by Andy Maslen
“Then we have John Montgomery and Michael Tanner. John and Michael run …”
“… one of the fastest-growing hedge funds in the world. I know. I read a profile of your fund in the FT last month. Pleased to meet you.”
“This gentleman you may have met in your previous life. Major-General Sir Giles Compton is Director Special Forces. He sits on the Army Board, and on the PM’s COBRA committee as required.” The General nodded at Gabriel, one soldier to another. “Lizzie, you already know. And that completes the picture. You eight are my war council. There are others, strategically placed within the security and civil services, but everything begins with you.”
Gabriel realised someone was missing. “If I may ask,” he said, “where does Vix, I mean Lady Maitland, figure in all this? Isn’t she part of your council?”
“No need to stand on ceremony, Gabriel. You’re amongst friends. Vix is staying at a private hospital, convalescing. We thought it best for her to be out of the way while events take their course.”
“Good plan. She can join you afterwards and charm any doubters.”
“Very good, Gabriel. So not just a tactician after all. Now, to business. Shall we?”
Chapter 36
Maitland gestured to the long mahogany table laid with leather folders and jugs of water. More and more like an executive training course, Gabriel thought. All it needed was a bowl of boiled sweets. They sat: he, Lizzie, the General and Marcia Hollands on one side, the four other men facing them, and Maitland at the head of the table, presiding over the plotters like a paterfamilias in a Victorian family painting. Gabriel noticed Maitland wince as he eased himself into the carver chair. Clearly the wound in his side was still troubling him, though equally clearly, there was no infection. Shaun had done a better job of the man’s gunshot wounds than he deserved.
Maitland spoke.
“Gabriel, it’s time you were brought fully into our confidence. You proved yourself last week in trying circumstances and I was very impressed. In three days’ time, the Prime Minister and a couple of her closest colleagues and advisers are flying down from London for a meeting with the General Staff at Army HQ just to the southwest of Andover. Owing to the actions of an extremist right-wing movement called the League of English Patriots, her helicopter will be shot down.”
One of the younger men, Michael, interrupted.
“Sorry. The League of English Patriots? LEP! They called themselves lepers? Jesus, they’re stupid.”
“Yes, they are stupid,” Maitland said. “But they happen to share my views and are extremely suggestible. They will pull the triggers, they will murder the Prime Minister. In the ensuing chaos and confusion, I shall make my move, ably assisted by Gordon, William, Giles and forces loyal to them – and to me. The lepers, as you call them, Michael, will be arrested and imprisoned by my direct order.”
“So you have clean hands?” Gabriel said.
“Not only that, but my campaign to win this seat, though cut short by these terrible events, will have established beyond doubt my democratic credentials in the minds of the public.”
“And then you will be forced by circumstances to assume control of the country to restore order.”
“Exactly. I see you are already formulating my messaging strategy, Gabriel. Now, perhaps we could have a report from each of you.”
Gabriel sat and listened, increasingly alarmed at the apparent ease with which this group had planned their coup.
Foster, the MI5 man, spoke first.
“We’ve been monitoring the mainstream political parties and have operatives embedded in all of them. When the moment arrives we shall secure their leaders. I also have people ready to disable the main human rights charities and pressure groups. The judiciary will squawk but most of the important judges are sympathetic to our programme and we’ll guarantee them independence so I don’t foresee any major problems in that quarter.”
“How about the media?” Maitland asked.
“I’m sure Marcia will have more to say on that score,” Foster said, nodding across the table, “but in essence, we’ll take the editors into protective custody for a while. The BBC is a Government-controlled body so we’ll pull the plug for a week or two.”
“Thank you, Gordon. That all sounds very positive. Once we have established ourselves, I will meet the Director General and the heads of news for the BBC and the commercial networks. We’ll make them see reason. Now, William. How are we doing with the boys and girls in blue?”
“All in hand, Toby. You know that many of our officers would support a strong leader who offered them pay rises and additional funding. I’ve been meeting their union chiefs secretly. They’re happy as long as we maintain a strong police force. I said it wouldn’t be strong – it would be powerful. They liked the sound of that, I can tell you.”
“And your colleagues elsewhere in the country?”
“It’s a hierarchy, Toby. And a federal one at that. They may not like it but they’re hidebound by bureaucracy. They’ll sit tight. It’s the Met that matters, and they’re onside.”
“Very good. Thank you William. Giles, perhaps you would update us on the Army’s position?”
“Yes. Well, all good, basically. A number of us have been praying for something like this for a while now. You may know we had high hopes in ’74 when that business with Wilson was still hush-hush. He was the luckiest Prime Minister this country’s ever had. He escaped removal by the skin of his teeth, bloody little socialist. So, here’s the situation. Special Forces are under my direct control. You can assume they will execute your orders without complaint. My colleagues and I have operational and strategic plans for a smooth transition to the new regime. Much as with William’s forces, an army given additional funding and accorded greater respect is unlikely to cut up rough. The money you’re pulling out of international aid and the EU will buy them enough toys to keep them happy for a generation.”
