eliotist

[eliotist]

2020 Snapshot

Moved as I have been to read the tea leaves, I thought I should share my snapshot of the 2020 US presidential election two weeks out. My gut tells me that any state where Biden has a within margin of error - that is to say 3% - lead is probably masking a shy Trump/happy to, in the confines of the voting booth, tell the bien pensantists to go fuck themselves vote, which explains Biden poll leads in Florida, Arizona, and North Carolina. Beyond these Biden, seemingly, has harder leads in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin, the latter two of which Trump can afford to lose and still win the presidency in the electoral college, so, it may well come down to his retaining Pennsylvania, with its 20 electoral college votes, and, it seems Biden has a 4-5%, or, minus the aforementioned shy Trump voter phenomenon, 1-2%, lead there at the moment. That said, if Florida goes decisively for Biden, and that presages one or two losses elsewhere, goodbye Donald.

[eliotist]

Barlow!

I see Gary Barlow has popped up somewhere, with all the charisma of an ineffably beige man during a taupe convention in the 1970s. He’s like a living evocation of a beige psychedelic trip if you can imagine the excitement of a psychedelic trip denuded of the riot of the full spectrum of colour and replaced with shades of beige. If you became the Star Child at the end of 2001 and evolved at a hyper-accelerated rate into a being of pure beige, only then could you dimly begin to discern what level of Barlowesque beigery is possible. Or maybe Altered States would be a better analogy? Gary Barlow is an experiment in abnormal psychology and sensory deprivation aimed at evoking a state of pure boredom through synaesthesia. He isn’t just beige, he IS beige!!! Or maybe he’s Tarkovsky, if Solaris took, as its central emotional experience, boredom rather than grief? The essential colour palette would remain the same. Maybe he is beige become something encroaching on self-awareness, “How can it not know what it is?” Oh God, such dully garish colour!!!!!

[eliotist]

I Married You In Florida

The wedding was enjoyable, much as one would have expected it to be, the venue comfortable, the guests relaxed and enjoying themselves, basking in the warm glow of the happy occasion. Stepping inside I looked down at my half empty glass, the beads of moisture collecting toward the bottom, accentuated by the humid Florida air, I should have to refill it soon. The bride and groom had finally shown up, ahead of, to my jaundiced eye, the main attraction, a midget Elvis pastor. Ennui has one take novelty where one may, and such a concept - yet unseen - had certainly piqued my interest. I smiled at Hagar from a distance and raised my glass encouragingly, full of warm regard for the happy couple as I was. Sarah looked well too, though she stood at the opposite side of the room, surrounded by her bridesmaids.

It was my understanding that the pastor was to join us from the air, he would sky dive to the venue, stride across the verdant Florida lawn, careful not to land in the gator ridden swamp land surrounding the compound. Eventually he would enter the venue through the large glass doors behind the lectern that had been situated at the front of the room, late evening sunlight bathing him from behind, the soon to be united couple from their left, and the rest of us from our collective front.

None of this, alas - one supposes for the sake of social expectation one must, alas, concede alas – was to transpire. While my visions of the late Rev. Obadiah Q. Esterhazy, possibly not his real name, wearing a midnight blue jumpsuit, after The King, were to be borne out by events; he was quite discernible against the backdrop of the purple and atmospheric Florida early evening sky; but I never got the close up look I had been hankering for. When the light aircraft carrying what I assumed to be the pastor hove into view I, sallying forth from my accustomed place at the edge of the crowd, slipped unobtrusively onto the lawn wishing to see his arrival. How often does one get to see a skydiving midget Elvis pastor arrive at a wedding venue in the course of an average human life? Only in America, perhaps?

The plane circled, seemingly without any difficulty for a few minutes, during which time an eager groom joined me in expectation of the arrival of the instrument of his impending nuptials. At last, release, a small midnight blue clad figure bundled out of the side of the plane, which had been buffeted, slightly, but not in any way for me to suspect any potential problems. The small ball of Elvis pastor began plummeting earthbound; the excited bride too joined us. Seconds elapsed, and still no sign of a parachute. A degree of concern began to manifest itself among our small party. Finally, the parachute began to deploy, but no, it ripped away from the small falling midnight blue ball of a being. Then a strong gust of wind buffeted him away from the landing zone, he seemed, so far as I could then tell closer to the treeline and the gator and boa constrictor infested swamps beyond. There was to be no second chute. Sarah gasped. Hagar exclaimed; “WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!” I downed the remainder of my drink. I understand the late in two senses reverend had fallen foul of some of his business associates, the chute had been sabotaged, his body was discovered some weeks later, but such is the way of things. At least an alternate pastor was available at the venue.    

[eliotist]

Some Fiction

Before and After the War

Stevens approached the terminal with an unknowingly warranted air of concern, he was not to know the horrors that the project would loose upon the wider world; indeed at that point, as he would subsequently, ruefully recall, he had no other thought on his mind than how he would broach the issue of intercollegial relations with Dreyer. The dim lights, the sinister whirring of deep, supercomputational calculation was but the regular occurrence of the office space at this hour and this time, he was not to know Dreyer’s schemes, the side projects, which would soon come to a terrible fruition. Dreyer as a physical being seemed to channel the uncanny, one was aware of his presence, if sufficiently attuned, momentarily prior to his announcing of himself. Stevens looked to his left, the apparition, the visage in the glass panel could be no one other than Dreyer.

               “Dreyer, I thought I might find you here...” a wan smile fleetingly appeared on his lips as he turned to face his taciturn, brilliant colleague, to no verbal response. Stevens was momentarily disarmed, a look of distemper, or what could so closely approximate it in the context of so emotionally controlled, so emotionally atypical a being as Dreyer, seemed to be similarly progressing across the latter’s own face. Dreyer had come recommended by the best - it was why he was in Palo Alto, after all. Yet his having risen without trace niggled at Stevens, any intimation of easy humanity could well have allayed this trace of suspicion, for the little good that might have done. There was a part of Stevens that wished to initiate Dreyer into the ways of the corporation, its’ easy familiarities, its’ social fabric and yet Dreyer’s equanimity, coupled with, contrarily, the fierce eyes of the driven fanatic, precluded this, and resentment started to swell, in spite of his good intentions.

               “I’m surprised to find you here, Cal”, Dreyer remarked, coolly, “I thought DynaSys had a new product launch, I understand it’s piqued quite the interest in our clique...” Dreyer lingered, poised somewhere between the quizzical and the caustic on the last word. The terminology was that of identification, and yet, it had been couched in such a way as to hint at the outsider Stevens suspected Dreyer to be and the latter knew himself as.

               “Frankly, Dreyer’, Dreyer was known always as Dreyer, the forename seldom, if ever, escaped the thin lips, ‘Your efforts have been noticed, we’re surprised at your phenomenal work rate, and we’re Americans. My presence here is partly deputation, partly personal interest, we don’t want the new star quarterback cracking, or even to risk cracking...I’m extending an invitation, the jet has been assigned to us, it’s on the tarmac, we can be anywhere in the western US within a couple of hours...” Dreyer seemed both curiously unsurprised by this development, and also curiously unappreciative. It did, however, serve his purpose, facilitated progression, as it would turn out, in his own secret game; Stevens, it would transpire, had, that evening much to be rueful for...

Tomiko was perplexed by the Englishman genuflecting, alluding to his own private Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence as well as her own actions; how she had allowed herself to drift into a sado-masochistic relationship with Grey, how they would both, obsessively, contemplate the forbidden colours. Perhaps her own role troubled her most of all, assuming the faintly boyish, Yonoiesque alter ego, the way in which her demure, feminine beauty was sublimated, any man might have desired her, attired in a fashion similar to most women, only Grey was excited by her form clad in the androgynous neutrality of a Japanese Army uniform and the abuse he encouraged her to visit upon his own body. Their love expressed itself via extreme forms of psychosexuality; Grey enjoyed the regimentation, his self-abnegation before her authority, the way in which he sensed the faint disgust and contempt behind her treatment of him, a strand to which he was more psychologically attuned.

Both became increasingly committed to their forms of self-expression, mired within its increasingly obsessional rituals, so possessed had Grey become by the historical experience of the Changi prisoners that he had secretly decided to embark on method-research. He had to experience the same level of torment, the starvation, the beatings, and, in co-opting Tomiko, with her own psychological imperatives, he had found someone to act as accomplice and perhaps also to exorcise this aspect of her country’s historical experience. Neither was entirely aware of quite how increasingly strange the relationship had become, they spent much time apart thinking of the other, but, on occasion, would come across each other in the formal garden, whereupon she would callously strike him and he would cower, both aware of the other’s heightened breathing in the warm summer air.

The final weeks found them engaged in their private races, Grey to finish his book before he became too weak and debilitated, his increasingly gaunt and sinewy body an imperfect vessel for his intentions, Tomiko, unwittingly, to attain a level of perfection in her casual cruelty that would see her bring about the near sex-death of Grey, which would be the crowning motif of his gesamthistorischekunstwerk and would ensure the reception of his book as a classic and his own ascension to literary fame as  a corollary. Neither could have played their self-appointed roles any better.

Hollister keenly felt the flight bank underneath him as it turned into the approach for Stansted, London was brilliantly lit out the porthole to his left, Nite Flights his aural accompaniment of choice...”Be my love we will be Gods on nite flights”...His cold blue eyes surveyed the city in the night, it impressed himself like nothing so much as Scott’s nightmare original San Angeles on his consciousness...Was London really just one of the great city states? His own provenance was immutably home counties, the wealthiest part of the Kingdom, as it still was...In the drizzle, however, it could be nothing over than some post-post-modern cityscape, Canary Wharf definable, even from this distance in this weather...The failing social democratic dream-nightmare of modern Europe from whence he returned shaped his perspective, “It’s all a fucking a nonsense” he murmured, as he turned and inadvertently made eye contact with the Chinese next to him.

I had felt my life dissolve amid the burgeoning uncertainties of the present age, where previous generations could look back upon seemingly eternal verities, values, truths immured within the ages prior to the stem cell or the colossal technological advances that had made the transcendence beyond man, the leap toward some techo-Nietzschean nightmare scape a real possibility, we were left, I was left with an existence of uncertain prospects...What would Dreyer’s gamble create in its apotheosis? Was it not possible that, in a sense, Einstein would prove terrifyingly wrong, not only did God play dice with the universe, but there were those among us intent on arrogating to themselves the prerogatives of the creator? In this threatening paradigm had we, as a society, created Dreyer in our own image, or was he going to create - or recreate - us in his? The iron corporations had played their allotted roles, fallen into line with the intentions of the aspirant God; scarcely a day passed without some seemingly innocuous news story, their common theme Dreyer’s consorting with the tribunes of great republics, constitutional monarchies, and most importantly eastern autocracies, a key note speech here, a faintly unsettling, ostensibly relaxed performance on a popular magazine show there...He’d palpably changed, evolved from the altogether more reticent figure I had first known him as - though not entirely, the eyes remained, exhibiting the fixity of the fanatic they had always possessed. He was the first zealot of his own revolution, a revolution without need of winter palaces or the fickle, engaged mob. Was his the first post-political revolution, popular apathy and the amenable appurtenances of the former democracies easing the path for his chosen medium, a technological revolution so advanced that those of us unschooled in its essence could only but aliken it to magic...? The glare of the HD monitors impressed themselves upon my bleary eyes, the myriad of disparate images intimated, however chaotically, a secret narrative, tensions, crimes, even the more innocuous of the popular entertainments betrayed key elements of the new order...I focused on one of the images in particular, Dreyer, smiling wryly, looking coolly relaxed against a tropical locale, I wondered whether I had become the first to alight upon the signature image of the new age, disconcerted I drained my tumbler, the whiskey harshly warming my throat and sinuses as my blood ran cold...

Who knew what dark imperatives compelled her, the nearest she herself could come to an answer was capriciousness, driven by a near hysterical fear of ennui. The street, as viewed from the rooftop, served as a living canvass, sufficiently near as to allow her to observe the naturalistic movement of its characters, sufficiently removed as to dislocate that movement, that reality, as though she were observing it from a different degree, a separate plain of existence. She could hear an insistent violin riff intrude into her thoughts, something Reichian...They seemed so small, truly Lilliputian, their concerns too...Half the city might be torn from its place in space time, she wasn’t even sure such an event would register, they had their lives, their constituent parts in existence, rising like shadows to meet them, or to leave them, depending on the time of day. She scratched at her wrist and the blackly symbolic tattoo on it, glancing at the long faded scars, registering them she became wryly cognisant of how her masochistic impulses had altered their forms of expression...Happiness was a puzzle...The ineffable complexity of the nature of things, as she observed them, presented an increasingly - or so it seemed - insuperable barrier...She surveyed the dots moving below her again...”The hand that felled the city” she murmured...Her thoughts returned to the events of the past few weeks, dwelling on her recent crisis just as the sun dipped below the horizon and the previously temperate eve cooled perceptibly...Man cannot be overcome with such imperfect tools...The very fact of our physicality hobbles our attempts at, our pretences to rationality...If only she could devise a method of mathematical altruism as a guard against an excess of human impulse...The beach holiday, today’s massacre on the news, the latest currency fluctuations crowded in on her thought processes...It would never do, certitude was absent, abnegated? Her father’s solaces, Groby, Crouchback’s, the modern style...She took her pill, like Alice she too needed to be regulated, neither too large, nor too small, neither too neurotic, nor too unstable, and if the world should descend into greater instability? She tired of the questions, the stray thoughts, the insistent violin blaring in her head, the street, the people, oh God, the people, the deleterious impact of recent events...Why did she have to be so different...? She could do nothing save adhere to her heretical impulses, the banalities of conventional discourses and interactions were as wormwood to her...She tired of the “mornings”, of the grim necessity of smiling, the energy she wasted in pretending to care about her boss’s family, her co-workers’ dismayingly conventional enthusiasms...The whole was a sociological water torture, each fresh interaction uniform in its stultification, its nullification...and here she was, alone, so high...in two senses, now...She turned her back to the street below, looked across at the low wall opposite her and started to run...

That Major Ross should’ve found his field office wedged into the claustrophobic confines of the ossuary was no surprise, the dictates of the conflict’s seemingly imminent end, as well as the requirements of administration, or at least what administration, howsoever under-resourced, could be provided by the logistic corps, required a gesture in the direction of order. The threat of exhaustion loomed, days had been spent in the interminable task of bringing some modicum of relief to the erstwhile inmates, now temporary residents of the death camp. He had been most disturbed to see Lawrence poking around, directing a far better resourced scientific recovery effort. The steely, quizzical ash-blonde doctor was both one of the most interesting women he had ever met and the most sinister. Her presence here, in that capacity begged unsettling questions, questions he knew well enough not to even intimate he might ask, never mind articulate.  

“I find, I travel these days’, Hollister spoke haltingly, demurring prior to each expostulation, ‘I feel, immured in some disconnected post-modernist semblance...’ the lips pursed momentarily, the eyes narrowed, ‘I’m aware of the processes, the rituals of travel...And you see the people, the airport people, they’re, we’re, rather, all much of a muchness - in the sense that we spend our lives attired in the garb of the travel class, we interact with our devices under stripped lighting, flitting from meeting to meeting, all prepared for the act of seating ourselves in a metal tube, wings and engines attached, and flinging ourselves at some speed off the face of the earth. Our destination matters not, but I am, at least, in that moment of thrust aware of our common kinship’, he ceased the nervous tapping he had been doing all through his monologue, smiled wryly and passed his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘The odds, I’m most keenly aware of the odds, racking up...Increasingly I find myself subject to my private obsessions, I meditate upon the inadequacy of the public sphere, with its polite fictions,’ he grimaced, ‘only to realise that I couldn’t be any less in sympathy with accepted conduct, good manners, the risible humanist consensus...I think of the society I would be comfortable with, mass deportations, public hangings, legalised prostitution, liberal drugs laws, euthanasia encouraged as a matter of course, high street travel chains dealing explicitly in sex tourism – perhaps with adverts on ITV - none of the presumed guilt, or having to feign it, when glorying in the beneficent hand of a reasonably high social status in this jungle we inhabit...Mine is not the morality of Baroness Helena Kennedy, or Sharmi Chakrabarti, say...Only via this cruel and, in its way, liberal path can I see any possibility of our being redeemed...I’m not sure I say this as one of the airport people, or a Briton, or anyone speaking from a quaintly nationalist conceit...I look upon the mass deportations as acts of charity, giving to those less fortunate the chance of air travel, the foreign climes...None of the moral imperialism for me, Syria for the Syrians, I shrug my shoulders and I move along, tuppence on income tax in this economy seems pricey for the accustomed fireworks display, the collateral casualties, the excess of dead children...Why not a balanced budget and fewer dead children? Admittedly the rapes and other abuses will still occur, but can’t we be realists about the whole thing?”

Clare Petacci, conscious of her moniker’s status as an anglicised inflective allusion, ran the numbers, as it were. There was a distinct possibility that her friend, that troubled woman with the tattoos, the scars and the Obsidian black sense of humour, could fall prey to the nascent sickness, the entry into a fugue state - which usually betrayed the sufferer’s internal psychological conflicts via the logic of their dreams now externalised - prior to lapsing into a catatonic state with pronounced catalepsy and thence death. Eva, meanwhile, had drifted to sleep to the strains of Khachaturian, her half finished scotch on the table beside the sofa, a look of unaccustomed benignity upon her usually strained face.

“You mean to say that Khan is instrumental in conceptualising the Manhattan Project of biological warfare?”

“To understand the man we must have recourse to his dreams, they are populated with a myriad of potential Patients Zero, paraded out against a backdrop that can best be considered a painting of Dali’s, based on an etching of Nuremberg. Khan’s nightmarescapes are the logical expression of his dark biochemical romance, the arrival of each fresh gene sequence to his facility is regarded in the same way that you or I might receive a lover. Merely because his bunker has the decor of a state of the art medical facility should not cause us to forget that it is a bunker nonetheless...”, Tremain demurred.

“But what is to be done!?”

“Rather Leninist of you - what can be done? The international scene seems unripe for action, perhaps it may be said of his government that it is playing the diplomatic environment as ably, as well as Piedmont-Sardinia did in the nineteenth century, which is unfortunate, given the likely consequences.’ he grimaced, ‘Risk aversion may well be its and his greatest ally, the global economy remains weak, and even a full-scale invasion, as unlikely as that may be, would be unlikely to achieve the essential desired end.”

“Your fatalism is appalling!” – Hampton flared, angrily.

“That may be, but it has also the virtues of realism, even if, in the likely future, that is of no comfort. The likelihood is that, at some point, sooner rather than later, some re-engineered, sequenced bug will come from Africa for you and me, it depends merely on how the regime racially grades its external enemies, we spoke once, his outlook is not that of The Guardian’s. What’s the alternative, a mutually assured infection, an almost literal cold war, in the sense of re-engineering that virus and making it lethal, deterrence predicated on the pox, or Ebola? I understand the logic, but the humanists, they’d never allow it, the psychic blow it would occasion to their weltanschauung simply renders it unimaginable...”

The sun bleached the ground as Tremain stood beside the runway on the abandoned airfield. The Blackhawk kicked up a cloud of dust as it landed off to his left, the final troop of hired special forces mercenaries quickly exiting its sides. In the distance off to the right Tremain could see the aged superstructure of the abandoned factory, below was Khan’s laboratory. He contemplated standing on the edge of the psychic event horizon, the viruses Khan had designed there, things of exquisite lethality, had killed billions. As the dust from the helicopter, picked up on the wind, drifted into his face he thought of the mindset that had destroyed a world, Khan’s work was not that of a materialist, he wryly mused. A blinding pulse of light, Tremain quickly closed his eyes and slapped both hands over his face, seeing the bones of his hands made visible as he turned. Nuclear retaliation on the cities to the north and west, he intuitively knew, even prior to becoming conscious of the mushroom meme, or memes, rather.

               “Sir, we have total air superiority and the best part of a battalion on the ground, with firepower to match’, bellowed a private security colonel over the organised chaos of the deploying combat group. ‘A section will be assigned to your personal protection, we’ve already secured the facility and the rest of the assessment team await your arrival for the debrief.”

Tremain repositioned his panama, cocked his head to the left, hooded his eyes and, grinning deathly, breathed in sharply, shouting in turn to the colonel he proclaimed: “Lead on! I want to be comfortably back aboard America by nightfall!”  

[eliotist]

The Inspector Svenstrom Mysteries

I’m just having a little fun with the conventions of Scandiweigian crime fiction, via the prism of my own creation Inspector Svenstrom. The key to understanding Svenstrom is his total liberal bigotry, more often than not he hounds entirely innocent and blameless members of the general public through the criminal justice system at the behest of his own and significant parts of the establishment’s warped moral code. Car accidents where women die are treated as examples of misogyny, an incorrect or entirely unloaded use of the pronoun ‘they’ is indicative of hate speech, you get the idea. Here we find Inspector Svenstrom determining to conspire with like minded individuals in the press and establishment to controvert the democratically expressed will of the Swedish people because they happened to have elected a right-leaning parliament, the centre-right, of course, being populated with crypto-fascists. In short, Inspector Svenstrom is from a world where a Scandiweigian Polly Toynbee has written crime fiction.  

 Svenstrom lithely got out of the car, angrily he slammed the Volvo estate’s door shut, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “returns have come in from all over Sweden, it seems the largest bloc in the new parliament will be the centre right, with the leader of the Moderate Party expected to be the next prime minister.”

                Had it come to this, the so-called centre right, with their gender-normativity, their casual racism, their callous disregard for social justice, why had Sweden elected this bunch of fascists!? It made his vindication over the Semmelweis case turn to ashes in his mouth, he may not have been able to prove that he had killed the girl, but the idea that she would just commit suicide like that was unconscionable, there had to be a reason, and that reason was the hate-fuelled insensitivity of the old man, that crypto-fascist, he’d discerned his grubby inclinations from the moment he’d had the temerity to open a door for Ulrike…That one action served as short hand for the dark, lamentable catalogue of Swedish crime…Svenstrom swigged from his hip flask, he took pride in having had that bastard arrested and jailed under hate crime legislation, one injudicious use of the term ‘they’, which any backward, bigoted type would’ve innocently assumed to be a slip of the tongue spoke volumes as to the innate fascism of the man, never mind the grieving father routine, he was now in jail where he, and, according to the radio, 40% of the population, conservatively, belonged!

                “Rudy, don’t take it so hard’, said Ulrike. “We have friends in the media, the civil service; there’ll be another election before we know it.”

                “Tell that to the slew of murder victims identifying as non-biological men and women, and the other acronyms! TELL THAT TO THE TRAFFICKED, TO THE CHILDREN!!!’, he screamed.

Svenstrom’s mobile started to ring, the accustomed tune of John Lennon’s Imagine readily apparent, but he was angry, he threw it into the tree line, it hit a birch tree, breaking apart on impact, the ring tone died. To Svenstrom all was black reaction, the bitterness of knowing his enemies would be ruling the roost.

                “ALRIGHT! YOU’RE ANGRY!!! But unless you channel that anger, you’re no good to anyone, Rudy; the dead, whatsoever they identify as, need a man, I’m sorry, someone identifying as a man, like you, or identifying as a woman, to help them, to ensure justice; door-opening sexist bastards like Semmelweis, who crush the finer feelings of people like his daughter, need a nemesis!”, Ulrike’s nostrils flared as she said this.

                “It doesn’t make it better, Ulrike…’, Svenstrom turned his collar up and proceeded to walk toward the lake, the harsh, cold wind stung his bloodshot eyes, his right in particular began streaming, his vision blurred slightly. He thought back to Semmelweis, who he had first seen in the guise of a man pathetically attempting the appearance of a kind gesture to his troubled daughter, what he now knew to be a contrived performance of normality. This reactionist, complicit in his daughter’s suicide, adept at the pretence of family life, well, he had got him, maybe not for the suspected, in his eyes at least, murder, but for hate speech; ‘they’, Svenstrom grimaced, fighting back tears, ‘they’, anger at the new political realities overwhelmed him. Semmelweis might be out in six months, but, if Svenstrom had his way, his network of media collaborators and friends in the establishment would have the new government out in less! 

[eliotist]

Jeeves in the High Castle

‘Never again, I said, never again would I venture forth to Totleigh, Jeeves. Bad enough before all this bandobast, The Earl of Sidcup Leader of the House of Lords in a collaborationist government, Lady Florence Craye making an all too easy transition to the cursed ‘New World Order’, Stilton Cheesewright ending up Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police with the sanction to persecute me, but this, is too much...’

‘Forgive me, sir; that I might interject, but it could be a significant propaganda coup, a slap in the face – to use your parlance – to the presiding authorities...’

‘You mean to say, Jeeves, that Gussie Fink-Nottle’s novel...’

‘The Newt Lies Heavy, sir.’

‘The Newt Lies Heavy, posits an alternate reality, in which, rather than the dog’s breakfast of a military campaign, which led to our capitulation, and from which all our woes these years hence have flowed, there came instead an allied victory, and which affords potentially a key propaganda victory? Ha. I say! But’, here I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster RN, averred a finger, ‘indulging you, Jeeves, I shall ask, how so!?’

‘Newt speaks heavily to the psychology of the individual, presenting as it does, in this new dark age in which we find ourselves, hope. The continent may well not be delivered in our lifetime, but the flame of hope and civilised values must be kept alight. To that end Gussie had just finished Newt, an innocuous enough title, and had arranged with Mrs Travers, illicit publication. Unfortunately, there came to be a mix up, in which the original found itself in the company of The Earl of Sidcup’s papers...’

Here I started, veritably spilling the proverbial, seditious literature, in the hands of one of the most influential collaborators in the country!

‘Jeeves, this is madness! You expect me to saunter up to Totleigh, casually rifle through the things of a cabinet minister, all without suspicion, or interdiction!?!’

‘I’m afraid it’s rather more complex even than that, sir...’

My eyes were agog!

’...The Fuhrer himself will be at Totleigh that particular weekend.’

I was silent, non-committal. Jeeves recommenced.

‘All is not quite as black as those feared SS uniforms, however. My recent ‘defection’ to work for Lord Sidcup as his gentleman’s personal gentleman, has gleaned intelligence that may be of great use to us. The Fuhrer is an avid fan of, indeed, one might go so far as to say – not without reason – fanatical for, Milady’s Boudoir, and is inclined to look most favourably upon any associated with that publication. Quite inadvertently Mrs Traver’s publication chimes with certain aspects of the new regime’s social policy, and for this reason has quite the readership amongst Berlin and the New Europe’s elite, indeed, just this year, Frau Goebbels gave subscriptions as Christmas presents.’

[eliotist]

BBC Pay

Much outrage today over the apples and oranges of BBC pay differentials, little of it taking any opportunity to consider the inherently superficial nature of the television medium, best known for offering us older man/younger woman duos. Personally, I’d prefer breakfast news to be presented by a Tourette’s sufferer and a dwarf, but then ennui will do that to you. Laconic humour aside, TV’s inherent superficiality somewhat estranges it from fairness, and I hail from that good 90% of the population HD would do no favours to. Long established, often male TV ‘stars’ are going to have accrued a great number of pay rises, women do have it tougher, but if their tenure in roles, time of service are directly comparable than yes, they should be paid the same as their male peers. The nature of the medium, as well as other innate sex differences, e.g. that whole propagating the species thing, would seem to militate against that though. This says nothing of issues pertaining to the state broadcaster’s privileged role in the market and payment of money like that offered to Chris Evans, whose ‘popularity’ I find bizarrely inexplicable, but then in the present environment fame is more often synonymous with a state of being whereby most of the rest of us are actively indifferent to whether the individual in question lives or dies. A lot of BBC activity isn’t aimed at me, and nor necessarily should it, but perhaps the issue of pay, among management too, is symptomatic of its trying to be all things to all people at a time when it isn’t the media behemoth it used to be in the context of a globalised market with streaming service competitors which earn far more revenue than the licence fee provides. As ever with British institutions these days one feels that it is no longer responsive to a changing world, last I heard China’s English language news services had a budget 15 times the size of BBC News’, it’s probably reached a point where it can do less and less, less well whilst also blinkered by its ideological biases.

[eliotist]

Blair: A Tanka

The Tigris roaring

The eastern bank beckoning

Never to make my

Imprint on the other side

Beyond my understanding.

 Unarmoured soldiers

Fell early that year like leaves

Their garlands like wreaths

Dried, rusted, desiccated

Lost amidst insurgency.

 Turning to the west

I see the moon effulgent

It commands heaven

As I could not command earth

Vanity sowing ashes.

You will note that the failure to ford a river also serves as metaphor for the failure to attain knowledge, while I also toy with the attempt to make the other/Other like us/him and his failure to understand the nature of externalities; the second stanza uses classical natural imagery, while also invoking that early period where the coalition forces were treated as liberators before their garlanded flowers became the wreaths bestowed on the graves of those consumed by the insurgency; and lastly the moon and the west are symbolic within the tanka form of death and moving into the next world, before comparing its puissance to the mere earthly delusions of Tony.

[eliotist]

Humane Intentions

May as well put this somewhere, this is my unpublished novel from about two and a half years ago. Maybe someone will enjoy it.

Humane Intentions

A Comedy

By

...

                I

Saul Weltschmerz’s sleekly contoured, precision-engineered Mercedes swept up to the entrance of the modern, lit skyscraper. A wintry dawn hung over the cold, windswept North Colonnade. Camped outside the entrance, and barely suppressed by the bank’s private security guards, was an assortment of enraged protesters and cynical hacks; their presence occasioned by a series of stunning revelations pertaining to, in the contemporary argot, I N Securities’ culture. Day after day had seen fresh outrages emblazoned across the high and low brow presses, to say nothing of the internet, allegations, as yet unproven, of insider trading, questions concerning the banks’ liquidity ratio, suggestions that it had lobbied to remove the more stringent proposals being envisioned for a new round of Basel rules, to say nothing of the really attention grabbing details, the sexual imbroglios and jealousies, of millions lost by traders less interested in advancing the interests of their clients’ money in the global currency and commodities markets than in being inside their mistresses.

               “MR WELTSCHMERZ, ARE YOU GOING TO RESIGN!?!”

               “DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THE MISHANDLING OF CLIENTS’ FUNDS!?!”

               “HOW CULPABLE DO YOU FEEL FOR RECENT LOSSES, AND ATTEMPTS TO UNDERMINE THE BASEL RULES!?!”

Saul - who imagined himself to be a realist - was more concerned with certain of the press’s more searching questions than he was with the abuse being hurled at him by the protesters.

               “HANG THE BANKERS!!!”

               “EAT THE RICH!!!”

               “OCCUPY THE BANKS, JUST NOT THE WEST ONE!!!!!” one particularly unhinged agitator screamed.

Saul disembarked from the car, as lithely as a fairly corpulent banker made more corpulent still by the successes and excesses of his profession would allow, stared wildly at the baying mobs. He proceeded to deliver a short speech laden with the sort of non-sequiteurs often associated with an unhinged mind.

               “I N Securities continues to stand for excellence, for fiscal prowess, for its clients, in a world deluged with irresponsibility’, Saul was of that milieu that so often mistook the incantatory power of managerialist mantras for thought, ‘and excessive regulation!’, he paused noticeably, looking befuddled, ‘We have had, are having, a sweeping, root and branch, reform process; those guilty, whether in fact, deed, or the court of public opinion, have no place at I N, and will have to answer for their crimes under due process of the law…” Saul was not to let his currying favour with the mob by assuaging their moral egos at the expense of established judicial norms bother him overly much, he had not that kind of mind, nor, if we are honest, time enough to allow for that kind of rumination.

               Press and protestors let forth a renewed round of loaded questions and indignation, which the embattled CEO, less proud than hitherto, less arrogant, a, in many ways, shrunken figure, took as occasion for his leave to the crisis board meeting he was there to attend. To think he had been shamed into leaving Davos for this!

Saul’s retinue quickly cohered around him, accreting in strength as he moved, with due haste, past the security barriers, the well-known figure waved through by slender, well-coutured, secretaries. Among the figures in attendance that day was the comparatively unknown Jamie Field, the emphatically morose, unclubbable man deputed by the compliance department to brief Saul ahead of the meeting about the progress being made with tidying the bank’s reputation - so far as that was a realistic proposition. Jamie was the wan, gaunt Yang to Saul’s rotund, short, Ying - his direct physical antithesis.

The retinue squeezed into the express elevator and around Saul, and, within seconds, was on the 30th floor, where they immediately made for the CEO’s capacious office. What would it say about the soul of Saul? It betrayed a man untroubled, or usually so, by interiority. The hallmarks of any successful CEO, whether still or merely hitherto, were on display, pictures of whichever political or spiritual leaders du jour basking in his presence were freely littered around the room. A gold armillary sphere sat on a plinth near one of the floor to ceiling length windows, the cool, grey neighbouring skyscrapers of Canary Wharf immured within a winter’s morn beyond. Saul’s accustomed style was very much to take charge of meetings, underlings would quail before his alpha male schtick, in a good mood he would jocularly upbraid them, in an altogether worse mood berate them mercilessly. Suffice to say a near silent Saul made the meeting feel tonally wrong. The absence of the accustomed verbal cues, whether amusing, or, more usually, abusive, put them off their collective stride. Into this vacuum there stepped Jamie.

“Saul, frankly, we couldn’t be in a worse position if we tried. We’ve lost a fifth of our asset value since yesterday, the paper trail of your and a great many others’ willful defiance of compliance could keep you and them in litigation for years; I hope you like legal dramas, though suspect you’ll soon find it to be a genre that induces a headache, to say the least. There were some deeply, deeply dodgy practices going on - that and, yes; everybody else was doing them too, but the spotlight’s on us! I can’t imagine revelations of our treating our clients with contempt are going to go down too well, as for your political connections, ok, we funded both major parties, but in an environment like this don’t count on any of that to save you…”

You!?! Astonishment rippled through the room, the half dozen could never have imagined anyone talking to Saul in a manner even approaching that in the full panoply of his pomp, the Sun King of finance would not have tolerated it for one second, and yet, there he stood, either failing to register Jamie’s blunt appraisal, or submissively taking it, according to tastes. Saul sunk into his chair behind his desk, massaging his forehead with one hand, he murmured something inaudible. Sandra, his general factotum, leaned in, whispering, trying to ascertain what it was Saul wanted. Seconds passed. Eventually Saul said loud enough for her to hear: “Clear the room.”

Diamanda Sangrail, the acting head of forex - her former boss having been among those representing a toxic mix of callous disregard for their clientele, poor investment posturing, and sexual licence, currently awaiting the results of a criminal inquiry - narrowed her eyes and spoke: “Well, you heard the man, let’s vacate!” The retinue filed out of Saul’s office to their own exchanging knowing looks prior to a flurry of NSA monitored communiqués rippling out from their Canary Wharf phones and browsers.

Saul was taking his time adjusting to this increasingly apparent and unwelcome new reality. A sense of anxiety began to set in, how right was the doleful Field? If his reading of the runes was right then, in the rubric of the times, his position was untenable…This was unwelcome, after he had given so much of his time to the bank. Had there been excesses? Of course. But where had there not? His own, he was quite sure, were not among the most egregious examples of the genre. As Saul contemplated this he began to slough off his mutedness, he became increasingly, hotly, angry! He would not be bounced into this by the media! Those assholes, those bottom-feeders!!! It all depended on the board, he realized, and he knew them, he knew he could, through a bravura display of charisma, cow them into backing him, in continuing to admit what he knew they all knew, that he Saul H. Weltschmerz, was the essential man, the man who could weather the storm, the man who could save I N Securities from a media-hyped run and the humiliation of government bailout! Saul was, in the vernacular, pumped.

The phone flashed red, it was Sandra, he answered: “Yes.”

“The board wishes you to know they’re ready to receive you, Mr. Weltschmerz.”

“Fuckin’ A, Sandra!”

Assembled in the well-appointed, modernly furnished boardroom were I N’s chairman, Sir Victor Carraway, and a slew of reasonably interchangeable non-executive directors. Saul was not to know that Sir Victor had been favourably impressed by compliance’s damning internal report into the bank’s processes, and had been having confidential meetings with the other members of the board on an individual basis for much of the past week. This queered the pitch considerably, vis Saul’s survivability, certainly so far as the corporate world was concerned, even if expressed in the sort of languid terminology that the CEO himself was not known to use.

“…The problem, one finds, is that Saul is so intimately connected with I N’s successes and failures, they’re tantamount to an expression of the man himself…”

“I found that recent boastful interview distasteful in the extreme, the hired villa, the slighting reference to legitimate concerns…”

Sir Victor grimaced, as if to say he couldn’t agree more, it was at this point that Saul entered the room, much like Caesar strolling to the senate, as he might have thought, had he been given to classical and/or theatrical allusion. He beamed a deeply sardonic smile at the assembled placemen, corporate hangers-on, and former members of one or two of the developed world’s less distinguished recent governments who formed the board of directors.

“Sir Victor, Buddy, Jeff, gentlemen,” Saul particularly name checked those figures he wanted to firm up, or to at least gauge how supportive they would be. He found the wiry, spry Sir Victor difficult to read. Buddy and Jeff offered muted smiles, which denoted at least sympathy, but not the backs to the wall support Saul felt they owed him. “Let’s get to business. I remain bullish about I N…”

Here Sir Victor interrupted him: “Saul, have you had a chance to talk with compliance about their internal report?” Sir Victor mulishly pursed his lips.

“I met with, I met with…’ he stammered, ‘Jamie Field about twenty minutes ago…”, he narrowed his bloodshot eyes at the urbane Chairman.

Sir Victor cocked his head slightly and widened his eyes as if to say: “Well?”

“The report, the report…is…problematic, to an extent - but, this business, we have certain assets, advantages we can call on…’, it was then that a wave of exhaustion overtook Saul, it was quite the emotional rollercoaster he was on.

