‘What kind of an offer might that be?’ Barnard asked. ‘The EU so far has offered the PM nothing. Nada. Niente. Zilch!’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Marshall replied. ‘Rabbits and hats come to mind.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Later that morning, the Chamber of the House of Commons was already crowded when Edward Barnard arrived. As a minister, he used to sit on the front benches. Since his resignation, he had to take pot luck on the back benches. He squeezed into a seat under the gallery in time to hear the speaker call for order.
‘Statement by the prime minister,’ the Speaker, the Rt. Hon. Eric Foster bellowed.
Jeremy Hartley, already in his sixth year as prime minister, sprang to the despatch box. Tall, tanned and fit-looking, he exuded confidence.
‘Mr Speaker,’ he began, ‘I have here in my hand a letter which I have received this morning from the president of the European Commission in Brussels, Mr Michael O’Rourke, and with your leave I would like to read this to the House this morning.’
‘Oh dear!’ Barnard reflected. ‘I have here in my hand . . .’ That’s an unfortunate beginning. That’s what Neville Chamberlain said when he came back from Munich after his meetings with Hitler, waving a piece of paper in his hand as he stepped off the plane.
But the prime minister was clearly oblivious of the unfortunate historical parallel. He read out O’Rourke’s letter with obvious satisfaction:
‘ “Dear Prime Minister”,’ Hartley began. ‘ “After consulting with colleagues, I would like to invite you to visit me in Brussels at your earliest convenience with a view to resolving all outstanding matters of contention that may still exist between the United Kingdom and the other members of the European Union.
Yours sincerely, Michael O’Rourke.”
The prime minister waved the letter in the air. He didn’t exactly say, ‘ha, ha, ha and ho, ho, ho!’ but that was clearly what he had in mind.
The House broke into a roar of applause. Orders papers were waved. Tom Milbourne, the chancellor of the exchequer, leaned forward in his seat to pat the prime minister on the back.
Looking ineffably smug, the Prime Minster continued, ‘Mr Speaker, I would like to inform the House that I have already written back to the president of the Commission. He has in turn indicated that, if our discussions today go well, as I am sure they will, he will call an emergency session of the European Council tomorrow, with a view to reaching a full and final agreement, which I will then of course be happy to bring back to the House.’
As the prime minister sat down, Miles Pomfrey, leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, got quickly to his feet.
‘Can the prime minister tell the House what new terms the president of the Commission is offering?’
Jeremy Hartley bounced back up once again. This was the Punch and Judy Show which went on year after year. Nobody seemed to tire of it. People called it the cockpit of democracy.
‘I am sure the Right Honourable Member for Tower Hamlets would not wish me to reveal our negotiating hand. I can assure him that I will be focussed as always on obtaining the right deal for Britain.’
More ‘Hear, Hear!’s. More applause. More waving of order papers. Honourable Members liked a bit of exercise before lunch.
As he sat there in the hallowed Chamber of the Mother of Parliaments, Barnard had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Was Hartley indeed going to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last moment? Was he planning to go to Brussels and come back with some new offer to put to the people in the Referendum, an offer which really would prove irresistible to the electorate, instead of the thin gruel he had come up with so far? He corrected himself. ‘Pretty thin gruel’ was the precise expression that Joshua Cooper, that languid young man with the impeccable three-piece suit, had used to characterize the results of the prime minister’s efforts so far.’
If there wasn’t some new deal in prospect, then what else was the prime minister up to? One thing you could say about Hartley, the man was effortlessly cool and unflappable. Always looked as though he was enjoying himself. Bloody Eton, Barnard thought.
Edward Barnard was not the only person to be alarmed at the goings-on in the House of Commons. George Wiley, editor of the Sun, Britain’s largest-circulation daily newspaper, had received the clearest possible instructions from Mickey Selkirk about which bloody side to back in the Referendum.
‘Of course, you can make up your own mind,’ Selkirk had shouted down the phone. ‘I’m just telling you that I would hope that under any and all circumstances the Sun will support the Leave campaign. Actually, not just support the Leave campaign. I want you guys to lead the Leave campaign. Time we kicked the other buggers in the teeth!’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ George Wiley asked, as he watched the prime minister preening himself that morning.
Half the office had gathered round to witness the surprising new developments.
‘Hold the front page!’ Wiley shouted.
Over in the Vote Leave offices in Westminster Tower, Harriet Marshall picked up the phone. There had been no notice on the bulletin board that morning outside the newsagents at the end of her road. But this was an emergency.
‘Westminster Bridge. At two this afternoon,’ she said.
She knew her handler would be peeved about having to come down to Westminster when, from his point of view at least, a Hampstead Heath RV was much more convenient. But today, Harriet thought, the circumstances were really special. Things were moving so fast. She couldn’t afford to leave the office for too long. If Hartley really did come back from Brussels with a new last-minute deal on offer, then the leave campaign might have to rethink its whole strategy. It would be as well to get started now.
Nikolai Nabokov, whose cover title was First Secretary at the Russian Trade Mission in Highgate, London, but whose real rank and title was that of ‘Major’ in Russia’s security and espionage service, the FSB, was indeed cross. He had been looking forward to strolling up to the bookmaker on Highgate Hill.