“Now, onto the media,” Maitland said. “Garrett Jackson is a friend of mine as well as the owner of the world’s largest news gathering organisation. One of my first acts as leader will be to privatise the BBC. I think it’s safe to say Garrett will be pleased with the outcome of the bidding process. Gabriel, Marcia and Garrett will be working together to establish a messaging framework in the first hundred days. On which subject, Marcia, we haven’t heard from you yet. How are things in your camp?”
“I spoke to Garrett earlier today. We have agreed on our editorial strategy in the immediate aftermath of tomorrow’s event: ‘Shock news, Prime Minister killed by right-wing extremists. Cabinet and opposition secure. No need for panic. Strong leadership needed to stabilise the country. Sir Toby Maitland, a close ally of the late PM, to assume control. Stay in your homes. Pervo vicar on page five.’ Garrett’s TV news outlets here and abroad will be toeing the line along with the rest of his papers. Any editors who don’t will be fired and replaced. And believe me, there are plenty of young Turks eager for a crack at running a national paper or TV channel. I don’t think we’ll have much trouble spinning this. Then we’ll issue regular updates on the good news – pulling our troops out from unpopular wars and actions abroad, dismantling the overseas aid department, returning UK taxpayers’ money to UK taxpayers, leaving the EU, handing out great dollops of cash to the NHS, the police and the armed forces, cutting income tax. By the time we’re through they’ll be wishing Toby had done this years ago.”
Gabriel raised his hand. Jesus, he hadn’t done that since he was in an Army classroom. Maitland caught the gesture.
“Gabriel. It appears you have a question.”
“Yes, sorry. Not for you, Marcia. I was wondering about business. Nobody’s mentioned the money men.”
“An excellent question. And one that, again, reveals your keen strategic thinking. I will ask Michael and John to brief us on the angle we’re taking with the financial community.”
The two finance men straightened in their chairs. One dark haired, one fair, they were in
all other respects virtual carbon copies of each other, from the chunky watches to the bespoke suits, the confident gaze to the relaxed body language. The fair-haired one, Michael, spoke next.
“We know you’re not short of resources Toby, but we’re pledging our funds to your programme. On your signal, we’ll begin shorting the Euro. That should throw our European neighbours into a tailspin for a while. We’ve also been busy in the global metals market. Over the last few months we’ve assumed control of ninety percent of the world copper market. It’s one of the most valuable metals on the planet and we own just about all of it.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Gabriel said. “But what’s in it for you guys? I mean, I can see how MI5, the police and the military will benefit, but a hedge fund?”
“Oh, that’s simple,” said John, the dark-haired twin. “Freedom to make money. We’re not bothered about who runs the country as long as they leave us alone to do what we do best. It’s a global economy, Gabriel, so national governments don’t interest us that much. Toby has promised us access to Treasury officials and Government funds, so we’re going to clean up. Eastern Europe first. The Russians won’t know what’s hit them.”
“Indeed they won’t,” Maitland said. “Although they may be less than happy with what happens to their currency, I doubt we’ll see much in the way of opposition from that quarter. Gabriel, do you have any idea how many Russian billionaires are living in London today?”
“Not really. I know there are a few.”
“It’s more than a few. We’ll offer them a deal. Either keep Papa Bear out of our hair or they’ll have their assets seized, their kids booted out of the expensive private schools and their Mayfair mansions auctioned off to the Arabs. The President needs his credit rating and an escape route kept open. Don’t believe the press when they say any political upheaval would trigger a flight of the super-rich from London. They don’t move to London for our tax regime at all: most of them pay less tax than you do. It’s England itself they want. Our culture, our shopping, our beautiful climate, our parks, our peaceable ways. If one of them dies, it’s because the KGB have poisoned his sushi. So, yes, the Russians will be stinging, but their leaders see London as their retirement home so I don’t anticipate much beyond some posturing on the international stage. After all, they can hardly point to their own record as respecters of other people’s sovereignty, now can they?”
It was another of Maitland’s rhetorical questions. Gabriel remained silent.
Michael spoke again.
“At this point in history? To be honest? You’re not going to have much of a problem with the one-percenters. Our view is stability and low taxes, plus minimal regulation, equals success. Sounds to us like Toby’s going to be good for business.”
John broke in.
“But just in case, we’ve been holding quiet talks with the boards and investors in Britain’s top hundred companies. Between our funds and those controlled by our friends here and abroad, we have their balls in a vice. They make a noise and we start squeezing. Those CEOs are too fond of their money and prestige to get arsey about a change in Government.”
“I also have plans for a special honours list,” Maitland said. “To be announced courtesy of Marcia’s paper. I intend to wheel the Queen out to bestow enough baubles to keep those fat idiots happy for the rest of their lives.”
“What about them? The Royal Family?” Gabriel said.
There were snorts of suppressed laughter from the men from MI5, the Met and the Army.
“Oh, yes. Because they won’t be pleased how things turn out,” Maitland said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Gabriel, who do you think gave me the idea in the first place? They practically begged me to do it. They’re sick and tired of the ridiculous happy families game they’ve been coerced into playing since the 1950s. Once I hold the reins of power, they will be no more ceremonial than they are now, but we will reinstate their privacy. End this nonsensical media circus – forgive me, Marcia – where every drunken prince, every ‘baby bump’, every ill-considered marriage becomes public property. No, believe you me, Gabriel, they are right behind me.”