“Saul, the board have been discussing the findings of Field’s forensic, accurate report’, Sir Victor took especial care to place weight on the adjectives, ‘frankly, I feel, regrettably’, and here murmurings of assent broke out around the boardroom table, ‘that the current management set up’s continuation is, injurious to the continued success of what is, fundamentally, and contrary to recent reportage, a sound bank…” Sir Victor left it there, interested to see where the dawning realization of his logic would take the now obviously exiting chief executive officer.

“Victor, come on! We’ve made the weather, as you Brits say! You’re not going to let this shitty little affair destroy us?’ Saul began to rage titanically. ‘THOSE FUCKS WANT THIS! WE CAN SURVIVE! WE WAIT IT OUT, THEIR SPOTLIGHT SHIFTS, THEY GO AFTER SOMEONE ELSE!!! I’M NOT BEING BOUNCED BY THESE CUNTS! WHERE’S THE FUCKING LOYALTY!?!’ he screamed as he made awkward eye contact with a number of the board’s members. Buddy and Jeff offered pained expressions of sympathy, it was the best that they could do.

“The board feels that there are, Saul,’ Sir Victor said, ignoring the aggressive tone and swearing of his soon to be ex CEO, ‘certain last duties that you can do for I N, and yourself, of course.”

“FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“I would ask, Saul, that you control yourself; though I understand the exigencies of the situation. Would you, perhaps, care to take some time, so as to better comport yourself?”, Sir Victor’s calmly expressed question bore more the imprint of an imperative, given how he had so ably asserted himself both in the face of the crisis bearing down on the bank, and in that of the increasingly puce, imminently ex-CEO of I N Securities.

Saul breathed in sharply a number of times before stalking out of the room.

“Well, board, I think it fair to say that, while a most regrettable business, we have sacked our CEO. I feel we should further discuss post-Saul arrangements. Any thoughts?” This was the symbol for Jeff to offer some prior approved comments to the effect that a steadying, calming influence was required post-Saul; this too was met with murmurs of approval from around the vast wooden desk.

“We have a CFO who is hors d’combat owing to legal difficulties…’ Sir Victor mused. “I don’t know about you, but I always tremendously enjoy a colossal round of corporate musical chairs.” Sir Victor said, somewhat grotesquely, given the circumstances.

The hitherto largely silent Bob Maitland spoke with all the politesse of a man who had been undersecretary of state for Africa in a ministry known more for the fiscal largesse rather than objective success of its African policy when he said: “Sir Victor, Buddy, Jeff, gentleman, given that we’re discussing how to choose the public face of I N going forward, who do we have, who is left, in any sense, in senior management who could, conceivably take us forward from the Saul-era? That’s the question we have to ask ourselves. Look, you know, I’ve read this report, it’s damning, damning stuff,’ here he choose to dwell, interminably, on some of the PR nightmares modern governments shall experience from time to time, ‘but I’ve met Field, and, ok, he’s a tad dour, but he knows probity, has a background encompassing some of the bank’s wider activities, admittedly quite a while ago; I mean he was somewhat sidelined under Saul…”

Jeff’s American drawl chimed in: “Hell, it’s tough, it’s tough on Saul, but it’s also tough on I N, it’s tough on all of us, but, folks, I think Bob’s suggesting what we need, a figure exudin’ sobriety…”

“Quiet calm deliberation disentangles every knot”, Sir Victor wistfully recalled.

“So, Mr. Probity…” interjected Buddy.

“You don’t think he’s a tad young, board, and he exudes rather the air of the obsessive, don’t you think?” Sir Victor asked.

“Youth isn’t necessarily a lacunae, it will contrast favourably with the debauched figures who prospered so mightily under Saul,” said Bob. “You might also consider promoting a woman’, he continued.

There was a noticeable silence across the board as the arrayed male minds contemplated the possibility.

“Well’, Sir Victor stated genially, ‘when in a revolutionary environment run to the extremes is what I say. Though the only one I can bring to mind is that Sangrail woman, Diamanda?’, the board nodded assent at the correctitude of Sir Victor’s recollection, ‘One assumes, Bob, you’re tacitly suggesting her for CFO?”

“If the board should take my strategic advice.”

Jeff also made a further suggestion: “I’ve been speaking with Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates’, the board bristled at the mention of the famed and feared PR outfit, would they, could they be persuaded to come to I N’s colours?

The board was not to know at the time quite what darkly comic consequences the decisions taken post-Saul would have far into the future, not merely for I N Securities, but for a slew of so many other people too.

While this had been going on Saul had continued to stew in his office, contemplating the board’s betrayal at the behest of those hounding him in the media, those resentful of his stunning wealth and success, of the perfect lifestyle lubricated by money, of the trophy wives and mistresses brought together by their mutual greed. It was fair to say that Saul, by nature a wildly competitive man, had, over the past few days developed something akin to an intense persecution complex, and that this had unhinged him.

“Those bastards in there, and out there’, he gestured downward to the window, ‘are not going to do down Saul H. Weltschmerz!!!” he muttered darkly to Sandra, who was somewhat innured to the darker side of her boss’s character, previous, gleefully enjoyed punishment sackings and generous Christmas bonuses, ensured that she no longer had the capacity for rational, detached observation of his thoughts and deeds.

Saul started knocking back the Johnnie Walker Platinum Label he kept in a crystal decanter on his sideboard, usually enjoyed in moderation after a successful deal, or a particularly amusing punishment sacking. Consequently it was when, his phone having rung, Sandra uttering the dread terms “consultation” and “succession planning”, and just after he’d read some particularly savage criticism of himself online, that the burgeoning reality that he had lost control of I N struck home, the overwhelming sense of humiliation became apparent. This would prove for Saul a toxic combination.

All would have been well enough if Saul had not been the sort of hands on figure who determines to master his or her environment. Saul had decided, early in his tenure, to know how to open his windows. He consequently, whilst temporarily – we must be charitable –unbalanced, reached into his drawer for the keys, drained the decanter, left a disobliging message for his wife, for things had not been good at home, proceeded to write an acrimonious email betraying a disordered, resentful mind, went over to the window, opened it, and promptly defenestrated himself.

Nothing was so spectacular about Saul H Weltschmerz’s tenure at I N Securities as his leaving of it. The subsequent inquest was to find that while, clearly, not of sound mind, and under the influence of alcohol, Saul had committed suicide. It was not able to determine whether a bitter intention could have seen him be so precise in his trajectory as to land on and severely injure several of his tormenters in the press. One particularly loathed tribune of the house organ of progressivism was rendered a quadriplegic. For those, however, who look ever for the positive lessons that can be learnt from such tragedies, I N quickly instituted a policy that staff were to no longer have access to their window keys, which is, apparently, for the best.

   II

As part of her volunteer work for the Humane Intervention Tribunal Jacintha Cresswell’s tasks involved her in monitoring ongoing crises as well as the production of morally pithy accounts sufficiently couched to engender sympathy but to also avoid dwelling on the more intractable and depressing moral dimensions of such conflicts. Compassion fatigue in the face of burgeoning humanitarian crisis was not what they were about...Actually, allow me to rephrase that…The conscious rejection of compassion fatigue pertaining to aspects of the human experience that engendered that aforementioned psychological response was what they were about. Not that this bothered Jacintha, one of those earnest sorts who blanches visibly at human cruelty and maintains that cock-eyed optimism contrary to a significant tranche of evidence that made her work, along with its part-time nature, whilst she studied Humanitarian Intervention Studies at the University of the Humanities, an international body with campuses in a slew of the developed world’s great cities and outreach field programmes in any disaster area you may care to name, something more than tolerable, something almost akin to enjoyable. For Jacintha Cresswell there was nothing of the bleak punchline to Goma, say.

Some days subsequent to Saul Weltschmerz’s spectacular suicide Jacintha took time away from some of the lower key crises then taking up space within the deeper recesses of the media. She had been perusing stories pertaining to a woman violated by tribesmen; a child shot by hardline nationalists who somehow found him to be, from an irredentist perspective, objectionable; irate Buddhists immolating Muslims; the last of which she, incidentally, found explicable. Her fashionable objection to Saul Weltschmerz’s profession, however, found morbid expression in her interest in the circumstances of his death. While, ordinarily, as a general rule, the sanctity of human life was to be upheld, she could not help but, unconsciously, make an exception for the defenestrated banker. Some would say that this was the most honestly human thing about her.

“Jac’, her boss shouted across the trendily furnished office, altogether more redolent of the hedge funds and banks its staffers so generally despised than the ostensibly oppositional, ersatz organization it embodied, ‘have you heard any more about the Muslims?”

Jac thought for a second, and assumed Sam meant a particular group of Muslims, rather than whatever happened to be in the domestic news about that religion’s adherents that particular day, she replied: “No, nothing since the Buddhists set fire to them the other day’, before returning to her fevered reading of the sensational details of the banker’s death.

Death had loosed the tongues of all and sundry about a vile, vile man, the rages, the offence given to Sir Victor at their final meeting, the message he left his wife, the human interest stories about those poor journalists who had, not so much broken, as been broken by his fall. Jacintha could not help but respond as most humans would to the way that media opinion so expertly played to her emotions. She was validated as a moral actor in a story representing the great moral issues of the day. Though, she wouldn’t admit that, at the centre of the moral universe, all it took was the spectacular suicide of a sacked banker.

Her mobile went, trilling the objectionably innocuous trill of the iPhone jingle. She glanced at the caller ID, it was Logan.

“Hey.”

“It was nice to have met you last night.”

Jac smiled, remembering their date, they had met for drinks at a Soho bar in Sink Street, off Golden Square, Soho, where Logan worked. “And what do you want?”

“Well, I was wondering if we might meet up again, on Friday?”

“We might’, she amusedly replied.

“Great; dinner, or a movie, perhaps?”

“Surprise me.” Jac rang off.

In another, not noticeably dissimilar room in Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates’ Soho Square offices, the hipsteresque form of Logan Tremain smiled as he contemplated the romantic possibilities of Jacintha Cresswell. He dangled his Joe 90esque glasses from his right hand as he lost himself in a reverie. This was broken by the ringing of his office phone.

“Hi, Susie…Sure, right away.” Tremain promptly left for Kruger Randwick’s Balls, as he was, with an intermixture of the admiring and the pejorative, informally known’s office on the top floor.

Susie showed him into Sir Paul Fennell’s lair. Sir Paul was at his desk, poring over who knew what documentation, and, as he awaited the great panjandrum’s attentions, Logan admired the full size Gerhard Richter he had on his office wall.

“Logan, good to see you’, he gestured to the painting, ‘you like it? It’s a new acquisition, bought it at auction; love its riotous display of colour. I’ve been having talks with an interesting client, or, prospective client, rather. I mean, they’d like us, they’d fucking love us. And, I know it’s not immediately obvious, given the exigencies of the situation, but I’m already half determined, OK, maybe more than half determined, to take them on…”, Sir Paul drifted, he’d been moving as he’d spoken and was now gazing out of his window on the square below, the weak sunlight of a January day doing its best to light the square below.

“Who have we got then?”

“Well, got…If you appreciate the challenge…I N Securities…” Sir Paul let the thought sit there.

“Are we working miracles now?’ Logan asked, squinting with one eye as he idly scratched his beard with the opposite hand.

“Look, you know there are contending interests here, making our industry look good, or at least preventing it from being sullied, the chance to test our skills, keep us in the game, the fee, of course…I mean, steering well clear of anything to do with that bank, understandably rational position, but, OK, perhaps a degree of vanity’, whether of an old man’s or not went distinctly unmentioned, ‘though that doesn’t detract from my belief that we can do this, and that when we do the bounce in profile, rep, fees we’ll get off it will make us the premier PR firm for the next few years at least.” Sir Paul’s most likely retirement date also went unmentioned.

“You realise, Paul, that people tend not to have warm and fuzzy feelings about banks right now and that the last I heard there were rumours that I N was this close to receiving a Treasury bailout…”

Logan was not to then know it but at that particular moment the fate of I N was being discussed less than a mile away in the Chancellor’s offices, the fallout from the suicide of Saul Weltschmerz having pitched the already troubled financial institution into further crisis. Sir Victor, Jamie Field, Diamanda Sangrail, the Governor of the Bank of England, and attendant flunkies were attempting to engineer a rescue package, or alternative arrangements, that would buy time for the beleaguered bank. The Chancellor, enamoured of his self-proclaimed image as the Iron Chancellor, taking the tough choices required to get the ailing, debt-binged British economy back on track, or so the rhetoric went, was determined to do almost anything he could to avoid having to add I N’s liabilities to the national debt. The Treasury, having run the numbers, had concluded that a bailout would significantly retard what comparatively scant progress had already been made in reducing the deficit, that talismanic concept in modern politics. It was at this point that Sir Victor’s actions would exert a further, curiously malign influence on proceedings.

“I would maintain, George’, he spoke with the familiarity of a long-term donor, ‘that I N is, fundamentally, sound, it’s our reputation, assailed by the media, that is taking a blow, and, with it, some of our asset value, but we remain in communion with Basel debt-asset ratios, we’re as solvent as pretty much any other major bank…’, an unintended chill went through the room.

The governor spoke: “Chancellor, I’m inclined to agree, the Weltschmerz affair’, he paused sensitively, ‘was an aberration, but, it did at least allow the management to make a clean break, Saul, his people, are gone.”

The chancellor considered his briefing notes, private capital was wary, there seemed no likely savior, the public balance sheet wouldn’t wear it, to say nothing of the humiliation of having to announce such a thing to the house…It seemed insoluble…

“Chancellor, governor’, Sir Victor continued, ‘might I suggest an alternative, and it might come to nothing, but might we consider the Chinese…”

The chancellor narrowed his already famously narrow eyes and looked, in turn, at the governor, his permanent secretary, and his deputy, who, frankly, he would rather not have had in the room at all, to gauge their responses. The governor seemed almost beatific, the permanent secretary accustomedly wary, his deputy optimistic.

“Well, it’s worth a try, I suppose…”

The next few hours were spent in a dizzying array of calls between Treasury and Finance Ministry, Central Bank and Treasury, Central Bank and Central Bank, Bank and Central Bank, Treasury and Bank, and every other possible permutation of line of communication, to say nothing of the slew of off the record briefings taken part in by all and sundry. The result of this welter of activity was the arrangement of a conference call for 09.30/16.30 at which the British/Bank of England/I N proposal would be submitted to the People’s Finance Ministry and Central Bank, prior to further discussion by the standing committee. In this fashion would a financial institution embodying ideals of free market capitalism be saved by an ostensibly Communist state with more ready cash but precious little welfare safety net.

It was not to be expected by those with but a cursory acquaintance with the central duo at I N Securities, but, rather than Jamie fielding questions, so to speak, Diamanda Sangrail, his, ostensible, deputy, would come to dominate proceedings. To this fact must be attributed the curious psychological dependency that Jamie would come to develop pertaining to Diamanda, as well as her complimentary psychopathology.

Minister Wen had just finished asking Jamie about the bank’s capitalisation when Diamanda, strikingly saturnine, pneumatic, 6’ 3” in her Christian Laboutine heels, and the recently appointed Chief Financial Officer, began a bravura display of precision and persuasion; additionally her appearance, akin to a fetish object, even when she toned down her all too apparent sexuality, was, though she did not quite know it, pitched in such a way as to appeal to Minister Wen, who, fortuitously, had the ear of the standing committee. Wen’s mind was a series of fevered visions of Diamanda Sangrail-centric congress. As, increasingly, was that of a repressed and lustlorn Jamie Field’s. Of the latter, sat there, watching the statuesque American cajole, seduce the Chinese to part with their American debt-denominated reserves, we must recall his sidelining in the unfashionable line of compliance at the bank, his caustic manner and his fear of women. As the commanding figure of Diamanda finished her turn she winked at her increasingly submissive boss, this engendered an attack of anxiety on his part.

“Wen’, the chancellor began, ‘this proposal has a degree of our support’, the chancellor making more of that in this meeting than he would ever do in private, ‘and also the support of private investors that Sir Victor, Jamie, and Diamanda have been talking to.”

Wen appreciated the game, the degree of disingenuousness on both sides; after all, these Brits wanted $25bn for their bank, and were only willing, able?, to put up $5bn, but he was also aware that the influence it would give Zhongnanhai made it a bargain, what benefits might be extorted by subtle pressures, what might I get out of a grateful, power-crazed Sangrail woman Wen thought to himself. He spoke to his translator, those in the Treasury conference room picking up a smattering of his Mandarin, wo, ni, ta, ta ma de. The teleconference was dissolved amidst the pleasantries of an economic dependant’s attempts to curry favour with their desired masters, this Field curiously understood. The chancellor, being of a somewhat historical bent considered, without irony, how alike his economic statesmanship was to figures in similar circumstances in ages of yore, and how like Lord Waverly he would be regarded by the history books. The requisite pages of his diary would be suitably written up that evening, his role as beneficent guide to the fate of nations well and wittily drawn. If political history had taught us anything it was how style can distract from the reality of humiliation.

As the line went dead Diamanda was the first to speak: “Well, I think that was a positive discussion.”

Murmurs of agreement went around the room, for now all the assembled figures could do was await the Chinese response and, returning to their respective bases, ruminate upon the facts of the meeting. The I N bankers would wend their way back through the light, mid morning traffic to their neon lit fastness in the east as the treasury staff and central bankers contemplated the gossip that emerged at first, second, third and mass media hand.

In Zhongnanhai Minister Wen and Central Bank President Zhou found themselves to be in agreement about the comparatively small size of the funds being requested, and of the cheapness of the deal, given the influence and interest it would give to the People’s sovereign wealth fund. This fact was, comparatively speedily, conveyed to the Premier, and also squared with the latter’s chairman; who, or so Minister Wen thought, seemed more interested in his golf game (and the mistress he had heard so much about) during a long weekend in Shanghai, than in the comparatively trivial matter of $25bn. The small matter was discussed, informally, by the Premier and, to the relief of the cash strapped, supplicatory Brits, approved within a couple of days. By this time an especially telegenic child had gone missing, consequently the British media was more interested in making lurid suggestions, which, it must be said, turned out to be accurate, than in the boring story that I N Securities had, post-Saul, succeeded in gaining the support of the People’s Bank of China. So the spotlight of the mass media fell away from the seemingly stable bank, the chancellor made his poses in the house and I N’s value rose appreciably on the stock exchange. It had been a good deal, or so went the conventional wisdom, which is never wrong.

January became February and the senior management of I N Securities took a meeting with the senior management, visionaries, or dream weavers, depending on tastes, and one’s capacity for pseudo-mystical bollocks, of Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates. Assembled in one of the bank’s offices’ tastefully modern conference rooms were the two esteemed knights of the realm, Sir Victor Carraway, the old Etonian, casual wielder of subtle influence who had destroyed Saul Weltschmerz and inveigled the Chinese into backing I N, Sir Paul Fennel, colourful, on-trend creative, and advertising powerhouse, and their senior retinues, Jamie, looking dyspeptic, Diamanda, dressed to the nines, fulfilling a certain sort of man’s unconscious, unwelcome desires, on Sir Victor’s side, and, on Sir Paul’s, Logan, bearded, informal, hipster, also creative, and, junior executive, Jessica Grunwald. The meeting was held in a convivial spirit, how the mineral water flowed.

“Personally, I’m excited’, Sir Paul averred. ‘Financial services are having a tough time right now’, he continued, omitting to say anything about the current state of their customer base, but, given the average wage of those around this particular conference table, why should he? “But, I see hope, change, regeneration, which are always attractive qualities, and, even where you have some elements that are not’, and here he gestured to the dour, brooding figure of Jamie, ‘we can make those vices into virtues.”

Sir Victor smiled; confident that in Sir Paul he had found a man with whom he could do business. Jamie glowered. Diamanda smiled sardonically. Across the table from them the Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates troika beamed the inane smiles one so often associates with contemporary success.

“So, Sir Paul’, Diamanda purred flirtatiously, ‘what have you and your associates got for us?”

“Belief, Diamanda, belief. And, what you have. Change. I N has shown the capacity for change, for adaptability, out of the tragedy of Saul, of that culture, you have arisen, like a fiscal Phoenix’, here Sir Paul’s comparative lack of self-awareness helped him tremendously, ‘take Jamie’, and Jamie wished Diamanda would, ‘Mr. Probity, they call him, the man who is a one man cultural revolution at I N, a new broom sweeping out the murky, muddy practices. Take yourself, Diamanda, 40, a woman, holding one of the most high profile jobs in the city. This is not an organization afraid of change, or evolution; just look at the Chinese deal’, here Sir Victor beamed contemplating the full import, or so it seemed, of his works. ‘My take is that we have the capacity to work wonders with your reputation, contrary to the troubled state of your industry as a whole; I mean, just look at everybody else, state owned, miserable, staffed by ageing white men’, again the irony of things unsaid escaped Sir Paul. ‘We Turks at Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates feel, no, know, what we can do with your reputation if you let us, and, you know something else, part of you knows it already, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this meeting, now would we?”

The tone of the meeting changed, it had ceased to be exploratory, both sides now realised, unconsciously, that they were in bed together and began to speak accordingly; the business relationship would soon be consummated, warm encomiums issuing forth from either side. The body language between Sir Paul and Diamanda was, undoubtedly, the warmest in the room, to a degree of consternation from Jamie.

That evening found Logan Tremain furthering his interest in the fragrant, compassionate Jacintha Cresswell, aided by the disposable income fate had bestowed on a man of his professional standing and background. Indeed, so well did the pair represent certain strands of thought in their contemporary society that they could have stood as poster children for the brave new Humanist society into which they had so effortlessly made their progression from wombs to fashionably post coded communities. Picture the scene, our flaxen-haired demi-gods, dining in some fashionable establishment on Charlotte St, enjoying a substantial dinner to keep the winter’s cold at bay, she opts for a ragout, he, an ethically-sourced steak, both decide on chocolate fondants for dessert, a bottle of red is shared…

“I think it’s really, really cool how much you care, Jac, how engaged you are with it all…”

“I’m just doing what any decent person would do’, she said as she basked in the warm glow of having her moral existence validated by a fellow traveler.

It was at this point that Logan was to ask, though he didn’t know it, a tremendously existentially loaded question: “Jac, is there any particular cause, or causes, that really appeal to you?”

She paused as she considered the question, pursing her lips momentarily.

“Really, it’s all about the children’, she said, nodding.

“Yeah’, Logan replied, mimicking her gestures. At this point experts on human interaction and body language would have started to leave confident that they could gain no further insights and that any assistance they might have offered was in no way required. The question, which was never entirely adequately answered that night would linger, and in a few week’s time would come to have a terrible relevance to the lives of all our protagonists.  

Sure enough, the two agreed on coffee, and yes, coffee in the sense of a euphemism. In short they proceeded to have graphically telegenic sex, the sex of the flaxen-haired and body confident made all the more transcendent, for them at least, by their communion as moral beings and representatives of their shared values. Frankly, it did nothing for me.

While the more ideologically approved coupling of Logan and Jacintha cohered over coffee in Chelsea, another, altogether less appropriate, ménage began to take its tentative steps in I N Securities’ Canary Wharf offices. Jamie had begun to find being flung into the company of Diamanda distinctly grueling, mainly owing to the fact that he had found, in her curvaceously ample décolletage and derriere the incarnation of many of his paraphilias. Time in compliance, and his cultivation of a dour manner, had robbed him of his confidence with women. Young Jamie who had cheerfully told Saul H. Weltschmerz when to fuck off was, contrarily, paralysed when it came to making his interest in Diamanda known, additionally so given his fevered nightmares in which such overtures had resulted in Diamanda leaving in disgust and suing him and the bank for millions over his licentious and piggish behavior. The dreams ended in a manner not too dissimilar to that of Saul, with Jamie too publicly disgraced.

Within weeks informed comment had it that Diamanda, confident, stylish, and sexy, Diamanda had succeeded in ensuring herself the top job when, as inevitably he must, the increasingly interim and stopgap CEO decided to go on gardening leave, to go tend to his neuroses. Diamanda, accoutered in black from the tip of her vertiginous heels to the top of her raven hair, made all the more alluring to Jamie by the occasional, and how occasional, strand of gray, was idly playing with her silver necklace as she talked about what I N’s Euro strategy should be given the recent arrival of Chinese dollars to secure the bank’s immediate future. Jamie could have heard her expatiate wittily on debt liquidity ratios all day.

“I just wish the politicians could get their act together, I mean, if you or I came out with that sententious’, and here Diamanda used a term she always spoke in a manner dripping with abuse, ‘idealistic, bollocks about ‘turning the corner’ we’d be out, I’d hope. It’s all a dark comedy anyway. So, if anything, we should be even more conservative about Euro exposure, given what’s likely to happen with Greece…”

Diamanda herself had suggested to Jamie’s excitement, and, oxymoronically, not a little consternation, that they have the occasional tête á tête, to ensure they were reading from the same hymn sheet, but also to, as she correctly surmised, establish her place within the new hierarchy, even, to an extent, at Jamie’s own expense. She had also begun to suspect the nature of Jamie’s interest in her, not having gotten to where she was without developing a high capacity to read men and to give them, if necessary, what they wanted, even went they didn’t even know quite what that was.

Diamanda craned her neck, which caused Jamie to notice a distinct bruise, thoughtlessly he blurted out: “What’s that?”

Diamanda looked at him quizzically, the regularity of such occurrences having caused it to slip her usually so precise mind.

“The, ah, the bruise…?”

“Oh.” she exclaimed, surprisedly. She was usually a lot more careful, liking to keep her extra-curricular enthusiasms distinctly separate from her working life, not that she was ashamed, there was a lot more of an overlap than a separation. “An accident.” She smiled, waving her right hand away from her as if to visually represent something, or nothing.

A Jamie distracted by her beauty was naturally inclined to accept this answer at face value and certainly not to ask searching, embarrassing questions, given that he had already indicated he had been looking at her body. Diamanda smiled more sardonically, contemplating how she could manipulate this altogether more innocent, honest being. She had about her the visage of the soon to be sated Praying Mantis, how she would enjoy hurting and consuming her mate.

“Diamanda, would you care for a whiskey?” Jamie asked innocently, or as innocently as a man with his repressed intentions could ask.

She signaled her acceptance. If he wished to confide in her she was amenable to that too. Jamie walked to the sideboard of what had, formerly, been Saul’s office, and was now, pace the beneficence of the board, of Sir Victor, his; and would soon, or so Diamanda hoped, be hers. He turned his back to her and proceeded to pour a large measure into the first tumbler and then a second measure into the next; he had adopted Saul’s favoured brand. He returned from across the office, the lights emanating from One Canada Square behind him, handing her the first tumbler before sitting in the Eames chair across the coffee table from her.

“Don’t you think it’s funny, the way things have turned out?’ he asked.

“What that Saul flew too close to the sun, or at least out of the window? Or do you mean that, not to be too blunt, I should have ended up doing what I was doing when my former boss should have found himself in legal difficulty; to say nothing of the board deciding, post-Saul, that in you they had the right man to succeed him, tonally at least?” Diamanda looked at him expectantly, to gauge his response.

“That’s an interesting sense of humour you have there, Diamanda…”

“Different traditions, Jamie; a different sense of fun…”, and here Diamanda massaged her bruise.

Jamie became reticent, he stared into his whiskey. Diamanda decided, as so often, to take the initiative, considering conversational gambits, before deciding on sex, as a topic, Jamie seeming like the sort of man discomforted by sex, he might be an enjoyable enough toy, a diversion, for a while at least.

“Jamie, are you seeing anyone?”

Jamie started, nearly upsetting his whiskey; that had caught his attention.

“Well, I mean, I mean…”

“You’re a public figure, and people speculate’, Diamanda said, mock innocently, ‘I mean, I’ve heard rumours about you, you appear to be, from what I’ve heard,’ and here Diamanda sounded disappointed, ‘sexless…”

Jamie started a second time. His anxiety levels had risen significantly within the space of a few seconds since a vision such as Diamanda Bernard started to discuss the subject of many a neuroses. Diamanda drained her glass, satisfied that she had induced the desired effect in her ostensible superior. She decided to leave him to some hours of restlessness, after all it was nearly 11, and they both had to be back at the bank at about 6am tomorrow, leading their lives as tribunes of the international business classes.

“We’ll have to discuss this some other time’, she intimated, flirtatiously.

“Indeed’, was all Jamie could expostulate.

“Goodnight, Jamie, see you tomorrow.”

Jamie watched as Diamanda slinked out of the room, conscious of the unpleasant feeling of adrenalin coursing through his system, his breathing strained. He worried that the sexuality of Diamanda would unhinge him.

As she rode the elevator down to the basement levels Diamanda’s scheming mind began to more actively contemplate what use she might have for a man like Jamie, so patently unsettled by sex, he seemed like he might be just the kind of object she could take out some of her darker and altogether more enjoyable impulses on. By the time her black Maserati GranTurismo swept out of the underground car park she had decided to extend an invitation to her boss, she had decided that she would like to play.

Perhaps, had Diamanda been of an altogether more introspective cast of mind, she would have decided to seek some professional help, but, not being so, and possessing the body she had, as well as an acceptably and oxymoronically challenging and smooth progress through the ranks of professional accomplishment, her dissatisfaction, and difficulty, with conventional relationships had caused her to seek, and to find fulfillment in, relationships of a sado-masochistic nature instead. She increasingly thought, as she drove home, that, in Jamie, she had found the perfect receptacle for her sadistic impulses, for she was very much the sadist. Jamie would take what she gave him and be grateful for it; he was, she mused, just that kind of man.

By contrast Jamie’s own return home was altogether slower, and his night, upon his return to bed, altogether more anxious. If anything his encounter with his subordinate had further disconcerted him, and, to his mind, palpably shifted the balance of power in their relationship. The anxious, angst-ridden Jamie was less certain of his position, as the product of a stratified, subtly class-defined society than the thrusting, democratic American Miss Sangrail, even in an environment ostensibly, and, to a great extent, factually meritocratic as I N Securities. Such were the well-springs of his conflicting thoughts as the body of Miss Sangrail, of a Miss Sangrail flirting with and being flirted with by figures more attractive than Jamie, went through his mind. While the brilliantine object of his desire slept the sleep of the soon to be amused his was the fretful sleep of the anxious, unhinged by sexual anxiety.

And so the parameters of the psychodrama at I N Securities began to make themselves increasingly apparent, Sir Victor had, unwittingly, replaced Saul with his antithesis, and that antithesis would find himself becoming increasingly obsessed with his sadistic CFO, also Sir Victor’s choice. The games they would find themselves playing with their psychopathologies would have consequences, driving their involvement with what the humane and well-intentioned duo of Logan Tremain and Jacintha Cresswell would unwittingly throw up as their answer to I N Securities’ public relations needs. However, all this comes after slightly less overwrought equivalent arguments in Whitehall concerning a faraway place of which, so far, no one discussed in this story were, to any extent, cognisant, and even those that were, knew only what they had gleaned from consulting an atlas, for what need had they of possessing any knowledge of so seemingly irrelevant a place?

            III

Jean-Pierre Murville looked out from his boutique hotel across the skyline of Ast’Qana, squinting, as even this early the bright sun beat down on the city. To the left, from his vantage point in the hills to the city’s north, he could see the gleaming spires of the central business district, the souks and ancient white walled homes of the natives and largely non-western migrants, with the Grand Mosque and Royal Palace discernible in the centre, and, finally, to the right, the modern suburbs which swept along the ridge that slowly but surely came back on itself and rose to the heights of Ast’Qana’s most prized area, where the governing and business elites lived side by side.

               “What’s the itinerary for today?” Jean-Pierre asked his assistant.

               “Well, at 7.30 you will be taken to see the football stadium, this will be followed by a photo opportunity with the local association, after this at 9am, there’s a tour of the velodrome, where several of Qatakistan’s Olympic hopefuls will introduce themselves to you (They hadn’t a chance.), at 10.30am you’ll be briefed on the progress being made on the Olympic pool, which takes you up to an early informal lunch with the local Olympic Committee, after this, at 2, there’s a tour of the badminton centre, and, finally, at 4, you’ll be taken to see the coastal area where the sailing and associated activities would take place, followed by an early dinner.”

               Jean-Pierre contemplated the itinerary, though mainly he was focused on how he might diplomatically raise Qatakistan’s strictures on acceptable dress for those engaging in beach sports, mainly he was irritated, however, by having to pretend that a strictly Islamic country was a viable contender for hosting the world’s foremost sporting event; uncharitably he privately mused that even if Qatakistan were to enter the twentieth century it would probably be rewarded with the Games.

               “What about infrastructure? Have we received the official briefing from the Qatakistan government yet?”

               “Yes, they assure us that they will have a high speed rail link from the airport to the city centre by the end of the year, they are also on track to finish the new central station within weeks, signage will also be commensurate with acknowledged Olympic standards. So the infrastructure will accord with our needs, even if certain other things don’t.”

               Jean-Pierre assumed that she meant the likelihood of terrorism, or the attitudes of the Qatakis.

               Later that day Jean-Pierre found himself in full safety gear surveying the partially completed Olympic swimming pool, exposed to the hot desert air it was, as with so much else of Qatakistan’s recently acquired infrastructure, post-modernist in its architecture; he and the rest of the tour were stood, precariously, atop of the main diving platform. Jean-Pierre nervously looked down at the empty, dust-strewn, tiled pool, positioned in such a way as to ensure that the divers, of whichever denomination they might be, Jews excepted, faced Mecca. He listened as the guide numbingly regaled him with Qatakistan’s enviable water safety record, though perhaps made less enviable by the fact that in a land with little natural water resources it became, axiomatically, exceedingly difficult to drown.

               “Yes, thank you, the IOC is quite aware of your record in this regard. Now, where are the media facilities to be located, again?”

               By the end of the day Jean-Pierre’s spirits were low, he had been sure that he had drawn the short straw, finding it difficult to believe that the IOC would determine to award the Olympics to an absolutist monarchy with race relations problems and an official dislike of pretty much any other form of relationship other than traditional Islamic marriage between two Muslims of different genders, enviably snazzy infrastructure to the contrary. In this Jean-Pierre was, of course, right, but, for form’s sake, he had to pretend otherwise, and the Games would probably have to be awarded to an East Asian or South American country instead, perhaps Chile, if they could be persuaded to waste that much money in proving how developed they were, which, according to figures he had seen, they would most definitely be by then.

               It was not that the Qataki coastline wasn’t stunning, though regrettably it had too many rip currents for his liking, and apparently most of the audience didn’t consciously tune in to see miscalculating sailors dragged under, but he was somewhat grateful to return to the five star comfort of his delightfully Arabesque hotel that evening, wearyingly dry, of course. He contemplated the rest of his week in the Emirate glumly, for it would prove to be nothing save more of the same, smiling, giving false hope to a completely politically unacceptable location for the Games, the Emirate didn’t even have back channel diplomatic relations with the Israelis.

It was consequently, in this funk for much of the week, that Jean-Pierre failed to notice the underlying menaces endemic in Qataki society, how the largely sullen and resentful serving staff would glower at him, his retinue, even, when they thought they weren’t looking, those who had the temerity to hold positions of responsibility in Qataki society; which typically meant the latter having taken advantages of relations of a nepotistic nature in order to secure their preferment.

Jean-Pierre went through the motions, smiling, enthusiastic; he bounded tiggerishly from tour of half-completed Olympic facility to tour of half-completed Olympic facility amazed at the scale of the construction still being embarked upon, even if, in comparison with five or so years ago, it had scaled down considerably, for the Olympic bid was the Qataki government’s own stimulus, the best it could do to defy the global economic downturn and to placate the people. Few would realise that, fundamentally, in this ambition, it wasn’t working, few could imagine the scale of the horrors that, among other things, the Olympic bid would in its own way unleash. All this, however, is in the future, for now Jean-Pierre Murville slept soundly in his comfortable bed and Ast’Qana glittered in the night beyond his balcony, a calm, sleepy oasis amidst the turmoil of the Arab Spring.

“Qatakistan?”

“Qatakistan.”

“You seriously think that the foreign secretary should be bothered with your latest memo about Qatakistan?” Sir Finbar McLuhan asked.

To level the accusation at Roland Williams that he had the Middle Eastern Emirate of Qatakistan on the brain would be unfair, it was his job, after all. He was paid by Her Brittannic Majesty’s Government to monitor the kingdom and had, consequently, and from the perspective of future, gainful employment, injuriously, become tantamount to the government’s acknowledged expert on the place. He had taken the opportunity to way lay Sir Finbar, the permanent under secretary, in the Locarno room, convinced, as he was, that Qatakistan was about to become the latest place to occasion the gimlet eyes of the interventionists. In this he was, of course, right.

Qatakistan, as Williams could tell you at some length, had been a disputed tribal territory at the head of the gulf caught between the Sunni and Shia worlds, additionally it had a smattering of Kurds, Alawites, and Marionites, while, more recently, the development of its petro-chemical industry had brought the flotsam and jetsam of globalisation to its shores, and, by this, one means pretty much anyone from well-appointed western oil executives, their Russian, and increasingly Chinese, equivalents, Slavic prostitutes, and cheap labour from the other side of Asia. It was, in short, the most cosmopolitan and ethnically fractious polity in the entire region.

To return, however, to the Emirate’s political history, it had, artificially, been made a nation by the great powers at the end of the First World War, following which it had operated as a Franco-British condominium, which made it rather troublesome a spot from approximately June 1940 until roughly independence in the early 1960s, whereupon, following a flirtation with the French and their informal networks, it increasingly fell into the American sphere, though not without hiccup. There had been an attempt at an Egypto-Soviet-backed coup in 1979, in sympathy with then contemporary events across the border with Iran, where, at that stage the leftists had not been outmanoeuvred by Khomeini. However, the inability of the few hardline Islamists to stomach the few hardline communists led, in turn, to one of the equally few successes of the Carter administration when good ol’ boy Colonel Beckford J. Pierce, a man whose pronounced bellicosity made Curtis Le May seem a pacifist, happened to make some blood curdling remarks at a diplomatic reception one evening, these remarks, along with intelligence possessed by his Soviet counterpart Vasily Gregorin concerning US military exercises in the gulf, led to the planned uprising/intervention being still born. Pierce, the man who saved Qatakistan from subversion, returned to Washington a hero, until his involvement in a sex scandal the following fall.

