Balls. I never knew a politician yet who didn't like to play away. Cherchez la femme, as they say in your part of the world. Beats me why the dames go for these creeps, but they do. Anyway, we're not going to get anywhere without transport. Let's go hire ourselves a car."

"Don't you have one of your own?" Jamieson was hoping he would not have to reveal his deficiency in the driving department.

"Sure I do, but you're on expenses, right? Let's go hire ourselves something fancy." He set off towards the Hertz desk, with Jamieson trailing behind. In front of them a group of young women, all of them attractive, were having an animated conversation with the man behind the desk. Earwigging, Jamieson gathered that they had just flown in from Arkansas and had been promised a stretch limousine to take them on to a party. The clerk was desperately trying to locate the booking, overwhelmed by the twitter of voices and the aroma of conflicting perfumes.

"Don't you know who made the reservation?" he pleaded.

"He said his name was Clinton," said a well-upholstered blonde in the shortest skirt that Jamieson had ever encountered. "You know, like the last President. It couldn't really be him, could it?" They all giggled.

The clerk looked them over and smirked. "I wouldn't be surprised," he said, and went back to his computer, finding the booking almost immediately. "Here we are. One stretch limo to take you ladies out to the Boxworth mansion on the West Virginia border. Booked to bring you back to Dulles tomorrow morning. That sound right?" The giggles renewed. "OK, if you like to wait over there for five minutes I'll have the driver bring the limo round. Oh, and, er, have a nice day."

Jamieson and Charlie exchanged glances. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" said Jamieson.

"Sure am. It's like I said just now. Your guy and Clinton used to be great buddies, right? So ole Bill lays on a party out in the boondocks where nobody's goin to be watching, just for old time's sake. Looks like your Tony Bland ain't so Simon-pure after all."

Jamieson looked doubtful. "It doesn't sound like him," he said, "but I guess it's worth a try. We've got nothing else to go on. Do you know where this Boxworth place is?"

"Naw, but how hard can it be to follow a stretch limo? C'mon, let's get that car."

Five minutes later, with Charlie at the wheel, they were seated in a Jaguar saloon which had made a considerable dent in Jamieson's expense account. In front of them, the party girls were fitting themselves in to the longest car that he had ever seen. "I do believe," he said, "that you really could get a bowling alley in the back of one of those things." The two vehicles pulled away together and headed west. "Better hang back a bit," said Jamieson. "We don't want them to know they're being followed."

Charlie dutifully allowed himself to be overtaken by two or three homeward-bound commuters, but as they passed through the outer suburbs dusk began to fall and the traffic thinned out. Now there was no one between them and their quarry. The Jaguar dropped back to a respectful three hundred yard gap, the lights of the limo clearly visible as Route 66 threaded its way through the farmland and hamlets of Virginia. "Another half hour to the end of the Interstate," said Charlie. "Then we'll have to close up a bit to see which way they turn."

The limousine turned off at the little town of Strasburg, then headed west again on a minor road that twisted and twirled its way towards the West Virginia border. Charlie slowed again, catching the flash of brake lights as the limousine checked for the corners and then surged ahead. "Wherever they're going," he said, "they're sure in a damned hurry."

Suddenly the road straightened, plunging down a long slope before rising again to the crest of the next hill. It was empty. The limousine, which had been no more than four hundred yards ahead, was nowhere to be seen. "Bastards must have turned off," Charlie muttered, "unless they spotted us and made a sprint for it. Whatdawe do now?"

"Slow down and check for a junction," Jamieson said. "This thing is fast enough to catch them if they have gone ahead." The night was now pitch black, and Charlie put the headlights on full beam as they scanned the side of the road. "There it is," he exclaimed. An unmade road branched off to the left, running through thick woods, and they caught the loom of headlights in the distance. "That has to be them." He made the turn and followed cautiously, switching off the main beams. "We've got to be close now."

After half a mile a sign post at the foot of a steep driveway said simply "Boxworth". They pulled to a halt and could see the lights of a substantial mansion through the trees. "Guess we're here," Charlie said. "Let me find somewhere to park this beast out of sight. We don't want to advertise our presence, do we?" He drove on until a muddy lay-by appeared at the side of the road and the pair trudged back, Charlie clutching his camera bag.

Beginning a cautious approach up the driveway to the mansion, they ducked into the bushes as the stretch limo, having deposited its scented load, came wheeling back down the hill with its headlights blazing and stereo at full blast. If the driver saw them, he gave no sign. The lights on the ground floor were bright, the shutters open, the curtains undrawn. Jamieson had a momentary flash-back. This is how it all began, he thought: Tony Bland photographed through an uncurtained window. Would the man never learn?

Charlie Pozzanno looked round anxiously. "They might have dogs in the grounds," he said, "and I mean the kind that bite first and bark later."

"We'll have to take the chance," said Jamieson, feeling none too brave himself. "We're too far in to back out now."

"Just as long as your newspaper covers medical expenses."

"I'm sure they would," whispered Jamieson, who wasn't at all sure.

Keeping low, they crept closer to the window from which the sound of loud music was emanating. Charlie paused for a minute to extract a couple of cameras from his bag and sling them round his neck. "This might be a rush job," he said. "If they spot us, run like hell." But the six men and six women, already sorted into couples, clearly had their attention elsewhere. At least, eleven of them did. The exception was Tony Bland, who could be seen backing into a corner with the voluptuous blonde from the Hertz counter in close pursuit. The sound of voices came clearly through the window to the watchers outside.

"Aw, come on Tony, loosen up." Clinton, with two tumblers of what looked like whisky in his hand, was advancing on the hapless Prime Minister. "You're a long way from home, you're among friends, and you're here to have a good time. Don't spoil it for the rest of us, eh?"