Lizzie spoke.
“Daddy, my report?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling. Yes, of course. Lizzie, perhaps you’d enlighten us on the progress you’ve been making, then we’ll conclude with a rundown of our trip to the Midwest last week.”
She addressed the group with a confidence that belied her youth. She was at least ten years younger than any of them and could have been the older men’s granddaughter.
“Thanks, Daddy. So, my little Warrant Officer, Trevor, came through with the goods two days ago. Specifically, six thousand rounds of .50 calibre APIT rounds. Boxed up and wrapped in a pink ribbon in the barn. And I mean that literally. The poor sod gift-wrapped the ammunition cases. He looked like a puppy bringing his mistress a chew toy. I think he genuinely believed I had the hots for him. I told him I was going shopping in Dubai for a few days, then off to New York for a couple of weeks, so he’ll be out of my hair. You can pick him up and shoot him for treason once you’re in Downing Street.”
“And your other activities? With the social media chaps?”
“Yes. All going to plan. As you know,” she said, sweeping her eyes around the table and lingering on Gabriel, “we live in a social media world. If we’d pulled this off the first time round, we’d have had to deal with half a dozen newspapers and two broadcasters. But now everyone’s a curator …” she made air quotes around the last word, “… a citizen journalist …” more air quotes “… we need to control the citizenry as much as the paid media. As it happens, the CEOs of the two big social media platforms are friends of mine. The kind of friends you can win round with a couple of high-end call girls, a pile of coke and a camcorder, anyway. Alongside the financial leverage we have, we will also control the UK’s Internet traffic through strategic hubs, routers and other key digital infrastructure.”
The older men and Marcia Hollands were frowning, but Gabriel knew what was coming.
“We will present them with a very simple offer. Seed their networks with a set of posts that we shall provide – Gabriel, this will be one of the first tasks you and I work on together – ensure they’re reposted, and remove anything overly critical of our regime, or we shut them down in the UK. No more revenues, no more marriages.”
“Thank you, Lizzie,” Maitland said. “With your help – and yours, Gabriel – we will create not a velvet revolution but a social one. This will be the first coup in history that ends up as a hashtag. That just leaves myself and Gabriel. Our trip was eventful, yes, I think that’s the word, wouldn’t you say? The deal with Davis Meeks went very sweetly. But I’m afraid Bart Venter appeared to be carrying a certain amount of hostility for something we did to his grandfather in the Boer War. He attempted a double-cross with Meeks.”
“What happened, Toby?” Compton asked.
“We conducted a second test-firing of the Brownings. So no loose ends over there now at all.”
“And the Brownings themselves?”
“In the country. Along with a rather fabulous racing car that I have now liberated from the clutches of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise with the help of a generous contribution to a man’s pension fund. John, Michael, it may interest you: I know you both like your cars. Have you heard of the Steve McQueen D-Type?”
“You’ve got his XKSS?” the blond man asked, eyes widening.
“Indeed I do. It will form the centrepiece of my collection, which I am thinking of moving to a central London location as a museum open to the public. They’ll appreciate the gesture, I’m sure. Don’t you think, Marcia?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Listen, politics is boring. Even Hitler would struggle to make the front page these days. You just need some brainless Z-lister to tweet a selfie of herself flashing her fanny and the public would look at that rather than pay attention to who’s running the country.”
“The Brownings are on
their way now,” Maitland said. “As you all know, I would have much preferred our ordnance to have been in place months ago, but the late Bart Venter was either playing silly buggers or couldn’t get what I wanted until last week. They should be with us by two o’clock. Gabriel, I’d like you to supervise their reassembly. I assume the paint will have to come off first?”
“I think that’s a safe assumption. I’ll need some supplies and another pair of hands.”
“Let Franz know what you need. He’ll arrange everything for you. Now. To tactics. We have a helicopter to bring down.”
There was a pause while the butler appeared with fresh coffee and tea and then, once they’d poured more drinks, Maitland resumed. Gabriel had to admit, his plan was good.
“… so you see, whichever way the PM’s helicopter comes into Andover, it’ll have to fly over one of our positions. Down it comes, thanks to Gabriel’s team, and it’s on to phase two.”
“Can I ask a question?” Gabriel said.
“Of course you may. That’s what this briefing is for.”
“Won’t the Prime Minister have three flight plans booked in with Air Traffic Control, not two? That leaves us a weapon short.”
Maitland frowned, pressing his fingers into the taut skin under his jaw.
“How perspicacious of you, to know a thing like that. Yes, she will. But set up correctly, the Brownings will cover all three. You can set them up correctly, can’t you?”
“Oh, sure. I was being over-cautious.”
“An admirable quality for a man with your background. However, caution will only take us so far. We also need courage and a willingness to seize the day.”
He’s going to say carpe diem, Gabriel thought. I bet a million pounds he’s going to say …