Qatakistan sat out the Iran-Iraq War in uneasy neutrality, despised and patronised by both sides, acting as an entrepôt for weapons destined for both, frequented by Reagan-era officials. By the early 90s Qatakistan contrived to have good relations with Saddam Hussein, but his invasion of Kuwait pushed it into the arms of the allies, ultimately, however, both sides decided it was better, and more mutually beneficial, to subvert the UN’s food for oil programme, and so the later Saddam era was quite a happy time for Iraqi-Qataki relations. This, of course, changed when, post-9/11, diplomatic pressure was brought to bear on the Emirate to side with Bush and Blair in their utopian crusade. Given their geographical position the Qatakis found themselves having to liaise with the British in particular, this proved irksome to the Emir, given his burgeoning dislike of the then British premier. The British and Americans at least proved willing to listen to and help the Emirate with its concerns over the collapse of order post-invasion just over the border and a Bush-Blair sanctioned crackdown ensured that Qatakistan didn’t descend into the hellish conditions of the sociopaths’ playground that its larger neighbor did.

Qatakistan adopted a similarly cheerfully cynical approach to its relations with Iran, which its diplomatic partners have found vexing, given their concerns over the latter’s nuclear ambitions. The Iranian dimension, however, largely lies outside the confines of our narrative and its interests, despite the aid they would provide for at least one interested party.

Of late Roland Williams had started to obsess over the state of Qatakistan following the Arab Spring. Aware, as he was, of the country’s demographic issues, a burgeoning, economically unfulfilled youth courtesy of a stratified socio-economic system, disparate ethnic groups, and concerns over the succession to the aging, reactionary monarch Williams felt the capacity for something quite, quite toxic.    

“I feel I would be, Sir Finbar, remiss in my duties if I didn’t, at the very least, quietly convey to you my concerns.” Roland rather bumptiously replied.

Sir Finbar sighed, “You seem rather earnest, but submit a report via the proper channels and I shall ensure the minister, at least, receives it in his boxes.” Sir Finbar, the wiry ascetic, was, undoubtedly, a process man.

“Perhaps the NSC should see it?” Williams asked plaintively eliciting a reproachful look from Sir Finbar.

Roland was enough of a realist to accept that this was the best that he would get; he had door stepped and, having already written and submitted such a report, was sufficiently satisfied that the minister at least, and perhaps even the National Security Council, would be informed as to what he thought of as the deteriorating situation within the Emirate.

“Thank you, Sir Finbar.” Roland smiled and promptly withdrew.

Roland was not to know that he too had played his part in a series of events that would drag a particular bank, a particular PR firm, and the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal into the dark heart of Qataki affairs, nor that he personally had just set the touch paper for events that would bring down the government, but, as a fundamentally humane and optimistic person he would not be able to bring himself to accept the logic that would indicate that he had done this, such thought processes were beyond the confines of his mental universe, at that time, but he would, surprisingly quickly, learn.

That afternoon another of Britain’s wearyingly dysfunctional institutions was going through the accustomed processes of a scandal, its board of governors were in conclave determining upon who should succeed the recently, wholly blameless, Director General, who had had to resign after the political editor of its flagship news programme in an excess of zeal effectively labeled the supporters of one of the governing parties racist. This was, it was commonly admitted, even by the ideologically correct denizens of its airwaves, a bit much, though it was also not, in their view, unmerited.  

Lord Placeman, a former party panjandrum, EU High Representative, Commissioner and a man spoken of in some quarters as a possible compromise candidate for European President, which was tantamount to appointment to the job itself, quietly corralled the assembled great and good, they alighted in their turn on a former insider, turned freelancer, a man who was, most importantly, and from the perspective of their ideological preconceptions, papabile. One wag, of ideologically suspect motives, averred that the BBC signaled as to whether or not it had a new Director General by sending for either still or sparkling mineral water.

“I think we’d better send for sparkling, don’t you?” Lord Placeman averred silkily.

“Indeed’, one governor mousily agreed.

The board had decided on Sir Tristram Barnard, an esteemed member of the contemporary broadcasting community who had shown an unerring capacity for the popular and populist, had very little political baggage, beyond an unquestioning acceptance of elite society’s received notions, which he held with a quiet vehemence. In him the board had found, in short, the perfect non-entity. It had also found a man determined to make his mark, and, in his own, stupid, inadvertent way, the man who would also help to bring down the government that Lord Placeman had at least nominal allegiance too.

Sir Tristram had that combination of unquestioning allegiance to humanist values, stupidity and lack of any curiosity, or sense of moral ambiguity, that made him the perfect, representative figure of his generation’s public life. Indeed, to their dismay, denizens of the present age would find, decades hence, that Sir Tristram would come to be considered as the definitive representative of the latter half of the second Elizabethan age, even foolish mountebanks whose dissimulations saw them collude in the bloodshed and horrors of war at least had the excuse that had it not been for men such as those of Sir Tristram’s woeful caliber they wouldn’t ever have had the opportunity to embark on their damn fool crusades in the first place.

So the board, resplendent with those adept in stating the bleeding obvious, none with any real background in broadcasting, many having instead some spurious background in human rights, assented to Lord Placeman’s suggestion and Sir Tristram was asked, nay, begged to become the new Director General. Sir Tristram, with his eye to advancement, in his more expansive moments he saw the title Lord Barnard beckoning to him from futurity, summoned up all the considerable reserves of mock humility that he could muster.

“Thanks, you know, I’m just a simple, simple guy’, in this he was truthful if in nothing else.

One could waste time and effort in retailing how this toady’s appointment was related to the corporation, and, through its obsessive self-reportage, the nation, but to do so would serve no good purpose. It would be better to elide it altogether, and to merely note that Sir Tristram was a man of causes, and that he too, abetted by many an unconsciously campaigning journalist in the corporation’s news division, would be among those who would, with the best of all possible intentions, involve our band in the affairs of Qatakistan.

What of Qatakistan? What proximate event would speak to the impulses of the Sir Tristrams and Jacinthas of our world, of the Sir Pauls and Diamandas? We must have recourse to the increasingly dysfunctional socio-economic arrangements underpinning the emirate, and how, in turn, its establishment, having decided, in part, to reform themselves, and also to have inadvertently fallen foul of American policy in the region, would bring about societal collapse and hellish scenes quite unconscionable to the modern mind. Whereas a wiser, though not, I admit, necessarily nicer, individual would have shrugged their shoulders and commented sadly on the way of the world, and possibly, in so doing, have furthered their solvency, if nothing else, such a course of action was not a realistic possibility so far as our cast of characters were concerned.

So attention must turn to the scorching streets of Ast’Qana, Qatakistan’s functional, modernist designed capital, indeed so modernistic was Ast’Qana that one famed British architect had been asked to design the capital’s central station, a commission she accepted, though later wished she hadn’t after her design was, or so she felt, compromised by required anti-terror measures, in addition to those requested by the central government which vetoed proposals for seating in a people’s square. The Qataki quietly blackballed the architect, deeming her more democratic inclinations as injurious to the public good.

However, it would prove to be one of the city’s ancient souks that would be the site for the commencement of the uprising that would wrack and ruin Ast’Qana’s pretences to be a regional hub and location of choice for international sporting events, conferences, and sex tourism. Late one Thursday two officious and indeed vicious members of the local religious constabulary effectively acting as the legally sanctioned arm of a member of the royal house’s business interests acted quite brutally, excessively so. In effect one Mohammed, acting on behalf of Muhammad Bin-Tabir, and using the laws of another Muhammad, ended up savagely beating a fourth, teenaged, Mohammed.

This Mohammed, who had had the temerity to sell a local variant of khat, the mild stimulant, became involved in a contretemps with the religious police, after their employer, the Minister for Security and Intelligence, Muhammad Bin-Tabir, a cousin of the Emir, instituted a crackdown on such local entrepreneurs whose endeavours were undercutting his own business. Beyond a few meetings with his western counterparts at the time of the aforementioned security crackdown during the Iraq war, Bin-Tabir was a figure largely unknown in the West. However, his accustomed, periodic, assertion of his business interests would prove to be a colossal miscalculation in the current environment, for the fourth, even more anonymous Mohammed would become driven by a toxic mixture of anger and despair, his treatment for a sprained ankle and missing eye - the beating having been quite, quite savage - having left him temporarily at least, in a wheelchair. Naturally, his physical and financial position did nothing to leaven his temper.

So, we must go forward a few short weeks where we find, after Friday prayers, a disturbed, wild-eyed, indeed, a literally wild-eyed, Mohammed Pachachi, for he was of the Sunni plurality, sidelined and economically exploited by the Shiite-Alawite ascendency, in his wheelchair the sight of two members of the religious police having goaded him into immolating himself in Martyr’s Square. In the ensuing, international brouhaha that would break out with concerned denizens of the West casting around for a new, fashionable cause to assuage their moral egos, the fact that he had been an unsuccessful khat dealer tended to be forgotten, for he would become transfigured by the internationalists and those politicians eager to burnish their credentials as decent human beings. Whatever one’s views on khat there was a distinct irony that governments that had, hitherto, further controlled the substance now found themselves falling over themselves to emote over the tragic death, but then such hypocrisies are not unknown.

It was with a mounting sense of indignation and horror that Jacintha Cresswell, of the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, found herself reading details of the self-immolation of Muhammad Pachachi, indeed we must count this sheltered soul as altogether more fortunate that she was unaware of the less salubrious areas of the internet, one doubts whether she could have stomached the camera footage of the sensational suicide. This burgeoning interest of hers would translate into an obsession with Qataki affairs as consuming, though altogether less nuanced, as Roland Williams’ own.

“Sam?’, she asked her manager.

“Yeah, Jac.”

“Can I talk with you about Qatakistan?”

“Of course.”

“Are you aware of what’s going on there?”

“The boy, you mean?” Sam asked concernedly, though distractedly, fielding calls as he was pertaining to his putative parliamentary candidacy for Islington Central, for the Labour party, of course.  

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not right, what are we doing about it?”

“Well, what with the financial crisis, and those Egyptians who were raped the other week, and we really got pressured by the feminists about that, we’re a bit strapped at the moment, but, if you want to monitor the situation, or even produce some materials, I’m happy for you to take some time to do that.” Sam grimaced.

Jac accepted Sam’s offer and began to immerse herself in the human rights abuses of Qatakistan applying all the logic of the moral child that she was and could to the matter at hand. To Jacintha’s naïve mind Qatakistan had been an idyllic multi-cultural oasis where, since ancient time, or at least before those wicked imperialists arrived during the first world war, Sunni, Shiite, Alawite, Kurds, and Marionite had rubbed along in harmony, the occasional oddly inexplicable and duly ignored intra-communal massacre aside, which state of affairs had continued until the criminal idiocy of Bush and his satrap Blair in 2003. Things had not improved under the coalition. Clearly, the horrors of contemporary Qatakistan were but an expression of Western interference, or at least of Western interference of the wrong kind; Jacintha was not to know that the state security forces were supplied by the Russians, or that the religious police had good working relations with their Saudi counterparts and certain elements of the state of their neighbor Iran. If only awareness could be raised, she thought to herself as her eyes moistened, reading of the lot of children in this fallen paradise. Clearly something must be done! And, equally clearly, she, Jacintha Cresswell was going to be the one to do it!

In his Soho Square office Logan was obsessing about the I N Securities’ account, how could he pitch it, what ideas might appeal to the management, the strangely, or so he thought, passive Jamie, the strident, caustic Diamanda? He was randomly jotting down ideas on a yellow legal pad, his preferred medium for brainstorming, some were patently absurd: less telegenic diseases that they could support, causes which he didn’t quite appreciate could be considered openly reactionary. It would do us well to note that much of Logan’s professional success had been down to the influence of the more emotional and intuitive women he had happened to be seeing at any given time, in this sense he was an emotional vampire. Jacintha would, soon enough, play the Lucy Harker to his Dracula, supplying him with that vital thing he needed. Logan put the pad aside and played uninterestedly with a ludicrously expensive executive toy he had on his glass desk. His phone went; Logan placed his thumb on the screen to activate it, thrilling at the expensive item of kit.

“Hi…Yeah…………..OK, tell him I’ll be up as soon as possible.”

It was Sir Paul, of course. Sir Paul had been, or so he would oxymoronically admit, agonizing in a low key way over the I N account, after all, so many of his ambitions for Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates, for himself, depended on its successful prosecution. Logan entered his immense office and found Sir Paul, glass of Pinot Grigio in one hand, scratching his temple with the other, contemplating the immense Richter, lost in a riot of colour and abstraction. Logan did not wish to disturb his boss and waited quietly for him to emerge from his reverie. It would be some time before Sir Paul became cognisant of Logan’s presence.

“Ah, Logan…’, Sir Paul looked momentarily perplexed, ‘…Have we made any progress with I N?”

“We’re still conceptualizing, Paul. I have some rough ideas.” Logan stated, extemporising.

“Rough…Interesting…You see, Logan, we want to define post-crash banking advertising. We have the client, we have the imagination, we have the budget, we just need to devise, perfect the message…” Sir Paul drifted again; he had not turned from the Richter the whole time he had been conversing with Logan, who was finding the meeting increasingly odd.

“Well, I hope, Paul, to have some concepts drawn up and ready for you by Monday…

“Diamanda, Logan, Diamanda…”

“I beg your pardon, Paul?”

“Diamanda Sangrail…”

“Yes, Paul?”

“She’s quite something, don’t you think?”

Logan had, of course, entertained the erotic possibilities, albeit momentarily, but she wasn’t sufficiently blonde and/or cloyingly saccharine for his taste, he unconsciously sensed his advertising would take on an unacceptably darker hue under the influence of her emotions. Frankly, he did not wish to become the go to guy for those looking to advertise the benefits of funeral direction or home security systems, in these post-Martin times.

“Oh, indeed, Paul.” Logan deemed it more politic to humour the aging guru in his reverie.

Sir Paul meanwhile was reviewing the facts that stood in his favour, social position, wealth, greater even than that commanded by the fragrant mistress of the financial world, the exciting world of connections and advantages that he possessed. Surely he could not fail to wow a woman such as Diamanda? He also thought of what she could give him, besides sex, most importantly none of the embarrassment so often attendant on men of his age cavorting with waifs young enough to be their daughters, or worse, granddaughters, no, her mature beauty would compliment him perfectly, he mused.

Sir Paul roused himself momentarily from his torpor, locking his maroon eyes on to Logan: “Anyway, Logan, keep me appraised, and the sooner the better.”

Logan took this as it was intended to be, a sign of his dismissal from the presence. Anyway, he too was distracted, in a sense quite similar to Sir Paul’s, for he was due to see Jacintha again that very evening, an assignation that would see Qatakistan fatefully raised as a subject, and which the emotionally vampiric Logan Tremain would seize as the answer to his, Sir Paul’s, and I N Securities’ problems.

At that very moment in Ast’Qana the US Ambassador, a former used car salesman and donor to the present administration’s last election campaign, was drafting a communiqué to Foggy Bottom. He had become increasingly perplexed in his turn, not to mention irritated, as well as scared by the turn events had taken in the city. Tufts Q. Seabright III, of an old Democratic family, since the civil war in fact, had supposed that Ast’Qana would be an agreeably warm part of the Arab world, and, while aware (As who could not be?) of the difficulties presented by the region and the United States’ recent, less than happy engagement with it, thought his role altogether less problematic than those of his equivalents in - in no particular order - Syria, Egypt, or Libya, say. Tufts, as he was derisively known throughout the embassy, attempted to get his thoughts in order.

“Dear Secretary,

               I have become increasingly alarmed at the deteriorating situation in Qatakistan, and in Ast’Qana in particular. I feel any further deterioration, of which there is a distinct, or so I think, possibility threatens the shared interests of the United States and its friends in Qatakistan…”

Here Tufts too drifted. He would really rather have not written such a communiqué at all, finding the very process laborious and likely to be of uncertain success. He had been burned before, a previous communiqué pertaining to US-Qataki anti-terror co-operation had, so far as he was aware, received no answer. This said nothing of the fact that, according to most external observers America’s true Qataki friends could be counted on one hand, with a particular couple of digits to spare, local criminal justice policies permitting.

“It is my contention that American policy needs to both reassure those elements in the state with which we have warm and mutually beneficial relations, as well as to encourage reformist elements both within the aforementioned state, as well as within wider society, so far as this is a realistic possibility.”

Tufts’ policy, in short, was a creature of the liberal dilemma, torn between letting the people have their say and the horrific local consequences of that should it ever come to pass. Fortunately Tufts was only the ambassador, and, as we have seen, not a man regularly listened to by Washington, even taking into account his copious campaign contributions. Regrettably Tufts’ instincts were the default assumption of many of those who would collectively sway the destiny of Qatakistan. For want of any better idea Tufts’ approach became the default for American policy in Qatakistan, he was consequently surprised when, in subsequent weeks, he came to read a Newsweek article on Qatakistan in which senior White House sources lauded his wisdom and the quality of his analysis of Qataki internal politics.

This was but a phase, however, for he soon came to imbibe deeply from the cup of his relative fame, even going so far as to imagine himself the twenty-first century’s answer to T.E. Lawrence. All this, however, was in the future, for now he was a reasonably successful businessman of a family of long-standing ties with the Democratic Party, who had parleyed this, with campaign finance contributions, into the aspirational appellation Ambassador, painfully drafting a communiqué concerning the travails of Qatakistan. He felt it should include at least some references to Jeffersonian democracy, for the good of its consumption back home, and the hope it might capture the attention of one of the Secretary’s more intellectually fashionably attuned aides. He returned to drafting his missive as the sun dipped below the horizon and his office dimmed perceptibly, the sound of riot and tumult drifting across the souks and modern architecture of Ast’Qana.

Later, as Logan and Jacintha lay together following another bout of energetic lovemaking, hearts a-pounding, the warm beatific glow of those whose immune systems are awash with endorphins, their biological and emotional impulses having been sated, conversation turned to their respective works, and here Jacintha raised her concerns about the children of Qatakistan whose plight so moved her.

“It’s just ghastly, the way the Qatakis completely neglect their youth, I mean, what happened to that child’, and here she spoke at some length about Mohammad Pachachi, in a way that made him sound the sole embodiment of all that was good and true about youth and all the living, he was made to sound akin to Rupert Brooke, if Rupert Brooke had been, in the modern parlance, a victim.

It was to the strains of Jacintha’s ringing encomium that the glimmering of an idea started to appear in Logan’s head. Could the youth of Qatakistan be the answer, might not post-Crash banking find its redemption in bringing aid to the needy, the oppressed of Qatakistan? What need have the bank to lend to medium and small businesses, or, better yet, to offer reasonable mortgages? Logan began to have visions of the most photogenic, business-friendly advertising campaign ever. As he listened to Jacintha drone on, no emotive key untouched, here a rights abuse, there an example of casual racism, neither of them cognisant of the subjectivity of their own preconceptions, his mind, such as it was, began to dwell on the professional opportunities Qatakistan presented to him. Logan imagined Jamie and Diamanda sharing the stage with whichever starlet de jour happened to have tweeted about Qatakistan that week, as they dispensed aid to a grateful and moved Qataki people; the PR professional tended to elide the entrenched ethnic divisions within the Emirate which made a refusal to share bathrooms, or to allow blacks to sit on buses seem but a minor contretemps in the grand sweep of race relations. He was not alone in this.

That same evening, Steve Prentice, the deputy prime minister, an embattled, despised figure, who, time and again, had proven himself capable of uttering nothing save the most contemptible and obvious cliché, for, if intelligence he had, he hid it well, was perusing his official papers in his constituency home. Putting aside a document he had been the driving force behind, which had seen the development of a cheaper alternative to Trident, he continued with the obsessive quest to differentiate himself from his near equivalently public schooled and Oxbridgian prime minister, for each issue, each paper was seen through this prism. The dull wits, dulled still further by his accustomed evening tipple, though, in this, he was but an amateur compared to one of his more recent predecessors in his job, alighted upon a foreign office briefing paper, written, he was not yet to know, by Roland Williams, on Qatakistan.

“Conditions in Qatakistan seem ripe for just the same kind of revolution seen in a slew of other nations across the region, from Syria in the North to Yemen in the South and Tunisia in the West, with Qatakistan as the eastern-most expression of this trend so far.”

Here the deputy prime minister proceeded to read details of the death of Mohammed Pachachi, details which not even the most laconic and colourless of bureaucratic language could prevent him from transfiguring into the overwrought language of the press release which was his preferred medium for the imbibing of news of causes. For the deputy prime minister was a fan of sponsored content.

He contemplated how the response to the death of Mohammed Pachachi could be transposed into a victory for the values of liberal democracy, in a way not too dissimilar to how Logan envisioned Jamie and Diamanda dispensing aid to the benighted citizenry, but, instead of the bankers, the deputy prime minister saw himself alone basking in the glow of humanitarian activism, “STEVE, STEVE, STEVE!” the crowds chanted; perhaps, like Tony before him, some would even name their progeny after him; then, in short order, he should sunder the coalition, go back to his constituency and prepare for a renewed bout of government, however the cards lay.

Subsequently the nuance of Roland Williams’ report was lost on him, rather than impress itself on the deputy prime ministerial mind the deputy prime ministerial mind projected its preconceptions onto it. The difficulties of the position, of the vicious internecine hatreds shortly to be loosed, of the likely dissolution of society into strong, mutually antagonistic elements went by the way side; instead all was seen as opportunity, as manna from heaven for the morally simplistic. In this the deputy prime minister served his democratic role well, representing a fair tranche of the public opinion that was shortly to come out, irrationally, for intervention. The section Roland had written on likely casualty statistics went unread. In this Roland might be said to have been even more of an optimist than the deputy prime minister, given how things turned out.

“Qatakistan’, Steve murmured…Wasn’t that the place the UN wanted to talk to him about?

The following morning Sir Tristram, shortly to take up his duties as the fourth director general of the BBC in as many months, was reading The Lucubrationist on his iPad, his attention too turned to the horrors of Qatakistan, of its oppression, how it had so patently failed to live up to the legitimate ambitions of its people; here too he elided over the ethnic complexity of the country as it actually was, preferring to mull over a country he imagined to be. It shortly became Sir Tristram’s axiomatic opinion that something must be done, he would quietly convey this to Lord Placeman, his influence-mongering boss, and he, in turn, let this be known throughout society, or at least that part of it that could be trusted. And so, slowly but surely, the wheels of the establishment, or at least those parts of it that mattered, began to turn in favour of further involvement. Though it remained to be seen in quite what form this intervention would take place, for some lessons had been learned from Iraq, despite one former prime minister publicly suggesting an Anglo-American invasion.

There was, however, one man, senior in public life, who might have counseled against intervention. General Sir Claude Dempsey, KCVO, MC, a former commander of 16 Air Assault Brigade and just about present chief of the defence staff. General Dempsey was due to retire that very afternoon, and, having lost a very bruising round of defence expenditure cuts with the navy wasn’t in sufficient good temper to counsel his successor Admiral Conroy against involving the army in another intervention, he contemplated Roland’s briefing paper, sighed, and proceeded to leave for a planned trip to the Florida Keys with his wife, for there were marlins to be caught.

That weekend found Logan Tremain in a welter of activity, since he had left Jacintha’s disorganized bed his thought increasingly cohered around Qatakistan as the answer to his problems; he had the issue with which he could save I N Securities’ battered reputation.

His slogan would be the simple “I N Securities in Qatakistan”, the sober, trustful Jamie, and, more importantly, the sexy Diamanda would, against a backdrop of suffering, teeming youth, form the visual grammar; aurally he was thinking something altogether more classical, perhaps some Pärt - though he wouldn’t have known who the sacred composer was - a trope taken from the charitable adverts that tugged at the heart strings. In short, Logan had a concept. All he needed was Sir Paul Fennell’s approval, and, with due emphasis on Diamanda, he was sure he would succeed in getting it.

Diamanda meanwhile had been enjoying her weekend in her accustomedly full-on manner, an energetic gym session had segued into a quiet lunch alone, an afternoon shopping, the highlight of which included a display of conspicuous consumption at a high end fetish boutique, followed by a light dinner, all this prior to one of her regular forays to a sex club, where she could easily find prey to sate her delectations. Jamie, contrarily, spent his time engaged in fevered workaholism, consuming himself with the fate of the bank, and, when he wasn’t doing that, obsessing about his hierarchical subordinate. And so the last, comparatively quiet weekend before Qatakistan consumed their lives played itself out.

They were not to know that famed Hollywood starlet Angelica Hayek, a former child star, veteran of many an artistically bankrupt but financially profitable film franchise, as well as the finer rehabilitation establishments the United States had to offer, was, that same weekend, looking for a new cause to which she could pledge allegiance, and which could also, not entirely coincidentally, distract her from the dysfunctional excesses of her private life, such as it was in the modern media age.

The spoilt woman-child contemplated the diseases, only to find, distressingly, that all the more telegenic and/or high profile ones had been taken, and she couldn’t very well be the face for necrotizing fasciitis, could she? The very idea of throwing a charity dinner for that disease, given its visual impact, and the need for visual iconography, made it a distinct non-starter. She thought briefly of environmentalism, but it seemed so, well, done. Then it struck her! Politics! She may not have won an Oscar, but surely securing a UN role was not beyond her? She would certainly put pressure on her increasingly exasperated agent. She wracked her brain thinking of a cause. Was there any suitably opportune ethnic cleansing going on anywhere at the moment? She must research this, or at least have it researched for her. As these thought processes went through Angelica’s fairly vacant head her maid Asrar bustled in the background. It would prove unfortunate that Asrar, a member of the Qataki diaspora, would prove to have links to the Shiite-Alawite ascendency in the troubled Emirate. It formed, it must be said, one of those unfortunate concatenations of chances that Asrar would become aware of her employer’s attempts to escape her preoccupations and troubles with narcotics, for Asrar would introduce her to a circle of Qataki immigrants who retained close links to figures in the Qataki royal circle. To this we shall return.

“Logan, I love it, it’s so…now…’, Sir Paul enthused, beaming at both Logan and Jessica, who had assisted him as he walked Sir Paul through the presentation.

“Thanks, Paul; again, I’m glad you liked it…”

“And it just came to you? Inspiration, it’s a wonderful thing…I want to hit this thing out of the park before we bring it to I N, however…I think we’re about 90-95% there, give me a day or two to think it over, I feel we’re a nuance or two away from really, really, really having something here…” Well, Sir Paul could hardly unreservedly endorse his subordinate’s ideas, otherwise why would he be needed?

Logan and Jessica left.

Sir Paul contemplated his next move. Sir Paul was a big believer in letting the unconscious do its thing, of disengagement as a necessary precondition of re-engagement and, therefore, improvement. The office was conducive to certain strands of thought, it worked to condition his approach, it had made many of his successes, but he was also aware, intuitively, as to how a change of scene could lend itself to that breakthrough he so desperately needed, wanted, in order to wow Diamanda with the quality of his acumen, in order to achieve with the I N Securities account his most fervent ambitions for Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates too. No, Sir Paul must wallow among the accoutrements of his success, the prizes, the trophies so well and hard won; he must be within and among the tangible expressions of his worldly success. Only the capaciousness of his Chelsea abode would allow for that level of psychic freedom, he would, following his lunch appointment, retire, temporarily, from the bustle of the office; his personal assistants would serve as a praetorian guard warding off the insistent world with its claims on his time and talents, he would seclude himself, communing only with beauty, and, in so doing, deliver those nuances and inflexions of which only he, or so he thought, was capable. For now, disengagement, enjoy lunch, then home, and work, after a fashion.

At that precise moment the Emir of Qatakistan Muhammad bin Abdul bin Abdulazziz bin Qataki bin Qana bin Muhammad bin Tabir was in conclave with his senior ministers, including an unusually sheepish security minister Muhammad Bin-Tabir. Matters of moment to be discussed included proposals to desalinate sea water in order to irrigate the low lying lands between Ast’Qana and the mountainous Kurdish region in the north, the current success of the religious police’s policy of instilling public morals; and quite what preparations were on hand to ensure order this coming Friday after the spectacular immolation of the Sunni Muhammad Pachachi. As per usual the aged Emir listened silently to his ministers as they reported their respective progresses. The last to speak was his cousin and hatchet man.

“We feel that the religious police are proving most efficacious, your majesty, in their further enforcement of anti-drinking laws in the run up to our bid for the Olympics, this, of course, will do much to further the needs of public order and to make Ast’Qana’s bid attractive to those of a more temperate disposition, even in the Godless west. Naturally, we are aiming at further curtailing vice in society’, here Muhammad Bin-Tabir stretched the truth, somewhat, only in the sense that it could be enjoyed by the broader mass of the citizenry, or the non-Western elements of the globalization-swollen populace, ‘and have identified a number of high profile targets, who must be made to pay the penalty under the law…”

Here the Emir made some indistinct sound, which Muhammad took for agreement.

“So, we see signs of great and continuous progress, it being Allah’s will. Now, concerning more pressing issues, leave has been cancelled, additional security forces have been drafted in from the interior, it is my full intention to display the full panoply of the state’s security apparatus ahead of and during this Friday’s prayers. We cannot leave anything to chance. As for intelligence, I feel that is a matter to be discussed more fully by the inner council.”

Here Muhammad indicated to his Emir that only His Majesty himself, his gerontocratic foreign and defence ministers, and the security and intelligence minister should remain in the room, regular cabinet business having been attended to. The rest of the cabinet duly trooped out of the cool marble courtyard where the meeting had been held, to whisper secrets and suppositions to one another in those few snatched minutes where they were legitimately able to enjoy each others’ presence, without unusual, unscheduled meetings between the oil and finance ministers, with the infrastructure minister, say, being noted by the security and intelligence minister’s network of informants.

“Well, Muhammad, what have you to impart?” the grizzled foreign minister, an erstwhile security and intelligence minister in his day, asked gruffly.

The Emir emitted another of his indistinct sounds.

“I wish to keep the Emir notified as to the status of our arms deal with the Russians, firstly, and, to discuss intelligence we have pertaining to the state of the people, secondly.”

Again the Emir groaned, well he was nearly 90.

“We expect to take delivery of a range of equipment the day after tomorrow, we have, some men, already trained in such equipment’s use, and, duly deployed, they will enable us to take more robust measures, should we wish it, or feel it desirable.” The security and intelligence minister had developed quite the capacity for bureaucratic euphemism, but then he had spent much time in the company of his western counterparts, masters in the practice.

Again the Emir groaned, somewhat more loudly now. It was at this stage that he began to suffer the first tremors of the aneurysm that was shortly to kill him.

“As for distinct intelligence about specific individuals, I have taken the precaution of making some pre-emptive arrests, or confinements rather; and, when I say that, that is precisely what I mean, I am wary of further excesses’, and well he should be, given his role in sparking the events that brought about a distinct deterioration in the state of Qatakistan’s internal security. He smiled smugly at the quality of his patter.

It was at this point that the Emir’s eyes rolled into the back of his wizened head and, within seconds died.

The foreign minister, a friend of long-standing, attended his Emir’s side; the defence minister looked on; Muhammad had, at least the presence of mind to call for help, which was soon present, though obviously far too late. However, Muhammad was also most correct when he formed the judgement on the Emir’s recent death that it complicated things tremendously.

The Emir, you see, had three sons, or, rather, had had three sons, the eldest, best-regarded, who shall go unnamed, but I think you could probably hazard a guess as to his moniker, had tragically died in a scuba-diving accident on the Red Sea, some blamed Mossad, though mainly owing to kneejerk anti-Semitism, an impulse not unknown in Qatakistan, or throughout the broader region. This left two sons, Abbas and Qusai, unfortunately Abbas, whose name meant Lion, looked more like the paediatrician he had become, though, as we are to see, being a doctor, ostensibly the tribune of a caring profession, doesn’t prevent one from indulging in inhumane conduct, given certain circumstances; while Qusai, for all his charisma, which was not inconsiderable, was, for want of a better term, and here one quibbles at indulging in the art of diagnosis, a psychopath. Consequently, one brother was the candidate for the Qataki succession of the establishment, and the wider world, while the other was the chosen one for the more revanchist elements in Qataki society. So Qatakistan made another notch in its collapse into disorder and bloodshed, the security and intelligence minister being, as so often, a key player in this unfolding drama.

Within minutes of accepting that the Emir was dead the foreign and defence ministers and, more importantly, Muhammad agreed that they had to go to Abbas, and so, a procession of heavy, bomb and bullet proofed, vehicles swept out of the grounds of the royal palace determined on conveying their retinue of kingmakers to their intended. Abbas had been playing tennis that morning and was quite gawkily attired in white shorts and a singlet when he was informed that he had guests. When he saw who his visitors were he blanched visibly, while politics were not his forte unexpected visits from heavily guarded senior state officials were, in these times, not things to be enjoyed, all things considered he thought that he had led rather a blameless life.

“Cousin Muhammad, what brings you here?”

“I regret to inform you your father died about half an hour ago.”

Abbas couldn’t be anything other than emotional; the man who had dominated his life, the life of Qatakistan for half a century was no more. Abbas was also none the wiser as to Muhammad’s intentions.

“What is to become of me?”

“Why, you are to be Emir, of course.”

It cannot be said that a professional engagement with the issues of paediatrics overly prepared Abbas for his new role; indeed, his near total historical ignorance meant that he was nowhere near as alarmed by the prospect offered before him as, by rights, he should have been.

Muhammad and the other senior ministers were reasonably contented, they had at least their candidate for the succession, fearing, as they did, the likely consequences for themselves and the Emirate if Qusai should succeed in establishing himself.

Qusai, what of Qusai? Well, in contrast to his brother’s healthy pursuits, tennis, racket ball, Qusai was at that very minute on a whiskey-fuelled bender, which had seen him enjoy the company of several highly attractive Russian prostitutes and currently saw him enjoying, if that term can be used, torture porn from several of Qatakistan’s neighbors’ worst penal establishments. Qusai was, in essence, a deeply, deeply malodorous human being. He could also be fairly described as the psychopath’s psychopath, or the bastard’s bastard. Admittedly, when he behaved he also possessed all the charm of the predatory sociopath. He was, in the vernacular, a character, in contrast to his brother, in many ways the greyest of the grey men. He too was also to shortly become the target of other’s transfiguring desires, whereas Muhammad Pachachi had been adopted as the poster boy for the West’s interest in Qataki affairs, the religious right would overlook his decadent western ways, given a sufficient show of public piety, in return for them and their friends from abroad being given their head. Qusai, the cynic, would not disappoint them, having far more sympathy with their retrograde values than with those of his despised older brother and the senior ministers who had done so much to sideline him from having any role in Qataki affairs.

In subsequent days the Qataki establishment would play up the excitement of the new Emir, which was difficult, in the hope that it would distract the various social groups from dwelling on their legitimate concerns, they also held a series of meetings with Tufts Q. Seabright III, in the hope of securing Washington’s support for the new regime. Tufts was taken in by much of the new rhetoric, and tortuously composed missives averring the decency of the new Emir, as evidenced by an - in the circumstances foolhardy - amnesty he offered to a number of high profile political prisoners his security and intelligence minister had confined when he had been his father’s security and intelligence minister, scant days ago. All this liberalization though was welcomed by Tufts, and his superiors back home, convinced it represented a sorely needed victory for liberal democracy.

Tufts found what he supposed to be the new and liberal direction in Qataki affairs to be increasingly commensurate with his mental processes and accustomed thought, such as it was. He even began to find the drafting of missives easier, fortuitously so, for, at last, Foggy Bottom, dare one even say, the administration itself, had begun to take a keen interest in this latest expression of the Arab Spring. He was right, his idle use of the loaded phrase Jeffersonian democracy, had piqued the interest of some senior staffer, perhaps even a senior White House adviser, back home. Tufts, for the first time, had found his voice as an Ambassador; he would be the self-appointed adviser to those desperately wishing to bring Qatakistan into communion with the democratic west, or America, as he thought of it. Fatefully, in this mood, Tufts would chance across files in his in-tray concerning political prisoners in the Emirate. Tufts picked up one file, idly leafed through it before, some way in, beginning to read:

“and so it is the contention of this analyst that Abdul Mubdee, while admittedly a more conservative cleric, has shown little interest in advancing causes directly inimical to United States’ interests, in fact, he is, in the public mind, most associated with his antipathy toward the Olympic bid, which he considers haram. Though it would be remiss of me to fail to mention that he is rumored to hold illiberal views on suicide bombing, such a charge can be leveled at the majority of those of his profession, in the region at least…”

Tufts mused, “Abdul Mubdee”, he murmured. He continued to read the file, in no wise was this man, overtly at least, and in Tufts’ eyes, a threat, his record solely detailed a series of, on the state’s part, rights violations; so he had spoken out of turn, who had not? Tufts must raise Abdul Mubdee with the new Emir’s government.

The following day Tufts was admitted to the new Emir’s presence; as part of his commitment to reform Abbas, the new Emir, wore garb akin to almost any other modern statesman, a grey, resolutely non-descript suit, which made him appear every inch the paediatrician manqué he now was. The government had been, slightly, reconstructed, the aged foreign minister having been pensioned off, to his vanity’s chagrin, and his place having been taken by the long-serving defence minister, a junior member of the extended royal house now taking that role, and, as powerful and influential as ever he was, despite his recent wobble, Muhammad El-Tabir remained, the black hand of the house’s security apparatus.

“Ah, Ambassador Seabright.” The Emir nodded slightly.