Reluctantly, Bland accepted the drink, only to have it lifted from his grasp by his companion who took a long swallow and held the glass at arm's length while the other hand curled round the back of his neck and pulled him towards her. She then planted a very wet kiss on the Prime Ministerial mouth.

"Attagirl" chortled Clinton. "You'll soon have the limey loosened up." Outside the window, the whirr and click of Charlie's camera sounded to Jamieson like thunder, but no one in the room seemed to have noticed.

"Did you get that?" Jamieson hissed.

"Oh boy, did I get that!" Charlie still had his eye glued to the viewfinder. "Got a great establishing shot with Clinton in the frame as well."

"Maybe we'd better be going," Jamieson said nervously.

"Not on your life. This is just beginning to get interesting."

The blonde had loosened Bland's tie and was playing with the buttons on his shirt-front while inserting one nylon-clad leg suggestively between his thighs. His eyes were beginning to roll, and his hands make ineffectual gestures to ward off his attacker. The lips came down again; more firmly this time. Encouraged by Clinton, the others had begun to cluster around the pair, urging the blonde on.

"C'mon," muttered Charlie, "get outa the goddamned way. I need to get a shot of this."

The group parted, and they saw the girl clutching Bland's tie, dragging him unwillingly towards the door. "First room at the top of the stairs on the right," Clinton called, and the couple disappeared from sight.

"Time to go," Jamieson said, pulling Charlie away from the window none too gently. The latter was already eyeing a creeper which ran up the front of the house towards an upstairs window where a light had just flicked on. "We're here for a story, not evidence for the divorce court."

"Spoilsport," muttered the cameraman, but he allowed himself to be dragged towards the driveway. They reached the car without incident, their subjects blissfully unaware of what had happened. Not for long, thought Jamieson, reflecting on the number of ethical rules he had just broken.

"Did you recognise any of the other men in there, apart from Clinton?" he asked Charlie as they drove away. "A couple of them were Democratic big-wigs in the House and Senate," Charlie said. "I'd guess the others were money men. We can check when I get the prints developed."

"So what was Bland doing in conference with the opposition, when he was supposed to be at the White House?" Jamieson mused. "He sure as hell wasn't there just for the party. And did the White House know what he was up to? They laid on cover for him, so they must have done. I think our beloved Prime Minister is going to have some awkward questions to answer when he gets home."

"He will when they see these pictures." Charlie laughed. "And I don't reckon that lawyer wife of his is going to be too pleased."

  

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

"Great job, Mike." The editor sounded excited. "How the hell did you find him?"

"Just luck," Jamieson said modestly. It never did any harm to dress up the truth with a modicum of mystery.

"Well, no one else has managed to get lucky, and I can tell you that the whole of Fleet Street - I mean Wapping - has been on the hunt. You must have a special kind of luck. That's why we're paying you all that money."

"Glad you're pleased." As indeed he was. It was not long since he had been convinced that his new-found career was headed for the dustbin.

"Just get yourself and those pix on the next flight home. And bring the negatives as well. Charlie's a good bloke, but I wouldn't trust him not to make a few extra bucks by flogging them elsewhere. If he objects, tell him he's in for a big, big bonus. Which he is."

"Don't you want me to stay here and find out what Bland's been up to?"

"Don't bother. I'll get our Washington correspondent to talk to the Democrats, and Bland will have to answer plenty of questions on the subject when he gets back here. Just bring me those lovely photos, post haste."

"Yes ma'am," said Jamieson, mentally saluting. He hurried away to see Charlie, who was remarkably non-argumentative about handing over the negatives. "They see me right," he said. "The Screws of the World may be a lousy newspaper, but they always come through with the money." Jamieson could vouch for that.

****************

 

Extract from Hansard. September 17

Mr. Speaker: Questions to the Prime Minister. Mr. Iain Dudley Brown.

Mr. Dudley Brown: Mr. Speaker, can the Prime Minister enlighten us on the purpose of his recent visit to Washington? (cheers and counter-cheers)

The Prime Minister: I visited the United States last week for private talks with Mr Shiney, the Acting President. The content of those talks must remain confidential.

Mr. Dudley Brown: Can the Prime Minister tell us whether these talks had any connection with the abominable Bill now before the House which would make this country into the 51st State? (Opposition cheers)

The Prime Minister: I have nothing to add to what I have already said.

Mr. Speaker: Mr Charles Kennelly

Mr. Kennelly: If we are to believe what we read in a certain Sunday newspaper, it would appear that talks with the Acting President were not the only purpose of his visit to the United States. Can the Prime Minister enlighten us as to the identity of the young lady with whom he was photographed? (Cries of "oh")

The Prime Minister: I would advise the Right Honourable Gentleman not to believe all he reads or sees in the newspapers.

Mr. Kennelly: This is the second occasion in recent months when the Prime Minister has been photographed in a compromising position. Might he not be advised to pull the curtains, next time he indulges in these illuminating practices?

The Prime Minister: I hardly think that the Right Honourable Gentleman's question deserves an answer. However, I should tell him that the person depicted in the photographs was not me. (renewed cries of "oh". Cheers and counter-cheers)

Mr Speaker: Order, order. Mr Kennelly

Mr. Kennelly: Thank you for your indulgence, Mr. Speaker. In view of the answer the Prime Minister has just given, might I ask him if he is taking legal action against the newspaper concerned?

The Prime Minister: I intend to refer the matter to the Press Complaints Commission.

An honourable member: Fat lot of good they are.

Mr. Speaker: Order, order. The honourable member for Basingstoke West knows perfectly well that seated interruptions are out of order. I must ask him to withdraw that remark.

Mr. Ponsonby (Con. Basingstoke West): I apologise, Mr. Speaker, and of course I withdraw - even though what I said was true. (Cries of "withdraw"). But would the Prime Minister not agree that this incident proves the deplorable lack of taste and responsibility in the British press?"

The Prime Minister: Yes, sir.