Nabokov sighed. His jowls quivered. He checked his watch. If he caught the Northern Line to Embankment, then walked along the river to Westminster Bridge, he’d be in plenty of time.
Harriet was already there, standing on the pavement halfway across the bridge, gazing up stream past the Houses of Parliament, like any other tourist.
‘I see the River Police are out in force today,’ Nabokov said.
‘Yes, Parliament’s in session.’
Codewords correctly exchanged, they stood there for a moment or two, admiring the view.
‘You need to get a message to Moscow urgently,’ Harriet said. ‘If the PM thinks he’s done a deal, that means he thinks Germany’s on side. So there must be a mix-up somewhere. Germany’s meant to be pushing for tougher, not softer terms, where Britain is concerned. That way more people will vote for Leave – out of sheer disgust at the way we’re being treated! You had better move fast. We need to stop this one in its tracks.’
Nabokov hurried off. In the train back to Highgate, he checked the Paddy Power app on his mobile to see that, after the PM’s remarks in the House of Commons, the odds had already lengthened against a Brexit victory. Amazing, wasn’t it, how quickly the market factored in these things. Definitely time to get a bet on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Michael O’Rourke, the first Irish President of the European Commission, was all smiles when UK prime minister, Jeremy Hartley, entered his office on the 13th Floor of the European Commission’s Berlaymont Building in the heart of Brussels.
‘Good evening, Prime Minister,’ O’Rourke came to the door of his huge office to greet his distinguished guest. They shook hands warmly.
Hartley was accompanied by Sir Luke Threadgold, Britain’s ambassador to the EU, more properly known as the UK Permanent Representative.
‘Good evening, Sir Luke,’ O’Rourke said.
‘Good evening, Mr President.’
In Brussels, it was important to get th
e titles right. These things counted.
Just as they were sitting down, a tall flaxen-haired woman, in her early thirties, came into the room.
Hartley leapt to his feet. ‘Hello, Mary.’ He gave her a kiss on both cheeks. During the course of the long and painful negotiation that the prime minister had conducted with Britain’s European partners in the run-up to the Referendum, Mary Burns had gone out of her way to be helpful. Or at least as helpful as she could be in the circumstances.
As the president of the Commission’s Chef de Cabinet, Mary Burns was one of the most important people in Brussels. She organized O’Rourke’s day. Set the agenda. Nothing came into, or left, O’Rourke’s office without Mary Burns knowing about it.
‘Come and join us, Mary,’ O’Rourke said.
While the prime minister sat on the sofa, the others pulled up chairs.
‘As you can imagine,’ O’Rourke began, ‘I have been working very closely with the Member States, very closely indeed, to avoid an unfortunate outcome. I admit that at the beginning we could have done more to help the UK. I’m sorry we didn’t. We could perhaps have avoided some very long evenings.’
‘All-night sessions, as I remember,’ Jeremy Hartley interjected.
They all laughed. Get a joke in early on. That had always been Hartley’s policy.
‘The good news, Mr Prime Minister,’ O’Rourke continued, ‘is frankly that there has been a change of mood among the Member States in recent days. They are all increasingly concerned that a vote for Brexit in the Referendum may destabilize Europe as a whole. There are so-called populist movements in half a dozen countries – France, the Netherlands, Italy – I needn’t name them all. For my own country, Ireland, Brexit will pose a special problem. Are we going to reintroduce border controls between Northern Ireland and the south? I would hope not. Am I making myself clear, Prime Minister?’
Hartley nodded. The Irish, he thought, sometimes took a long time to get to the point but they got there in the end.
‘We realize,’ O’Rourke continued, ‘that the migration issue has always been at the top of the UK’s list of demands in the renegotiation.’
‘And it still is,’ Hartley said. ‘The problem is our plea fell on deaf ears. The other Member States hardly moved an inch.’
The president of the Commission, noticing that the door to his office was still open, rose from his seat, and walked across the room to close it.
‘At the moment, what I am about to say is totally confidential. The president of the European Council has called a special session at 10:00a.m. tomorrow morning. The truth is that the UK is no longer alone in its concern about migration. There are other Member States that are now as alarmed as you are.’
He gestured towards the huge television standing next to the EU flag in the corner of his office.
‘If I were to turn on that television now, what would I see? I would see riots in German streets, cars burning in France. In Holland, the phenomenal rise of the anti-Muslim party. And it’s not just the TV; the newspapers are full of it.’
‘And social media too, Mr President,’ Mary Burns reminded her boss.
‘So what are you proposing, Mr President?’ Jeremy Hartley asked quietly.
Michael O’Rourke glanced again in the direction of the door, as though to check that it was still closed.
‘What the Commission is going to propose tomorrow, at the meeting of the European Council, is a solution to the migration question which I am sure will meet your approval. Let me explain. When you put forward your own proposals earlier this year in the context of the “renegotiation”, you proposed that the UK should be able to introduce what you called an “emergency brake” on migration.’