“Your Majesty.” Tufts rejoindered, as he stood, towering over the Emir like MacArthur over Hirohito.

“His Majesty understands you have requested a further meeting, though given our recent communications and agreements, we are, perhaps, perplexed, Ambassador Seabright as to why this should be so?” asked the foreign minister.

“Well, Your Majesty, Foreign Minister, Minister Tabir, while the United States is pleased with recent liberalization measures in the Emirate, and, particularly, your recent amnesty; so wise, might I say; we have concerns over the fate of a few political prisoners.”

Here minister Tabir took more of an interest.

“A few?”, asked the foreign minister again.

“Well, one really…”

“And which one might that be?” asked Tabir

“Abdul Mubdee.”

Tabir started to speak but was interrupted by Abbas.

“You may consider the matter resolved, he is to be included in the latest round of amnesties’, by this His Majesty meant three, now four specific individuals, ‘and consider it as showing the huge personal respect and affection with which we hold the United States and its president.”

Tufts was shortly to find that having was not so good a thing as wanting.    

So, that week, among those released was the firebrand cleric Abdul Mubdee, whose position on such issues as suicide bombing, emphatically not haram, was hardly conducive to acceptable democratic discourse. He was, of course, and naturally, a Qusai man; so far as he was anyone’s other than his own. We dwell on Abdul Mubdee as the man who would, that Friday, effectively spark the counter-revolution against the attempted installation of Abbas. Of Mubdee we may say that, as a man, he was distinctly Khomeiniesque, he spoke with the quiet intensity of the fanatic, which, when he was roused, rose to the declamatory ardour of the demagogue, he also favoured attiring himself in black, and, like his inspiration, had dabbled in the composition of poetry, though of an altogether less sensual, and more austere, variety. He would also come to develop an irrational hatred of Tufts Q. Seabright III, ironically his liberator and a man he imagined to be, alternately, the catspaw of Godless Jewish capitalism, or the instigator of CIA conspiracies aimed at undermining him, rather than a fundamentally inefficacious cog in a slow-moving bureaucratic machine, but he too would come to see a copy of the Newsweek article, albeit in translation, which made Tufts seem far more monstrous than he was, to one inclined to so regard him.

While the official Qataki government had been having meetings with the representative of the United States’ government Qusai, who enjoyed the altogether earthier and more illiberal blandishments of the Russian delegation, had been meeting with Ambassador Boris Kropotkin; who, in a manner established and well worn had, as the representative of a power antagonistic to the new dispensation, and recent arms deal aside, been courting those figures and interests alienated from the new government. He was a man as adept and skilled in his duties as Tufts was irrationally optimistic and maladroit in his. Qusai had also been meeting with representatives of the Iraqis and the Iranians, or at least with the Shiite faction from the former and majority from the latter, indeed it was quite the coalition pressing upon Qusai his need to assert his claim to the throne. The external representatives, however, for all the arms they promised, and would liberally deliver, would have gotten nowhere were it not for the internal politics of Qatakistan, and for Abdul Mubdee.

Abdul Mubdee, that pious, devout, mystic-fanatic, had been, prior to his confinement, a man given to keeping a diary, into which he poured the innermost workings of his thought, religiously obsessive, dwelling on power politics, to the exclusion of all else, of a great amount that would be recognizably human. His first action, upon his return to the religious community that had been the custodian of his things was to recover this miraculously unread tome. Into it he entered his thoughts on the tumult overtaking the Emirate.

“What has befallen Qatakistan? We knew the old government was the plaything of the infidels, the wizened Emir senile, affairs in the hands of his corrupt family and friends. And now? If anything, it is worse; what is Abbas – how unfitting a name – but a follower of Jewish science? How can we rid our land of the kaffir? Who, can lead us?

Here Abdul Mubdee began to indulge in that self-deceit so necessary to his future ambitions, abnegating his inner power-crazed cleric he alighted upon Qusai, and, Qusai would serve his purpose, for now, he and his followers would allow Abdul Mubdee to bring down Abbas, as, he was sure, Allah wanted, for Allah could not mean for such a pusillanimous figure to sit on the throne, or indeed, if he was honest, for there to be a throne at all.  

So, that Friday Martyr’s Square buzzed and thronged with the expectant crowds of Qatakis, their ire raised by the death of Mohammad Pachachi, the memory of the oppressed martyr undimmed by recent developments. They did not care for the new Emir, despite his good works with Qatakistan’s children, how could a paediatrician lead a great people like the Qatakis? So went the more contemptuous gossip. Some even avowed their preference for Qusai, say what you like, they would say, but at least he looks and acts like a leader! This was the atmosphere in Martyr’s Square as the people crowded between the modern central station and the ancient Grand Mosque, caught between the Scylla of modernisation and the Charybdis of the ancient past, ever making claims on their collective future. This was the atmosphere as Abdul Mubdee prepared to preach to the crowd from the steps of the Grand Mosque, it had about it all the hallmarks of the colossal miscalculation.

      IV

Sir Paul accepted the glass of mineral water, so enamoured was he with Diamanda Sangrail that he was blind to the faint undercurrent of contempt that underpinned her conveyance of it to him, or, indeed, her feelings about most men.

Sir Victor surveyed the dummy materials, contemplated the audacity of the proposed campaign, ultimately, given this last quality, it was felt that the chairman, the CEO, and, de jure, the CFO would have to agree to the envisioned proposal. Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates’ had, with Sir Paul’s judicious intervention, or so he described it - to Logan, it was barely discernible, though professional jealously may have played a role in his forming that judgement - mocked up a series of intensely emotive images of I N Securities’ senior staff, dressed well, though in an understated way, against a backdrop of humanitarian disaster, suffering multitudes in the background might, to less enlightened individuals, have appeared, for want of a better term, racist. To be fair, given the current definition of that term, in modern British parlance, they were. The board, however, taking its cue from bien pensant piety, saw it quite differently, Diamanda’s expression of enthusiasm, admittedly from the perspective of sardonic amusement, was enough to gain Jamie’s fulsome support, and, with his senior management duumvirate on board, what could Sir Victor do but agree? And so, fatefully, the private enthusiasms and secret logic of these tribunes of the banking and advertising worlds came to endorse what can accurately be labeled the most ill-fated, ill-considered advertising campaign in corporate history, a disaster from which, it would transpire, not even copious injections of Chinese capital could save them.

This, however, was not the full story, a day or two later, having pushed for a meeting of the government’s National Security Council, the deputy prime minister was among those attending a meeting in Downing Street, the subject of which was the British response to the impending tragedy in Qatakistan. The deputy prime minister, as convinced by his own interpretation of Roland Williams’ report as ever he was, had been bolstered by a strong BBC editorial line on the horrors of Qatakistan on that morning’s Today Programme, the deputy prime minister had been especially favourably impressed by that morning’s Thought for the Day slot, in which an achingly wet cleric embarked on a distinctly intellectually empty defence of the Qataki people, singular, again, and argued that when Jesus had seen suffering he “was having none of it.”

“We have a duty of care!” the deputy prime minister sanctimoniously exclaimed. As opposed to when Sir Victor, say, or Sir Tristram, uttered their accepted notions as deep and abiding truths, no one murmured in support of his contention. This was not, however, to suggest that he was in danger of not getting his way, it just wouldn’t take quite the form he wished it to.

“Steve’, the prime minister guffawed, ‘we accept that Qatakistan is descending into tragedy, we’re not inhuman’, coincidentally another of the recently resigned Newsnight political editor’s charges against one of the governing party’s supporters, ‘but, the idea of direct intervention can’t be considered to be in Britain’s actual interests.”

“What would you suggest, prime minister?”

Here the PM turned to the chairman of the joint intelligence committee, a wizened old Whitehall hand, as dilapidated as so much of the machinery of British government.

“What’s clear is that, officially, nothing can be done at the UN, but, unofficially, we know the Russians are funneling arms, why don’t we?”

The assembled politicians contemplated the suggestion, a more detached, less bold or stupid man, depending on your tastes, might have demurred, or better yet, kept his silence, this the deputy prime minister was not, or could not do, and so the fateful word: “How?” was uttered.

The chairman, to the excitement of the assembled politicians, began a Socratic dialogue.

“It can’t, obviously, be any official, recognized organ of the British government’, hushed and murmured nos were heard around the table, ‘I suppose, or so I’ve heard, in situations like this, it’s usually best to turn to a morally compromised body or organization, one, ideally with a track record of underhand dealing, corruption, lying…”

Harry Clark, one of the more gleefully cynical and waggish ministers present scrawled a note to the effect of how grateful he was that he didn’t live in a society such as that. Naturally he was a vanishing breed in modern government, and was motivated more by a blackly comic desire to see what this lot would make of it.

The deputy prime minister spoke: “So, we’re agreed, our policy should be to provide what aid we can to oppressed elements in Qatakistan, commensurate with our commitments to international law, but that we should also endeavour to allow other organizations, external to the government, to do what they can in an equivalent vein...” He seemed to have suddenly developed the capacity to make the illegal sound like a boring exercise in administrative tidiness.

“With’, the prime minister added, ‘such organizations to be decided at a subsequent meeting of this committee.” It was on that note that the government embarked on the policy that would destroy it. Lord Placeman, not, it must be said, present, would come to hear whispers, but he already tacitly supported such machinations, as did the organization which had been placed in his trust. After all, it was decent, and right, and upstanding, and true. Who could disagree?

Diamanda had succeeded in enticing Jamie back to her abode, or lair, as she referred to it. It was, like her, immaculate and tidy, and, in a way, quite depersonalised, not that it lacked for signs of her interiority, they were present, but they were also difficult to relate to, her choices in art, in what scant literature she read, were emphatically not those of the mainstream. Where most would have easily relatable relics of the averagely human, Diamanda would have a challenging object d’art.

It was, within this unusual space, that an unsettled Jamie would find himself unsettled further still as Diamanda amused herself with the occasional private joke at, or so he, correctly, thought, his expense.

“Jamie, would you like a vodka? I have vanilla; I assume you’re vanilla…”

“Er, yes, aren’t you?”

Diamanda smiled, her back to him. “Only culinarily.” she answered as she prepared his drink.

The answer engendered a renewed bout of anxiety in the neurotic banking executive.

Diamanda had, just the other day, been the subject of a feature in an esteemed business publication, in which she had glowingly spoken of her regard for Jamie, and how well they had worked together in surmounting the challenges post-Saul, a work in progress. The feature had also included photography which naughtily touched on certain of her private enthusiasms. Partly in jest Diamanda was increasingly referred to as the city’s strict mistress. Indeed, psychologically, Jamie increasingly saw her in this regard, she was always in and out of his office - her advice prized above all others. Most importantly Diamanda herself was aware of this burgeoning dependency. She had decided that the moment was opportune to extend an invitation to her ostensible superior, so as to establish in fact what both of them intuited about the other. Diamanda had also decided to be gentle, at least to begin with.

Diamanda handed the sweating glass to her equivalently perspiring boss, fixing him with her pale blue eyes she spoke in tones of melodrama: “Jamie, I worry about you, you work so hard, you’ve done so much to become a fixed point in I N’s affairs after the horror of Saul’s death, are you not concerned that the strain, on body and nerve, is becoming too apparent?” Diamanda thrust her bosom forward.

Jamie’s heart pounded insistently, where, he could not but wonder, was this going?

“I’ve seen it before, in our industry, a man such as yourself requires release, you need an outlet for your nervous energies other than work, which, as we know, can become all consuming.”

Jamie’s eyes bulged, he knew he should never have accepted the invitation, all his fears of Diamanda flashed before his eyes, and yet, now, before her, he was powerless, he was as much hers to do with as she pleased as any personal possession he saw arrayed before him, or the lowliest executive at the bank who had, in some oblique way, displeased her. Jamie attempted to offer a reply to her overtures which soon descended into gibberish.

Diamanda seized her opportunity, she lunged at Jamie, embracing him and soon they were locked in an embrace. Sexual desire taking over both alternated grabbing at each other and undressing, Diamanda soon succeeded in maneuvering his face between her legs, her weight bearing down on him. The lack of oxygen interacted with the drug she had laced his drink with to make him increasingly amenable to her will. Jamie lapsed into unconsciousness, whereupon Diamanda took advantage of her self-engineered opportunity, she went to her box of toys upstairs, and, reached for a blindfold, a ball gag, handcuffs, a chastity device, and one particular appurtenance to adorn herself. She also proceeded to check the cameras she had hidden around the room, to record their first romantic encounter.

  When he awoke about half an hour later Jamie found himself lying on his front handcuffed to Diamanda’s sturdy four poster bed, which was not the least of what was making him uncomfortable, there were, among other things, cameras trained on him. Diamanda stood before him, bare limbed, towering over him in six inch heels, her breasts bounded within the confines of a leather corset, it was, however, the appurtenance between her legs that most alarmed the bound and gagged Jamie.

“Jamie’, Diamanda purred disturbingly, ‘I’ve seen better men; actually, let me rephrase that, I’ve seen men broken by pressures as great as yours, if not greater, and, while, at this moment in time, it might not seem it, I am actually doing this for your own good.” Diamanda smiled.

Jamie groaned.

“I think, Jamie, that what you need is some release from the pressures of your responsibilities at I N, I think Jamie that release, and, oxymoronically, discipline is what I can give you.” Diamanda caressed his face, she looked down. “Do you like what I have planned for you, for us?”

It must be said that Diamanda was tremendously lucky in her choice of victim, where most, in modern times, who find themselves subject to the sort of treatment meted out by what they would doubtless uncharitably refer to as an unhinged sadist, would have recourse to the criminal justice system, Jamie exhibited just the psychological quirks that enjoyed, indeed desired, Diamanda’s sadistic treatment. Consequently Diamanda and Jamie enjoyed an evening of psychosexually intense intimacy, of the kind disapproved of by governments, mainstream societies, and the stultifyingly morally conventional. It would, however, prove the lever by which a desperate coterie of well-meaning types would inveigle I N Securities into being the vehicle for their policy in Qataki affairs, Jamie’s peculiar psychology meant being revealed as a deviant in the eyes of society and all the embarrassment that went with it would be more awful than, it would transpire, stoking the horrors of Qatakistan. Diamanda, for whom such revelations would have been less of an embarrassment, merely enjoyed the opportunities for humour that the imbroglio would allow. For now, at least, Jamie would find relief from his neuroses in allowing Diamanda Sangrail to rule his libido with an iron fist, Sir Victor had chosen well, hadn’t he…?

“What do you know about Qatakistan, Miss Hayek?”

“Well, I mean, like, I’ve totally come to learn.”

Adeel Qadir, leading figure of the Qataki diaspora on the west coast, surveyed the starlet, aware as he was of her troubled personal life; he began to contemplate how she might be of use to the cause, quite whose cause it remained to determine. For, like, totally, coming to learn she had at least, courtesy of her maid, come to the right place, or possibly the very, very worst place.

“Might I ask, Miss Hayek, why you have chosen to involve yourself in Qataki affairs?” Qadir asked in his clipped, precise tone.

“Well, my therapist suggests I, like, need to focus more of my energy outwards, and I was talking to Asrar, my maid, and she filled me in on a few things, and, after my recent spell in rehab – three weeks clean – it seemed like it might be the sort of cause that I could really do something for.”

Qadir considered for a moment the benefits that his new contact’s fame, notoriety might bring to promoting the cause of Qatakistan, especially in the light of events back home.

“Miss Hayek, we are having a pledge drive later in the week, and would be most touched, humbled should you, duly respectfully dressed, lend your time and profile to our cause, I am pressed for time but we have your details and will happily confirm the precise details via email. Now, I am afraid I am very busy.”

Angelica agreed volubly and, attired in the shortest skirt imaginable tottered out of the office on her vertiginously high heels, though the pointed reference to respectful dress would fail to make much impact. As for Qadir, he proceeded to make a series of phone calls back home, including one to a member of his extended family, in turn a member of the Qataki intelligence community, in turn a supporter of Qusai.

A few days later an intelligence case officer proceeded to investigate the contents of Diamanda Sangrail’s computer, a standard practice, after all, someone had to keep an eye on the bankers, even if the politicians they funded or provided with a disproportionately large percentage of the tax income they liked to dispense among the people did nothing about it. Now this file was interesting. He raised an eyebrow. He’d heard stories, including about people within his own organisation, one having made the papers, to GCHQ’s embarrassment. Being, however, of a somewhat geeky disposition, he knew senior business and banking executives when he saw them, however various the positions.

“So, that’s what Mr. Jamie Field is into…” he whispered crowingly.

All this would make for some interesting reading for the prime minister in that weekend’s intelligence reports. Preoccupied by intended reshuffle, managing his deputy and his party, managing his own party, unremittingly bleak economic news, and visions of glory in the sands of Qatakistan, he was, subconsciously still trying to answer that Socratic question put by the chairman of the JIC when, whiskey in one hand, and at Chequers that weekend, he reached for the latest round up of business intelligence as he enjoyed the long drawing room that evening.

Here a corporation engaged in a spot of insider trading, no gong for him, there a captain of industry had an extra marital affair, now I N Securities…PR push…Qatakistan…Jamie Field…Diamanda Sangrail…Well, he’d never met the man, had no idea he was like that…The prime minister salaciously reread the details of the report…How amused would he be to see those pictures, perhaps in HD on his iPad…More pressingly, however, he must have a word with the deputy prime minister before the next NSC meeting. The British government had, or so he felt, found the implement for its Qatakistan policy, Steve would be pleased.

The following morning Sir Tristram had just finished his accustomed session of yogic flying when he received a phone call from Lord Placeman.

“Tris’, Lord Placeman growled, ‘I think we need to meet to discuss Qatakistan.”

“I quite agree, we need the corporation to sing from the same hymn sheet on this, it increasingly looks as though it might kick off any day now.”

“Shall we say my office, after lunch?”

The two big panjandrums of British state broadcasting had arranged a tête a tête, in which the prospect of Western intervention, of a kind, was excitedly discussed.

Later that afternoon Sir Tristram sailed past the Eric Gill statue, signaling some of the corporations more unwelcome characteristics, an open-necked, crisp, white shirted, chalk checked black jacketed and matching trousered blur. He and Lord Placeman would decide on the state media’s policy for the intervention, or at least to that part of it their sources in Whitehall envisaged it as playing.

“Tris, it won’t fly.” Here Lord Placeman waved a patrician hand.

“I’m sorry, Peter, what won’t?”

“Full on intervention.” Lord Placeman was lost momentarily in a reverie of Balkan wars and his own role as peace maker, which conveniently omitted the negligible role he had played in ending the killing; that may have had significantly more to do with the concentrated airpower of the United States, this troubled him not at all, however.

“But, that’s terrible!” Sir Tristram averred. For Sir Tristram put himself very much at the centre of the moral universe. “If we don’t save them, who will!?!” he raged, insensibly, meaning by we, I.  

“Tris, fear not, politics is the art of the possible, old cock.” Here Lord Placeman, mixing his Tory chancellors, began to finesse his achingly fashionable, and, consequently, as a middle-aged man, ludicrously attired D-G. “The Security Council seems unlikely to be able to agree on Q, but that doesn’t mean intervention, of a kind, won’t happen…’, Sir Tristram looked puzzled, ‘…Proxies, old boy! Had them, to an extent, in Serbia; how do you think we won the war?” Here Lord Placeman indicated his adherence to a rather partial account as to how the Serbian conflict was, for want of a better term, resolved.

The scales fell from Sir Tristram’s eyes; he was beginning the see the possibilities, those brave men and women, fighting and dying, with help from their supporters abroad would save Qatakistan by their exertions and the world by their example, no thanks, of course, to the coalition government.

“So we need to prepare the nation for efforts to help the rebels…?” Sir Tristram asked rhetorically.

“Indeed, there may be diplomatic gridlock, and I’ve known it, in my time, but we have the tools, Tris, and, for all the possible reservations, government policy makes sense.” The poor booby.

Duly placated Sir Tristram sallied forth from Lord Placeman’s office fortified in his desire to help, to save Qatakistan, he would gee up the corporation’s troops, like Lord Beaverbrook presiding over the ministry of information in the second world war, tyrants would, if not slain, ideally experience due process, before, hopefully, experiencing life imprisonment, like Hess, not like Saddam and all those other victims of Iraqi revanchism, to which the United States and Kingdom had been the handmaiden. The liberal internationalist returned to his own office as the apostle of a moral position that would, it might not unreasonably appear, cost more lives than it would save.

“Ah, Steve, sit down’, for prime minister and deputy were having their own equivalently half-witted tête a tête.

“Dave’, he responded, for even the most exalted of circles were infected with the faux amity so prevalent in modern society.

“Have you given any further thought to our Qatakistan policy?” The prime minister so enjoyed this subtle games, dear Steve was not a man known for his thought.

The question was met with a look of accustomed blankness.

“I believe we may have found a vehicle for aiding the rebels’, the prime minister averred smugly.

This was, of course, manna to the deputy prime minister. His eyes aglow he fervently pressed the prime minister for further details.

“Well, Steve, it has come to our attention that I N Securities might be in a position to help aid the Qatakis.”

“How?” Steve asked naively.

“Early days, we haven’t even made an approach, and even quite what type of an approach is something we should discuss, but, I’m confident that the bank’s CEO will bend over to help us, positively enjoy it, in fact.” The prime minister beamed.

Here again the deputy’s strange innocence made itself apparent, where you or I might question the precise meaning of any politician’s utterances, the deputy was strangely contented to take his rival and boss’s statements at face value. The prime minister, deeming it necessary to dip this naïf, who had, inexplicably ended up the British equivalent of that jibe of John Nance Garner’s, in the blood spelt it out to Steve; always the calculation ran that if this were to blow up in his face he would not be the only one blinded and disfigured by this particular IED.

“Steve, it turns out we have leverage with the bank, and, by leverage, I mean some rather fruity, rather explicit images’ – and here the PM was at least aware of the irony, given his own stance on internet content – ‘of the CEO enjoying the, well, not presence, shall we say, strictures of Miss Sangrail, the CFO.”

The deputy’s liberal conscience blanched, such a violation of the rights of the individual in a democratic society were unconscionable, and yet, how many a Qataki child as yet unborn might be saved as a result…?

“We’re at the top table, Steve, if we wish to govern, we must choose.” Here the PM looked intently into his deputy’s moist, brown eyes. “We can save Qatakistan, all those lives…” to say nothing of their shared, vainglorious hope, to secure the votes of people who were, in their instincts, more naturally inimical to their parties. The PM had pitched his clichés perfectly, he knew to whom he spoke. The visions of downtrodden saved humanity, reaching transcendent nobility in their trial and sorrow once more played themselves out before Steve’s eyes, and so he silently assented.

Logan Tremain, across town, was finishing up some minor work on a campaign for a British clothing retailer planning on expanding into the Asian market, the eponymous Whiteman, one word, was pitched to appeal to existing Asian sensibilities, and particularly Chinese ones concerning the gwai lo, and cultures where the use of whitener was not unknown. The fact that the impresario behind the clothing line gave copiously to many fashionable causes meant that he escaped censure for this cultural insensitivity. Nothing succeeds like success, particularly when it pays its tithes and genuflects to sentiment. He was, however, fundamentally neck deep in making preparations for the I N Securities’ Qatakistan campaign, commensurate with Sir Paul’s barely perceptible additions. Logan, it must also be noted was a man with, it might euphemistically be averred, impulse control problems, or one impulse control problem in particular, which professional success allowed him the resources to keep under some modicum of control. Baldly, Logan Tremain was a sex addict. This manifested itself in a series of brief, unstable relationships and afternoons lost to camgirls, and sometimes not even camgirls, having finished with the Whiteman account he was enjoying a session with a Russian camgirl ten years his junior prior to further work.

Indeed, work pressures, and the role played in buttressing his work on the I N Securities account, had seen his relationship with Jacintha axiomatically become the most stable. It was, unfortunate then that Jessica Grunwald would interrupt him near the apex of his auto-erotic activities with SvetlanaDD, as his desperation would see him spill both his seed and sow that which would bring about the destruction of his career at Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates.

“Logan.”

He panicked as he slammed his Apple Mac shut and thrust his hips and ergonomic chair along with them under his desk, this might perhaps have worked, had it not been for the fact that the firm’s commitment to aching fashionability had seen it procure glass desks, post-modern ideals in the realm of furnishing would do something to bring about Logan Tremain’s undoing, that and the modern work place’s approach to fraternization.

Jessica, buxom, red-headed, pale and curvaceous, slinkily approached his desk, a look of amusement across her angularly attractive face.

“Uh, hi…Jessica!

She smiled back: “Logan, why have you got your cock out?”

To brazenly proclaim this his office would, he panickedly thought, invite ridicule, though no other option seemed to be at all efficacious either. Worse still, the frisson of Jessica’s presence, never mind what she had very nearly caught him doing, ensured that he was still, very much, tumescent.

“Logan, would you, by any chance, like any help with that…?” Jessica asked mock innocently.

Logan nodded desperately.

Jessica smiled sardonically, closed the blinds, and proceeded to attend to Logan’s personage.

“Have you been a bad boy? Wanking in work…Tsk, tsk, tsk, naughty creative!’, here she squeezed. Logan could offer only desperate affirmatives to the red head’s innuendo. “What were you looking at?”

“Porn!”

“I know that, Mr. Big Shot Creative, what particular type?” Jessica continued her ministrations.

Logan had regained some poise: “Ironically…it featured a man in his office…with a colleague…”

“Oh, Meta; is that how you like your porn, Logan? How niche! Who’s out there making meta porn?”

“Jessica can I see your tits?”

Jessica slipped her top off and unhooked her bra freeing her large breasts, she returned to her manipulation of Logan.

Logan’s iPhone went off, it was Jacintha, he groaned, ignoring the insistently irritating jingle; his sole focus now was on Jessica’s spectacular breasts, to the exclusion of all else.

We shall leave Logan and Jessica to their exertions now, for to go any further risks indelicacy, and it’s not like we can’t reasonably accurately imagine what their encounter culminated in.

In counterpoint to Logan and Jessica’s heteronormative encounter Diamanda and Jamie had embarked on a journey into the heterodox. Each lunch hour since their initial romantic engagement they had spent their shared lunch hour in Jamie’s office alone committing further essays in the latter’s erotic humiliation. Diamanda had taken to wearing a key on a silver chain around her neck, a key Jamie was denied from using and could only beg for, and which she had determinedly, and cruelly, denied him any access to, in turn denying him access to a certain part of his anatomy. Just as Logan Tremain was free and obsessively able to pleasure himself, Jamie Field was denied and tormented by his enforced abstinence.

“You’re pathetic! Look at you! A MAN in your position wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing!!! He’d have too much self-respect!!!” Diamanda proceeded to kick Jamie from behind as hard as she could between the legs. He groaned, his eyes watering. Diamanda applied downward pressure on his backside forcing him to the floor, she proceeded to walk up and down his spine in her high heels, which had at least the subtle benefit of helping his back and posture, or so he thought, not that much of her sadistic punishment did much that was beneficial for his posterior.

“Please, Diamanda…”

“Men call me Diamanda, or friends, not pathetic wastes of space!”

“Mistress, please…”

“Maybe, Jamie’, and here she gently moved up and down so as to make the force of her heels on his back felt more, ‘I should get my knives! Or perhaps you’d like to see my friend from the other day again, he really liked you, and I know you really, really liked him, faggot!”

“No, please, no!”

“OK, I mean, I don’t know, but you have to do something else for me’, Diamanda disported, and, digging her shoes into Jamie’s side proceeded to get him to roll over, she then hitched up her skirt and pulled her black embroidered boy shorts down, ‘Lick!!!”

After lunch Jamie and Diamanda, in their public roles of CEO and CFO at least, were due to meet with Sir Victor, Sir Paul, Logan, and Jessica to discuss final arrangements for the PR campaign for the week after next. I N Securities’ guests arrived. Sir Paul, moon-faced, gazed intensely at Diamanda throughout the meeting, Jessica seemed privately amused with Logan, who was ineffably professional throughout, and Jamie was anxious, especially when he saw Diamanda smiling at him and toying with her necklace. Sir Victor alone seemed wholly content with his ostensible purpose for attending the meeting.

“So, we’re going to effectively shoot a documentary delineating I N’s humanitarian relief efforts?”

“That’s exactly right, Sir Victor. We have a sympathetic team, we’ve done the research on I N’s charitable works, mainly, it must be said, arts’ sponsorship, and we’re pretty sure no bank has done anything like this on anything like this scale before.” replied Logan.

      Diamanda chipped in: “And you want us to go along for four or five days dispensing our largesse? Well, I don’t know about you but at I N I’m sure we’ll do anything to serve; won’t we, Jamie?”

“Diamanda’, Sir Paul smoothly interjected, ‘we have the graphic work mocked up but we really need you there for the verité finish, so to speak, we’re going to depict you as the relief workers of the international financing community, relief chic, again, so to speak. We’ll have a private security firm providing protection, we will be away from any major population centres, but, most importantly, I believe we’ll be doing actual good, both for the Qataki people, and for your reputation.”

“Not to mention for yours as well, Sir Paul.” Jamie sardonically rejoindered, jealously puncturing his attempts to establish intimacy.

“Jamie, behave.” Had Jamie been less constrained he might have mentioned that the last he had heard roaming bands of militias in the desert had been engaged in hacking off the hands of those receiving inoculations, but given Diamanda’s presence and the likelihood this would invite some form of psychologically and physically excruciating retribution he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“So, really, the only thing we need are your absolute final approval and your signatures on the bills, I trust your passports are in order?” asked Logan.

“Well, it’ll certainly make a change from the established office routine’, Sir Victor stated, ‘, no more of those cosy lunches for you and Diamanda for the foreseeable, Jamie, I suppose.”

Jamie’s look of relief did not escape Diamanda’s saturnine gaze.

Jacintha was at home happily compiling materials on Qatakistan’s massive human rights abuses, having emailed her absent parents, when she received an anonymous email.

A Friend

To Whom It May Concern, enclosed is some information that may be of use to your organisation in its valiant efforts. Make use of it in whichever way you see fit. The following concerns the CEO and CFO of I N Securities.  

Jacintha read it and opened the attachment to be greeted with the same images that GCHQ had recently seen. Jacintha, being a comparative naïf, was somewhat shocked as to the content. She would have to speak with someone about this, and speak she would.

The following day Jacintha asked to speak privately with Sam Kent, her boss, the aspirant MP. He unctuously agreed. She presently explained the events of yesterday afternoon, the mysterious email, the compromising images, the identity of the constituent parties. Sam listened in his egregiously oleaginous manner, umming and ahhing when he felt occasion called for it.

“Sam, do you think we should go to the police?”

“…We could do…or, Jac, thinking about it another way, there are, to my mind, two things we could do…One, we could use this information to embarrass the bank, or, two, we could use this information to have leverage with the bank, after all, banks have resources, we need resources, resources are good, resources help people…” Sam played to Jacintha’s naivety and sympathies as ably as the prime minister had to his deputy’s.

“But isn’t that, illegal…?”

“Jac, we could do the legal thing, but - as you and I know - that isn’t always the moral thing; and besides - from what you’ve told me – your boyfriend has been working with I N on a PR campaign…I propose the following, we can leverage this, information, into having a role for the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal in proceedings, we can also get I N into raising the level of its aid, say, I don’t know, 6 planes rather than 3, we can really help people…”, as well as our, and, in particular, my profile, ahead of the Islington Central candidate selection, he thought but didn’t say.

Jacintha had already primed herself to be liable to suasion by such logic, and Sam was both coherent, persuasive and, she was sure, had his heart in the right place, if good could be done with a little arm-twisting then she was the right person to do it.

“But, Sam, how are we going to do this?”

“We request a meeting! If they’re embarking on a PR offensive centred on humanitarianism, we push at the open door…”

Jacintha was not to know that fate had chosen her via blind chance to witness the first tremors of a private psychodrama that would have significant real world consequences some way down the line.

All it took was a lovelorn moral narcissist with security clearance in Fort Mead who had, improbably, become aware of her, to fall a little in love with her; tired of the lies, the bullshit, the petty office politics, Archer Strachan, would soon be at the epicentre of his romanticised, one man war against the overweening power of America’s security-intelligence complex; which was, after all, a better story than that he was bored with his white collar job and had imbibed too many fanciful notions as to the wider world, his government, and it and his respective places within it. Archer thought Jacintha the one good, true, and decent thing in this terrible world, the Julia to his Winston Smith; fittingly he reported to a man named O’Brien, this was, however, purely coincidental, his O’Brien was, contrary to fantasy, a time-server more interested in his golf game than in the fascist repression of the people and his contravention of their rights. Strachan emerged from his office to get some coffee, he glimpsed O’Brien in his, practicing his putting, the Obergruppenfuhrer of the Greens was how he imagined him.

“Dave, how is it best to do this…?”

“Well, we know Sir Victor is a long-standing donor to my party, but it would perhaps be best to take a multi-pronged approach, perhaps someone from the deep state could effectively blackmail the bankers, while we might, subtly, indicate to Sir Victor our appreciation if he were to help us by making his bank an instrument of state policy. Perhaps jointly, we could allude to Qatakistan? After all, there is that British Business Symposium at Portcullis House next week…I suppose they’d need to liaise with the intelligence services, I don’t know how much experience our friends have in setting up slush funds and funneling arms, I know I’d have no idea…”

Steve could not help but be impressed by the prime minister’s acumen, and think also of those benighted Qatakis, of how his and the British government’s power was being used to slowly but surely relieve them of their distress.

The prime minister poured them both strong measures of whiskey, and offered a glass to Steve, he guffawed in his accustomed style: “To Plan Grouse.” For Grouse was the nickname that the prime minister had chosen for his well-intentioned but illegal wheeze, not that its illegality would matter too much, for the majority of the establishment, had they been asked, would probably have supported it.

And so, wheels within wheels, we find the government plotting to use a bank to funnel arms to fuel a conflict, an NGO doing the same with aid, that aforementioned bank and their PR firm shortly about to embark on the world’s most ill-fated PR campaign, the sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of Jamie and Diamanda, a lovelorn NSA analyst about to go off the deep end, and all their attentions focused on the Emirate of Qatakistan, where nascent revolution, having failed to have its sting drawn by a new monarch and new approach, seems set to topple over into civil war and brother should fight brother, but who is to say who will prove the ultimate victor.

                        V

Abdul Mubdee declaimed fervently from the steps of the Grand Mosque. He had slowly been acquiring a following, and with it, influence. His coded preaching had stepped just the right side of legality for the reforming government, and, though he did not know it, he had, in Tufts Q. Seabright III, a man prepared and able to exert influence on his behalf, while his own private sympathies, known only to his few close intimates, insured that he had begun to win himself friends in Qusai’s quarter too, during this early phase of the political struggle.

To those in the know Qatakistan had begun to take on the hallmarks of the curiously repressive and, oxymoronically, permissive; the dread hand of the state had, under the new monarch’s auspices, let the reins of repressive governance go, ever so slightly, slack, though the broad mass of the populace had, as yet, to fully appreciate this.

In this environment Abdul Mubdee would come to fatally conflate the Olympic bid, with all its baggage of Western immorality, and dark insinuations of a clique of, to his mind, homosexualists, behind it all – suffice to say, the homosexualists of Abdul Mubdee’s dark insinuations had about them the visage of the Semite – with the death of Muhammad Pachachi. These suspicions, when Abdul Mubdee felt finally able to break cover and publicly proclaim them, would find ready and willing accord from the peoples, belief in such a conspiracy was all too prevalent in most of the Emirate’s major social groups, a member of the Shiite social elite would find his Slav prostitute all too willing to laugh at his jokes about such bogeymen in the broken English they shared.

“Brothers, sisters, all members of the Ummah, these are exciting times for Qatakistan, for all Islam! We have it within ourselves, under the beneficence of The Prophet, peace be upon him, to make of our society and lot a thing far better than any previous generation could, or was able to!” A wave of cheers emanated from Martyr’s Square echoing off the modernist central station opposite. “After the death of our brother Mohammad Pachachi, we wept, we felt as The Prophet did during the Year of Sorrow, for if no protection was afforded brother Pachachi, then how can we believe any protection is afforded us!?!” Abdul Mubdee warmed to his theme. “We are as bare and oppressed as The Prophet was, we cannot find peace and security, while those who were behind the death of Pachachi are allowed to get away with their reprehensible crime, while they benefit from their crime, from their indolence, and we slave away, no better than dogs for the benefit of the regime and its friends in the IOC!!!!!”

Here Abdul Mubdee lapsed into what might be fashionably termed hate speech, or, rather, he articulated, euphemistically, unwelcome perspectives. The first of his truly incendiary preachings was currently being broadcast on France 24, and was, in fact, on the TV screen of President René Hulot’s office in the Élysée. The absence of real time translation, however, and the impending revolution in Qatakistan’s being depicted as a morality play for western susceptibilities, given cognitive bias, somewhat precluded its being understood, even if such a translation had been available.

Qatakistan was not, any way, at the top of the embattled President’s mind. No, jostling for primacy were issues pertaining to his tumultuous personal life, of all the recent presidents of the fifth republic he made all other’s personal travails seem but trifling exercises in staid respectability, and the very real fear that his term as president would be singular, in terms of term, if you will. Consequently, gathered around him were his senior advisors, indeed the room teemed with Enarqués. Relations with his prime minister had become strained; well, how could one tolerably corral French socialists?

President Hulot had long since reached the point at which the polling numbers became depressing, his efforts to resuscitate the economy had failed; he had proven, if anything, even more of a disappointment than his predecessor.

“René, the situation is not, immediately, desperate, you still have three years, and it’s not inconceivable that the global, and with it local, economy could recover, in the mean time, you need to stop being buffeted, you need to stay the course at home…”

The president drifted…Home…Home…He thought of his impossibly fragrant partner Clemency, of their ennui and affairs, and how, citing pressures of work, he would spend evenings with his more favoured female ministers, and, occasionally, enjoy the favours of Genevieve Salvage, his spirited foreign affairs adviser.