The Speaker: Mr. Charles Bloggs

Mr. Bloggs (Lab. Wigan West): Would the Prime Minister agree with me that everyone, even a politician, has a right to privacy under the Human Rights Act? And is not the News of the World in serious breach of that Act, and should it not be prosecuted?

The Prime Minister: I will bear in mind what my honourable friend says, but I repeat that I was not the person depicted in those photographs.

An honourable member: Who was it then? Rory Bremner? (Laughter)

Mr. Speaker: Order, order. Mr. Harvey Wilkins

Mr. Wilkins (Con. Hammersmith South): Is the Prime Minister aware that his flies are undone? (Laughter. Cheers and counter cheers)

*************

 

Tony Bland sat at his desk, head in hands. He looked up as the door to his study swung open to reveal the menacing figure of Angus Crawford. Bland sighed heavily. "For Christ's sake, Angus, I fired you weeks ago. Can't you ever get the message?"

Quite unfazed, Crawford stood over him, arms folded. "You really think that guy you put in my place can handle the mess you're in right now? It's no good poncing around with denials in the House and lobby briefings that no one believes. You need some heavyweight action on this one." Crawford pulled a copy of the News of the World from under his arm and thrust it at the Prime Minister. "Did you notice the by-line on this story?"

Bland looked, though the images of him being kissed by some American tart and being led away by his tie to an obvious destination caused him acute pain. "Mike Jamieson," he said. "Isn't he the one who….."

"The very same," Crawford said grimly.

"How the hell did he know where I was going? I told the lobby I was going to be at the White House."

"Jamieson isn't a member of the Lobby," Crawford said. "He evidently likes to get his information from more reliable sources."

"Don't be bloody sarcastic, Angus. You've spun a few stories in your time. More than a few actually."

"Let me get this straight, boss. You're telling me that you weren't at the White House?"

"Of course I wasn't."

"And it was you in those photos along with Clinton?"

"I was set up, goddamnit. That woman practically raped me. If you must know, not that it's any of your business, I was there for a private meeting with Clinton and a bunch of other Democratic leaders because they want me as their Presidential candidate. That's strictly between these four walls. If it gets out before the Bill gets the royal assent, I'm done for."

"So that's why you lied to the Commons?"

Bland was stung to the quick. "I did not lie to the Commons. I have never lied to the Commons. You know that perfectly well."

"So when you told them it was not you being dragged off by that young lady, it was on a par with those Iraqi weapons of mass destruction that were going to hit us in 45 minutes, was it? You really believed what you were saying?"

Bland thought he detected a note of disrespect in Crawford's voice. He decided to ignore it. "That's it. That's exactly it. And if you really believe something it can't possibly be a lie, can it?" His hands danced in frenzy.

"Balls," said Crawford inelegantly. "The point is that someone tipped off Jamieson and the News of the World that you would be meeting Clinton. My guess would be that they didn't tell them the purpose of the trip, otherwise it would be all over the front pages and your goose would be cooked already. Can you imagine the headlines: PM to desert Britain for U.S.? or Bland plans to jump Sinking Ship? The question is, why didn't they do that, rather than just involving you in a bit of sexual hanky-panky?"

"There was no sexual hanky-panky," Bland protested, then saw the look of total disbelief in Crawford's eyes. "Well, she was a bloody strong woman and I didn't like to be impolite."

"Yes, well, I hope you enjoyed it. The point is, who gave the tip-off, and why? Who else knew about that meeting?"

Bland thought for a moment. "Dick Shiney, of course. He provided my cover, in fact he arranged the whole thing. But he would never have blown the gaffe; after all, my candidacy was his idea in the first place."

Crawford sat down heavily and leaned across the desk. "Let me get this straight. Shiney, who is a Republican, wants to arrange for you to become a Democrat and fight him in the next Presidential election?"

"Er, yes."

"Why the fuck should he do that?"

"Because….because he knows the Republicans are going to lose." Bland gave a weak smile. "He's going to abandon the race on health grounds, and put up some no-hoper against me. Pretty neat, eh?"

"And what's in it for the Republicans? No, don't tell me, let me guess. Your side of the deal is that you'll do to the Democrats exactly what you did to the Labour Party - get elected for one side and follow the policies of the other - right?"

There was no reply. Crawford stood up and looked down at the Prime Minister with a broad grin. "I'm going to tell you something, Tony, that I've wanted to tell you for a long time. And I can say it now because you've fired me already: you really are a complete, utter, self-serving shit." He turned to leave.

"But Angus," the tone was pleading, "what should I do now?"

"Sorry Tony, I'm not on the payroll any more, and I don't give free advice."

"But, Angus….just this once, for old times' sake."

"Balls. You could always re-hire me, of course."

"The media would crucify me if I did that. You know how much they hated you."

"Your choice." Crawford moved towards the door.

"Oh, all right. You can have your damn job back."

"How much?"

Bland plucked a figure out of the air.

"That's less than I was getting before, you bloody chiseller. You can take your job and shove it where the sun never shines."

"Oh, all right." Bland waved his hands despairingly. "How much do you want?"

Crawford named a figure. Bland winced. "That's damned nearly as much as I get."

"Seems fair to me. Who's the brains around here?"

"Oh very well, but Gordon isn't going to like it."

"Gordon can get stuffed. Let's have it in writing."

"What's the matter?" Bland was offended. "Don't you trust me?"

"Would you?"

Bland reluctantly pulled out a sheet of embossed notepaper from his desk drawer, scribbled a few lines and passed it over. "Will that do?"

"That'll do nicely," Crawford said after scanning the letter. He folded it, put it in his jacket pocket, and headed once more for the door.

"Hey, wait a minute. You were going to give me some advice."

"This needs some thought," Crawford said. "I'll see you later." And left.

