The Foreign Secretary's eyes widened as he saw Barney Thomson, and he recognised that perhaps, at last, one of Utterson's victim's, he himself, might survive.
Utterson saw the look in the man's eyes, then turned quickly, a knife clutched in his hands.
'Aha!' he shouted. 'The man who would be my accomplice!'
Barney looked at Utterson, did not immediately recognise him. He stood before them, not entirely sure how to handle the situation. He was not going to win the fight should he choose to enter into it.
'Get him!' screamed the man from the FCO, although sadly the words emerged as a rather strained and pathetic whine.
Utterson looked annoyed, turned, threw the knife at the Foreign Secretary and buried it in his forehead. A quick check to make sure that the man was no Rasputin and was actually dead, then he turned back to Barney.
'So, Mr. Thomson,' said Utterson. 'We meet at last. Or, I should say, we meet again.'
Barney finally allowed himself to breathe, the air coming out of his lungs in a heavy sigh.
'I'm too tired for this,' was all he said. 'If you're going to kill me, just get on with it.'
Utterson smiled. 'Kill you? My good man, why would I kill you? Have you been fiddling your expenses at the taxpayer's cost?'
Barney shook his head, then indicated the security guard behind them.
'Was he?' he asked.
The smile left Utterson's face and he nodded.
'Good point. Still,' he added, immediately brightening up again, 'why murder the main suspect? You must have seen Miss Marple and Jessica Whatshername? As soon as the main suspect turns up dead, they have to go after someone else.'
He walked forward and Barney did not flinch, then he tapped Barney on the shoulder, winked at him, and walked quickly from the office.
'Morning, Barney Thomson,' he said as he went, and Barney turned and saw his feet disappear from view.
1300hrs London, England
The news had broken on Fox and CNN not long before, and was already all over the world, all over every news channel on Planet Earth. The UK had launched a hostile attack on the United States. Quickly other countries were falling in behind them, taking sides, creating divisions where none had previously existed. The world was at war. Some were already calling it World War III.
The PM was standing outside Number 10 in the cold, cold wind, reading his prepared statement to the world's media.
'It is with the greatest regret that today we launch this unprecedented attack on US soil. The American people will understand that we have no quarrel with them. However, their government has tried to topple the government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and we cannot stand by and allow this to happen. And so, this morning at seven minutes past midnight GMT, our brave and courageous troops landed on the coast of Maine with the intention of recapturing America and bringing her once more under the banner of the Commonwealth and of Her Majesty the Queen. Naturally we hope that Washington will quickly surrender and accept our terms, but if not, we are prepared for a long fight, and at the outside, fully expect to be in Washington by the end of January...'
The battle lines had been drawn, the trap had been set. The world of men stood on the precipice of all out global calamity.
Again.
1731hrs London, England
The PM was sitting back, flicking through the channels. He'd been a little disturbed by the Foreign Secretary's murder, but was happy to see that no one was talking about it. His invasion of US sovereign territory was everywhere on the news, and he had never felt more proud to be British, and to be Prime Minister of these brave and stout-hearted people.
He clicked the volume off, finally getting annoyed at the repeated use of the word idiotic, and turned to his inner circle.
'So, what's after Maine again?' he said to the room. 'New this, New that. I get mixed up.'
'New Hampshire,' said Bleacher.
'Right,' said the PM. 'What's the timescale on that?'
'We aim to be in a position to launch the invasion on Christmas morning.'
'Aha,' said the PM with satisfaction. 'The old Yom Kippur trick. Works a treat.'
'The Yom Kippur trick worked for two days, and then the Arabs got their backsides kicked,' said Bleacher.
'Yes,' said the PM, 'but that was only because the Israelis had American intelligence on their side.'
Bleacher and Blaine the Cabinet Secretary, exchanged a glance. It's not just the Americans who don't get irony, thought Blaine, and an old Proclaimers song came in to his head.
The door opened and a strange young man that the PM had not seen before stuck his head round.