“Claude, I cannot concentrate on this any longer, week in, week out, you come to me with the same dismaying numbers, well, we know to govern is to choose, and, right now, I choose to end this meeting, nice as it is to know, psephologically, how hated I am.” President Hulot turned to his secretary. “What’s next?”

“You have a meeting before lunch with Mademoiselle Salvage.”

The president’s spirits lifted marginally.

“Au revoir, Claude; send in Genevieve.”

Presently Genevieve strode into the presidential office and, waiting until they were alone, greeted the president.

“René.” She smiled.

“Genevieve’, René beamed, moving toward her.

“Ah, I see you’ve been keeping an eye on the situation in Qatakistan.”

Momentarily nonplussed, René soon recovered his poise, and, summoning up all that passed for his presidential dignity, stated: “Of course!”

“Good.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Generally speaking I think we should, given our history with the Emirate, your own foreign policy priorities and the impending Anglo-French summit.”

Slowly certain things began to fall into place in the president’s mind…Perhaps, he deviously intuited, in Qatakistan he had what was needed to distract the public from his domestic travails…? Subconsciously he began preparing himself for the opportunities presented to him by Qatakistan.

“Genevieve, tell me more about the summit, how would it be best to ensure the advancement of our priorities, what are the British priorities?”

Genevieve was slightly perplexed, in all the time she had known the president she had never known him so ardent, in policy at least, if in other more earthier things it was to be expected, and so, unusually, she actually began to brief him.

Using the good offices of Logan Tremain Jacintha had been able to get a meeting with Jamie Field for herself and Sam Kent, they duly found themselves shown into his office on the thirtieth floor. Jacintha was, understandably, rather nervous, she had never blackmailed anyone before, to say nothing of encountering the kind of man that would enjoy such debaucheries; she was, consequently, a mixture of trepidation, resolve, and pity, for she took no joy in what she was about to do. Given what Jamie assumed to be the informality of the meeting, with both sides having an eye to their mutual interest, he had, fatally, dispensed with the usual public relations hangers-on that so often crowd in on such encounters.

Jacintha needn’t have feared, however, Sam would not be able to help himself from giving free rein to the reprehensible side to his largely, it must be said, reprehensible character.

“Mr. Field, I can’t help but raise another matter,’ he said jumping in as Jamie and Jacintha exchanged platitudes about their respective institutions’ commitment to helping the benighted, ‘certain, information, has come to our attention.” Sam smiled in his accustomedly smug way.

Jamie, who had become increasingly irked by Sam Kent’s smugly superior, holier than thou manner, was perplexed by this interjection.

“To avoid any risk of anyone misinterpreting what we mean, we have possession of pictures’, and here Sam truly savoured his torment of the masochistic banker, ‘of a compromising nature, of you, and Miss Sangrail, I believe she’s called…”

Jamie’s heart jumped to his throat.

Sam continued talking: “Don’t worry; actually, I mean, do worry; but we have certain proposals to put to I N Securities, and how aptly named, might I say, and given the strangeness of the situation; to us, as well as you; we’ll understand if you take a few days to consider your amenability to our proposals; I mean, how often is one blackmailed within the confines of one’s own office? I’m sure, however, that a man of your reputation’, Sam sardonically smiled again, ‘will come to a rational decision, or at least Miss Sangrail will help you to, as she seems to with so many things…”

“Sam, I think we should be on our way now.” Jacintha pathetically interjected.

“Yes, we’ll give you time to adjust, take a few days, we’ll be in touch.”

Fittingly, as with President Hulot, Jamie’s last meeting before lunch was, of course, his assignation with his mistress; though admittedly, when using that term in the context of Jamie Field one finds it takes on an altogether psychosexually darker charge.

Diamanda entered the room.

“Diamanda, they know!!!”

“Who is this?” she asked, smirkingly.

“They know! Charity! Two people! A man, and a woman!” Jamie was currently experiencing an anxiety attack.

“Know what?”

“Pictures, of a compromising nature, you, me!!!”

“Well, what do they want?” Diamanda couldn’t say she was thrilled at the prospect of her private life spilled across the pages of the tabloid press, though she was less terrified at the prospect than Jamie was.

“They, ah, they didn’t say, but they’ll be in touch.”

“Who?”

“The Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal.”

Diamanda decided she would calm Jamie, after all, him obsessing in his office all afternoon over God knew what would probably have injurious consequences, look what it had done to Saul. Consequently, she struck him, forcefully, and then pushed him to the floor. This calmed him somewhat.

“Right, slave, you are not to move until I return! I am going to speak to them!”

Diamanda left Jamie on the floor, returning to her office she picked up her phone and asked to speak to the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal finding them yet to return she asked that they return her call when convenient. Diamanda took the opportunity to do some research, finding out more about the charity, and those associated with it. Her phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Miss Sangrail, I’m Sam Kent, HIT.”

“Yes, ah, Sam, I’m following up after your meeting with Jamie, I N are very interested as to hearing about your proposals, and are keen to establish a relationship of trust, in both directions, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Diamanda, may I call you Diamanda?, I’m so glad to hear that.”

“Only if I can call you Sam?”

“Of course.”

“Now, Sam…Exactly which proposals do you have, it’s always better to have a few simple ones and keep to them, mission creep, as I’m sure you’re aware, and how do you envisage I N facilitating them?” Diamanda stated icily.

“You’re direct, Diamanda, I like that, I think we can work well together. Simply, I feel, given our expertise, that we at HIT can be of inestimable advantage to you, we’re familiar with the subject matter; Jacintha, who met Jamie, is our go to girl for Qataki affairs, we know about your interest in the country, the issue; but we have concerns that the level of aid envisaged is too low…That and we feel a joint approach on Qatakistan, us, you, Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates, is really the way ahead for all of us…”

“I think you’re making a lot of sense, Sam. I will say this, and we are, most definitely happy to have you aboard, there are issues of timing, which impact on cost.”

“HIT will leave the numbers to you, Diamanda, but surely 6-7 planes, ferrying aid to Qatakistan isn’t beyond the realms of possibility?”

“We will do as you suggest, what about your people, what number do you think will be able and willing to join us?”

“Diamanda, I’m sure we can provide a dozen, including Jacintha and myself, of course.”

“Ready to leave next week?”

“Make the arrangements and we’ll be there when needed, being there is what HIT does, Diamanda.” Sam averred sanctimoniously.

“OK, Sam; I gotta say, this has been a very productive exchange, and I and Jamie look forward to working with you.”

“I’m sure; I hope Jamie isn’t too tied up right now…”

“Anyway, we’ll be in touch, and I look forward to further discussions in person in the future, Sam. Goodbye.”

Diamanda returned to Jamie to inform him of what had been extracted from the bank, and that, perhaps, what was happening was nowhere near as bad as it seemed. She found him calmer than when she had first seen him earlier that afternoon, and soothed him even more whilst she related the content of Sam Kent’s demands.

Boris Kropotkin was quite certain what the foreign ministry wanted him to do. Boris had been, historically, lucky, to an extent. He had been born in 1969, had managed to enter the foreign service just as the Soviet Union collapsed, he was the very, very last of the old guard, his mentors had recollections running back to the Cuban missile crisis and beyond, while he himself had navigated the choppy waters of post-Soviet economic collapse, that now forgotten era when dreams of democracy had not quite yet been destroyed by unleashed, uncontrolled, untrammeled hyper capitalism, and now?, he was dedicated to bolstering the near neo-Stalinist regime, which had at least provided a modicum of that stability that so eluded Russia in the early 90s.

So ran Boris’s ruminations as his government car swept into Qusai’s compound. Boris would be greeted with all the accustomed salutations leveled at a friend of long-standing, of whom even more might, materially, be hoped from in the future.

What did Boris, personally, think of Qusai? Difficult to say. Or so those who knew Boris would say. Boris had, however, accepted his role as a functionnaire, a servant, he did as he was told. He couldn’t complain too much about his posting to Ast’Qana, he had a role as a superintendant of Russia’s power relations in the region, the climate was preferable to home in winter, his wife was happy, anything else risked asking too much.

Boris was shown into an arabesque courtyard and the presence of Qusai, attended by a couple of flunkies, hangers-on, and one or two of the few sensible men in his retinue; Boris suspected that if the regime were to change they wouldn’t last long.

“Boris, it is good to see you.” Qusai beamed.

“Likewise, Qusai, likewise.” Boris smiled wanly, preparing himself for the role his government had suggested he take, informant to the likely next government as to the doings of the present government, as well as maker of promises concerning future support.

“So, Boris, what is my brother up to?”

“Well, our understanding is that he is trying to gain favour with the Americans, hence the amnesty, hence the’, and here he used a dirty term in modern Russian diplomacy, ‘liberalism’, even if it was only liberalism in a Qataki context, ‘hence the toleration of Abdul Mubdee. This is our take on the politics. As to more practical matters, you are aware of our recent provision of internal security equipment to the Qataki government, well it will be some time before sufficient troops are trained in their use, while I personally am aware of a great deal of disaffection within the security services, they do not like what Abbas is doing, they find themselves alternating between support for yourself, which, of course, my government shares, hence my presence, and support for Abdul Mubdee, his increasingly less coded attacks on the Olympic bid are swaying certain elements of the populace.”

Qusai listened intensely, which was often the sign for a psychotic outburst, he did not disappoint. During the course of Boris’s brief report Qusai had begun staring intently at the floor and massaging his temples, having gone very quiet, he reached for a gun, he often had several within close proximity, he often had need of them.

“Abdul Mubdee is nothing!!! Nothing!!! We know, I know the people love me!!! He is the expression of their dissatisfaction with my brother; support for him is coded support for me!!! Abbas does not understand Qatakistan, how could he, a paediatrician!?! Oh, help me, help me, my foot is sore!!! What is that!?! It is not the work of a man, of a warrior!!! And he spies on me, you know!?! He has spies everywhere!!! Him’, Qusai gestured to a previously harmless member of his retinue, ‘he is one of Abbas’s spies!!!” Qusai immediately let out a burst of sustained gunfire, the sound echoed painfully around the courtyard, along with the man’s yells; while sudden death as the result of one of Qusai’s irrational outbursts was a very real possibility in their working lives, his retinue also had concerns about the deterioration in their hearing given their boss’s love of firearms, and penchant for using them in enclosed spaces. Eventually, as their hearing recovered Qusai spoke: “Take him out of my sight, I do not wish to see the traitors who plague me, Qusai is above such things, he thinks only of the honour and glory of Qatakistan.”

Boris anticipated the likely form of the afternoon, he would exchange gossip with Qusai, much alcohol would, contrary to the tenets of the deranged aspirant Emir of Qatakistan’s faith, be imbibed, Boris would present a few of the Russian girls from the expat community who, of loose morals, could be relied upon to lubricate Russo-Qataki relations, along with much else, and, increasingly compromised of liver he would return to the embassy to compose an account of the essentials. Thus was Russian diplomacy conducted in Qatakistan, in what contrast to the work and efforts of Tufts Q. Seabright III.

Tufts was finding his role as the presiding spirit of nascent Qataki democracy congenial, he saw himself, in addition to the T.E. Lawrence of Qatakistan, as its Ben Franklin too, for the spirit of 1776 was loose and abroad throughout the land. Outreach, was, during this beneficent, liberal phase, Tufts’ watchword. That day found Tufts’ chairing a conference with his head of station and associated visitors from Washington.

“Ambassador, can we say how tremendously excited we are by developments in Qatakistan, it’s, it’s a liberal flourishing; I mean, after Egypt, we were worried we’d get burned, again, but, here, it feels different...”

“I think, what Brett’s trying to say, Ambassador Seabright, is, what’s different here, what’s the secret?”

Tufts increasingly bought into the logic, of secrets, of formulae capable of ready re-creation, he spoke: “Qatakistan, has its historical traditions, in common with the wider region, I don’t think, from what I’ve seen, it differs markedly from Egypt, Syria, anywhere else.” he pompously opined. “I have also found, for my part, that the quality of our relations with the new monarchy’, and here Tufts not so subtly burnished his credentials as the man who had possessed the foresight to engage with those personalities thrown up under the new dispensation, even if, essentially, many of them had been tribunes of the old, ‘have been key, I mean, were it not for the influence we exert we could never have ensured the freedom of many of the political prisoners that have been released under the new Emir’s amnesty.”

Among those present was Tufts’ station chief, a choleric, ornery old hand wizened by years of engagement in America’s secrets across the region. Colby Tenet, a man, who, by his nature, was like to harbor suspicions, was, consequently, not the greatest of fans of recent events in the Emirate, but, possessing a fair political antenna, he had kept his concerns to himself, and seeing which way the wind was blowing - the bureaucracies did not wish to contemplate the likely, to him at least, outcome of the impending dissolution of the Qataki royal house - he had decided to remain resolutely in communion with Tufts, publicly at least. Though even a spook of his calibre’s body language could, on occasion, betray him.

“Colby, you seem less than convinced.” An under-secretary stated.

“Me? No, no…I mean, it’s my job to be a little suspicious.” He said laughingly.

A peal of general laughter went around the room, Tufts, ebullient, buoyed by his recent successes, the notice of Washington, was among those leading it.

“Colby is, of course, right to.” He fatuously averred.

And so the American diplomatic establishment arrived at its settled opinion on Qatakistan, pleased that in the Emirate and Tufts Q. Seabright III it had one or two bright stars in an otherwise tumultuous and indeed depressing region for the advancement of American ideals and values.  

  Across town in the security ministry, however, an altogether less convivial meeting was taking place. Muhammad Bin-Tabir, now, effectively, the one man repository of continuity in Qataki politics between the old monarchy and the new, was contemplating the security situation in the Emirate. Daily the crowds in Martyr’s Square seemed to grow, there were signs of petty revolt on the part of youth which seemed pregnant with the possibility of altogether more sinister and threatening manifestations, and all that would require would be a single miscalculation, on the part of authorities, of himself, or of the crowds. Muhammad, contrary to his excess of zeal in defence of his business interests which had cost the life of Mohammad Pachachi, now welcomed the reining in of the state’s more kinetic security operations, even if only for a bit, for to be too provocative risked a reaction borne of desperation, the consequences of which he greatly, gravely feared. However, commensurate with this rational strain of thought was the other, that if things went on as they were for much longer, if this uneasy stasis were allowed to continue Abbas risked inviting a challenge to his authority, and most likely from his brother Qusai, but also, or so he increasingly suspected, from Abdul Mubdee, representing the resentments of the man in the street, a desperate people’s placing of their faith in demagoguery was not unknown…

He contemplated the latest batch of intelligence reports, distinctly unflattering graffiti had been found across the souks, it was estimated that 500,000 had turned out to see Abdul Mubdee the night before last, everywhere people spoke with hatred and contempt for the Olympic bid, and, perhaps most disturbingly, Qusai had had a further meeting with Kropotkin…Muhammad, had, however, been further disturbed by an incident in which he had overheard someone within his own ministry voice opinions that could be open to a pro-Qusai interpretation…If the intelligence and security ministry itself could no longer be relied upon as a rugged bastion of the Royal House’s defence then what hope for order, what hope for Qatakistan?

“We’re quite sure that we will be ready to deploy the new Russian equipment by the end of the month, we shall have 5,000 men trained in its use, of course, if it comes to a trial of strength, I’d far rather it were a crowd of a smaller size…”

“Yes, because if 500,000 people felt sufficiently strongly for long enough, well, let’s say I would severely slash the odds on our living to enjoy our retirement…”

The meeting had about it rather a doleful air, in contrast to the vivid avuncularity and jocundity of that being chaired by Tufts, or one enlivened by one of Qusai’s psychotic outburst, say. So without enthusiasm Muhammad finished presiding over the security and intelligence committee’s contingency planning meeting, a meeting the conclusions of which were rather fatalistic, ultimately it came down to a hope that the crowds would lessen of their own accord, happy at the general drift and pace of reform, but, overhanging this there was the general suspicion that this would not prove so. As so often Muhammad Bin-Tabir’s pessimism would prove all too apt, though for now all he could do was wait and see quite how apt he would be.

“So, Steve, we’re agreed? An MI6 operative will approach the two senior figures at I N?

Visions of cloak and dagger legerdemain flashed before Steve’s eyes, of a brave British intelligence operative, of a swarthier complexion, or different set of chromosomes, doing their best to save the people of Qatakistan.

“Of course, prime minister. It’s what Plan Grouse needs, it’s what Qatakistan needs.”

“We needn’t worry; the chairman of the JIC has approved the plan, the NSC will nod this through, after all, the coalition has agreed on it.” And the aid component would be public, and uncontroversial.

Steve nodded sagely, the duumvirate had decided, their key subordinates had acceded to the prime ministerial and deputy prime ministerial settled will, all would be well.

Both prime minister and his deputy would, however, be somewhat more alarmed had they been cognisant of the tool chosen by the intelligence bureaucracy to advance its will. The chairman of the JIC had impressed the importance of finding someone ideologically sympathetic to the general thrust of the enterprise, much was to be made of the need to support the rebels, depicted, or imagined as being uniformly decent crypto-democrats, subsequently the assignment fell into the lap of MI6’s Chris Swayne, a man veering toward the less competent end of the spectrum.

Swayne had familiarised himself with the materials, the outré sexual practices of his intended targets, how best he might leverage the material, the intended results of the black op. He finished his whiskey and made his way for his rendezvous with Miss B and Mr. F.

Later had evening Diamanda and Jamie reached the peroration of another psychosexually intense sado-masochism session, the detritus of which lay around the well decorated room, when a hitherto unknown man entered the room, to the alarm of a gagged and handcuffed Jamie, who was, on one level, reassured by the similar reaction to this intrusion of Diamanda, while, on another, was even more alarmed. Diamanda was like to spring surprises, and, while he was aware that rape fantasies, or cuckold sessions were things that some people did, she had never expressed any interest in those, or at least never more than jokingly.

“Diamanda, Jamie, don’t mind me…I’m here to give you something you need…” He leered at the couple. “I’m here to give you some advice, from an interested party…”

Diamanda expressed non verbal annoyance at the interruption and went to sit lewdly in an armchair across the room, her legs and arms splayed as she threw herself down. Jamie lay immobile; it was too painful to crane his neck.

“What now!?” Diamanda petulantly demanded.

“I represent certain - How shall we say? - interested parties in your enterprise, specifically…”

“Qatakistan!?” Diamanda asked challengingly.

“Yes…”

“Well, stand in line.”

“I don’t think…”

“Look, if it’s more aid you want…”

“In a manner of speaking…” The intruder’s arch manner caught Diamanda’s attention.

“Well, go on, but cut the circumlocutory bullshit!”

“OK, how does I N Securities feel about helping arm the nascent rebels in Qatakistan?”

“…I sense our attempt to rehabilitate our reputation just got significantly more expensive…”

Jamie groaned in agreement, being presently unable to talk.

The intruder, Chris Swayne, began to regale a sardonically attentive Diamanda Sangrail and a prostrate Jamie Field with his proposal. I N Securities’ PR campaign would no longer be just a showcase for post-crash banking PR, with the admixture of the co-operation of private enterprise with aid organizations, but would also serve as cover for a massive arms shipment for the British government’s proxies in the conflict, or so, at this stage, it was hoped. The thinking, for that was the term with which the British government officially, labeled it, was that it would be much easier to ship such equipment in plain sight; this would, of course, require collusion between the bank and the intelligence services.

“So you expect us to siphon off funds, and pay for four off the books aircraft to ferry medium and light arms to an as yet to be determined airfield somewhere in the Qataki desert?” Diamanda asked.

Jamie groaned again.

“Is he, is he OK?” Swayne gestured at the gagged, handcuffed figure. “I mean, I’ve worked with the Americans, in the Middle East, the restraint seems rather excessive.”

“Oh, him? He loves it.” Diamanda gently swatted a whip she had been dandling against her thighs.

“That’s the gist. We can’t supply the funds, but, we can make promises as to I N Securities’ tax efficiency remaining uninvestigated by certain organs of the British government…”

“So, you’re the intelligence service? Or what passes for it.”

Swayne remained silent.  

“I don’t suppose we have any choice, given that you know…’ and here Diamanda looked at Jamie, yet another thing for that neurotic to worry about.

“I’m glad you’ve proven so amenable.”

“One thing…’, and here Diamanda’s soulful blue eyes glinted.

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you could help us out? I mean, Jamie is quite…unsatisfactory…If you know what I mean? I’m a woman, and I need something he seems incapable of providing…” Diamanda stared intensely into Swayne’s eyes.

Swayne thought for a second, he had no strong moral objections, and Diamanda was undoubtedly attractive. He determined to play the role their collective unconscious had chosen to assign him.

The next day Sir Paul Fennel was having lunch with Sir Victor ahead of the British Business Symposium. They dined at the former’s club, The Equality, the fact of five star food and service beyond the means of those, largely immigrants, who would serve them conveniently bothered neither; after all, they were in favour of letting them in, they weren’t monsters. Sir Paul chose sea bass on a bed of steamed vegetables and accompanied by new potatoes, Sir Victor quail with a honey mustard dressing and equivalent accompaniment.

“So, Victor’, as the former allowed Sir Paul to democratically call him, ‘I think tonight’s symposium is a perfect opportunity to pre-announce the finished campaign. I’d never considered the HIT angle, but, after Jamie, Diamanda, Logan , and Jessica, brought it to me, I increasingly found myself loving the idea! Admittedly, I had to finesse it, somewhat, but it’s all of a piece with the original intention…” Sir Paul proceeded to masticate a mouthful of the fleshy fish, some juice dribbling down his chin.

“Pre-announce…? …What do you think I should say?”

Sir Paul finished chewing, dabbed his chin with the napkin, smiled and said: “Well, Victor, that’s why you employ us…And, I’ve a few suggestions, phrasings, that we might consider using; though admittedly nothing that doesn’t sound as if it might naturally be said by you; I’m a great believer in working with the grain of the individual, working with sincerity, which nothing else succeeds like, what?”

“Oh, indeed!” and the two proceeded to conspire.

That evening, the prime minister and his deputy were keen to buttonhole Sir Victor at the business symposium. Having uttered worthy platitudes about the role of British business in the recovery - at one point the prime ministerial mind even wandered, though only internally, about what a boost for the defence industry a successful resolution of the Qatakistan problem might be – they vacated the stage and keenly sought out their prey, determined upon, subtly, indeed so subtly that he was left only vaguely aware as to what it was they wanted exactly, into the signs and wonders of Plan Grouse and MI6’s involvement. Sir Victor was left rather perplexed by this, gratified at his recognition from the prime minister and deputy, though he was left more with the impression that they were hitting him up for further funding, for like any good bank, I N Securities funded all the major parties, than that his bank was being, indeed had been, inveigled into backing a deeply illegal wheeze to ship arms to the combatants in a putative Middle Eastern civil war, but so it goes.

“Sir Victor, Steve and I…The government, is really so, so grateful, that you’re so amenable; I mean, what was it you said?, with people like Jamie Field and Diamanda you didn’t think I N’s co-operation would be possible? I quite agree.” Back-slapping broke out all round. Steve smiled in his accustomed manner, inanely.

“I N is only too happy to help.”

It was subsequently that Sir Victor made an impromptu speech that would have fateful legal consequences for him. Being, fundamentally a decent sort, bumptious in his way, slightly canny, but no Machiaval, in short smart enough for people to believe that certain things might be true, but not bright enough for them to in fact be so, he made an extempore speech that was a pregnant hostage to fortune.

The well-spring-watered tribunes of British business clamoured for platitudes, and, as a man for whom they were his stock in trade how could Sir Victor refuse them?

“Gentlemen, Ladies’, Sir Victor gestured gallantly to the few of the latter among the corporatist captains, ‘we know that the recovery, from the economic shambles, for that is the word, relies on the efforts of British business! As a senior tribune of the finance industry, we at I N Securities, feel keenly our responsibility, our duty to the nation, but also how we can best serve them by, in turn, serving new markets’, prior to his arrival that evening Sir Paul Fennel had advised Sir Victor that the British Business Symposium marked a perfect opportunity to launch, unofficially, I N Securities’ relaunch, ‘and new markets in new ways, in a changing, more interconnected, more globalised world’, here Sir Victor’s speech bore the infection of the declamatory manner of the former prime minister who had called for an Anglo-American invasion, akin to a sealed train containing the botulism of communism in the form of windy, vacant rhetoric, ‘I N are leading, we are showing the way…’, Sir Victor went quiet for a moment, prime minister and deputy flanked him, the spotlight bore down on them, ‘I N is pleased to announce that it, personally’, for why shouldn’t a corporation take on the characteristics of an individual, however sociopathic and dysfunctional they might be?, ‘is underwriting’, some wags murmured about its decision to join the insurance firms in the shadow banking system, ‘ten A380s laden with aid for the benighted, oppressed’, for that was the key operative word, before which all critical discourse bowed and faculties were silenced, less those who possessed them wished to incur that dread label: callous, ‘people’, again, singular, for that was the popular shorthand, ‘of Qatakistan!”

Whooping and hollering was unconfined, for which of the tribunes of British business, guests as they were of the political class in one of their centres of power could contradict the general sentiment? A more churlish, indeed jaundiced eye might have alighted upon the visage of the deputy prime minister, a look of pure, unadulterated, childlike joy across his face, or the prime minister, guffawing in his way, they exchanged glances, sure of their policy, trusting in their methods, the NSC had passed its bland judgements on British policy, the bank had been inveigled, they had, or so they thought expertly deployed their chess pieces on the board of geopolitics, Sir Victor, one of the public faces of I N Securities had played his part beautifully, it was all over, aid would be bestowed, it would decisively tip the balance in favour of the rebels who would ally with the reformist elements, the reactionaries would be driven from their positions of influence, this time next year the PM, in advance of an election campaign, would be present at Ast’Qana’s most prestigious gay wedding, arranged via the good offices of his extended and influential social network; Steve would try and do the same, but having less clout and reach, despite his nauseating banal affability, wouldn’t be able to swing it, the rumbles of car bombs and the low level insurgency in the north would be conveniently ignored by the prime ministers boosters in the press. Or so they thought.

  VI

“I’ve been, like thinking, Adeel; can I call you Adeel? Well, Adeel, I’ve been, like, as I said, thinking, and I feel, I really want to see Qatakistan for myself.”

“Miss Hayek, it just so happens that we have a delegation departing for home this week, purely for consultation, but it would give you the opportunity to better familiarise yourself with our people and our plight.”

“That’s, like, AWESOME!” Angelica’s face was awash with excitement, the smile that had inanely adorned the publicity material for a slew of underperforming film franchises beamed out at the dour Qataki, she had started using again, and he suspected as much, but, she was useful.

“Might I say what a joy, truly, indeed, a gift from Allah, it is that you should have so chosen to adopt our cause, Miss Hayek.”

“Oh, like, totally, I mean, this, is good for me; I mean, like, spiritually…”

“Oh, I’m sure. We’ll draw up an itinerary for you; you won’t be able to get a direct flight, but we might consider routing you through another media centre, so as to raise awareness, London would probably be a good choice for that. Once there, maybe for a day or two, so as to stagger such a demanding journey, you’ll fly to Ast’Qana, where you will be greeted by senior officials and shown the human cost of the burgeoning crisis back home.”

Angelica felt that repetition would best serve as a response to Adeel’s ruthless practicality and proceeded to say: “AWESOME!!!” even louder than before.

That same day, on the east coast the tall, wiry, hollow visage form of Archer Strachan was melancholically contemplating the romantic possibilities of Jacintha Cresswell, which, in turn, gave way to a renewed bout of sullen resentment at O’Brien, fascist tribune of the security-intelligence complex. Archer pined for his ideal and a life where they could be free of the industrial production and analysis of intelligence product, where men such as O’Brien and those they supported who would violate the spirit of the constitution would be cast out and the world would be at peace. Archer perused the product that he had spirited away from Fort Mead, determining which nugget he would release next.

The Merlin helicopters carrying the British delegation to the Anglo-French summit buffeted their way through the leaden, overcast sky of the channel. In one the prime minister, defence secretary and Admiral Conroy, the chief of the defence staff, in the other the deputy prime minister and foreign minister, along with the vice chief of the defence staff, Air Marshal Wisty, and Sir Finbar McLuhan of the foreign office. Their destination was HMS Lion, the Royal Navy’s sole amphibious assault ship, currently harboured at Dunkirk and the location for the summit. Dunkirk, it must be averred, was chosen not for its more contentious place in Anglo-French history, but for its role as the chosen locale for Anglo-French post-war co-operation, for a mutual defence pact had been signed there in 1947. There existed somewhere within the machinery of British government some modicum of a spasm of historical memory.

Naturally, the delegation’s manner of arrival had been chosen to maximize the possibility of flattering photography. The helicopters swooped gracefully down on to the flight deck, where a boarding party greeted the arrivals with all due ceremony, the French president and his delegation would arrive to an equivalent greeting about five minutes later.

The delegations exchanged respective pleasantries with each other, or at least seemed to, there was much smiling, verbiage being blanketed by the noise of helicopters powering down. They proceeded to walk to one of the vessel’s aircraft lifts which took them down into its hanger, where arrayed around them stood the equipment, in various states of disrepair, of a decaying defence establishment, it would not do to dwell on how little the equipment aboard the ship had been exercised these past few months. Beyond this they proceeded to leave the cavernous space of the hanger, and, making their way through a warren of functional corridors, found themselves in the ship’s stateroom, a room adorned with two portraits, one of Her Majesty, The Queen, the other of Admiral Beatty.

The delegations took their seats around the table, exchanging generally understood and heard pleasantries as they did so.

“Might I begin, as the host of this summit, in welcoming President Hulot, or René, as his friends in Britain call him, to this sovereign piece of British territory; additionally, I also wish to welcome the rest of his delegation and hope you will enjoy the informal component of the summit later on.”

At this point, the deputy prime minister, here on the prime minister’s sufferance owing to the dictates of coalition politics, piped in: “Yes, it’s truly an honour to see our dear friend in the Élysée, René, and the rest of his delegation.”

“I gratefully and graciously accept your invitation and thank you for it. It is nice to be among friends, true partners, true equals.” Here a minor chill ran through the room, the oppressive reality of German wealth was felt throughout the room, perhaps most keenly by the French.

  “Now, as we see it, there are two central matters to discuss at this summit, Qatakistan, and mutual defence co-operation, some of which has already started, with other possibilities along those lines to be considered. I favour a frank exchange of views, René, so I’ll let the foreign secretary discuss Qatakistan, the defence secretary the other matter.” All this was, of course, the prelude to the less formal and ultimately more vital discussions after lunch. The delegations behaved, however, and played their roles convincingly in the more public element of the discussions; for demanding inculcation, and being inculcated, in the ways of Plan Grouse would have to wait till later on, and would come about as a result of Steve’s Europhilia.

Lunch would, ironically, include that aforementioned bird - which the prime minister found rather amusing - as well as, in the interests of diplomatic harmony, a choice selection of French wines.

The prime minister, with the rest of the party having finished their lunch, found himself with President Hulot, having had fruitful discussions about mutual defence co-operation President Hulot was determined upon discussing Qatakistan, a subject about which, and courtesy of Genevieve Salvage, he was quite knowledgeable now.

“Well, we have, the shared history, do we not? The cohabitation, if you will?”

“Of course, but we have certain problems, the Security Council, Russia, China…It’s a shame…”

At this point the deputy prime minister, that cock-eyed naïf, made a fateful intervention, whispering he said: “Well, it’s a good job we’re doing something about it…Grouse will go to Qatakistan.”

The French president looked, momentarily, puzzled.

“We’re doing something about it.” Steve repeated.

The prime minister, for his part, had wished not to involve the French, but, with Steve’s irrational exuberance and mania for all things European he should have anticipated an event such as this.

“René, what Steve means to say is that we’ve been making preparations to funnel aid to the likely rebels, its hush hush, but, we also feel it could do with a French component.”

The president looked slightly startled, he took some seconds to respond.

“France admires this commitment to humanist values, it accords with the revolution, how can we help; I mean, we’re not doing too well in the polls either, n’est-ce pas?”

The prime minister doubly winced, the French revolution and an accurate portrayal of their shared popularity.

“Well, we might, conceivably, send a joint naval task force to the gulf…? Say two, three ships a piece, led by us, of course?”

“That sounds excellent.” Steve exclaimed excitedly.

And so, having no choice the prime minister found himself bounced into sending an Anglo-French squadron east of Suez, though, more accurately, round the cape, western naval forces steaming through that canal was too provocative a step to take for either government in the current environment.

One of the suggestions advanced, and agreed at the conference, was that there should be an exchange of British and French sailors aboard surface vessels, consequently the precise arrangements of this would be decided by the respective sides’ militaries. Admiral Conroy was, at just that moment, meeting with his opposite number a General Joubert to discuss this.

“Well, mon general, perhaps we should start with an exchange of ordinance specialists, say one, or perhaps two, men per team?”

“Admiral, this seems an, ‘ow you say?, eminently rational first step. Might we also consider joint training teams, say one in each country, regular exchanges?”

And so, interminably to those of us who are not among the most technically minded, the burgeoning Anglo-French rapprochement worked itself out, and the, few, vessels assigned to the post conference joint naval exercise, which had lingered on the horizon off Dunkirk as the conference worked itself out, in the parlance steamed to the centre of the North Sea, where desultory anti-submarine exercises would take place, the price of peace, training interminably for a conflict that would not come and which they would never fight.

“Tris, Placeman.”

“Yes?”

“It seems to be all go.”

“Qatakistan?”

“What else?!”

“What have you heard?” Sir Tristram bade the former EU foreign and trade commissioner.

“Sources, reliable; well, you know me and Brussels, Tris; are informing me that an Anglo-French squadron has been conducting exercises and will be steaming for the gulf.”

“But, Peter, this is excellent news, we can save them!”

“Come on, Tris, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s a step in the right direction, it’s leverage, if anything, with diplomatic pressure we can negotiate our way out of this.”

Sir Tristram was never fuller of admiration for Lord Placeman than he was at that moment. He was so full of admiration that he even forgot for a moment that Lord Placeman was a Tory, though this was, admittedly, not difficult to do.

“Peter thanks for keeping me informed, I’ll put the word about, as you can imagine, we’re all chomping at the bit.”

“Oh, I know, I was the same in Bosnia, or was it Serbia, one forgets, but it’s all the same. The point is, decent men, like the PM, the DPM, President Hulot’, and it was only the latter point that Sir Tristram would emphatically agree with, ‘will do their damnedest to do this sort of thing. Mark my words, Tris, I’m hearing things, other things, remarkable things, we’re already creating a new reality, a better reality, one more congenial for the aspirations, the legitimate aspirations of the Qataki people. You tell your boys and girls that!”

Sir Tristram’s eyes moistened, the thought of President Hulot, and, doubtless, his influence, on the coalition, moving them to do the right and decent thing, was emotive, moving, it was the kind of moral victory that made politics and being in the world worthwhile; he was even willing to give the deputy prime minister some modicum of the benefit of the doubt.

“I will, Peter, I will.” Chairman and DG both rang off.

Sir Tristram was relieved, and mightily; indeed, in a moment of rare excess, he decided to dine among the corporation’s employees that lunch time, for he had news to impart, and where better to do it than in the renovated canteen, perhaps followed by drinks after work at The Equality?

For now, however, he had to deal with an impending sex scandal, it seems one of the corporation’s name stars had been found to be engaging in dogging. Sir Tristram had found one of the less edifying aspects of his role to involve a weekly procession of more or less serious sexual offences, one week a newsreader having an affair, the next a predatory star of light entertainment, but, after the problems that had destroyed his predecessors he was taking no chances. Consequently, it may be said, there were voyeurs with eidetic memories less versed in the vagaries of human sexual compulsion than the present director general of the BBC, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to separate such knowledge and the deleterious effect it was having on his psyche from his domestic life.

In his Soho Square office Sir Paul Fennel was overseeing the installation of a new acquisition, he was of the impression the new piece was an oblique commentary on the Armenian genocide, which, naturally, had contemporary relevance. One of Sir Paul’s quirks was, at those moments when much rode on professional endeavour, and there was the addition of a personal, or desired personal involvement, the installation of something that bore on his preoccupations. A less kind critic would imagine that, in this instance, he had installed a muted daubing, with distinctly melancholic overtones, but it served its private purpose; indeed, he would dimly connect his interest in Diamanda Sangrail to it.

“Anyway, Logan, we’re good to go?”

“The materials have been completed to satisfaction, we’ve hired the necessary professionals, and I’ve even got the team from Whiteman to do the makeup.”

“Excellent, Logan, excellent. So, I guess I’ll see you at the airport?”

“Indeed.”

“It’ll be a jolly, Logan; me, Diamanda; you, Jessica, anyone else you wish to bring along, I’ll stick around for a few days, then probably leave for Dubai; by that stage it’ll just be mopping up, which you and Jessica can do.”

Sir Paul, unaware as he was, had inadvertently made Logan feel somewhat trepidatious, why did Jessica have to be there, after what happened?

“Paul, you don’t think that Jessica should really stay behind, to coordinate anything we might need from back here, if anything screws up; I mean, I think it would help to have someone intimately familiar’, which indeed she was, ‘with the project on hand?”

“No, no, Logan, she’s coming with us, we’ll need someone capable out there; I mean, I’ve never jetted into a humanitarian disaster area before; good job we’ve got these HIT people on hand, they know a thing or two.” Sir Paul blithely averred.

“OK.” Logan answered dejectedly.

“Logan, it’s all over bar the air miles, we go in, feed the starving, show our concern, get the requisite pictures, and go home for some R&R. You should hear the murmurings I’m getting at The Equality!”

Diamanda strode into Jamie’s office, though for purposes of work rather than recreation.