 

  

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Beauregard P. Shrub stood at an upstairs window of his St Helena mansion and stared to the north-west across the blue and empty sea. It was something he had been doing a lot just lately, conscious - having consulted the atlas - that far beyond that horizon lay the homeland from which he had been so cruelly exiled. One day soon, he was sure of it, a task force of the U.S. Marines would loom into sight, storm the cliffs, and carry him away in triumph. And so he kept on looking. But there was nothing, nothing at all except a solitary white sail just visible among the spume-topped wavecrests. Beauregard P. watched the sail grow steadily closer, and an idea began to form slowly, very slowly, in the deep recesses of his mind.

The only occasions on which he had been placed under any form of restraint were when the weekly RAF transport, which had brought him here, landed at the airstrip, and once, a couple of weeks previously, when the small ship from South Africa which brought supplies to the island docked in the tiny harbour. That, he had been told, happened only twice a year. For the rest of the time his gaolers seemed confident that the sea would stop any attempt at escape, as indeed it had. But now there was another boat approaching; an unscheduled boat. Beauregard P. reached a decision. He sauntered downstairs, called a cheery greeting to the cook, and went outside. There was, as he had hoped, no sign of the sentry who was only called on duty when arrivals were expected. This one clearly was not.

Beauregard P. made his way down to the dockside and seated himself at the tiny bar which was the social centre of St Helena. The few locals who were enjoying a quiet drink after the afternoon siesta ignored him. It was not that they did not know who he was; they simply did not care. Beauregard P. had initially been offended by their indifference, but now he was glad of it. He nursed a beer, and then a succession of beers, waiting an eternity for the boat to round the island and appear in the harbour entrance. By the time it finally arrived, the sails slatting as it drew gently up to the quay without benefit of engine, the President was in no fit condition to navigate a rowboat on Washington's reflecting pond, let alone sail the Atlantic. He weaved his way from bar to dock, hand outstretched towards the two sun-tanned sailors who were busy with the mooring lines. "Am I glad to see you guys," he slurred.

The men looked up. "Hey Bruce, we've got a welcoming committee," said one. The voice had a strong Australian twang. "Looks like we've come to the right place for a little liquid refreshment. He's certainly had plenty." The other man looked up. "D'you reckon he can guide us to the Fosters, Barry?"

"Dunno. I wouldn't put any bets on his powers of navigation."

Beauregard P. was still standing with his hand out, an owlish grin on his face. "Welcome to St Helena," he said. "I'm the Preshident of the United States. Beauregard P. Shrub."

"Glad to meet you, sport," Bruce said, taking the hand and shaking it warmly. "I'm Napoleon Bonaparte, and my cobber over there is Josephine." Beauregard P. blinked. He had the distinct impression that he was not being taken seriously.

"Don't you recognise me?" The two men took a hard, half-serious look at the gently swaying President.

"Can't say that we do," Barry said finally, "but we've been a long time at sea. Guess you must have been made President since we hit the last port."

Beauregard P. decided not to pursue the point. He pointed waveringly in the general direction of the bar. "Would you guys like to join me for a beer?"

"Thought you'd never ask. Lead on, sport. Mine's a Fosters if they've got any. Otherwise anything wet and cold." Stumbling only slightly, Beauregard P. led the way to the bar, hoping that his hospitality allowance, generously doled out by the Governor each week, would be equal to the strain. These were clearly two thirsty sailors.

An hour later, without having got round to making his request for a speedy rescue, Beauregard P. passed out and slid elegantly beneath the table. Bruce and Barry looked at each other. "What do we do with this bozo?" Bruce asked. "We can't leave him here, and we don't know where he lives."

"Take him on board and shove him in the spare bunk to sleep it off," Barry said. "Then we can come back here and finish the party." It seemed like a good idea. The two men heaved Beauregard P. to his feet and carried him across the quay, watched imperturbably by a somnolent pelican. With a good deal of cursing and swearing they managed to get his inert body into the cockpit, then slid it down the companionway where it landed with a thump on the cabin sole. They were perspiring heavily before they contrived to lift the unconscious President on to the spare bunk in the forecabin.

"That's our good turn for the day," said Bruce. "Christ, I need another beer after that." They headed back to the bar, leaving behind a gently snoring and distinctly rumpled Chief Executive.

At Napoleon's villa it was assumed by the staff that Beauregard P. had returned unseen from his perambulation. It had happened before. It was not until the maid brought his breakfast next morning (hash browns, grits, and two eggs over and easy), and found his bed empty and unused, that alarm began to stir. Sir Humphrey Bartlett-Tomkinson was notified immediately and ordered a thorough but discreet search of the entire island. Perhaps, he thought, Beauregard P. had wandered down a goat-track and fallen off a cliff. Perhaps, maddened by incarceration, he had decided to swim for it. Either way, Sir Humphrey knew he was in trouble. Once London got to know that he had lost (he preferred the word "mislaid") the President of the United States, there would be hell to pay. He could kiss his life peerage goodbye for a start, and his next posting would be to Outer Mongolia. As the hours passed and there was still no word of Beauregard P., alive or dead, Sir Humphrey wondered how long he could delay sending the fatal telegram to the Foreign Office.

Meanwhile Beauregard P. had woken up with a throbbing headache to be confronted by two obscenely cheerful Australians. "G'day, sport," said Bruce. "Who's been a naughty boy then?"

"What do you mean?" Beauregard P. was not fully awake.

"Well, we had the police round here about an hour ago, asking if we'd seen anyone answering your description."

"What did you tell them?" He felt a shiver of apprehension pass down his spine.

"Nothing, of course. We don't go snitching on mates. What do they want you for?"