'Who are you?' asked the PM before the visitor had the chance to speak.
'The name's Angelberry, Prime Minister. I'm temping.'
'Why?' barked the PM.
'So many of your staff have gone off sick with stress.'
'What in the...? What? Why?'
Everyone looked strangely at the PM, and he quickly backed down from his state of high dudgeon and grumbled in a low voice, 'Well, what is it, Angelberry?'
'The American ambassador is here to see you, Sir. He's in the Chamberlain room.'
'Is he?' said the PM, and suddenly he started to smile. 'Right, come on, chaps, let's go. Perhaps he's come to sign the surrender papers. We do have surrender papers drawn up, don't we?'
'Not yet, Prime Minister,' answered Blaine.
'Well, get to it then, man.'
The PM walked quickly from the room, his entourage in his wake, crying, 'Where's that blasted Barney Thomson when you need him?' as he departed.
1736hrs London, England
Barney Thomson was back in police custody, alone in a small room with three interrogators; DCI Frankenstein, DS Hewitt, and MI5's crack questioner, Three Beards. They were throwing quickfire questions at him, over and over, the same thing; trying to get him to stumble and fall, to contradict himself, to give them an opening.
'Why were you seen near the office where he was killed?'
'If you're not Utterson, why didn't you stop him when you saw him?'
'Who are you working for?'
'Why did you do it?'
'Why didn't you save the Minister's life?'
'Why did you just walk away?'
'Who are you protecting?'
'Yeah, like, and stuff?'
Barney Thomson was tired, but not to the point of cracking. He had walked in on the killer Utterson, he had witnessed him bury a knife in the Foreign Secretary's head, he had stood and watched as Utterson had walked past him on his way out the door. And then he, Barney, had been seen as he'd walked away down the corridor, on his continuing search for coffee. The police were choosing to view Barney's decision not to report the murder he'd witnessed as guilt or complicity, rather than stupefied insensibility.
'I don't care what the PM says about his stupid hair, Barney,' said Frankenstein. 'This time, if you don't start talking, you're not getting out.'
Barney Thomson stared at the floor. He thought of Sam Lowry in Brazil and wondered how you could allow yourself to slide into that kind of perfect madness. He never seemed to be able to get beyond misery, desperation and gloom.
1743hrs London, England
The PM strode into the room with his best air of purpose and munificence, and took a seat across the desk from the American ambassador. Neither man extended a hand. Bleacher and Blaine followed, taking a seat either side of the PM.
'I had hoped we'd meet alone, Prime Minister,' said Elmer T Elmer Jnr. III, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James.
'Perhaps it is time,' said the PM pompously, 'you learned that from now on, things are going to be done our way. Now, I must start with an apology.' The ambassador nodded. An apology wouldn't be enough for Washington – he knew nothing would be enough for Washington – but it was a start. 'I had hoped that we would have the surrender papers drawn up for you to sign, transferring federal US power back to the Queen, but it's obviously
a pretty major job, and our lawyers in Washington are still looking over it all.'
'You want us to surrender to you?' said the ambassador. 'That's intriguing.'
'We have swept through Maine and stand on the threshold of annexing all fifty-two other states...'
'Forty-nine other states, Prime Minister,' interjected Blaine.
'Whatever,' said the PM. 'We stand on the threshold, you know, of the thing, and if you do not surrender, it is also my duty to warn you that we now have three Polaris submarines sitting off the coast of Washington and New York, waiting on my word to.... what's the phrase, Bleacher?'
'Bring the rain, sir,' said Bleacher.
'Bring the rain,' repeated the Prime Minister. 'We will bring the rain.'
Elmer T Elmer Jnr. III nodded as he took this information in, then slowly he stood up and looked down at the PM. He looked from man to man, and then back to the PM, as he leant forward, his fingers spread on the desk.
'May I speak candidly, Prime Minister?' said Elmer T Elmer Jnr III, although it wasn't really a question.