“Ah, Diamanda…” Jamie looked uncertain as to whether he had addressed her in the correct manner.

“You’d be surprised as to how easy it is to buy an arms shipment.” Diamanda asserted amusedly.

“Is this really the right place to be…?”

“Jamie, let’s be sensible, we’re between a rock and a hard place, and, OK, yes, we have the sanction of your government to ship arms to fuel a burgeoning conflict in the middle east, but, if that’s what makes them feel all warm and fuzzy inside, who am I to disagree?; while, if we’re caught there will doubtless be consequences, legal…personal…’, Jamie squirmed, ‘if we’re not we get some nice tax concessions, which’ll doubtless get screwed out of us by our new friend Mr. Kent, but, on the upside, and bearing in mind we’re all going on a colossal jolly, as you Brits have it, to a near war-zone, he could get killed.” Diamanda positively beamed.

“So…”

“So, I’m keeping you informed, because I will not be the legal casualty of this, if we get caught; if that happens, we all go down together. In short, we’ve funneled some funds through the Cayman Islands, exchanged promissory notes with, I assume, some Russians, and/or, Iranians, who will fly three plane loads of light to medium arms - frankly I don’t care whether the equipment proves substandard or not, but then I don’t have any dog in that fight – to the same airfield we’re flying to on the same day; I mean, if we’re really lucky, the documentary crew might get them in the same frame as us, and Sam, and Jacintha, which would be rather delicious, wouldn’t it?” Diamanda laughed bitterly.

Jamie, however, felt quite uncertain about all this, as he had every right to.

“Then, Diamanda, the next stage is…?”

“We do as Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates tells us, the media is the message, after all, and our chosen media for renovating our bank’s image, after the excesses of Saul, which, for my money, seem but a giddy delight in comparison to the grotesqueries we are going to perpetrate, seems to be a humanitarian disaster…But until recently I just ran foreign currency exchanges and was in charge of the bank’s finances, it was a banal whirl of Basel ratios and husbanding the share price, I’ve got to say, I’ve really taken to all this subterfuge, and to think if you hadn’t been what you are, and all that flowed from that hadn’t flowed, the fun I should have missed.”

Jamie was increasingly terrified by Diamanda’s idea of fun.

Angelica Hayek blinked out at the sparsely assembled media dotted around the conference room. Representatives of the yellow press, eager to see how the recently discharged addict was doing, melded with people best described as oddballs from the political fringes, fellow travellers of many a disapproved regime. Asrar sat grimly beside her. Flash photography deluged the panel with flare, Adeel blinking unaccustomedly, the developed prints lending to Asrar the expressionistic visage of Nosferatu.

“MISS HAYEK, WHAT DO YOU HOPE TO ACHIEVE BY GOING TO QATAKISTAN!?!”

“It’s, like, primarily…I think…A fact finding expedition…I, I don’t really know…” she replied in a slurred, disjointed fashion which the more uncharitable ascribed to drug use. They were correct.

Adeel stepped into the breach. “Miss Hayek hopes to see the triumph of the human spirit in spite of the tension that now affects Qatakistan; we are scheduled to arrive there within the next few days, where she will meet with eminent Qatakis as well as the rest of us prior to any further moves on her and our part.” By our Adeel meant the recently instituted External Qataki Response Campaign.

“How is Angelica dealing with her recent return to the limelight, following recent health problems?” another hack enquired euphemistically.

“I’m, I’m ok…OK! A! O! K!” Angelica replied while Asrar glared at her.  

While much of the focus of the world’s media, or at least of that part of it that had been covering Qatakistan, had been on the tumultuous events in the capital comparatively little interest had been taken in the refugee camps slowly cohering on Qatakistan’s southern border as a result of concerned subjects fleeing the increasingly strife torn capital.

To this benighted place many had made their way, and among them had been many of those freed under the recent amnesty, many of them irreconcilable to the new dispensation. The border camps were a veritable nest of Qusaiistes in exile, they did not like the previous regime, and they looked equally dimly upon the paediatrician with pretensions to govern them, while word of Abdul Mubdee’s inveighing against the Olympic bid and all that stood for found a favourable response in the camps. It was into this benighted country that the arms and aid of the British government and the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, underwritten by I N Securities, would flow, and here a child dawdled incongruously happily in the desert as a rag tag bunch of the dispossessed begged for succor.

Among the few medical staff attending to the needy was a burnt out Swede on the verge of a nervous breakdown, when not working twelve hours a day attending to them he would spend his time alternating between bouts of alcohol dependency and the fitful sleep of nervous exhaustion. Dr Emil Bock tore aside the tarpaulin opening to his tent only to be blinded by the harsh and pitiless sunlight, shielding his bleary, bloodshot eyes and standing slouchily he waited to adjust, his colleague, a younger man, walked past offering a cheery hi, Dr Bock murmured to himself as his sight turned to the hordes in the distance.

So far as he was aware the half dozen people he worked with were the international response to the camps, and in this summation he was, so far at least, right; this would, however, soon change and, all things considered, he would rather have wished it hadn’t.

Dr Bock was slowly preparing himself for the rigours of the day, the accustomed pain behind his eyes, when he became aware of the chopping sound of a helicopter in the distance; it became louder, a Chinook quickly descended into a dip in the desert just beyond the horizon. Dr Bock shrugged his shoulders and went about his day, fatalism ensured that; if they were friendly they would introduce themselves, if they were not nothing could be done.

The third option would not occur to Dr Bock until the helicopter left sometime later, with no presence having been officially announced, at least not to what passed for the camp’s official authorities. Much hubbub and excitement had been occasioned by the mysterious aircraft’s passengers, among the dispossessed and weary who formed the camp’s residents anyway.

A beaming Qusai stepped out of the helicopter, the beneficiary of a degree of collusion between disaffected elements of the security and intelligence services and his foreign backers, for the British government was not alone in its efforts to ‘stabilise’ the situation.

He was among friends, it had been determined, calculated that a visit to those disaffected with his brother and the establishment would do much to boost his own credentials and help tip Qatakistan further into a state of flux. It would also serve the purpose of cohering a force capable of acting against the government from those masses in the desert, for those freed by the amnesty and present would, or so ran the theory, correctly, form the core of Qusai’s force.

Qusai also wished to take the opportunity to send another message, he had insisted that a traitor, in fact a wholly innocent domestic servant, be brought along, for the purposes of communicating what traitors, and others, could expect to encounter in the brave new Qatakistan he would build, with their efforts and, naturally, his dazzling - at least in terms of its psychopathy, if nothing else - leadership.

The denizens of the camp crowded around him, his retinue were edgy, some had warned of possible assassination, Qusai , however, was consistent, he often regarded his own life with about as little value as that of anybody else’s.

“Brothers, sisters! I am here today, among you, to tell you of those who would fight for you, who wish to fight with you, for you. I also wish to aver to you my, our sense of justice, how we would deal with those traitors who for so long have sought to undermine Qatakistan!’ Here a heckler shouted something derogatory about the IOC. “I agree, I agree…This cur’, and Qusai bid his retinue bring the domestic servant before him, ‘has been found out as a traitor, and worse, a blasphemer!’ The mob began excitedly baying for blood.

Qusai gave the order, his retinue, one bear of a man known as Mudabbir in particular, began removing their shoes, while four of them held the man down, the others proceeded to beat the man to death with their shoes in front of the mob, his screams, initially piercing soon became more intermittent before nothing more could be heard from him.

The crowd lapsed into silence as it saw Qusai wished to speak.

“Brothers, sisters, let us inform our enemies there shall be no mercy, and that Qatakistan shall be delivered from those who would reduce it, and us…We will not let them!”

In Ast’Qana the security service’s hope that the crowds would drift off of their own accord were proving false. The crowds in Martyr’s Square had continued to swell. Muhammad Bin-Tabir was, in a manner not too dissimilar to Emil Bock, increasingly fatalistic; he would spend hours brooding in his office, imagining how the fatal miscalculation would come about, would an overly zealous religious police officer remonstrate with a married woman for immoderacy, would this escalate into a fracas, and from a fracas to a riot, from a riot to many riots, from many riots to an insurgency? In which case all the equipment from all the Russias would prove nugatory. He looked out from his office, the torchlights of the protestors glowing in front of the Grand Mosque, chanting drifting on the city’s still night air replete with unflattering remark after unflattering remark about himself, about the Emir.

As for the Emir, he had been cyclothymic, meetings with Tufts, the foreign media, left him ebullient, one day buoyed by how well he was regarded in some quarters, the next dismayed by the unfair sniping in others, depressed by the stark realism of Muhammad’s own reports to him, touched and gladdened by the loyalty shown him by his ministers. Muhammad himself found that the invidiousness of the new Emir’s position seemed to, in a sense, humanise him; there was no better way that he could put it. For all this, however, he feared an imminent dissolution and genuine concern for the life and safety of the personages of the royal house, which, so far as royal houses go, in general, and even in the region in particular, was not, to his mind, especially egregious. Such philosophising, however, would do nothing to redress the situation, indeed, everything seemed to move beyond his remedy, or so he found.

Abdul Mubdee was finishing yet another oratorical feat of invective aimed at the Olympic bid, his face gnarled with a hatred ingrained into the very depths of his marrow, here a sneer accompanied an insult leveled at the IOC’s president, there an angry flourish as he lambasted the faithfulness of the president’s wife, he held the massed denizens of Ast’Qana in awe. It was at just this moment, at the height of his peroration that he should notice, off to the side a member of Qatakistan’s religious police treating a woman rather disdainfully.

“You there! You! Yes, the police man! The police man, mistreating the woman to my left! Yes, this is the voice of Abdul Mubdee addressing you!” The policeman in question had puzzlingly, eventually worked out that he was the one being addressed. He gurned stupidly at the irate Imam.

“How dare you treat a fellow sister of Qatakistan in such a manner? It is a disgrace! You see’, and here Abdul Mubdee turned once again to the assembled throng, ‘the manner in which the Emir’s government treats us!?!”

For a moment there was an air of uncertainty hanging over the crowd, for Abdul Mubdee had crossed a line, he had gone from voicing truths commonly accepted about certain, less directly sensitive matters in that strange interregnum in Qataki affairs following the death of the aged Emir, to voicing a direct challenge to the government as it was currently constituted. Abdul Mubdee felt this, the seconds that it took the crowd to react, the time it took the authorities to realise what had occurred, felt like an eternity. Eventually, however, ripples of enthusiasm and applause worked their way through the crowd; they soon gained strength, the people demanded, with one voice as it were, that Abdul Mubdee articulate their collective will.

Feeling the moment keenly Abdul Mubdee echoed Qusai’s opening words to his followers in the camps on the southern border: “Brothers, sisters, we must ask ourselves whether Allah would intend for us to allow this to happen!?! Many of us have been oppressed for too long!!! If the government cannot advance the legitimate aspirations of the Qataki people, of Muslims, if it cannot govern in accordance with Allah’s will then we must have a different government, a new government, one with those who can!!!!! This, Godless system will no longer break us!!!!! We will break it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The assembled, excited mob took this as a sign to make their displeasure known, and, with the religious police withdrawing at the first sign of a level of outrage and potential violence that they could not control, proceeded to destroy any sign of anything that could conceivably stand in the way of a new, legitimate Qatakistan, governed under the auspices of Allah, naturally a McDonald’s bore the brunt of this insensate rage. The McDonald’s also, conveniently, stood on the way between The Grand Mosque and the Royal Palace two kilometers away. Consequently it betook the mob to march bodily on that aforementioned building, and, believing this would serve his purpose, Abdul Mubdee was only too willing to encourage the mob in this belief.

The grim visaged Imam was some way back from the vanguard, led, invariably, by leftist students, or by convinced trade unionists, with a smattering of journalists too. However, he was undoubtedly at the heart of events, sternly he bade the Qatakis on, on to the palace, on to their tryst with destiny, with the Emir, his ministers, placemen and flunkies, and a confrontation that would determine their immediate collective future. Naturally, few thought to contemplate where this course of action might lead, and fewer still had any idea as to how grim and bleak a destination events would lead.

For now Abdul Mubdee inwardly formulated his thoughts as he outwardly cheered on the mob, calculating how he might best use them to strike down his enemies, both internal and external, the black clad cleric was for the moment, the most powerful man in the country. This he suspected, Muhammad Bin-Tabir fatalistically knew, and Tufts Q Seabright III was coming, belatedly to appreciate.

Fortunately for Tufts he was, at just that moment, being announced by the White House Press Secretary as the new presidential envoy for the Persian Gulf, he therefore escaped, slightly, the opprobrium that partisan opponents of the administration would bring to bear on the president over the matter. The news channel that he was watching in his office was focused more on this, and yet another missing child than on affairs in Qatakistan itself, this state of affairs would not, however, last long.

Colby Tenet strode into the Ambassador’s office bearing a look as grim as Abdul Mubdee’s, he proceeded to brief Tufts: “Ambassador, we have some interesting intelligence, it appears Qusai visited several refugee camps on the border today, we have confirmatory reports from a few independent sources…” Tenet paused.

Tufts, looking as puzzled as the religious policeman whose abuse had so radically changed things in Martyr’s Square, turned to Tenet: “And…?”

“I’d say the Qataki revolution started about ten minutes ago…and congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”

Tufts contemplated this new, unwelcome, nugget of intelligence, but the Qataki’s had seemed to be so enjoying exercising their newly developing rights, in accordance with the principles of Jeffersonian democracy, and, perhaps, in a sense, Tufts was more right than he knew, given how Jefferson had maneuvered so disloyally behind John Adams’ back? Tufts was, however, and to be fair, more of a big picture thinker than a details man.

“I should address the embassy; preparations are in hand, I trust?”

“As much as they can be in a revolutionary environment’, Tenet replied, echoing Muhammad Bin-Tabir for fatalism. Tenet’s next thought was to wonder how many of those present in Qatakistan would survive, whether he himself would survive, he had seen how such situations could go very, very bad, very, very quickly, and so, disquieted, he left the Ambassador to draft, however ham fistedly, his address.

        VII

Logan and Jacintha looked at the gaunt, black clad figure obsessively configuring some camera equipment.

“You’re sure it’s a good idea letting him do this?” Jacintha asked uncertainly.

“Yeah, Jac, he’s the best, he practically invented the modern charitable campaign promo, plus he has form as a documentarian, did you see Solidarity?” Logan spoke of his ‘in-depth’ account of the lives of child soldiers which some critics felt conflated the underlying horror of Lord of the Flies with the casual celebration of violence more often associated with a Quentin Tarantino movie; and the furore surrounding which had resulted in the director, Forbes Ross, experiencing a mental health episode, in the vernacular, during which he had nakedly harangued a party of schoolchildren about the horrors of his subject matter and enquired, coarsely, as to whether they would like to undertake such duties.

“Yeah, of course, it’s like required viewing for my course, and Sam loves it.”

Sam, hearing his name, chipped in: “It really opened society’s eyes; I mean, thanks for being able to get him, Logan.”

It was questionable as to who was doing who the bigger favour, the director attempting to move beyond recent tumultuous events in his personal and professional lives, or the advertising agency that was willing to look beyond that, for reasons of profile.

Sir Paul was attempting to engage Diamanda in conversation, speaking volubly, and vainly, of the minutiae of a successful life, here dropping a name, there an exotic locale or famed restaurant, though given how she found Sir Paul fundamentally tedious the best he could hope for was the occasional spark of interest when Jamie was within eyeshot, all the better to torment him with; at just that moment Jamie entered, conversing with Sir Victor about arrangements, Diamanda laughed loudly, and looked warmly upon Sir Paul. Jamie looked anxious.

Jessica Grunwald was disinterestedly listening to a group of HIT volunteers, some six in all, who, with the cock-eyed optimism of their kind, looked forward to doing the good works of the convinced humanist in the Qataki desert.

Huddled around Forbes Ross were his assistant, and his small film crew, he had been intently discussing arrangements for the production of his documentary.

Various bank employees and charitable workers filled the waiting lounge.

All of them were awaiting final clearance from the airport authorities for their mercy flight, or #mercyflight, as the tie-in Twitter hashtag had it. They received approval and, belongings in hand, made their way to board each of the commercially rented long-haul aircraft, a party of some 30 people to each, and each plane, in turn, packed with food and medical equipment, awaiting their emergence from their interiors and into the bleaching Qataki sun. The mercy flight’s destination was a small airfield in the Qataki interior, some way from Ast’Qana. Swayne, the British government’s representative, was the last to slip aboard.

At around the same time that the mercy flight departed from Heathrow the second, unofficial element of its component had just finished being loaded at a military airfield in the Caucasus, it promptly departed, in sufficient time to reach the same airfield just before the former’s arrival, and to sit, menacingly, on the edge of the airfield ready to be captured on film by Forbes Ross’s crew, much as Diamanda had quipped.

News of events in Ast’Qana reached the mercy flight while it was over central France, the two knights, Jamie, Diamanda, and Sam discussed what they should do.

“I mean, are we flying into a war zone?” asked Jamie.

“Well, at the very least tumult in the capital.” replied Sir Victor.

“And we’ll be quite some way from there.” said Sir Paul.

“You don’t, perhaps, think it might be dangerous?” Jamie asked, with a degree of English understatement.

“I’d hate to think of us turning back, Jamie, I mean, who knows what might happen.” Sam said, threateningly.

“Well, I think we all have to decide, I mean, we’re in charge, but there is the issue of the lives in our care.” Sir Victor stated.

Sir Paul made a suggestion: “A vote?”

“OK, but, all five?”

A chorus of agreement went around the rear cabin.

“All those in favour of continuing to Qatakistan, raise your hands.”

Sir Paul and Sam Kent raised their hands emphatically, the bankers less certainly, but, as Sam, Jamie and Diamanda at least knew their agreement was guaranteed, at least for the duration.

Sir Victor spoke: “So, we’re agreed, the mercy flight continues, Sam, would you mind letting the pilot and the other planes know?”

“Of course not, Sir Victor.”

Sir Paul turned to Sir Victor: “It’s so good we’ve got Forbes onboard’, he gestured to the camera crew filming them, ‘think how that’ll play?” he said gauchely. “…Forbes, you’ll um, you’ll edit this bit out, won’t you?”

“I don’t know, Sir Paul’, Forbes answered with a degree of deliberate menace, ‘I don’t like to think of myself as a corporate shill…” Forbes returned to monitoring his instruments, the moment of drama now ended.

“Can we at least put an end to the filming for now?” Diamanda asked exasperatedly.

Logan returned from the airplane bathroom, where he had joined the mile high club with Jessica as Jacintha slept in her seat, oblivious to recent events. Improbably no-one thought to inform him. Jessica returned a few minutes later having freshened up as best she could, though she needn’t have worried, the plane’s lights were dimmed and most people were now preoccupied to a greater or lesser extent by what it was exactly they were flying into.

They needn’t have worried, for now at least, they would arrive at dawn in western Qatakistan the next day, the sky on the horizon an inky blue yet to turn the azure colour most often associated with a desert sky, the planes of the arms component idling in the distance as they disported from the planes and began the relief work aimed at rehabilitating the bank in the eyes of the public and in burgeoning the likes of Sam Kent’s egos.

“Tris, Placeman.”

“Peter, good news, I hope?”

“Couldn’t be better, the mercy flight’s flown, or so my sources say; I want you to tell our boys that there are powers in the land willing to do their damnedest to relieve the benighted denizens of Qatakistan.” He purred.

Sir Tristram could hardly contain himself, this was what he had been feverishly waiting for, signal that the wheels were in motion, and that, while the security council was deadlocked, which was probably the Americans fault, there was a colossal humanitarian wheeze at work, so willing was he to accept the decent, statesmanlike prognostications of Lord Placeman, that veteran of many an international conference in which internationalists had, broadly speaking, had their way. Poor Sir Tris was not to know that the ground had shifted quite so severely and drastically under them, the age was not conducive to their notions of statecraft, such as they were.

“But, Peter, this is wonderful news; the word will be around The Equality tonight, I guarantee it! I shall speak with the principals immediately!”

Sir Tristram bid his secretary assemble in conference call the serried ranks of directors, of vision, and of audio, of television, and of radio, of the news division, of HR, he would be certain of putting across the message of inculcating to the zealots of the organization the message, of how it would play across the airwaves, it would be intimated that, if this was done properly, there would be even greater rewards in both the moral and temporal dimensions.

News, for that was how the present holder of the post was known, given the recent turnover in such positions, sensibly, was almost as excited about this latest development as his superior, visions of swizzy graphics, of melodious promos, of ardent, heartfelt humanity delivered from the hell of conflict and torment went before his eyes, would an RTS award be won, he thought, parochially.

The next morning the deputy prime minister awoke to The Today Programme: “but, John, this is extraordinary, is it not, here we have ten planes, coming from Heathrow, landing in the desert of Qatakistan, in the very midst of the humanitarian disaster, laden with the bounty, the beneficence of Britain’s banking community, in alliance with the third sector”, the woman breathlessly droned on, playing her assigned part in the unfolding bleak farce.

Steve smiled, nay, beamed luminously, this was fruition, the feelgood factor, was this, he thought, how Bill felt, or Kennedy? He continued to listen to the coverage, assembling his thoughts, for he had, quite by chance, arranged to take the same day’s 8.30 slot, here he would advance a triumph for British, French, indeed, European policy! And so he proceeded to the studio, conveyed by his government car, eager to take the credit for this great and estimable triumph.

John’s questions inquisitorially bore down upon him: “So, Britain can’t act? It’s frustrated in the Security Council; tell me, deputy prime minister, does the Russian President return your phone calls!?”

“John, I really think you’re failing to see the big picture, of the levels of international co-operation, particularly between us, the French, and the Americans, that, over a particularly difficult issue, we’re collectively maintaining international law, and aiding people, helping real people, leading real lives; Britain isn’t some impotent satrap…”

“The very fact, deputy prime minister, you have to say that rather tells the lie to that, does it not?” he asked grimly.

“John, there are naysayers, who refuse to see the good in a situation, in good people, acting humanely, for the common good, and, frankly, that’s a level of cynicism in politics I have always found deeply unappealing, deeply, deeply unappealing…”

“Your saying that doesn’t detract from the more disturbing aspects of the imbroglio, does it? I mean, here we have a formerly stable Emirate, with a historic British relationship, descending into chaos, anarchy and bloodshed, and the government seems unable to bring any diplomatic leverage to bear in the UN Security Council, while the humanitarian response seems to have been outsourced to an arrangement involving the private sector, a tad privatised isn’t it?”

The deputy prime minister understood the game, for, contrarily, while the gruff reporter might have refused to give him any credence over the policy, the breathless headlines enthusing over the mercy flight in the western Qataki desert underlined the success of his policy. This would, naturally, be reflected in the opinion polls, and so, public opinion would become reconciled with the interventionist impulse, admittedly, such speculation was not consciously indulged in by the deputy prime minister, but, if an adviser were to take the time to explain it to him, it was logic he could not, nor would have been able to fault.

The deputy prime minister, his mauling over, swept from the studio, into the back of his waiting car, where a cadre of party hacks awaited him.

“How long before we get some polling on this?”

“We’ve got our people working on it now, it shouldn’t be too long.”

“Well, we’re doing the right thing, no doubt in my mind.”

Similar discussions were being had in President Hulot’s office, he was in conference with Genevieve and his senior advisers, mulling over the possibility of a Presidential broadcast that evening, in which, as the stern, beneficent father of the nation, he would inform France as to how welcome the mercy flight was, as well as the diplomatic, and yes, military measures being taken in preparation of the uncertain situation’s unfolding.

Admittedly, in addition to the high policy being discussed, President Hulot also wished to arrange a further meeting with Genevieve, one of their accustomed late morning meetings, in which he would have a good hour with his fragrant foreign policy advisor. René contemplated Genevieve, her flowing red locks, her svelte figure, the way she wrinkled her nose when someone made a suggestion she disliked, “Bon chance, Monsieur Le President” he thought to himself.

At the same time in Maryland Archer Strachan was having a restless night, tormented by dreams of Jacintha, that as yet unmet beacon of all that was good and true and decent, and bizarre, frightening encounters with O’Brien, an O’Brien who would intimate things via seemingly banal management lingo, for some reason he kept repeating: “We need hot intel on this, so that it can be red actioned by five, the seniors demand it…” Strachan recoiled from the sinister visage of the fairway fascist, the middle management institutionalisation of greed and selfishness; he awoke his heart pounding, his bouts of anxiety having become increasingly unmanageable.

Gasping for breath Strachan reached for the bottle of Johnnie Walker lying on the bedroom floor just out of reach, groggy he misjudged the distance pitching himself from the comfort of his bed and landing at an awkward angle on the right side of his face and shoulder. He resembled every inch the expected denizen of such an apartment, the functional alcoholic par excellence. Taking his time he got up and went to his computer where he began to obsessively peruse his files, or, rather, those he had purloined from the Agency. Swigging from the bottle and muttering to himself he began to appreciate, with crystalline intensity, what he must do in order to combat the security-intelligence complex that threatened all that he and the Jacinthas of this world held dear, as he did this he was perusing a certain liberal organ in the west known for furthering the ambitions of moral narcissists.

Boris Kropotkin had been recalled to Moscow for consultations, both to be informed about developments in his government’s policy, and to inform his government as to developments within Qatakistan itself. He was, consequently, now immured within the bowels of the monstrous Stalinist wedding cake that housed the foreign ministry; it was never made clear as to exactly how long after the presentation of the cake the bride and/or groom, let alone the guests survived the purges.

Heavy set, male, Slavic faces were arrayed around the conference table as Kropotkin was shown in.

“It’s a total fluke, who thought they’d be so stupid…” The foreign minister trailed off, aware now of Boris’s presence. “Boris,’ he smiled uncharacteristically, ‘tovarisch.”

Boris returned the gesture: “Likewise, minister.”

“So, a revolution?”

“Indeed.”

“And the west is backing Abbas, we’re backing whichever side seems most likely to win, and the people are equally well disposed toward Qusai, or Mubdee, the latter of whom also has the sympathies of everybody’s friend the Islamist, does that sound about right?”

“An excellent appraisal, minister.”

“Western naivety goes without saying…And you know what’s fallen into our laps, comrade Kropotkin?”

Boris bristled slightly, was he to be upbraided, had he missed something?

“A corrupt little transaction has come to our attention; well, I mean, one doesn’t just siphon off a few millions in arms, a few millions worth of arms capable of, well, I wouldn’t say tipping the balance, but at the very least protracting a nascent conflict, from the Caucasus, without our being aware. We are aware that a private concern seems to have paid for this consignment, but, they didn’t count on our becoming aware, and, given that we know what arms they were, and, more importantly, where they are, and, even more vitally, within whose reach they are, we felt it better served our purposes to let them fly…So, Boris, we have some information to give to you, to give to Qusai in person, it concerns some planes idling in the Qataki desert, enough to protract a very nasty civil war…and, better yet, we didn’t have to pay a thing for them!” The foreign minister laughed heartily.

Abbas and his increasingly fraught and stressed retinue cowered in the bowels of the Palace, the noise of the angry mob outside could be faintly, and chillingly, heard through the walls, as yet, communications remained intact, the five thousand Russian armed guards stood between the Emir and ostensibly his people. Already, however, and, albeit dimly perceptibly, the structure of government had started to fray: Muhammad El-Tabir had started to find the formerly smoothly running security and intelligence ministry to be a little sluggish in its responses, he had noticed former friends to be ever so slightly less warm and immediate in their responses, and here particularly he was thinking of the Russians.

“Emir, it would seem that many ministers have, conveniently, found themselves trapped by the outbreak of revolutionary violence, the mob encircling the Palace conveniently prevent them from coming and offering their support during this time of trial.” Muhammad also knew that many had been, over the past few hours, putting out feelers to Qusai.

“But, Cousin Mohammad is there anything we can do? I mean, Tufts, Tufts has counseled against the prospect of a bloodbath, which would be quite alien to my nature.”

A renewed bout of intensified chanting could be heard through the walls, the Emir’s wife screamed, he moved to comfort her.

“My advice, the best advice I could give your Majesty would be to do any one of the following: one order a show of force, quell the crowd, so far as one can do this with the guard, and, co-ordinate it with as many of the units of the armed forces as we can still command, and, I would recommend you do this now; or, two, you leave the country and abdicate from abroad, you have funds, you take your family, we have a helicopter in the courtyard, we can have you away in minutes…”

To be fair to the Emir, at this point, in many, cognitive dissonance would have taken over, and under a cock-eyed, optimistic, rose-tinted impression of things, he would have refused to accept either the first, monstrous, but probably necessary suggestion, or to have accepted that people so despised him and that the second option was completely unnecessary, this the Emir did not do, and, showing the steel that won his father the throne, and, ultimately, his people’s respect, he decided on the former course of action, contrary to Tufts’ advice, though, unfortunately, already too late.

“Well, if it is to be either of those two options, I cannot allow chaos, or either my brother, or Mubdee, or both in whatever formulation, to control Qatakistan…��

“Your Majesty, am I to assume, that you have decided in favour of the first option?”

“Yes, yes I have” he answered quietly, barely audible above the waves of chanting from the irate populace.

Mohammad remained silent, awaiting further instructions.

“What is to be done? Next?”

“Well, Your Majesty, we are to order the 1st Armoured Brigade to sweep along the river, and to cross the bridge to the palace’s right, securing the flank, and, working in concert with the Royal Guard, forcing the crowds back, we will also send a regiment by air to the royal park on the left, as, I’m sure the moment the crowds become aware of any moves being undertaken we can expect a response…”

“Then I give the order. I shall speak to Tufts, we must at least inform the Americans, and I should probably do that personally.”

“Yes…”

“When can we expect this, operation, to begin?”

“Within the hour, and, if it’s any consolation, I think, Your Majesty, you are making the right choice.”

The Emir Abbas was not to know that he had signed off on an almost Bourbonesque exemplar of military ineptitude, for Mohammad El-Tabir’s counsel was predicated on the erroneous notion that the 1st Armoured Brigade was still under command.

The Emir comforted his wife and children briefly before retiring to a basement office where he would speak with Tufts, who had been eagerly awaiting news from his friends in the administration since his evening encounter with Tenet.

“Tufts, congratulations on your promotion, I’m sorry to hear you’ll be leaving us…”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I only wish it was in other circumstances.”

“I have, regrettably, to inform you that we have decided to take measures, firm measures, with the revolutionaries, given the threat to order, as well as the minatory presence of my brother in the border lands…”

“Abbas, I cannot in good conscience aver that the United States’ government can, or will, support you in this action, if you mean what I think you mean?”

“I suspect, Tufts, I do, the details one leaves to the military commanders in the field…I do not, however, wish to do this, but the political situation demands it.”

“I can only repeat the sentiments I have already averred, US policy is opposed to extremist or anti-democratic actions. I’m also not sure your friends in Washington will understand.”

“Be that as it may, Tufts, it is an existential crisis our society faces, do we disintegrate at the behest of our fissiparous tendencies, or do we determinedly oppose terror, strife and faction? I cannot abandon my people to chaos and anarchy.”

“Well, if that is how Your Majesty feels?”

“It is.”

“Well, thank you for informing us, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed, Tufts, goodnight.”

At his end Tufts put the receiver down and collected his thoughts. He presently pressed the button for his secretary and asked her to send Tenet in. The latter arrived a few minutes later.

“Ambassador.”

“I understand His Majesty is planning a military response to the protestors outside the palace.”

Tenet pursed his lips and nodded sagely.

“What can we expect?”

Tenet smiled sardonically. “Well, depends, this stage, at how much of the military remains loyal; psychologically, for the regime, it’s either an act of confidence or desperation – my guess, the latter. Remember, Qatakistan isn’t a huge country, and has a small army, and of that small army, only a few units are well equipped, that and it doesn’t have a recent experience of coup and counter-coups, is, what is, in effect, a gendarmerie prepared to brutally suppress a half a million people?”

“Put like that it hardly seems encouraging…”

“Still, it’ll give you something to discuss at your first press conference.” Tenet jauntily averred.

Tufts, however, didn’t hear him, he was lost in a reverie, disappointed at the apparent collapse of his hopes for the new regime, what would it all mean, for Qatakistan, for US policy, for him?

For the next half hour or so all that could be heard across Ast’Qana was the chanting of the mob outside the royal palace which carried across the city, consistent demands for the Emir to go, for him to stand trial, for him to be executed, for his replacement by his brother, for his replacement by Mubdee, for his replacement by a dream ticket of his brother and Mubdee, for more religion at the centre of national life, or even more religion than that at the centre of national life, all these demands waxed and waned depending on which mood happened to have ascendency within the crowd at any given time.

Consequently the crowd was relatively late to become aware of the impending arrival of the airborne battalion at the public gardens to the palace’s left, though it didn’t matter too much, for this was the first stage at which, operationally, things began to go wrong. The battalion committed itself piecemeal, with the first company arriving a good ten minutes before the rest, during this interregnum while the crowd reacted violently, sheer numbers meant enough of the troops committed became exposed to the retribution of the crowd, and, more importantly, lost their weapons to the mob. Action became general, the Palace Guard began opening fire on the crowd, within seconds a hundred people had fallen, screams emanated from the injured, crying and panic broke out; one man, however, was conspicuous by his preternatural calm, Abdul Mubdee realised quite what an opportunity he had been handed as he stood in the thick of the tragedy. If Abbas couldn’t assert himself by force of arms he had lost the goodwill of the people, and fascinating alternatives presented themselves, or so he rightly thought.

Abdul Mubdee shouted, exhorting his fellow revolutionaries to defy the Emir’s repressive, American-backed, or so he fervently thought and declaimed, regime. All around him the citizenry of Ast’Qana were falling under the fusillade of the Russian armed Royal Guard and the aggressive, burgeoning force of the Parachute Battalion to their right. Some of the wealthier, more technically attuned member of the crowd began sporadically filming this act of aggression against the people on their smart phones. Conscious of the difficulty, indeed the impossibility, of being heard Abdul Mubdee placed especial emphasis on how he appeared; a less sympathetic observer might conclude that he had about him the unnatural calm of the sociopath, given the context.

People were lobbing anything they could lift at the Royal Guard, comparatively safe behind the security fence, but, more disturbingly for the authorities, the crowd, courtesy of the seized weapons had slowed, albeit temporarily, the speed of the parachutists’ advance. Some among the crowd had also come under the assumption of trouble and could be seen brandishing pistols, rifles, knives, handheld weapons. Screaming and bloodshed were now the norm.

It was at this point that the 1st Armoured Brigade appeared to the crowd’s left, Abdul Mubdee, no longer in command of events, feared that this spelt the end of the uprising, that they would be crushed by superior force. He needn’t have worried, for the brigade, was intervening in proceedings in favour of Qusai, the mutinous, hardline chief of staff having arrested his commanding officer at the younger brother’s behest, having spoken to him earlier. Consequently, its heavy tanks began lobbing shells into the midst of the parachutists’ landing zone, a dozen Blackhawks and their cargos of men were shredded in an instant, the sound of the tanks’ heavy guns deafening across the square. The revolution may have begun a few hours earlier, but now so had the civil war.

Abdul Mubdee turned to a random member of the crowd, and, realising what had occurred, hugged him.

“Brother’, he screamed, ‘do you know what this means!?!”

The man, suffering from a severe head wound was not entirely disposed to contemplate the full weight and meaning of one faction of the army’s use of force against another.

     Abdul Mubdee decided that it was in Qatakistan’s, and his own best interests if he should meet, or at least be seen with, whoever was commanding this new combatant in the struggle between them for control of the Emirate. He faintly jauntily strode toward the tanks, maneuvering through the distraught and angered, the injured and riled, occasionally bestowing a look of confidence or concern as the mood took him, conscious all the while of his public performance, though even he was jarred on occasion by the sound of heavy guns so close.

His procession was helped by the fact that as the tanks advanced into the square, the people, sensibly, given the circumstances, made for the opposite side, clearing a space for the two military factions to contest each other, with the occasional admixture of the more adventurous, youthful, and better armed revolutionaries who had been able to liberate some machine guns from the more exposed parachutists, and who would harass the latter from their left flank as they bitterly contested their soon to be shrinking perimeter. The square had become a war zone, with parachutists desperately firing their comparatively few anti-tank weapons at the advancing tanks, and calling in support from their Blackhawks to do the same, the result, however, was a foregone conclusion, the greater weight and armour and firepower of the tanks crushed them while also leveling their lighter arms on the Royal Guard in turn firing on their left as they charged across the square. By the time the tanks reached the river over half the battalion were dead, of the protestors the same would come to be said of between 3 and 5 thousand caught in the crossfire.

During this time Abdul Mubdee had conveniently stumbled across the command centre of the 1st Armoured Brigade, where he would find Colonel Qays, the mutinous chief of staff, in battledress, directing operations, the two would exchange words fleetingly between the latter barking orders into his radio set, his being somewhat pre-occupied. He did, however, recognize Abdul Mubdee. Mubdee would spend the rest of the battle in the position of a privileged guest, with faintly custodial overtones, of the colonel, and, by extension the army and Qusai. Immediately following the final surrender of the few remaining parachutists, however, Colonel Qays would find himself entering the realm of politics, and, given the contingent nature of his intervention, he had not given sufficient time or thought to what it would actually entail, and neither had he been issued with any equivalent set of instructions from Qusai.

“…The army has intervened at the behest of Qusai, given the likelihood of the massacre that the Emir was planning of his people.”

“I understand, perfectly, yours and Qusai’s logic, but, have you thought about what is to come next?” Abdul Mubdee asked coolly.

Colonel Qays looked somewhat perplexed, if he were asked what to do with any army formation you may care to name he would have had a battery of ready suggestions, but the political implications of Abdul Mubdee’s question had befuddled him.