"It's a long story," said Beauregard P., but insisted on telling it none the less. It all came out in one breath. "I was flying to London on Air Force One," he said, "intending to have my portrait painted by Tracey Nomen when somehow the Customs found cocaine on the plane and arrested me then they found what they said were illegal firearms - though of course they weren't - and they accused me of impersonating a head of state and offences against the Immigration Act and assaulting a policeman and the judge slung me in this horrible British prison where they tried to prove I was a nut-case and put me in this loony-bin called Broadmoor or something and finally they flew me out here." By the time he had finished, Beauregard P. was gasping for air. The two Australians listened in awed admiration.

"Well stone the bleeding crows," Bruce said finally. "I've heard some whoppers in my time but that one takes the cake. How'd you dream up all that shit? Mind you, it sounds just like the bleeding Poms. You can't trust the bastards an inch."

"It's true, I tell you." Beauregard P. sounded desperate. "My name is Beauregard P. Shrub and I really am President of the United States. Don't you people read the newspapers or watch television?"

"Television? On this old tub?" Barry laughed. "We don't even have a radio; leastways, not one that works. Wait a sec, though," he thought for a moment. "Don't we have some old newspapers up in the forepeak, Bruce? You remember, we bought them for the cat to shit on before the silly moo decided to jump overboard."

Bruce scratched his chin. "Dunno. I'll go and have a look. You reckon they might have a picture of this bozo?" He departed towards a smelly compartment in the bow, returning after a few minutes with a damp bundle of very old newspapers. The two men began poring over them.

"Here, get a load of this," Bruce said excitedly. "There's a story in this rag about the last Presidential election. Says this guy Shrub managed to steal it because his brother fiddled the polls in Florida. And there's a picture of him." He held the paper up to the light, comparing the photograph with the forlorn object sitting on the opposite bunk. "Do you reckon that's him, Barry?"

"It's all a lie," protested Beauregard P. "I won that election fair and square."

"That's not what it says here. Anyway, who cares? All you bloody politicians are the same. Bunch of bleeding drongos." For a moment Beauregard P. considered asking what a 'drongo' was, then decided that he did not really want to know. "I need your help," he said desperately. "I'll pay you a million dollars to get me to America."

The cramped cabin was filled with sudden silence. Then Bruce said flatly: "we're not going to America."

"Two million."

"Look sport," said Barry, "granted you look a bit like that bloke in the paper, but when it came to buying the beers last night you ran out of cash after the first round. Now you start talking about millions. Why don't you pull the other fucking leg - it's got bells on."

"But I have got the money, really. It's just," he finished lamely, "it's just that it's in America."

"Well we're not going to bloody America, and that's final," Bruce said. "Once we've got some supplies on board and topped up the water tanks we're heading straight for Aussieland. Down into the forties, and a straight run to Fremantle."

"Take me with you," pleaded Beauregard P. "I can get a plane home from there. And then I can send you your money."

"Hmm." The two Australians looked at each other. "You really on the run from the Pommy coppers?" asked Barry.

"You know I am."

"Do you know how to sail a boat? The Esperaza don't have room for no passengers."

"Of course," Beauregard P. lied. "I've been sailing since I was a boy." He hoped they would be far out at sea before the truth was discovered.

"Excuse us a minute." The two Australians retired to the cockpit where they engaged in earnest conversation. Beauregard P. applied his ear to the cabin washboards but could hear nothing. At last they returned.

"OK," Bruce said, "we'll take you. It'll take a couple of days to get the stores on board, so you'd better stay below until we're ready to leave. If the coppers send a rummage party on board before we go, there's nothing we can do to help you. Understand?"

Beauregard P. understood. "I really meant that about the million dollars," he said.

"You can buy us a drink when we get there." And they were gone.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

"Have you seen this?" The editor thrust a piece of paper towards Jamieson, who took it nervously. "It's a Downing Street press release rubbishing your story. They say Bland was just playing party games at that house in Virginia; they were celebrating Clinton's birthday. Did it look like party games to you?"

"Not unless orgies count as party games. Maybe they do. I'm a bit out of touch with that sort of thing."

"Was it his birthday?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. I suppose I could look it up," Jamieson said.

"Do that. But my guess is that they wouldn't lie about something that can be checked so easily. I see the hand of Angus Crawford in this. There's a rumour that he's got his nose back under the tent at Number 10. The point is this: do we just laugh it off, or do we do a follow-up?"

"The only follow-up I can think of," Jamieson said, thinking hard, "is to find out what was going on at that house before the girls arrived. My guess is that Clinton didn't get those Democratic Party heavies out there with Bland just so that everyone could get screwed. Pardon my French," he added, as a frown crossed the face of his female editor. "Haven't the lobby people managed to turn up anything?"

"Not a dickey-bird," she said. "The House is too busy buzzing with this 51st State Bill. Just could be there's a connection somewhere. I want you to get back to the States, Mike, and have a sniff around. Do you know the names of these characters?"

"Charlie Pozzano told me. I've got them in my notebook somewhere." He groaned inwardly. Long distance air travel was already beginning to lose its charm.

"Right, those are your targets. And don't hesitate to use a little gentle blackmail. You may not have any incriminating pictures of them, but they don't know that."

How long ago was it, Jamieson thought, that I used to preach journalistic ethics? He sighed inwardly. "I'll let you know as soon as I have anything," he said. "You couldn't manage Business Class this time, I suppose?"

"In your dreams."

Twelve hours later, cramped and jet-lagged, Mike Jamieson limped through the arrivals gate at Dulles International to find Charlie Pozzano waiting for him once more. The photographer was clutching a sheaf of manila envelopes, each bearing the name of a prominent Democrat. He thrust them at Jamieson.

"Best I could find," he said. "There'd have been some much juicier stuff if you hadn't dragged me away from that place at the speed of light."

Jamieson glanced at the contents of the envelopes. Each showed a politician in a firm embrace with a scantily-clad female, but all still had their clothes on. "They might be enough," he said doubtfully. "I doubt if they'd want their wives seeing them. Any suggestions on who I should try first?" He failed to notice the wicked glint in Charlie's eye as he pointed to one of the envelopes.