The PM suddenly felt on the defensive, for the first time since a particular PMQs back in October.
'We know about the nuclear subs, and we know there aren't three of them. There are two, and one of them is barely operational. And I would like to remind you that we built those subs, and we are in a position to remotely disarm them. Furthermore, can I also remind you that there are fifteen thousand US personnel permanently based in the United Kingdom, and they are currently preparing to launch a counter-insurgency against your government. Furthermore I have been asked by my superiors to inform you that any attempt by your invasion force to move out of Maine will be met with extreme prejudice and every single member of that force will be eliminated. Furthermore, we hereby give you forty-eight hours to remove the force or we will re-take Maine and leave not a single one of your soldiers alive. If there is any further or continuing hostile action against the United States, we will withdraw all our personnel from England, and we will drop nuclear weapons upon this country until it is utterly laid waste and all men, women and children have been neutralised.'
The PM swallowed. Bleacher stared the ambassador in the eye; Blaine had dropped his gaze and was looking for something in the carpet to open up and swallow him.
'Furthermore, Mr. Prime Minister, the President would like to inform you that he expects you to sign a full surrender, and to proclaim a General Election in this country, to be held within five weeks. You will not run as the leader of your party at this time. The leaders of the two parties, the potential Prime Ministers, will be designated by us. Welcome,' he said slowly, 'to the 51st State, Mr. Prime Minister. You have twenty-four hours to acknowledge acceptance of the conditions, and forty-eight hours to fully comply. Failure to do so will result in swift elimination of the United Kingdom as a country.'
Elmer T Elmer Jnr III stood quickly, nodded at the three men in turn, and then walked from the room. He left behind an uncomfortable silence. Eventually the PM humphed a little, straightened his shoulders, sucked in his lips, dropped his jaw and said, 'Well, I think we sorted him out.'
Thursday 24th December 2009
0900hrs EST Maine, USA
Forward Army Intelligence revealed that while the Americans had sat back and allowed the British troops to walk unhindered through Maine, taking over radio stations and police headquarters wherever they went, there were approximately one hundred and seventy thousand troops waiting just across the state line in New Hampshire to welcome them to the rest of the United States. The grand British invasion force was going no further.
The British troops bedded down and waited for further instructions.
1300hrs GMT London, England
Christmas Eve. Cold, cloudy and damp.
The Prime Minister stormed through the offices of Scotland Yard, incensed and outraged, his security detail trailing behind. The nineteen hours or so since he'd spoken to the US ambassador had been the worst of his political career; and given how rubbish he'd been up to that point, that had taken some doing. He had seen in the parting words of the Ambassador, confirmation that the whole thing had been an American plot, and that Britain had been lured in to this foolhardy idea. It hadn't just been coup d'état by serial killer, it had been coup d'état by serial killer, stealth, deception, sophistry and artifice. The CIA's finest hour.
The PM stormed into Frankenstein's office, where the DCI and his able sidekick, DS Hewitt, were eating doughnuts and drinking coffee.
'Prime Minister,' said Frankenstein, although he neither rose to his feet nor stopped eating.
'Barney Thomson!' shouted the PM. 'Where is he?'
'In one of our holding cells,' said Frankenstein. 'He either committed or witnessed the murder of a senior government minister. We're holding him until he talks.'
'Fine,' barked the PM. 'But he's coming with me, and if that means you come with me as well, so be it. There's a war on, for crying out loud!'
1609hrs GMT London, England
Barney could feel the tension in the PM's hair. The man was on a knife-edge, the careful planning, the political manoeuvring and the public hubris brought to a crushing halt in the face of American cunning, subterfuge and overwhelming military force. His choice was stark. He either took Britain into war and inevitable destruction; or he climbed down, publicly humiliated himself, and sold out Britain for one final time to the 20th century's declining imperial power. Either way, Britain was lost.
'It's a right Hobson's choice,' said the PM darkly.