“Well, we might, perhaps, consider where we are…” Abdul Mubdee and Colonel Qays looked around the square, bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere, the formerly ordered centre of the realm lay torn and shredded, screams and crying could be heard, the front of the palace was awash with the blood of slain Royal Guards, the survivors of which had withdrawn into the palace.

“The army has…”

“Yes, I know, “intervened at the behest of Qusai, given the likely massacre that the Emir was planning of his people”, but, he’s still in there…And how should he be dealt with…?”

Colonel Qays contemplated this. His precise, military brain struggled to provide a ready answer however.

“If I might make a few suggestions?”

Colonel Qays visibly assented.

“It seems there is a power vacuum, and that, Abbas’, and here Abdul Mubdee gestured toward the palace, ‘has acted in a way that has ensured that he cannot remain Emir, while, from what we have heard and seen, Qusai has acted in a way commensurate with the best interests of Qatakistan, yes?”Mubdee averred leadingly.

Here Colonel Qays’s personal loyalty and appreciation of facts began to chime recognizably with the events he had witnessed and participated in, he nodded.

“So, given that we represent the two major strands in Qatakistan’s national life, army and Allah, and, given that we are both awaiting, Qusai, should we not join forces to at least contain, and, the option I would favour, arrest, Abbas and his coterie in there…?” Abdul Mubdee again gestured to the palace.

Inside of which increasing dissension had broken out as it became clear that the 1st Armoured Brigade was no longer under the orders of the Emir. It soon became plain that only a few hundred, the unlucky, the die hards, remained and that it was only a matter of time before some unimaginable fate befell the soon to be former Emir, his family, and those hangers-on that remained. This increasingly apparent state of affairs had, naturally, an all too apparent psychological impact on the principal figures.

Realising his gamble had failed the Emir, until recently, it must be remembered, a paediatrician, and, consequently, with some familiarity with infant mortality, lapsed into a catatonic state, completely unresponsive to the desperate calls of those seeking orders, his wife descended into hysteria, a doctor having to be called to drug her, three of the Royal Guard restraining her as he did so, and, finally, Muhammad El-Tabir, increasingly, as we have seen, fatalistic, retired to an empty office, locked the door, calmly sat against the wall, lifted a pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. In effect the command structure within the bunker had entirely collapsed. The sense of the absence of direction soon communicated itself to the bands of guards and few remaining senior figures on hand. White flags started being waved from the Royal Palace’s windows, phone calls went out from the palace’s still largely functioning communications network attempting to ascertain as to whom exactly they should surrender, if such a possibility existed.

Colonel Qays and Abdul Mubdee watched from atop a tank as one emissary nervously left the palace under a white flag and walked out into the blood-stained and now, temporarily, uneasily quiet gore strewn square.

“What do you want!?” demanded a disembodied voice from a loud speaker.

“To, to, to surrender…” the soldier replied uncertainly.

“Do you speak with the authority of the Emir!?”

“Ah, no…”

“Whose authority do you speak with!?”

“There’s, there’s a band, of, of us, there are a few, a few bands of, of us…”

Abdul Mubdee turned to Colonel Qays. “Perhaps we will not have to storm the palace after all…?”

Qays grimaced, the technicality of surrender was something he had studied in theory, but beyond the occasional operation aiding the civil power, or exercises for battles the army had never fought, it wasn’t something he had any direct experience of, to say nothing of the action’s political overtones.

“I suggest we order them to evacuate the palace…”

Qays thought. He turned over Mubdee’s suggestion in his mind. It seemed right. He barked the order to his communications officer, who spoke it in turn into his field phone.

“All bands are promised safe conduct, if they walk out of the palace, leave their arms on the ground and walk out of the front gates, turning left to the park, you have thirty minutes.”

“Thank, thank you…” the lone soldier spluttered. He returned to the palace.

Lest anyone be left in any doubt the terms were repeated over the loudspeaker every five minutes, after the second warning soldiers started to trail out of the pock-marked palace, the crunch of smashed glass under their heavy boots. At this point senior officers were funneled out of the mass and asked for further details about numbers, casualties, who, if any, remained in the building. Precautions had already been taken to cover the approaches on the river to the palace, and an anti-aircraft battery was placed to prevent any escape by air from the palace, where the Royal Helicopter remained undamaged in the central courtyard.

The Royal Guard, an understandably brass-heavy organization, given its proximity to the centre of patronage, yielded an injured major general, three brigadiers, seven colonels, twelve lieutenant colonels, and twenty-five majors, and, of these, one major exhibited the capacity to offer a subjective assessment of the military position within and around the palace at the time of the surrender.

“We had taken heavy casualties, and, after your intervention, with the position hopeless, the high command became unresponsive…”

“Unresponsive” Colonel Qays weighed the word. So, command and control had broken down, but, it seemed, the building was now empty, and there also seemed unlikely to be any nasty surprises, or at least none with any consequences that he couldn’t live with.

Qays turned to a subordinate: “OK, we’re going in, I want the entire building invested, we’ll start with the ground and upper floors, so as to at least establish our presence, before sweeping the basement, where’, he turned back to the competent major who knowing what he was going to say nodded, ‘the former authority was based.”

Colonel Qays, however, in his eagerness to invest the palace, neglected to secure the arms that the recently surrendered Royal Guard had divested themselves of, a failure which, with the commitment of his men to invest the palace and guard the recently surrendered enemy, would have consequences.

Abdul Mubdee started to speak “…”

“Abdul Mubdee is to remain out here while we establish our position inside.”

Streams of Colonel Qays’s men started entering the air conditioned palace; a few shots were fired inside as they commenced mopping up, in the military sense at least. Soon, receiving the all clear for the ground and upper floors, Colonel Qays elected to enter the palace, leaving the bulk of his men guarding the recently surrendered soldiers in the park, or inside the palace inhabiting the building. Abdul Mubdee, kicking his heels, was not idle, however. He began to attract the attention of the bands of revolutionaries keeping their distance on the edge of the square.

It is often said that armies reflect the nature of their societies, and this was certainly true of The Royal Qatakistan Army. Senior command and staff appointments were the catspaw of those powerful, wealthy and, consequently, influential enough to connive at their allocation to either themselves, or favoured sons or other male relations. This had the unhappy unintended consequence of a distinct lack of the intellectual quality that an army from a more or less, theoretically, meritocratic society could call on. Proximity to the commander, or the coming man, was desired above all other things, leaving those soldiers outside the palace, and outside the warm, luminescent pale of Colonel Qays’ presence to adhere to the general rule rather than the excellent particular, few enough of those as there were.

Slowly but surely a crowd of revolutionaries began to cohere around the soldiers, their tanks and Abdul Mubdee. Initial, gentle attempts to dissuade them invited only further cohesion, while an uncertainty, a paralysis, as pronounced as that exhibited by Colonel Qays, prevented any order from being given that would proximate what the soon to be ex-Emir had tried to do a scant hour ago.  

By the time anyone thought of asking the higher command for instructions, which, given the nature of Colonel Qays’ intelligence, would have been a laborious, protracted process, bands of men were more or less brazenly liberating the arms of the defunct Royal Guard from under the noses of the perplexed men of the 1st Armoured Brigade. At the same time across Qatakistan’s few military bases news of what had occurred at the Palace began to leak out, this had the effect of bitterly dividing the officer corps, and, by extension, the men of the Royal Qataki Armed Forces, as is often the way with civil wars. Some, more reformist elements, declared for the Emir, more as symbol than actual centre of power, others for Qusai, others still darkly hinted at Mubdee sympathies, in accordance with the mass of committed revolutionaries who had returned to the square like vultures circling the body politic’s carcass. So had events in the square crystallized, significantly, if not quite entirely, the fault lines of the nascent civil war; massacres occurred at a slew of military bases, in sympathy with events in the square, neighbourhoods erupted declaring for whoever most had the public’s febrile support.

Within the Palace, slowly but surely being invested by Colonel Qays and his men, preparations were being made to secure the basement command centre, a raft of suicides, the deceased and the injured having been discovered already.

Colonel Qays eagerly followed the operation over the communications grid.

“We’ve found Muhammad El-Tabir, we think…Half his face is gone, but, it’s probably him…OK, we have the Queen, we have the Queen, she’s heavily drugged…We have the Emir, repeat WE HAVE THE EMIR, he’s conscious, but he seems completely unresponsive…”

All this, of course, was interspersed with random short bursts of gunfire and the occasional scream as unarmed hangers-on attempted to surrender.

“Bring him to me!”

“Sir, yes sir.”

A platoon of gnarled, sweaty, slightly singed combat veterans swept into the lounge that Colonel Qays was temporarily using as an office, they deposited the prostrate form of the catatonic Emir into a chair. Qays proceeded to talk to him:

“Emir…’, he quibbled slightly, was Emir the right form of address now, or, indeed, anymore?, ‘Abbas, Abbas…’, he reached into a pocket in his battledress and proceeded to unfold a communiqué, ‘The Royal Army of Qatakistan, acting at the behest of the people and in sacred agreement with Qusai, the rightful heir, can no longer allow the state of affairs subsuming Qatakistan to continue, to that end we demand your abdication and that you stand trial that we might put these regrettable occurrences behind us and, together, embrace a better future.”

Qays peered expectantly at the deposed Emir; the Emir blinked sporadically but maintained what Qays took to be a dignified silence. Qays had little experience with the catatonic.

“You are to be treated with all due deliberation, despite your crimes, and reverence due to a former Emir of Qatakistan; the date and nature of your trial are to be determined at a future date. Long live the Emir, long live Qusai!!!”

In response to this affirmation Abbas drooled copiously.

Qays turned to an aide and, whispering, asked: “Is he, is he OK…?”

“He was found to be unresponsive; perhaps it is, as the westerners have it, psychological…?”

Qays demurred, that seemed as likely an explanation as any.

“OK, we’re done here, I think. Return the…Return Subject Abbas to the base; he is to be kept under armed guard, with all precautions taken.” By this Qays meant stripped of his belt and shoelaces, just in case he should rouse himself from his catatonic torpor and feel the overwhelming urge to commit suicide.

Qays, his role in deposing and securing the former Emir done, determined to spend the night in the palace and await the arrival of Qusai. Erroneously omitting to check on events outside the palace and with no one daring to inform him as to what was happening he slept in the Emir’s recently vacated bed.

As he did so Abdul Mubdee and his supporters, with much of the equipment of the Royal Guard, or at least what remained of it after the battle, spirited themselves away into the souks of Ast’Qana, a nascent guerrilla force capable of and willing to defy the new authority, itself on shaky ground, with nearly half the army and an even greater proportion of the air force against it; given the nature of power in Qatakistan during the rigmarole no one had thought to consult the navy, what little of it there was, and so it sulked in impotent neutrality, not much exercised about who or what should end up replacing Abbas and his government, unlikely to secure a funding increase either way.

A curious quirk of the outbreak of the civil war was that the local civil aviation authority had, after a certain point, refused to allow any further departures, while continuing to allow further arrivals. This had resulted in a number of aircraft idling on the airfield of Ast’Qana International Airport. Among them was a private jet containing a party of the Qataki diaspora, and one guest, a movie star not unknown in the region, and often the target of much misogynistic local comment.

“So, like, Adeel, what’s the deal? I mean, we’re here, and, like, you totally promised a full reception, banners, press; it’s not cool!” Angelica pouted.

“I’m afraid, Miss Hayek, I can’t enlighten you, the pilot says that the control tower are refusing to offer any further information, and that we have just been told to sit here.”

“Well, can’t we, like, get out?” Angelica slurred passive-aggressively.

Adeel rolled his eyes. “That would be inadvisable, given that it’s a working airfield.”

The Qatakis began gossiping among themselves, sharing many an unflattering remark about the starlet. In Angelica’s defence she had begun to suspect this, and felt increasingly justified in her decision to press gang Asrar into joining her on the trip.

Angelica climbed off the seat she had been kneeling on to address Adeel and, leaning in to Asrar, asked her urgently: “What are they, like, saying!?!”

Asrar pretended to humour Angelica while offering a lengthy and banal appreciation of their discussion which omitted to mention their use of the local dialect word for doll, often as a suffix following local language of an insultingly misogynistic nature to describe their famed fellow passenger.

Beyond a certain point boredom ensured that Angelica’s eyes began to glaze over, and, losing interest, she would idly use her iPad to peruse fashionable internet content that would speak to a woman of her background and interests; Asrar would relax, pleased in a job well done.

Adeel had, however, a degree of concern. He had liaised with Qusai’s people back home, and had, as arranged, delivered the Hollywood starlet to Qatakistan, and yet here they were idling on the edge of the airfield, with no-one to greet them, and with no news, having entered what seemed to be an informational void, certainly in terms of local media. He too had turned to his tablet and - using websites quite different to Angelica - could only glean scant details in the western media about what had occurred at the Royal Palace; and, at this stage, rumour was just as possibly as accurate as what the BBC, or CNN, were saying, given their cognitive biases.

So they continued to idle, awaiting some form of official recognition or interest, on whosever part that might be, a Gulf Stream jet encompassing an increasingly fractious party amidst the strife torn and increasingly nightmarish milieu of Ast’Qana, the waiting having a wearing effect on their collective nerves.

In London during the course of that long and fractious night one man attended dutifully to his station. Roland Williams, FCO, was energized as few times before in his bureaucratic existence. He monitored the web and wires, and while, on the surface, this might have made him only as well informed as any other consumer of content, his expertise, his special knowledge, allowed him licence and capacity to interpret events in the far away Emirate for Her Majesty’s Government.

Naturally, at an opportune juncture, Roland began to pen a report on what could be gleaned thus far: “It seems fair to say that the Qataki revolution has begun, crowds have gathered in the streets and marched bodily on the Royal Palace, but, however, this is not all, it is my contention that in addition to revolution we have also civil war’, sigint vouchsafed him from the British listening station on Cypress underlined the validity of this contention, ‘with signals intelligence indicating that several military units have witnessed mutinies, with some declaring for the Emir, others for his brother, and others still for Abdul Mubdee; as for the Royal Qataki Navy, their sympathies remain unknown. Our concerns remain focused on the breakdown of internal order within the Emirate, the advantage that might be taken of this by neighbouring powers, how these adversely affect British and wider western interests, as well as individual British citizens trapped within the country’s borders, as comparatively few as there are, in Ast’Qana.”

Roland drifted, temporarily, he had been awake many hours, and while high-functioning, was also functioning, to an extent, on auto-pilot, which meant that he didn’t, despite the fanfare, instantaneously recall the presence of the I N Securities’ mercy flight in the Qataki desert. He was also not to know how the deputy prime minister’s misinterpretation of his reports would so disastrously inform British policy. He continued writing.

“The recent promotion of Tufts Q. Seabright III, hitherto the U S Ambassador to Qatakistan, to Presidential Special Envoy will perhaps especially inform the development of American policy, given his knowledge, and experience, of guiding the hitherto democratic direction of travel in Qataki affairs.”

Roland had, as yet, to see anything concerning the former Emir and the former Ambassador’s conversation prior to the approval of the botched military operation of a few hours ago. Though, at this point, and while his report had much value, Roland was effectively drafting a series of disparate though interrelated points, which was, unintentionally, perfectly pitched to appeal to the deputy prime minister’s intellect. And so Roland toiled through the hours of darkness and into the twilight of dawn until, exhausted, and relieved, he tumbled into a quiet room and fell asleep on the sofa. He would awake to find that the events in Ast’Qana would have all the impact of a lightning bolt, energizing not just himself, or even the entirety of the Foreign Office, but the Westminster village and all its citizens. For now, however, he would sleep, with no idea what unfolding events would mean exactly for him personally, never mind the country in general.

Lord Placeman rose early that morning with a feeling of distinct unease. Something was not right, he felt as he lifted his wizened bulk from the bed, his wife continuing to slumber. He felt an inchoate sense of disquiet as his eyes adjusted to the pale luminescence of the strengthening inky blue dawn, the room taking shape around him. He would have to discuss the state of play with Tris, he decided, and yet now it was too early, even for him, he wouldn’t have roused himself from his torpor for his yogic flying exercises yet. Lord Placeman padded out of the room and down the stairs, deep into the bowels of his Kensington town house, Sir Paul Fennell was, coincidentally, a near neighbor and occasional dining companion. There he just sat and patiently waited watching the sun come up over his garden through the conservatory windows of the kitchen extension.

A colossal psychic disturbance seemed to ripple out from Qatakistan at that time and hour, encompassing all and sundry, at ungodly hours, as further information leaked out, as some semblance of a picture largely correct in its detail began to cohere, phone calls connected geographically disparate though intimately concerned personages. Newsrooms at the centre of London were aglow with live feeds, BBC employees exercised as seldom, if ever, before, their counterparts in the liberal and neo-liberal presses likewise. Slack bureaucracies, or those parts of which at least were directly, or even indirectly, concerned hummed and throbbed with related activity, the machinery of British government and political life was wakening, was enlivening itself to the prospect of a true and real crisis in a former British protectorate, and what should we find our band of heroes doing in the desert, the chosen instruments for furthering the causes of intervention, of providing aid and succor, arms and men, and women, how had they been spending their time, embodying, as they did, the hopes and aspirations, and intentions, of the humane and just and beneficent? Well, to that we shall turn.

            VIII

Soon after that first Qataki sunrise the assortment of bankers and aid workers had begun to set up a camp around the planes, this entailed canopies and other structures akin to gazebos, for many preferred to stay out of the scorching desert sun, it being injurious to their good health, and certainly their odds of avoiding skin cancer. A more atavistic hierarchy naturally, if subconsciously, asserted itself in this environment, by and large, and with some exceptions, the eminently practical soon succeeded in establishing a comparatively privileged position for themselves, though, ultimately, the paymasters were still respected above all others, for now. Undoubtedly the most commanding figure though was Diamanda, the nature of her relationship with Jamie we have established, while, out of instilled good manners, Sir Victor was inclined to defer to her, even Sam Kent, as obsequious and grasping as he was, had enough good sense to avoid being too transparent in using the hold he had over her and Jamie, having already received most of what he wanted, for the time being at least.

As the colossal works unfolded, the tatterdemalion circus, cum team-building exercise, cum humanitarian endeavour, cum PR opportunity, began to come to fruition. Diamanda lay sunning herself atop one of the cargo planes; she was joined by Jacintha, poking her head through the access hatch from the plane’s interior below.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” Diamanda replied, faintly sarcastically.

“OK if I join you?”

Diamanda answered with false cheer: “Of course, that would be wonderful!”

Jacintha began liberally applying suntan lotion to her skin. She peered at the horizon through her sunglasses, the desert dunes crested like waves amid the harsh sunlight and humidity as far as the eye could see. Jacintha looked over her shoulder at Diamanda. Diamanda suspected her new friend was in the mood to be garrulous, something she deemed a crime in the uninteresting.

“So, you and Jamie…?”

Ah, this could be fun, Diamanda thought. “Yes, me and Jamie…” Diamanda was interested to see where this would progress to.

“I mean…How do you realise that you’re like that?”

Diamanda smiled, her eyes hidden behind her mirror shades. “Like what…?”

“Well, all whips and rubber, and…”

“The accoutrements of a Pasolini movie?”

Jacintha was confused, she didn’t get the reference.

“Dear, you seem a sweet, young woman’, and here Diamanda spoke sardonically, ‘perhaps you’d like me to show you?” She burst out laughing.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Neither is this, I mean, here we are, in fuck knows where, spending other people’s money, at your behest, which is, I suppose, a fair enough euphemism for blackmail, which, last I checked, was a criminal offence, and, where it all will end knows God…”

“But think about the good we’re doing…”

“And what about the evil we’ve done, and at least mine is’, she demurred, ‘largely consensual…”

“Look, I thought we could have a nice chat, maybe get to know each other…”

“Fair enough, I’m Diamanda Sangrail, 40, I work in finance, I like…Actually, I don’t really have much spare time, so, consequently, not much of a personal life, I have found life to be, in the main, a disappointing experience, I take joy in a degree of conspicuous consumption - but I’m not foolish enough to think that validates me as a human being - though material comfort is as close to an absolute moral good as I could possibly allow - humiliating men - after all, someone has to, and some of them quite enjoy it - confrontational art, challenging music, and transgressive novels, when I find the time, I’m an Aquarius. You?”

“Why do you have to be like this?”

“Oh dear! I find - being serious, and not passive aggressive - that if one is forthright about oneself it weeds out the flaky, the banal, the boring, or at least those who, and this is a rare moment of emotional honesty on my part, those people who, for whatever reason, good, and nice, and decent, as they may be, will just end up hurting you because they don’t share your values, and frankly, I just don’t have the time…Honest enough, happy?”

“Yes, but you’re not.”

“Enjoy the sun, dear.”

“No witty comeback?”

“Wit is like water in a desert, one finds, best not given to those ignorant of the precious gift they have been bestowed…”

The two women sunned themselves in silence; Diamanda peering with languid interest at the vultures circling above them, she smiled sardonically, idly wondering what they portended.

In another aircraft Sir Paul and Logan were discussing the progress of the campaign.

“I’ll tell you, Logan, I’m getting some good feedback from home, hell, we’re even making American satellite news!” Sir Paul could not suppress the schoolboyish excitement he felt at eliciting the envy of his profession.

“Well, no publicity is bad publicity, isn’t that our profession’s watchword?” Logan asked rhetorically.

“Indeed. But I’m damn sure there’ll be awards for this! All one asks for in life is to get what one deserves, eh?”

Neither of the entitled advertising executives contemplated the less welcome possibilities such an attitude risked inviting.

Jessica entered the cabin.

“Ah, Jessica, hello. Have we any news from Forbes?”

“Yes, he’d like you both to do talking head segments, for our corporate promotional material, so, earnest, enthusiastic, you know the drill.”

“But of course!” Sir Paul beamed.

“What’s the set-up?” asked Logan.

“Well, outside, under a rough and ready canopy, you, intercut with earnest third sector types enthusing over what it is like to work with us, how we’re the good guys of PR, bankers and aid workers working in the background, preparing the aid for distribution, that sort of stuff.”

“God, you’ve got to love our job. Now, Jessica, when is my private jet arriving, I have some meetings arranged in Doha, WTO, a slew of Gulf governments, an aid organisation or two…”

“Mid afternoon, you’ll be dining in Congo’, and here she mentioned a chic, sleek Belgian restaurant that Sir Paul favoured, ‘by 8 o’clock.”

“Good, good.”

“When’s Forbes going to be ready for us?”

“Pretty much whenever you wish; though maybe we should wait till late afternoon - given the heat and humidity out there?” Jessica replied.

“Fair enough; I think I’ll have a nap, the heat and all that.” Sir Paul reached into a hold-all, rooted around and produced an eye mask and a small, round plastic container encompassing two ear plugs, he proceeded to stuff the earplugs into his ears and pull the eye mask over his forehead, he padded over to one of the cushioned benches in the rear and lay down.

Jessica and Logan found themselves alone.

Logan couldn’t help but look at Jessica, who, despite having been out in the heat, her hair lank from the humidity, a sheen of perspiration all over her face, excited him.

“Jessica.” He whispered.

“Yes, Logan?”

“You couldn’t, you couldn’t help me out with something, could you?”

“With our boss, lying down, a few feet away…?”

“Yes, yes…”

Jessica leaned into Logan, her mouth only millimeters from his right ear: “But what if we got caught…How embarrassing would that be…People would know, about us, about how you’d betrayed Jacintha, about how you can’t control yourself…” Jessica had begun kneading Logan’s crotch, he gasped at the erotic possibilities of each suggestion.

Sir Paul began snoring.

“He’s, he’s asleep…” Logan raspily exclaimed.

Jessica pulled away from Logan, and, for a terrifying moment, he thought she was going to leave, instead she pulled down her khaki shorts and knickers, and, bending, exposed her buttocks and vagina to him.

“Is this what you want, Logan?” she asked mock innocently.

“Yes…yes…”

“Do you have any condoms?”

“Yes.” Logan reached into another hold-all close to hand, desperately searching for such an item.

“I don’t know, maybe it isn’t a good idea, I mean, what if Jacintha were to catch us…We don’t know where she is…”

“No, please, please, Jessica, we must, we have to…” Logan desperately implored.

Sir Paul continued to snore.

Logan found what he was looking for, and proceeded to quickly undo his own shorts and don the sought for prophylactic. He pulled Jessica to him and, semi-dressed, strode over to the cushioned bunk opposite Sir Paul’s, he pushed Jessica down and began to lick furiously between her legs, Jessica gasped.

“Synergy…” murmured Sir Paul.

Both sufficiently satisfied as to Jessica’s state of arousal the couple had sex, as quietly as they could, looking intently into one another’s eyes as they did so.

“Brussels…” Sir Paul growled.

Quite whether Sir Paul’s verbal cues led either to contemplate the psychosexual possibilities of contemplating ever closer political union will remain a mystery, neither choosing to reveal to the other any such enthusiasm.

Within minutes the couple had climaxed, independently of one another, Logan massaging his own balls, Jessica attending to her clitoris. They breathed heavily, Logan sweating too, Jessica’s hair even lanker than at the beginning of their encounter.

“Tony…” Sir Paul whispered.

It was at this point that bells and alarms began ringing, a great aura of activity overtaking the camp. The first refugees were arriving. Logan and Jessica hurriedly tidied themselves and dressed, Sir Paul remained within the restorative calm of an REM cycle. Leaving the plane Logan and Jessica were awed by the sight of a mass of humanity trailing from the tents set up outside the aircrafts’ perimeter to the horizon. Qataki’s in various states of health and distress were visible as far as the eye could see, for, media had so saturated their society that even within the context of a humanitarian crisis they had become cognisant of, and been able to find, the ersatz camp set up by I N Securities, Kruger Randwick Balls Associates, and the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal.

Diamanda looked down from the top of her plane, she regarded the dispossessed quizzically. “This’ll be interesting…” she muttered to herself. Jacintha, next to her, was delightfully, and honestly, gleeful, for this was to be the consummation of her desire to help and aid her fellow man, the commencement of acts of decency to be savoured.

Jamie, of an altogether more anxious disposition, however, regarded all this with some degree of alarm, expecting the worst he would be in no way prepared for the reality.

Forbes and his crew got to work, positioning themselves in the best possible way to cover the arrival of the refugees, a key sequence in the intended promotional material for the bank, the PR firm and, lastly, the charitable organisation. Forbes was confident, an acknowledged master in the use of cinematic chiaroscuro; he would do things with his cinematographer and natural light that would wow the juries of industry hacks that would bestow corporate awards. As he and his crew did so a troop of private security contractors who had also been hired bristled checking their weapons, ammo supplies and fields of fire, two man crews had taken up similar positions to those of Diamanda and Jacintha, atop some of the planes, and were able, with their machine gun nests, to envelope a security zone around the aircraft and ersatz camp, only a battalion could overwhelm them. They grinned menacingly, their eyes obscured by their mirror shades. Guardians of the putative humanitarian Dien Bien Phu.

Diamanda, carrying a folder, emerged from the lower hatch of the cargo plane she had been sunning herself on and desultorily made her way over to Jamie, who was attired in a designer t-shirt, air force blue shorts and a baseball cap, bearing I N’s logo.

“Guess who’s coming to dinner…?”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate, Diamanda; I mean, they’re starving…”

To Diamanda and Jamie’s right stood Logan and Jessica, who were soon joined by Jacintha. They silently contemplated the formless mass of the dispossessed.

Sir Victor, sporting a panama, wearing a cream linen suit, sky blue shirt, art deco tie, with pin, and a pair of correspondent shoes, emerged from another hatch, clasping a tablet and possessing an incongruously jaunty manner as he walked over to the others.

Sam Kent, beaming, emerged from behind the bulk of one of the other planes, having been directing the relief effort, his bumptious, obsequious manner plain for all to see, but perhaps especially pronounced within the context of a burgeoning humanitarian disaster.

The last to emerge was Sir Paul, who, finally woken by the hubbub, emerged looking slightly bemused and alarmed at the same time, his eye mask stuck to his forehead, he went over to Diamanda: “The guests have arrived?”

“Excellent powers of observation, Sir Paul.” Diamanda then turned to Jamie. “I guess you and I should go make contact with our friends across the way.”

“A good idea, Diamanda.” said an unexpected voice.

Diamanda and Jamie turned to see Chris Swayne stood in front of them.

“I’m here representing the interests of the British government, from the Foreign Office and the Department for International Development, don’cha know?” Swayne swigged from a hip flask.

“But…”

“Isn’t that right, Sir Victor?”

“All I know is, PM, DPM, call me, tell me to expect a call, official channels, a liaison it transpires, monitoring, that malarkey, no harm in it thinks I, after all, the good work we’re doing…”

“So, let’s say, you, me, and a guard or two, and, sound men, by the way, you could enjoy their company, Diamanda, Jamie, if you understand me’, Chris glibly twinkled, ‘head over in one of the jeeps to the other planes, present our credentials and get the ball rolling?”

“Well, why not.” said Diamanda amusedly.

Jamie silently consented.

The three flagged down a passing jeep crewed by two of the black-clad private security men and climbed aboard, first Jamie, then Diamanda, and finally Chris.  

“Why, Diamanda, you’re between us.”

“So I am.” she glibly rejoindered.

The jeep bumped along the rippled surface of the desert a warm breeze failing to detract from their discomfort in the heat and humidity in any meaningful way. After a few minutes they reached the distant collection of planes, a smaller, though even more important group than even their own. The jeep rolled right up to the nearest plane’s sealed entrance hatch and waited.

The wind carried the noise from the hordes of refugees which made it difficult, if not impossible, to tell whether any noise of movement or activity was emanating from within the bowels of the equivalently massive aircraft.

Eventually, however, the hatch opened and a ladder was thrust downward; a heavily accented voice asked them to “Com inh!”

Chris, Jamie and Diamanda dismounted from the jeep. Speaking to the private military contractors Chris told them to wait, turning to Diamanda and Jamie he said: “OK, we’re here to establish our bone fides, inform our partners what we want them to do, and, finding suitable partners in the camps, disperse the cargo among those parties agitating for a better Qatakistan, or at least that’s what I’ve understood the JIC to have instructed me to do, very hush hush, you know.” With that Chris proceeded to mount the ladder and enter the interior of the cargo plane, Diamanda and Jamie followed him.

The contrast between the painfully bright desert exterior and the grim, dark functionality of the aircraft’s interior was initially problematic taking them some seconds to adjust. The threesome found themselves surrounded by an array of peoples they, rightly, took to be from the post-Soviet republics.

“Hello, gentlemen, who I am and who you are is not important, but, these good people here, are the ones who have paid for your services and the equipment you have ferried from; well, where is not a detail the party I represent need to know…”

The plane’s captain, a swarthy, grandiloquently-mustachioed Kazakh, grunted, unimpressed by the MI6 man’s profuse verbiage.

“You have papers?” he asked curtly.

“Yes, we, ah, have papers proving purchase, as well as instructions for delivery.” Chris gestured for Diamanda or Jamie to provide the documents in question. Diamanda pulled them from a file she had been carrying and handed them to him. Jamie observed the transaction nervously, his old life in compliance having provided little in the way of prior experience to stand him in good stead for processing an arms deal.

The Kazakh perused the bilingual documentation, checking the signatures, the amounts of equipment and monies to be exchanged, and, most importantly, remembering his verbal instructions that, whoever should show up at the arranged rendezvous with the correct documentation and knowledge of the deal should be provided with the merchandise.

He nodded, looked up and, fixing Chris with a rueful stare, spoke: “So, what you want to do with arms?”

“Well, we are currently in the process of finding partners here, so, if you could unload the equipment somewhere out of sight of the camp, say over the crest of the next dune, that would be fine; you can then depart.”

The Kazakh looked at Swayne mulishly, narrowed an eye, and assented; he barked orders in Russian to his fellow crew members, one of whom then relayed the same over the radio link to the other planes’ crews.

Swayne turned to Diamanda and Jamie and smiled, exuding an air of satisfaction and confidence that, in its essential self-satisfaction, was positively Kentian, or so Diamanda thought.

A crew member gestured the three towards the exit hatch from whence they had entered, taking the hint they began to climb down the ladder one by one. Emerging into the bleaching, blinding light they eventually adjusted to find the area around the planes as, suddenly, as dense a hive of activity as that surrounding their own flight, though with a very different cargo. A mixture of muscular Slavs and beings clad in flight suits, their heads encompassed in visored helmets, were either shifting or directing the shifting of big boxes bearing Cyrillic markings, from the vast rear doors of the cargo planes. Unusual, especially purposed vehicles were also involved beeping and revving as they moved even heavier boxes. The perfectionist in Diamanda thrilled to the display of efficacy and muscularity, Jamie looked on bewildered, Swayne simply approved, swigging again.

Back at the mercy flight Sir Paul was being filmed by Forbes Ross.

“It’s a sense of mission, really, that’s what drives us.”

From off camera Forbes questioned the knight: “So that explains your presence here, in the desert?”

“Undoubtedly, or, rather, the challenge…You see, the way I see it is, we have a complex set of interlocking problems, which, as we know, can be solved, with mutual co-operation, which is what we have here, capital, both human and financial, working together to better our collective lot, very, very centrist, wouldn’t you say?”

Forbes quietly, without any pronounced display of enthusiasm, assented. Inwardly he was thinking that Sir Paul seemed to have a distinct lack of any real sense of self-awareness, he couldn’t tell where the well-spring of his good intentions intermingled with his self-interest, or even, whether, in fact, the latter was the sole original inspiration for his actions at all.

“I see Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates role in all this as being the catalyst for synergy, if you will, who but us, in this stage of human development, history, could plausibly have brought together so many disparate elements? Governments, becalmed by economic crisis haven’t the resources, or, more importantly, the will to be able to act in this way, nor do they have the capacity, an enterprise such as this - and, enterprise would be the word that I would use - requires greater specialization than the old, dare I say, analogue nature of government could possibly allow.” Sir Paul fluently made his sales pitch to the future clients of tomorrow, or at least those he supposed as such, he was not to know quite how things would turn out.

At this point a bemused refugee inadvertently walked into shot, to the surprise of Sir Paul, who hadn’t counted on having to directly deal with these people, as he, in the best and most sensitive of ways, considered them; though, to his mind, the encounter would soon transfigure itself into a heart-warming story capable of the utmost retelling at The Equality.

Having no common language mutual bemusement set in on the side of both parties; all the while Forbes’ pitiless, probing eye recorded the encounter between the knighted tribune of western privilege and the benighted, dispossessed Qataki, who would remain nameless to posterity.

Sir Paul struggled to determine what to do, there he sat, under the tarpaulin, shaded, well-dressed, doing an accustomed piece to camera, he had no food, no medicine to offer this indigent, and yet there he stood, plaintively, his very presence imploring something from the conventional western conscience that Sir Paul communed with.

Sir Paul, after some seconds, eventually decided that the best thing he could do would be to point the poor fellow in the right direction, and this he proceeded, ham-fistedly to do, as best he could, in the context of the wholly unexpected circumstances.

Haltingly he pointed him over to a party of bankers, or aid workers, or, or, well, he didn’t know!

After much nodding and mutual reassurance the refugee was eventually persuaded to go in the direction Sir Paul bid him.

Forbes looked at Sir Paul expectantly.

“See, where else do you get a very real, very human moment like that? …Well, who am I talking to; I dare say your own career is resplendent with such moments? The silver screen, and all that.” Forbes let Sir Paul continue. “You see, that’s part, a significant part, of what it’s all about, it’s why we’re here’, Sir Paul’s eyes did moisten, but Forbes was unsure whether that was because of any heartfelt emotion on his part or because of a sudden intensification of the desert winds, ‘it’s, it’s quite something…”

Sir Paul trailed off, he had spoken with all the passionate intensity of a man scheduled to dine in a very fine restaurant tomorrow evening, which was, if we are entirely honest, his accustomed mode of discourse, no matter how weighty, or awful the nature of the matter under discussion, in this Sir Paul was true to himself as in few if any other things.

Forbes smiled; he had the footage he needed.

Swayne, Diamanda and Jamie’s jeep rolled back into the encampment, at just the point when a half dozen military transport helicopters, including two Chinooks, flying in tight formation swept into view. This was, emphatically, not something that anyone from the constituent parties had expected. The helicopters had desert camouflage, but also bore the insignia of the Royal Qataki Air Force. Everyone, apart from the refugees, so fatalistically used to such interruptions, stood, their necks craned, gawking at the intruders. Jamie’s levels of trepidation reached hitherto unknown heights.

The helicopter formation flew around the camp curving to the left, observing this party, garnering an appreciation of their guests numbers, and, more importantly, equipment, intrigued by the large boxes being unloaded, more exercised by the hive of humanity and what it might mean.  

In the lead helicopter was Qusai, and, becoming aware of their guests, an idea began to form in his mind, helmeted, he shouted into his microphone.

“So, we have westerners, intruders, who might be threatened, it is, after all a dangerous situation…Let’s say we land, say hello, and, in the best of traditions, take them under our protection…”

“Yes, sir.”

Within seconds, swooping across the blinding face of the sun, the flight landed, at a spot judged to be beyond the firing range of the private military contractors, where it idled, a minatory presence in the distance.

“What now, sir?”

“Now,’ Qusai mischievously rejoindered, ‘we say hello…”

Qusai entered a Qataki armoured personnel carrier in the Chinook’s rear cabin, it rolled out of the back and trundled over the sand toward the encampment. Nearing it a single soldier was tasked with ascertaining who was in charge, that his leader might introduce himself. And so it was that a party of westerners came face to face with Qusai Muhammad bin Abdul bin Abdulazziz bin Qataki bin Qana bin Muhammed bin Tabir, who stood there, smiling fixedly at them, his pearly white teeth on display.

“Greetings, welcome to Qatakistan.”

The senior elements of the party stood there not knowing what to say.

“Who am I to address?”

This was mainly addressed to the two elder men of the party, though Qusai couldn’t help looking at Jacintha, Jessica, and Diamanda, perhaps especially the former, given her adherence to conventional norms of beauty, in both the mass and pornographic medias.