"I'd go for that one," Charlie said. "He's the junior Senator from California. Loads of money, and a real close buddy of Clinton."

"How do I find him?" Charlie looked at his watch; it was just after mid-day. "By the time we get into town he'll have finished lunch. You should find him in the Senate Office Building on Capitol Hill."

"You mean I can just walk in on him?"

"Sure, why not? You're a legit journalist, aren't you? Valid press card and all that shit. Of course he'll see you." Jamieson shook his head in surprise. He was not yet accustomed to American openness. "You coming with me?"

"Nah. I'll drop you outside the building. I've got a reputation to keep up in this town. Can't afford to get mixed up in this sort of blackmail caper."

Jamieson wished he hadn't used that word. He was only doing his job, for God's sake; obeying orders. The fact didn't make him feel any better about what he was about to do. They drove into Washington in silence.

Past the Vietnam war memorial, the Washington Monument and the reflecting pond, Charlie swung left around the Capitol building and stopped in front of an imposing office block. "Right," he said. "You're here. Good luck. You've got my number if you need any help." And he drove away, leaving Jamieson standing on the sidewalk.

For fully five minutes he paced up and down outside the entrance, mentally rehearsing what he was about to say. How the hell did you start blackmailing a politician? It was utterly outside his experience. Should he abandon the whole thing, go back to London and turn in his resignation? After all, he didn't need the money. But….but there was a story here to be got. Like many before him, Jamieson found his journalistic instincts stronger than his conscience. He took a deep breath and walked through the revolving doors.

The armed guard at the reception desk hardly looked up as he told him the name of the Senator. "Room 313," he said, not bothering to ask his name or his business. "Third floor." Jamieson headed for the elevator, reflecting that he could be a would-be assassin for all anyone seemed to care.

The elevator doors opened and he found himself in a long carpeted corridor lined with heavy oak doors that breathed status and respectability. Room 313 was five doors to the right. Jamieson straightened his tie, combed back his hair which was now beginning to grow to a respectable length, knocked and entered. "I would like to see Senator Jones," he said to the woman behind a heavy mahogany desk.

"Do you-all have an appointment?" Her voice was redolent of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

"I'm afraid not. I'm a British journalist just arrived from England." He flashed a press card in her general direction. The name is Mike Jamieson. I really would appreciate it if the Senator could find a moment to see me."

"Oh gee, I just love your accent," she said. Jamieson was slightly offended. He was strongly of the opinion that he did not have an accent. She, on the other hand, had one you could cut with a knife. "I'll ask him," she went on, pressing a button on the intercom. "Stanley, there's a most delicious young man out here to see you. He's a journalist who's come all the way from England. You will spare him a few minutes, won't you dear?" There was a muffled noise from the speaker which Jamieson took to be assent. Jamieson, unfamiliar with American lack of deference, assumed that the Senator and his secretary must be on intimate good terms.

"Go right in," she said, gesturing to the door behind her. "Don't bother to knock, but do watch out for the golf balls; they can trip you up so easy."

Jamieson did as he was told, opening the door and pulling to a halt as a golf ball whistled past his feet and thunked into a paper cup on the far side of the room. "How'd you like that? I got one in at last," said the tall man who stood against the opposite wall, clutching a putter. "You must have brought me luck." Jamieson, who assumed that this was Senator Jones, clutched his manila envelope and reflected that the Senator's luck was about to change. He took the outstretched hand and shook it.

"Come and sit down. Mind the balls. That girl of mine didn't mention your name. What do I call you?"

"Jamieson. Mike Jamieson."

"OK Mike, I'm Stanley. Now, what can I do for you?"

Now for it. "I believe you were at a party last weekend, along with our Prime Minister and former President Clinton?" Jamieson began.

"President," the Senator corrected him gently. "We still call them Mr President, even if they've been out of office for years." He paused. "Sure I was. Boy, that was quite some party."

"Er, yes. As a matter of fact we published a picture of the Prime Minister enjoying himself."

"I heard about that. Shame they didn't get one of me as well. You know what they say: there's no such thing as bad publicity."

This was not going the way Jamieson had expected. He took a deep breath and fumbled with his manila envelope. "As a matter of fact they did." He withdrew the photograph and passed it over.

"Now that's what I call a picture." It showed the Senator lifting a girl from the floor, evidently about to carry her off. "Just wait 'til the voters see this! Say, do you think you could get this published in the San Francisco Chronicle; maybe the LA Times?"

Jamieson's face betrayed total bafflement. "You mean you don't mind this being published?"

"Mind? I'd be absolutely delighted. Look Mike, let me explain. You know I'm gay?" Jamieson shook his head. "Hell, I thought everyone knew that. But this picture shows I can swing both ways, so it'll be great for the heterosexual vote."

"I really wanted some information," Jamieson said in some desperation.

"Yeah? What can I tell you? Tell you what: you promise to get this picture in the American press and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"What I need to know," Jamieson said, "is what went on at the meeting before the party; why the Prime Minister was there." He waited expectantly.

"Do we have a deal?" demanded the Senator.

"I promise to do my best to get it published," Jamieson said, mentally crossing his fingers. It ought not to be a problem, he thought.

"On your word as an English journalist?" My God, thought Jamieson, where has this man been for the past twenty years? "You have my word," he said.

"Right, I'll tell you all about our little party." And he did.

 

 CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Sir Humphrey Bartlett-Tomkinson, KCB, shuffled his feet nervously on the Foreign Office carpet as he awaited his interview with the Foreign Secretary. He had been summoned to London as soon as his telegram announcing the disappearance of Beauregard P. had been read, and he had already been told that Jack Hay was not in a good mood. Understandable, he supposed. He was not sure where the loss of a President stood in the catalogue of diplomatic misdemeanours, but it probably ranked fairly high.