‘Yes, and you turned us down flat,’ Hartley reminded him. ‘If you had accommodated us on that, everything would be different today. But you didn’t give us the help we needed. Isn’t it a bit late in the day to come forward with something now?’
‘I’m afraid you have misunderstood me, Mr Prime Minister,’ O’Rourke said. ‘What the Commission is proposing now is an EU-wide solution to the migration problem. Not just a formula to keep the UK happy but a way forward that will work for every Member State. To be specific, we are proposing that any Member State that believes it is under intolerable pressure as a result of migratory movements may introduce an emergency brake. And the key point is that emergency brake will be able to last just as long as the Member State concerned thinks it is necessary.’
‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ Hartley asked. ‘It would have saved a hell of a lot of trouble.’
Michael O’Rourke did his best to soothe the prime minister’s ruffled feelings.
‘The time wasn’t right then. We think the time is right now.’
‘I’d like to see the language,’ Hartley said.
Michael O’Rourke turned to his Chef de Cabinet. ‘Mary, would you be kind enough to read the text to the gentlemen.’
Mary Burns had a soft, lilting Irish voice, which could lend light and life to even the dullest prose.
Hartley stood up. ‘I’ll have to consult the Cabinet on this overnight. As you can imagine, the implications are enormous. This could change everything.’
A thought occurred to him. ‘Are all the other Member States agreed on this? The Council would have to be unanimous, wouldn’t it?’
‘The decision of the Council would indeed have to be unanimous. And, yes, as far as we know, all the Member States are agreed.’ O’Rourke reassured him.
‘What do you mean, “as far as you know”?’ Hartley asked sharply.
‘We are still waiting to hear from our German colleagues. The Chancellor apparently has been hard to reach. But we do not anticipate any problems.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Next morning, Jeremy Hartley arrived in good time at the Justus Lipsius Building on the Brussels Rond Point Schuman, home of the European Council, the place where the EU’s key legislative decisions taken.
Nancy Ginsberg, the BBC’s chief political correspondent, thrust a microphone at him as he strode into the huge, red-granite building, accompanied by Sir Luke Threadgold.
‘Is a bad deal better than no deal, Prime Minister?’ she shouted.
Hartley gave her a jaunty thumbs up. ‘It’s going to be a good day for Britain. A good day for Europe too!’
Arne Jacobsen, the Danish prime minister, then serving as the president of the European Council, decided it was time to start. It was already well past 10:00a.m., the official time for kick-off that day.
Sitting at one end of the huge, lozenge-shaped Council table, he strained his eyes to see who was present and who was not. Back in the good old days, there had been just the six founding fathers of what was then the European Economic Community. Now there were twenty-eight members of the Community’s successor in title: the European Union. The Council table had had to be continually expanded to accommodate the arrival of the new Member States. In its latest configuration, it seemed to be almost as long as a football pitch.
Arne Jacobsen noted that the president of the Commission, Michael O’Rourke, was already in his seat down the far end of the room. Other delegations were making their way to their allotted places at the table. The room was filling up.
Jacobsen turned to Eloise Pomade, the senior official in the Council’s secretariat, who sat on his immediate right. She had held the job almost a decade, weathering crisis after crisis. Somehow the EU survived them all. But this Brexit business, she reflected, was in a category of its own.
‘Is the German delegation here yet?’ Jacobsen asked.
‘The German delegation is certainly here. I’ve seen the German ambassador a moment ago. But I don’t think Mrs Brun has arrived yet.’
She picked up a pair of opera glasses and scanned the room. ‘No, she’s not here.’
Jacobsen waited another ten minutes but the chancellor still didn’t arrive. In the end, even in the absence of Chancellor Brun, he decided to open the meet
ing.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome. I would like to thank you all for coming here at short notice. Some of you may indeed wonder why you are here at all. You may believe that when, earlier this year, we concluded our renegotiation package with the UK, the European Council had, as it were, said the last word. That was our final offer.
‘And of course I completely understand if that is the view you take. Nevertheless, I too, as Chairman of the Council, must take my responsibilities seriously. It has not escaped my notice, and it will certainly not have escaped yours, that Europe today is in the midst of great turmoil. I would venture to state that even the continued existence of the European Union is under threat from the rise of anti-EU populist movements. We cannot discount the possibility of what I may call the “domino effect”. What happens in Britain next month may affect what happens in France, in the Netherlands, in Germany, and even – if this is not too fanciful – in the United States of America, where as we all know the presidential campaign has already begun.
‘That is why I have asked the president of the Commission to make one last effort to find a solution to the British problem, a solution which should ensure that the outcome of the Referendum can be seen as a confirmation, not a rejection, of our common European destiny.’
‘Hear, hear!’
Jeremy Hartley banged the table to indicate his approval. The other heads of state or government joined in the applause.
Arne Jacobsen smiled. He was not on the whole an eloquent man. But he had put a bit of effort into that speech and he was pleased by the reaction.
After that, as was usual, the European Commission led off the discussion.
Michael O’Rourke began by acknowledging the efforts of all those present in the room to avert the looming train wreck.
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