Barney lifted the scissors as the PM shook his head. Barney had been summoned back to deliver the pinnacle of political haircuts; the Joseph Stalin, Yalta.
'Technically,' said Barney, 'Hobson's choice is not the choice between two evils, but the choice between something unacceptable or nothing at all. That's not really what you have here. Nothing at all would in effect be the same as sending the troops into New Ha...'
'Like, whatever,' said the PM. 'The thing is, I need a way out.'
Barney continued to cut and crimp; Frankenstein, Hewitt, Bleacher, Blaine and Lucy sat at the back, staring numbly at the floor. There was no way out, other than total capitulation and acknowledgment of American supremacy and rule.
'The Queen's going to be mad,' said the PM. 'I hate it when she gets mad at me. It's worse than my mum.'
'Maybe,' said Hewitt from the back, 'you could have a reality TV show. You know, ways out of a crisis. You could call it, Britain's Got Diplomacy or I'm A Diplomat, Don't Drop That Bomb! Get Simon Cowell, it would be great.'
'Or,' said Frankenstein, 'you could get a team of consultants in and pay them like twenty million or something. That's what your lot usually do.'
'We've got an hour and a half until the first deadline!' barked the PM, his voice straining with desperation.
Frankenstein smiled. Somehow he was the least concerned of the small inner collective. Perhaps he just presumed that the PM would have to back down and hand control of the country over to the Americans. Would anyone actually notice the difference?
'At least now the press can't say that I got us into this mess,' grumbled the PM darkly.
'Why not?' said Frankenstein. 'You're the idiot that invaded America.'
'Yes,' snapped the PM, 'but we know they're behind the murder of the MPs. They started it, they really did. This is their plot.' And he thumped his fist into the palm of his hand for all the world like he was in a 40's movie and he was stuck for how they were going to get the money to get their Broadway show back on track. 'If only we knew who this killer was, if only we could take that to the British public, to the American public, to the UN.'
'I think,' said Frankenstein, 'you really need to take it to the Sun and the Mail and Rupert Murdoch, and the New York Times.'
The PM grumbled darkly, glancing in the mirror to see how the Stalin was coming on. Barney Thomson, barber, caught his eye, and wondered if the time had come to reveal what he had realised as he had witnessed the death
of the Foreign Secretary; the thing that had struck him as Utterson had walked past him from the room.
He glanced round at the worried faces behind him, and then laid the scissors down.
'I think I might be able to help with that, Prime Minister,' said Barney.
The PM looked up sharply, as did all the others in the room.
'You cheeky sod,' said Frankenstein. 'I knew it.'
'Well, Holy Declaration of Arbroath!' barked the PM. 'Tell us, then, man, tell us.'
Barney Thomson glanced again around the room until his eyes fell on the nearly empty bottle of alcohol that was sitting on top of the cabinet in the corner. Then he looked at Lucy, the Diary Secretary, and summoned her to the door. He whispered something in her ear, she looked slightly concerned, and then she left quickly. Once the door was closed, they could hear a key turn in the lock.
Barney turned back to the captive audience. 'I think maybe you need a drink first, Prime Minister,' he said, and walked over to the cabinet and poured the remains of the bottle into a glass. It was a stiff one. He held the room in thrall, as they all wondered what on earth he was doing.
He handed the drink to the PM and smiled in a strange sympathetic manner.
'I know you like it, Prime Minister,' he said. 'You'd better drink it. All.'
The PM looked curiously at Barney, and then in turn at each of the others in the room. Everyone, except Barney, looked perplexed.
'Go on,' said Barney. And the PM, completely in Barney's power, put the drink to his lips and swallowed.
*
Frankenstein, Hewitt, Bleacher and Blaine presumed that the news Barney was about to break must be so bad that the PM needed to be fortified by alcohol in mid-afternoon. Although what could be worse than the imminent annihilation of the entire country was beyond the imagination of most of them.
The End Of Days Page 11