Knight Commanders of the Order of the Bath are not accustomed to being kept waiting. Sir Humphrey cooled his heels for almost an hour before the door opened and a secretary beckoned him inside. By this time he was a very angry man. How dare this pipsqueak politician treat him in such a cavalier fashion? He was not invited to sit down, which only increased the intensity of the glare with which he faced his political master.

"Well," said Hay, peering over his spectacles, "perhaps you would care to explain just how, on an island in the middle of nowhere, you managed to mislay the President of the United States?"

"I did not mislay him, as you put it, Foreign Secretary. I can only suppose that he was abducted by some American Special Forces unit. It was not, I repeat not my fault. If the government had provided funds for a proper armed guard, this would never have happened." Sir Humphrey had decided that the best method of defence was attack.

"It may interest you to know," Hay said coldly, "that I have been in touch with the U.S. Administration and they assure me that they know nothing about the President's disappearance. They are holding us responsible for his safe return to captivity, and I am holding you responsible. This is a major diplomatic incident. The Americans do not - and I am quoting the Acting President - want that loose cannon running around the globe and shooting his mouth off."

"But what can I do, Foreign Secretary?" Sir Humphrey was thoroughly deflated. "I've had the whole island searched from end to end. There's no trace of the man."

"What about boats? I assume you've got fishermen on St Helena."

"I've checked. None of them are missing." Sir Humphrey paused for thought. "There was an Australian yacht in harbour that day, but the police questioned the crew and they denied any knowledge of him."

The Foreign Secretary's face was beginning to redden. It was not a pretty sight. "Did they go on board and search the yacht?"

"Er, I'm not sure. I suppose they must have."

"Well, bloody well find out. Where is this yacht now?"

"I don't know. On its way to Australia, I suppose, or maybe somewhere else. They only stopped to take on food and water, and then they sailed off again."

"How long ago was that?"

Sir Humphrey made a quick calculation. "About four days ago, I think. I didn't see them go, so they must have sailed at night."

The Minister tented his fingers. "So, to sum it all up, we - that is, you - have permitted a highly important prisoner to stow away on a yacht, bound for God knows where in the middle of the South Atlantic. Do you have any idea how far a boat like that can travel in four days?"

"Er, no, not really."

"Windy down there, is it?"

"Very."

"In that case, I think we can assume it is already 600 miles away from St Helena on a totally unknown course. An air-sea search is out of the question, so we'll have to keep a watch on all ports in the southern hemisphere. Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost the Treasury?"

Sir Humphrey didn't like to think about that, and said so.

"Quite. A damn sight more than your pension which, I might add, you'll be extremely lucky to get after this debacle."

Sir Humphrey's brain froze. The vision he had entertained for so many years of a cottage in the Cotswolds and a long, lazy retirement with Lady Bartlett-Tomkinson, was dissolving before his eyes.

"I'm giving you one final chance," Jack Hay said. "You'll find out every detail about this boat and its crew: who they are, where they came from, and where they are likely to be headed. And I want that information yesterday."

"B…but where do I start?" stammered Sir Humphrey, whose Diplomatic career had rarely involved the skills of an investigator.

"That's up to you. Get on with it."

*************

 

Beauregard P. Shrub had been seasick for three days. His complexion was green, his mouth like a vulture's crutch, and he wished that he were dead. His companions, apart from providing a handy bucket and emptying it at intervals, largely ignored him. "You'll get over it, sport," was the limit of their sympathy.

Somewhat to his surprise, he found that they were right. On the morning of the fourth day he crawled up the companionway into the cockpit and felt the full blast of the wind in the Southern Ocean. It cleared his head with miraculous speed. "Where are we?" he asked Barry, who was holding nonchalantly to the wheel as the Esperaza ran south-east on a broad reach under shortened sail. Bruce was on the foredeck, hanging on tight as the bow bucked and swayed beneath his feet.

"Best I can estimate," Barry said, "we're about a hundred miles west of Cape Town. 'Course, if we could afford one of those satellite gizmos I could tell you exactly. Don't worry, though, we'll get to where we're going. Australia's a bloody big island; you can't really miss it."

"How long will it take to get there?" Beauregard P. asked anxiously.

"Dunno mate. Long as it takes would be a good guess. You in a hurry?"

Beauregard P. raised his head above the cockpit coaming and felt the wind tear at his ears. "My country needs me," he said. "Can't you turn this damn thing round and head for the States?"

Patiently, Barry explained that the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Besides which, their food and water would run out long before they got there, even supposing that they wanted to go that way; which they didn't. "But don't you have an engine?" Beauregard P. pleaded. By way of answer, Barry lifted a hatch in the cabin sole, exposing a leprous lump of rusting metal with a line of sparking plugs protruding from the top. Beauregard P. shuddered at the sight. "Gets us in and out of harbour; well, mostly" the Australian said. "Can't expect much more of the old girl. Apart from which, we've only got ten gallons of fuel on board. Work it out for yourself. This is a sailboat, sport. It goes where the wind goes." To emphasise the point he spat over the side with some precision, the gobbet flying downwind and narrowly missing the President. "Reckon your bloody country is going to have to do without you for a while." Defeated, Beauregard P. retired below.

***********

 

"You treacherous wee bastard!" The Chancellor was waving that morning's copy of the News of the World like a battle standard. "You planned this all along, didn't ye? All this blather about yon Bill being the best thing for Britain, and all along it was nothing more than a means of feathering the nest of Mister Tony fucking Bland." Jamieson's article exposing the plot to make Bland the unopposed Presidential candidate, which occupied the whole front page, appeared to have struck its mark. Green screwed the offending newspaper into a ball and flung it at the Prime Minister who ducked, hurriedly. Behind him, Jack Hay caught it full in the face, knocking off his rimless spectacles. He fell to the floor and began scrabbling for them blindly. The others paid no attention.

"I mean, y'know, I was going to tell you about it. Honestly I was." Bland ran a shaking hand through hair that was growing thinner by the minute. "I thought you'd be pleased, Gordon. I was sure you'd be pleased. I mean, you've always wanted my job, and now you can have it. With my compliments." He hazarded a nervous grin which slowly faded as the Chancellor raged on.

"Bollocks! Ye never thought of anyone else in your whole political life. I dinna want tae be Governor of the 51st State while Tony Bland lords it over me frae the White Hoose. Yon job's worth nothing more than a bowl of warm spit."

"No, no," Bland corrected him, "you're thinking of the Vice Presidency. That's what Roosevelt's Vice President called it, more or less. Actually, I think he said it was not worth a bucket of warm shit, but you know how the Americans like to clean these things up."

"Fuck Franklin Roosevelt, and dinna start waving your superior education at me. Ye're nothing better than a rat leaving a sinking ship, and you want me to stay on board and keep baling. Well I'm nae going tae do any such thing. Yon Bill will be a dead duck by the time I've finished with it."

"There's nothing you can do, Gordon," Bland protested weakly. "The Bill's already in the Lords. It'll be ready for the Royal Assent in a couple of weeks."

Green treated him to a wicked smile. "And how do you fancy facing a vote of confidence after everyone's read that story?"

"You wouldn't. You couldn't."

"I can, and I will. You can have my resignation in the morning, and I'll have a motion on the order paper before you know it. You'll lose, and you'll be finished. Parliament will be dissolved, the Bill will be lost, and unless I miss my guess I'll be the one leading the party into the general election."

The Prime Minister looked at him blankly, seeing a chasm opening before him. He took a step back, retreating before Green's triumphant stare. "Oh Christ," said a voice from beneath the table, "you've trodden on my fucking glasses."

 

 

EPILOGUE

Six months later

On the Wilsonian precept that a week in politics is a long time, six months is an eternity.

With the loss of the motion of confidence, the Prime Minister had decided that he needed to spend more time with his family. Tony Bland submitted his resignation to the Queen, expressing his intention to take up Holy Orders. The Archbishop of Canterbury was heard to murmur that Ordination would take place over his dead body, and the Pope promised excommunication for the head of any Catholic seminary which admitted the former premier.

In the ensuing General Election, the major parties found to their astonishment that the now-defunct proposal to make Britain the 51st State - which they had both supported - had struck a deep chord of public resentment. They were no less surprised than Charles Kennelly, the mild-mannered leader of the Liberal Democrats, who suddenly found himself called to the Palace and instructed to form a government. During their interview Her Majesty made it perfectly clear (a phrase she had picked up from the previous administration) that contrary to reports in the press the royal family had always been totally opposed to union with the United States. She requested her new Prime Minister to take instant moves to terminate the leases of all American Air Force bases and radar stations on British soil. Nervously, Kennelly agreed, and was cheered to the echo in the House of Commons when he announced the move.

Beauregard P. Shrub had made port, flown home from Australia, and been greeted with the sort of rapturous welcome normally reserved for pop stars. Once back in the White House he had accepted, with no great regret, the resignations of his Vice President, the Secretary of Defence, and myriad members of the Administration whom he suspected, sometimes rightly, of being involved in the conspiracy to replace him with Tony Bland. The President was riding high in the polls, his re-election considered a certainty, and his desire to avenge the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the British was rapidly becoming an obsession. He was already planning his next war. Unfortunately, however, the polite expulsion of his forces from the island by Charles Kennelly (who was never less than polite), interfered with his ambitions. Nor could any member of the European Union be persuaded to act as a staging post for the American invasion forces. Frustrated, Beauregard P. decided to annexe the Bahamas instead. But it was not the same.

Other lives had changed, not least those of Barry and Bruce, who suddenly found themselves famous as the rescuers of the Leader of Democracy. They and the Esperaza were enlisted as stars in a Hollywood production of the Great Escape, scheduled for release in the week before polling day. They had not, admittedly, received their promised reward of a million dollars - the President having pleaded the state of the Federal deficit - but the film contract was sufficient compensation. The Esperaza, once filming was completed, was to be purchased for the nation and installed in a special museum to be constructed alongside the Shrub Presidential Library. Barry and Bruce made plans for a new boat; this time with an engine that worked and a modern navigation system. Next time they had to rescue a head of state from incarceration they intended to be ready.

Roderick Jones became sated with the sea and sunshine of the Seychelles and decided to return to his Welsh roots, albeit at some distance. He bought a large ranch in Patagonia and settled happily to raising sheep.

And what of the man responsible for the whole imbroglio? Mike Jamieson sat alone in the splendid corner office high above Canary Wharf, which went with his appointment as Head of Investigative Projects for News International. He was bored. Most of his time seemed to be spent on the approval, or otherwise, of the disguises being adopted by the young reporters under his charge. An endless collection of phoney Sheihks, policemen, prison warders and palace footmen passed before his critical gaze.

He was staring abstractedly at the view when the door opened to admit two men he did not recognise, dressed in sober business suits. "We're head-hunters," said the taller of the two.

Jamieson frowned. Standards at News International were clearly dropping. "Then why," he asked, "are you not dressed in loin cloths with bones through your noses? You're not going to fool the dimmest tribesman dressed up like that."

"No, you don't understand. We're from" - he named a well-known recruitment agency. "We've been commissioned to find a new Director for the Press Complaints Commission, and your name is top of the list."

"You've got to be joking." Jamieson didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "In the first place I'm not gay. In the second, you couldn't afford me. And in the third, I spend most of my life these days breaking the rules of that bloody organisation."

"Precisely. You're just the man they're looking for." He named a figure. "Would that be sufficient to tempt you?"

Jamieson swallowed hard. It would, he thought, tempt a vestal virgin from the path of virtue. "Why not?" he said finally. It might, after all, be fun.

ENDS

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