“Well, I’m Sir Paul Fennell, and this’, he gestured to his left, ‘is Sir Victor Carraway…”

Qusai paused momentarily, looking pensive. “Yes…yes…Ah! Of course, Sir Victor, I know this name, I believe we have accounts with you, or did. All this talk of sanctions one hears, however, one can never be entirely sure where one’s money is, or how little is left, am I right? A little post-crash humour, yes.” Qusai laughed heartily, the bankers somewhat less so. “For all I know it’s denominated in Yuan now, am I right?” Again mirthless laughter emanated from the Chinese backed bankers.

To be fair to many of the people present, few had any real idea who this strange man escorted by a small military force was, though among those who did was Sam Kent, who was somewhat taken aback and disgusted by the presence of the man who would become his own personal Joseph Kony. Kent could really only look on appalled as the knights of the realm and the infamous abuser seemed to exchange amiable chit chat. Jacintha, however, while sharing many of the same feelings, also couldn’t help but warm marginally to his charm, while also noticing how attractive he was, which was a disturbing notion, but not one that precluded her from returning his intense, inquiring looks. This would bother her more later.  

“You are aware, are you not, quite how dangerous a country Qatakistan is right now, what with the subterfuge, the dissension, often foreign backed’, and given his close relations with the Russians he would know, ‘and how there is always’, here Qusai leaned against the APC, ‘the potential for violence…” he looked at Jacintha.

“It is good of you to exhibit concern for us…” Sir Paul said.

“Merely a friendly warning…Though I wish, in accordance with our traditions, to extend our protection to you, at least while we tarry in the area…”

“Mr...?”

“Qusai, please, Sir Victor.”

“Qu…Qusai, we appreciate your concern, but, as you can see, we have sufficient protection…”

“Nonsense, Sir Victor, while we are here, you must consider us your friend and protector, we should hate to see anything happen to you…”

“Well, um, thank you, Qusai…”

“Quite alright, I’ll post some people around the perimeter, and I’ll see you later on.” With that Qusai jauntily swaggered around the back of the APC, the door slammed and it reversed slightly before juddering forward and turning left, sweeping back towards the outlying group of helicopters.

Sir Victor leaned into Sir Paul and said: “I think we had better talk…”

Despite Jamie’s concern it might be fairer to say that the most concerned individual was Swayne, he had been tasked with ensuring that the arms supply, which lay not far distant, should be funneled towards revolutionary groups, ideally of a liberal democratic hue, Swayne was not to know, for neither did the government, which had willfully ignored any suggestion to the contrary, that no such groups existed in Qatakistan. Swayne now found himself, and he had sense enough to realise this, effectively a hostage of the very man that his government least wanted to see become Emir.

Swayne was also not to know, however, that Qusai’s presence was owing to sheer chance, for he had, as yet, to be informed by the Russian Ambassador, Kropotkin, that the arms supply dump existed, never mind that he was close by, despite those large boxes that had elicited such interest from the air.  

Qusai would soon, however, be exercised by quite a different matter, his spies in the intelligence services tipped him off as to the Emir’s plans, the consequences of which we have already seen, and he would spend much of that afternoon making phone calls to various sympathizers in the military, with fateful consequences for those in Royal Square, as we have seen.

As for Ambassador Kropotkin, he would come to find himself in an identical manner to Angelica Hayek and Adeel Qadir, marooned in a private jet idling on the airfield of Ast’Qana International Airport, unable to establish communication with anyone possessed of sufficient authority to allow him to leave, a prisoner of the circumstances that would unfold in Royal Square. This was, clearly, irksome for him, given the information that he had to confide to Qusai.

At around the same time a terse, cryptic message began to light up the communications grid of, if not exactly the entire Anglosphere, at least those parts of it that knew what to look for, which, at that stage, included a small team at GCHQ specifically tasked with handling the communications of an agent in the western Qataki desert, identity unknown, and a lovelorn Archer Strachan, obsessively maintaining an eye on Jacintha’s whereabouts.

The message read simply: THE GROUSE HAS BEEN SNIFFED BY ANOTHER PARTY’S HOUNDS.

The terminology puzzled Archer, being of that generation of younger Americans less marinaded in the historical British influence in American life; had a hip hop reference been used, or even a pop cultural one he would have been aware of quite what was meant, but this left him baffled, its proximity to Jacintha, however, caused him concern.

The GCHQ team, however, at least knew what to do with the message - at least by the initiative deadening lights of modern British bureaucracy - it was passed to a senior watch officer, who, in turn, passed it to his directorate chief, who, in his turn, passed it to the deputy director general, who passed it to the director general, who kept it among his papers until the next JIC meeting prior to the next NSC meeting, whereupon it was, among other tidbits of the sigint trade, passed to the aged chairman of the JIC, who would at least have some cognisance of what the message, in fact, portended. Unfortunately, he was cursory in his appraisal of the copious documentation he had received from the full panoply of Her Majesty’s intelligence and security services; he’d been scheduled to attend the Royal Opera House that night, Fidelio, and only came to more carefully scrutinise the papers in question the following morning, and, at approximately the same moment he was tenderly sipping a freshly served cup of tea became cognisant of the message from Swayne and what it portended, there followed an ingestion of the scalding hot liquid down the wrong tube, a panicked reaction to this, a painful coughing fit, and, eventually, eyes streaming, a return to his capacity to breath fairly normally. The National Security Council was not going to like this.

The National Security Council convened that afternoon. As usual its deliberations were dominated by talk of Islamist plots, both fantastical and terrifying, Irish provos, and a smorgasbord of far right terror groups, some mixing bizarrely druidical mythology together with such touchingly nostalgic technologies as the nail bomb. Here, toward the close of business, the prime minister turned to the chairman of the JIC, and asked him, euphemistically, how well British measures for aiding the revolutionaries in Qatakistan were going? Pathetically Steve looked on enthusiastically.

“Well, prime minister…”

Qusai, contrarily, responded quite optimistically when, having returned to Ast’Qana, another civil servant was finally able to inculcate him into the secret of what some of the more outlying constituent planes of the mercy flight contained within their cavernous cargo holds.

“Why, Boris, with this wonderful, wonderful news, we can secure our succession!” Qusai beamed effulgently. The psychotic playboy, possessed of a dark and swarthy charisma and attractiveness, seemed to terrifyingly grow in stature before Boris’s very eyes.

“Yes, indeed, Qusai…”

“And there is so much else we can do with this’, Qusai drowned out the dour conveyor of contrarily positive news, ‘we have been handed - How you say? - a propaganda coup by the west!”

“Indeed so; which brings me to the other part of my instructions, we think it best, in both our interests, that, we co-ordinate the release of this news.”

“Of course, of course, you will wish to make something of this at the UN, I assume?”

“The president, I understand, wishes to underline recent diplomatic failures, and hopefully inculcate, in our diplomatic partners, a more realistic and constructive view of diplomacy…”

“Say no more, Boris, I have always, as you know, been a great friend of the president’s, and his wishes to humiliate certain parties carry all my best wishes.” Here the rational, devious part of Qusai’s nature won out over his accustomedly more psychotic impulses. Qusai called a number of factotums into the room and, between them, they coordinated how best they might use the unfolding situation to their advantages.

Neither of the sides in this proxy conflict, however, gave any real consideration to another, altogether more vital factor, in the unfolding horror in Qatakistan. Abdul Mubdee, grim visaged voice of the Arab street, successful liberator of a sizeable tranche of the Royal Qataki Forces’ elite regiments’ equipment, playing at his own private Battle of Algiers, had quietly assembled his key people in an unassuming suburban house in Ast’Qana’s eastern quarter. The formerly comparatively repressed religious element of Qataki national life, religious police aside, since loosed under the now deposed Emir’s liberal amnesty, enacted at the behest of American and fashionable Western opinion – indeed so impressed had one wealthy eminent Western citizeness been by the gesture that she and her famed boyfriend has shot a viral video alikening the now catatonic Emir to Gandhi – now glared at each other across Abdul Mubdee’s sitting room, deferring to the hero of Royal Square, awaiting what he had to say, unconsciously awaiting the issuance of a pronunciamiento.

“The time is ripe!” one declaimed.

“Not yet, we must await how the dice fall!” exclaimed another.

“What say you, Brother Abdul!?!” implored a third of Abdul Mubdee.

Abdul Mubdee narrowed his eyes and glowered at them. He maintained his silence for some seconds before, eventually, deciding to speak.

“The army is riven. A minority - I suspect - retain some loyalty to the Emir. Quite what they will do, depending on whether the Emir is dead or not, we cannot say. The majority support Qusai. Foreign powers, however, may tip the balance, though, in quite what way, we cannot say. I do, however, believe, fervently, and Allah willing that this crisis represents our best possible moment; we can use it to advance Allah’s will in Qatakistan!”

Murmurs of assent were heard throughout the room.

“What do you suggest!?”

“Simply, that we play our part in exacerbating the conflict. We have our recently acquired weapons, and if we should, play the part of rebels to the western powers, do our bit to buttress the minority in the armed forces, who will, naturally, bear the brunt of Qusai’s offensive, whilst gathering aid from our brothers abroad, step back, and, when the time is right, the Emir’s cause having been lost and Qusai having exhausted himself, assert ourselves.” Abdul Mubdee’s quiet, fanatical intensity and callous, considered cynicism was enough for his gathered coterie.

“So, we are for the Emir?” One man questioned, smilingly.

Abdul Mubdee demurred slightly “You are for the Emir, we are for Allah.”

The meeting broke up in joyous accord, those in attendance were bodily satisfied that Abdul Mubdee had pointed them in the right direction; while he himself was as satisfied by another factor in the meeting, one which, furthermore, had gone unremarked upon; the fact that, unthinkingly, unquestioningly, those in attendance had looked to him to guide them, to lead them in the next stage of the revolutionary struggle. Abdul Mubdee smiled wanly at this realisation, and then amusedly, for this turn of events did much to speak to his peculiar sense of humour, a humour framed more by irony than by anything else. He looked out of the first floor window at the deceptively calm Ast’Qanan night, the city felt, contrarily, edgy, restive, and it was in these feelings, feelings that most others would find chilling, that he felt the presence of opportunity. He had led his people, as he increasingly thought of them, in defiance of the Emir and the security services, he had survived, as if by providential assurance, the massacre in Royal Square, he had slipped from the grasp of Qusai’s loyalists in the military, and had, along with his fellow Islamists, liberated a cache of weapons, he had, he felt, and rightly, all the makings of the third and decisive force in Qataki affairs and, in this moment of quiet, contented repose, he was sure that he would rid Qatakistan of two things, Tufts Q. Seabright III, and the spectre, as he saw it, of the Olympic bid. Such thought would be confided to his diary as he proceeded to sit and write under the eve of the window, heartened by his communion with the air and what it both communicated to him and portended.

As Abdul Mubdee resided in central Ast’Qana Qusai issued his own instructions, following his agreement with Boris Kropotkin, a second regiment was tasked with, in the euphemism, providing enhanced security to the aid colony of the mercy flight in the western desert. Qusai had also begun to accustom himself to the requirements of governance. Colonel Qays had been lucky, his failures at the Royal Palace were overlooked in the light of Boris Kropotkin’s good news and the appearance that Qusai was on the verge of decisively winning the civil war; he found himself appointed Qusai’s new chief of the defence staff. Various other hangers-on also found new responsibilities bestowed upon them - and, in their defence, they were, in the main, neither noticeably more or less incapable of assuming their new duties as their Anglo-American counterparts were after the Iraq war – one man was rather surprised to find himself tasked with running the judicial proceedings against the former Emir, who had been removed from the capital to an army base where he was treated with all due dignity and decorum, or as much dignity and decorum as one can extend to the catatonic.

With the impending seizure of the British arms shipment Qusai found himself having to deal with yet another one of those insoluble quandaries, what was he to do with the American ambassador and his staff, or the other western ambassadors and their staffs?

“Ambassador Seabright…is a special case, is he not?”

“Might I suggest, Emir, that we regard, and treat, Ambassador Seabright in much the same way as we are treating the bankers and charity workers in the desert, they are guests of the new regime until such a time as their security can be fully assured, when we shall be all too happy to escort them out of the country, given current uncertainty?”

“And, if not, we can always use them as out and out hostages…Yes, I like it. It makes the sense.”

And with this cheery assent Qusai adjusted jauntily to a terrifying new stage of the conflict.

Tufts found that the uncertainty of his position, against what was, correctly, assumed to be the unfolding horror, was dealing a distinct blow to his psyche. Where before he had blithely, confidently, and liberally averred the encouraging direction of reform in the Emirate he increasingly looked to Colby Tenet for a lead. Tenet was, unwittingly, not best placed to fulfill this role, given his penchant for stories about his experiences with The Company in the Middle East, many of which bordered on the grotesque; his fascination with hostage crises, which he had, hitherto, luckily avoided involvement in, would prove to exert an especially disturbing influence on the Special Envoy’s ruminations. In the meantime, many of the embassy’s procedures attended to themselves, serving as displacement activity, and keeping the potentially more fevered members of staff, from indulging in too great a level of unwelcome conjecture, given their sheer busyness. In days to come the Special Envoy would find himself, like Abdul Mubdee, his unconscious, on his part, bête noir, staring out of the window at the unreal calm of Ast’Qana as the two major combatant sides prepared themselves for the next round in the contest for its governance. Ended had the giddying round of public appearances and private tête a tête with reformist elements, Tufts started to have nightmares in which, crazed, his increasingly fragile grip on sanity gone, he would walk out the embassy’s front gates into a violent mob screaming “TAKE ME TO THE REFORMISTS!!!” as they proceeded to mercilessly hack him to pieces and, finally, behead him as an offering to their angry, anti-American God.

                   IX

“Do you deny that you were in the processes of ordering a massacre, as black, as foul a crime against the people of Qatakistan as could possibly be envisaged, a crime unconscionable in the eyes of Allah!?! ANSWER THE QUESTION!!!”

The Emir drooled as he sat slanted to his left in the defendant’s box. To say the prosecutor was finding it frustrating to cross examine the defendant would be an understatement. He had entered the fifth hour of his show trial denunciation of the former Emir, now unacknowledged catatonic patient, and only a capacity for invective bordering on the insane had enabled him to embark on the ludicrous task of denouncing the formerly mild mannered paediatrician. To be fair the authorities had done their best to dress Abbas for the occasion, his dark, impenetrable glasses and western dress – Brioni - served to distance him from his people, whilst the black propaganda put out by the regime did much to emphasise his refusal to co-operate with judicial proceedings, callous contempt for the court, and, by extension, the people. To his silence was imputed the worst of human motivations.

“Only then did the heroic figure of Colonel Qays, under the orders of the Emir’s own brother, Qusai – and how he grieves over these proceedings – prevent you from carrying out the bloody, intended execution of the flower of Qatakistan’s youth, assembled in Royal Square; from murdering, in cold blood, your own people; have you no shame!!?!!”

Abbas slanted further, a hand briefly surfaced from beneath the lip of the defendant’s bullet proof box; that of one of the two soldiers crouched in the box and tasked with righting the defendant occasionally, a sight caught by the cameras the regime had assigned to monitor the court proceedings for Qatakistan and the world.

Among the appalled global viewership watching the judicial grotesqueries unfold on a local, English-language rolling news station, were Lord Placeman and Sir Tristram Barnard.

“It’s a travesty of justice, Peter. The UN should really be leading on this.”

“I know, Tris, I know.” Both men nodded sagely, their sound internationalist instincts affronted by the revanchist ‘judicial’ proceedings taking place before their very eyes.

Sir Tristram disinterestedly swept some fluff from his shoulder as he prepared to address the purpose of his visit to Lord Placeman’s office.

“We’re making every preparation possible for the coverage of the…Well, hostage crisis isn’t the right term, is it?” He looked plaintively at Lord Placeman, hoping for a cue.

“Indeed, I mean, given how things are in Qatakistan, and, as awful as Qusai is, one can’t help but feel that the expressed concerns of the Qataki regime have some validity, I’m sure you’d agree, Tris?”

Sir Tristram nodded fervently. He was sure the news division’s fresh-faced ingénues and ornery old liberators of many a foreign capital, even if self-proclaimed, would agree with Lord Placeman’s consideration, eminently sensible as it was.

“It does beg the question though, how do we handle the political aspects of our relations, as a newscaster, with the Qataki regime?”

“I quite agree, difficult stuff…’ Lord Placeman peered over the top of his glasses and gurned slightly, an accustomed pose for the tribune of the establishment.

“I mean, what if, Qusai were to offer us access, or, worse, an interview…?”

“We’d be rather torn, between impartiality, to an extent, and either accusations of censorship, or, worse, propagandising on behalf of a vicious governmental regime…”

Both men were thinking pretty much the exact same thing, why can’t these guys, or, in Lord Placeman’s chosen term, chaps, be decent people, like us? Sir Tristram wracked his brains attempting to find an answer that would allow him to square his principles with a squalid reality, naturally this pained him. Both men were left staring out the Director General’s window at the London cityscape bereft of any semblance of an answer to such unwelcome considerations.

In the Qataki desert another of Her Majesty’s knights was facing a different conundrum, having been unable to leave following the imposition of the security cordon Sir Paul Fennell had become torn between increasing concern about when he would be able to resume his business schedule, and his all too plain interest in Diamanda. This had served to bring him into conflict with an indeterminately named major of the Qataki Army, as well as, Miss Sangrail. One says conflict, but, it would be altogether more accurate to describe it as, on Sir Paul’s part, impotent fulmination, accurately so, given Diamanda’s actions.

Diamanda had started to increasingly resent the cloying presence of Sir Paul, always, pathetically attempting to ingratiate himself with her. She could hardly tarry around the camp without him beckoning to her, sure that his attentions could be nothing other than welcome.

“Ah, Diamanda, how are we today? You’re looking well, tanned; not wasting the opportunity, I see.” He enquired of her lasciviously, his maroon eyes undressing her.

Something in Diamanda snapped. She turned to him and, regarding him caustically, with arms wide open advanced on the advertising panjandrum. Clasping him to her she dripped acid into his right ear: “Listen to me, Pauly, I have expressed to you several times the fact that I have no romantic, or even merely sexual interest in you; in fact, I find you quite repulsive, and not even in the sense of enjoying inflicting certain forms of behaviour on you! Leave me alone, or there will be consequences even more painful than this in future!!!” Diamanda proceeded to swiftly knee Sir Paul between the legs.

Sir Paul, now in an infinitude of agonies, maroon eyes weeping, dropped to the floor. Diamanda casually strolled off. Forbes camera crew caught the contretemps from a distance, the director nodding approvingly.

Now bearing ill will toward Diamanda Sir Paul came instead to fixate on the major, it seemed safer. He would spend long periods spying on his new bête noir from the cockpit of the grounded mercy flights’ lead plane, muttering about the costs of delayed meetings, how he missed the food of Michelin-starred restaurants in the region approximating the arc of crisis. In this way did his burgeoning derangement manifest itself.

In contrast Sir Victor Carraway exhibited a bluff good humour which belied his own gnawing concerns over the situation, for who can regard a hostage situation with equanimity? He conducted his and the wider camp’s relations with their guardsmen with a hearty demeanour, Nicholson to the unnamed major’s Saito.

The security cordon within the cordon, which sealed off the outlying planes from the central group, and what it meant became the subject of much speculation within the mercy flight. Theories ricocheted around, Qusai obviously had some dark purpose, perhaps he was fitting the planes to serve as decoys, or to be used for the purposes of some outrage aimed at garnering public sympathy for the regime?

“Why are those planes cordoned off?” asked Jacintha distractedly.

“Jac, it’s pointless to speculate, we have no way of knowing what’s going on.”

Diamanda laughed. “For all we know they’re being used to funnel arms in to fuel the conflict!”

“That’s an awful suggestion, who would do such a thing?” Jacintha responded.

“Who indeed…” Diamanda replied sardonically. Swayne tried best not to react while Field’s eyes, unseen, bulged out of his skull.

Observing all this was the skittering presence of Forbes Ross, whose own response to being in the midst of a hostage crisis was to focus on the opportunities it afforded him as a filmmaker. His camera crew had taken its cue from the sense of purpose this had lent him. Busily they shot as much stock footage as they could, Forbes own sense of cinematic possibility caused him to ruminate on the influence of the verité style and how it might inform his own documentary account of the unfolding crisis, which led to a distinct blurring of artistic endeavour with reality. Whose cognitive dissonance was he best essaying, his own, his compatriots’, Qusai’s from afar? The cinematic technicians under his command found themselves distracted from the distraction of their present situation by the distraction of their tasks; Walter in particular was tasked with engaging in near avant-garde sonic experimentation with the sound of the hostage crisis.

In Downing Street the National Security Council assembled aiming to delineate some semblance of a response to the failure of Plan Grouse, or, more publicly, to the threatened British aid effort in the western Qataki desert.

“We can’t recognize Qusai’s regime!”

“Why not?” Harry Clark, the jaded minister, asked pointedly.

“Because he’s a human rights abuser!” interjected the deputy prime minister, in his accustomedly touchingly naïve fashion.

Harry smirked at this morally decisive consideration.

“But, if we can’t communicate with the person ostensibly protecting…”

“Threatening.” said Steve.

“Our people’, continued the prime minister, ‘then how can we possibly arrange for their return?”

So the deliberations went circuitously on, but the shadow play for the deeper game that the prime minister and his sub-altern had unleashed. Afterwards the prime minister, Steve and the Chairman of the JIC met privately.

“So, Grouse has…misfired…?” The prime minister asked euphemistically.

“It does seem that way, prime minister.” replied the Chairman in civil serviceese.

“What does that mean?” asked the deputy prime minister stupidly.

“It means, deputy prime minister’, replied the Chairman with great  forbearance, and taking time to calibrate his language accordingly, ‘that it would appear that the arms shipment provided by IN Securities, at the behest of Her Majesty’s Government, has fallen into the arms of Qusai’s faction…”

“But…but…’ Steve responded, mouth agape.

“Well, Steve, certainly that was never anyone’s intention.” The prime minister didn’t speak for the Russians.

“But…”

“Well, it does seem to present something of a problem.” The prime minister betrayed no sense that he was at all alarmed by something that could destroy his government, aware as he was of that fact. “Perfututum, and all that…”

“Indeed, prime minister.” agreed the Chairman.  

Steve continued to be struck dumb by moral horror.

In their different ways the prime minister and his deputy were as dumbstruck as Lord Placeman and Sir Tristram. At least the Anglo-French squadron had leisurely rounded the Cape of Good Hope, almost mockingly named, given the circumstances.

“It’s no bloody good, admiral!”

“Captain?”

“This cross training programme!”

Admiral Byrne replied measuredly, confident in the good judgement of a managerialist, fully cognisant of the correctitude of his metrics. “Nonsense, Blyth. It’s merely a question of time, I’m quite sure we can evolve a joint doctrine between ourselves and the French.”

“That’s the third misfire we’ve simulated since we left Biscay!”

“Simulated, Blyth, that’s the key, we’re showing the flag, the government has no intention of doing anything more than that, we loiter off Qatakistan’s shore, negotiations proceed, our people are securely escorted out, the UN brokers an agreement, peace reigns, it’s the way of intervention.”

Blyth rolled his eyes. Byrne was a systems man, well regarded by the bureaucracy, hence his command, to have any different figure afloat risked inflaming the situation.

Byrne returned to scanning the horizon with his Zeiss glasses, marveling at the tech, not at all worried about how good management would see all right, to port he saw the grey boxed superstructure of the French frigate Darlan, what could go wrong, he thought? So went the most disastrous British naval expedition east of Suez since Force Z.

“You’re kidding me?”

“No, Emir, most assuredly I am not.”

“She’s here? In Qatakistan?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, an émigré group with links to our faction succeeded in persuading her to come and see Qatakistan, to see for herself, despite the slander and lies.”

“No shit!” Qusai stated emphatically.

“So, we thought, we’d show her the welfare arrangements, the atrocities committed by the other side’, Qusai winked, pointed at him, and laughed heartlessly, ‘the better side of the government, the worst side of its opponents.”

“Ah, the useful idiots.” Qusai smiled wistfully. “I approve.”

“Thank you, Emir.”

“…What’s she like?” Qusai asked of Angelica Hayek.

“As one would expect of her movies.” replied the factotum.

“A western slut?”

“Precisely.”

“Perhaps, after she is duly primed, by her experiences in our tragic, war-torn nation, a meeting might be arranged?” Qusai dissimulatingly enquired.

“Indeed, Emir.”

Already, in that diabolical mind, the person and consequences of which were so loathed by all right thinking people, an idea had begun to take root - might Angelica Hayek prove the morally flexible Grace Kelly amenable to sufficient inducement and his tyrannical spin on Prince Rainier in this hellish, quintessentially 21st century Monaco on the Gulf? Qusai arched his eyebrows and stared over his desk at an oblique angle, strange to consider the geometric possibilities…He had seen her movies, classics of their vacuous, populist genre, the poster girl of gross out comedy, might she not wish to partake, centre-stage in the finest, grossest role she could possibly play in the nascent century? Obviously, Qusai didn’t consciously ask these questions, but a dim awareness of the possibility of their being asked did flicker briefly, oh so briefly, across his consciousness as he contemplated Angelica Hayek’s bounteously pneumatic form, that T’n’A emblazoned across a myriad of Hollywood’s highest profile promotional ephemera, and associated filmic possibilities.

Colby Tenet had spent much of the morning burning potentially politically, as opposed to merely physically, incendiary material at a pace he considered dismayingly glacial; the Qataki authorities’ had recently cut power to the western embassies mainly as a psychological measure, while the poorly serviced generators had failed soon after they had been switched on, which knocked out the top of the range shredding machines installed in all US embassies as a matter of course after the embarrassment in Tehran following their revolution. Half the embassy staff were arrayed around him doing the same, a pleasant task, given the temperature, and the failure of the air-conditioning too. It at least gave the staff something to take up their time with, their accustomed social and cultural programmes, curtailed as they had been for a slew of security reasons, in Ast’Qana having been cancelled, indefinitely.

“I’ve heard we’re being used as human shields?”

“Has anyone heard anything from Washington?”

“They can’t just leave us here?”

Tenet listened to the gossip uninterestedly, much of it was the justifiable concern of those accustomed to hoping in the future, he had his task in hand to complete and fully expected that he would find himself either extra-judicially, or - depending on how committed the new regime was to the semblance of the rule of law - judicially executed, he was the station chief, after all.

Precious little of it was informed, given their internment the Special Envoy, as Tufts insisted on being referred to, and himself, previously the two most informed people in the embassy, were definitely out of the loop, and, with the power out, as well as the need to conserve batteries in still functioning laptops and tablets, communication with Foggy Bottom and Langley had become intermittent.

An hour or so later Tenet was called in to see Tufts, a Tufts wearied by the psychological strain of his position, a Tufts named presidential special envoy but unable to make any phone calls with any chance of getting through, or even, necessarily answered.

“Colby!” he exclaimed in the tones of a man patently reaching for reassurance, and, in the confines of the embassy’s hierarchy, to whom he expected to find them.

“Special Envoy.” Tenet replied somberly.

“Any news from Washington!?”

“My understanding is that the president is closely monitoring the situation, but is determined not to risk any undue provocation.” Tenet answered with a faint undercurrent of disgust.

“Good, good; the president’s a sound man, he knows what we’re trying to do here, bring about the best possible result for ourselves, Qatakistan, and democracy.” Distinct anti-American chanting could be heard emanating from the embassy’s outer walls. “I mean, other administrations might have just waded in, guns blazing’, Tufts said with distaste, ‘but not this one…” Tufts went vacant.

“Special Envoy, have you had any success in arranging a meeting with the new regime?”

“Any day now, I’m sure; wheels, Colby, wheels, but you know that. It’s, it’s a dance, we have a degree of mutual distrust to overcome, but, I’m sure we can restore relations, which is not to say they’re severed, Colby, merely, merely strained…” Tufts went vacant again, his mouth agape.

“Well, Special Envoy, I’ll be sure to let Washington know, as soon as that can be arranged.” He left, Tufts still ruminating in a world of his own, divorced from the horrific reality of the near besieged embassy.

Archer Strachan was at his station, and, rather than working on any pressing assignment, bestowed by his golfing fascist supervisor, was feverishly monitoring the British media’s coverage of the hostage crisis in the desert. One left-leaning paper was running a live poll on public attitudes to the crisis, which found that, overwhelmingly, the bankers and advertising executives lacked sympathy, Archer found the comments, representative, to be vituperative in the extreme:

“I say we let the Qataki’s keep them, maybe they know how to treat bankers!?! They’re parasites; death’s too good for them. Sexist, racist *****; I hate them. All they do is hurt ordinary people, they’re awful!!!”

“****ing ****ers, because of them we’re having cuts, what with their friends in the C***servative party! Qataki workers will sort them out!!! I hope they die out there!!!!!!!!!!”

“Join Thatcher, in HELL!!!”

There was, however, a degree of schizophrenia, owing to the tragic involvement of the aid workers, who garnered sympathy, this was outweighed by the visceral hatred directed at the bankers and public relations and private security types who made up the majority of the mercy flight’s personnel. One was left with the distinct impression that if the aid workers were returned unharmed very little of that paper’s readership would have an especially hard time accepting a bloodbath, but then, so works human sympathy.

Archer would definitely accept that view, but he was also looking at this particular paper’s website with a certain goal in mind. Given its record he felt that he had the best possible tool for his purposes. How could he best ensure the public dissemination of the information that he had previously entrusted to the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, and which it had used to bounce – to put it no more strongly – I N Securities into providing aid to Qatakistan? So ran his thought processes as the warm, lively graphics of the news organisation’s website reflected off his glasses and scrolled across his drawn face and beaked nose.

He began to draft an email pregnant with much consequence.

“For too long I have been silent, knowing what I know, seeing what I have seen, I can no longer, in good conscience, allow certain parties to continue to embark upon a course I consider ruinous, disastrous, and entirely out of accord with humane concerns for the less advantaged people in our world. A clique, a coterie, of the wealthy, the powerful, who are both ignorant and callous to boot, have been in charge of a colossal, hateful machine that risks destroying us all, this can, no longer, be allowed to continue…”

“Ah, Steve, sit down.” The prime minister gestured to his colleague.

A Steve distracted by news that the UN wished him to accept a roving diplomatic mission to broker peace in Qatakistan never failed to be impressed by the prime minister’s trappings and his boss’s sense of style, his eye momentarily fell on a silver framed portrait of Harold Macmillan artfully displayed on his desk.

The prime minister and his deputy were meeting in the former’s House of Commons office, ensconced in the Palace designed by Barry and Pugin, the meeting had about it a conspiratorial air.

“Would you care for a dram?” Taking it as a given the PM exhibited his usual politesse as he decanted the aged whiskey into a pair of cut glasses.

Steve murmured an odd, indistinct sound of assent.

“Plan Grouse appears to have misfired, colossally.” He emphasised as he handed the glass to Steve, who continued his murmuring.

“The question becomes, Steve, what do we do about it, how do we pull some irons from the fire, how do we manage perceptions?” The PM asked, lapsing into his former trade, that of the PR professional.

Steve looked at the PM puzzlingly.

“I know, Steve, a man of your…vision, will have a suggestion, how do we save, something from this…?” The PM aped Steve’s puzzled look.

Steve thought, and, after a lapse so painful that the PM himself was about to break the silence offered the following: “A…A RESCUE!!!” Steve’s face broke, momentarily, from its accustomed state of near blankness and inanity.

“A rescue, Steve?”

“A RESCUE!!!!!”

“Steve, it’s, it’s daring…’ The PM artfully egged him on. “It would have to be hush hush…”

“Yes!’ Steve’s mind raced. “You, me, the chairman of the JIC, the NSA, the defence minister’, the PM grimaced at that suggestion, ‘the defence staff!”

“We might consider, first, determining the feasibility of the operation, Steve.”

“Of course!”

“I mean, coincidentally, I’m due to meet Admiral Conroy here soon; you’re welcome to stay…” the prime minister mock innocently averred.

Steve jumped at the opportunity, his inveterate, cock-eyed optimism, which belied his visage, getting the better of him, as with Roland Williams, FCO’s, document concerning Qatakistan, he foresaw great possibilities, and himself in the accustomed role of the hero, once again.

Presently Admiral Frederick D’Eath Conroy entered the room. Admiral Conroy was a true Whitehall warrior; while, ordinarily, a military or naval officer’s achievements might perhaps more properly be measured by battle honours won by gallant actions undertaken and duly rewarded Admiral Conroy’s own achievements were best reflected in the exorbitantly expensive procurement projects saved from timeserving defence ministers eager for economies; Cunninghams and Frasers might have won victories of fame and renown against Axis naval forces in ages past, just as Alanbrookes strategized the defeat of the Third Reich, but Admiral Conroy had preserved the Future Carrier Force, sans planes, and, during the Falklands Conflict, he had ensured that one of Her Majesty’s ships was sufficiently ready to partake of the post conflict patrol of formerly contested British waters. Presently, as Chief of the Defence Staff he stood before the Queen’s ministers.

“Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister.” Conroy nodded curtly.

“A rescue!” Steve gabbled.

“I’m sorry, deputy prime minister?”

“What Steve’s saying, Admiral; and glass, by the way?’, the admiral nodded his own assent, ‘Is that we’re wondering whether it would be possible to mount a rescue of the British hostages in Qatakistan, obviously not those in the embassy, who are covered by diplomatic immunity?” Which the prime minister assumed, correctly, still held, in this instance.

Admiral Conroy contemplated this troubling development as the prime minister handed him a crystal tumbler liberally filled with scotch.

“I am, of course, duty bound to inform you as to the risks, there are no guarantees with this sort of thing.” Or so he recalled being told by a former head of special forces during a hypothetical conversation once.

“Naturally. But, increasingly the risks of doing nothing do seem to outweigh the risks of attempting something; isn’t that right, Steve?”

Steve murmured oddly again.

“I can make no immediate promises, prime minister, but an appraisal on the matter will be on your desk tomorrow, is that good enough for you?” Conroy drained his glass, feeling the effects, he being of that post rum-ration generation of naval officers.

“Indeed, admiral.”

It will not surprise you to learn that the appraisal would have a degree of cross-Whitehall input and that, by the wonders of bureaucratic inertia no one had stopped the secondment of a certain foreign office civil servant from the Qataki desk to the MOD for just those sort of purposes. Consequently Roland Williams found himself among the largely military professionals responsible for drafting the proposals for what became Operation Albatross. Roland Williams’ especial contribution to the document was to consider the likely impact on the contemporaneous American hostage crisis in Ast’Qana, with the increased likelihood of a move against them whatever the outcome of Albatross, as well as the wider diplomatic scene.

By this point, however, given that communication between Washington and its Qataki embassy was inconsistent, while that within the American government was never especially strong to begin with, it was largely felt that Albatross had a greater chance of execution, for, it was whispered, The Quad was in favour, it having been mentioned as a possibility during a considered discussion on problems with the economy.

The next NSC meeting found itself dominated by consideration of Albatross. Admiral Conroy outlined the proposal:

“Both SAS regiments will enter the vicinity of the hostages by helicopter, they will have air support from two squadrons of Typhoons, while two RAF Transport Command jets will be used to exfiltrate the hostages; we being unsure as to whether the planes they arrived in are still serviceable or not. The forward base for British forces will be our joint training facility with the Saudis on the Red Sea, this minimises the diplomatic disruption the operation will likely occasion.”

“So, the defence minister, and you concur on the planning for Operation…?”

“Albatross, Home Secretary.”

“Albatross?”

“Yes, we do.” confirmed the grey, hatchet faced defence minister.

Harry annotated his paper: “I do hope it isn’t becalmed.”

“What about the Americans?”

“Well, both the foreign secretary and I have spoken with the president and secretary of state respectively, it’s our understanding that Washington is hoping to downplay its own problems with Qatakistan, rather than risk a violent anti-American explosion, and that we shouldn’t feel inhibited in justifying such an action.” The prime minister dissimulated to an extent, if anything he got the distinct impression Washington would welcome the distraction of an anti-British outburst.

“When can we expect Albatross to take effect?”

“Well, we can begin the logistical build up the moment we receive approval, as for launching the operation that will require further approval which will have to come after a period of acclimatization anyway.”

“A period of acclimatization?”

“Yes, say a week, given the difficulties.” Admiral Conroy alluded to the presence of what were assumed to be a battalion of bored Qusai loyalists kicking their heels in the desert.

“I think we’re prepared to sanction the build-up stage of Operation Albatross, aren’t we deputy prime minister?” The prime minister was eager to dip as many hands in any possible blood as possible.

“Hmm, yeah, hmmm, undoubtedly…” came the half murmured, half-strangulated response from the man who supposed himself to be the heroic fountainhead of what had become Operation Albatross.

Logan had surreptitiously secreted himself inside one of the cargo plane’s toilets, he had found the ongoing crisis difficult to handle, mainly because of how it had deadened the collective libido, excepting his own, and also made Jacintha and Jessica look increasingly frazzled and threadbare, additionally the psychological pressures of the scenario had begun to make the female contingent increasingly synch. This left Logan tormented by his hypersexual need for penetrative sex and the visual norms of western, urban, upper middle-class beauty, or at least its trashier, pornier equivalent. It was to this end that he had, still functioning iPad in one hand, locked himself away and found himself scanning web cams for suitable fodder. He found a sufficiently nubile teen and entered private chat with her.

“Yeah, uhm, let me see your pussy.”

The girl started massaging her nether regions “Yeah, you like that, don’cha?”

               “Yeah, I do, you have a really, really nice pussy.” Logan had propped the iPad at an angle on the sink and was rather busy with his left hand.

“Yeah, do you like…”

At just this point the sound of machine gun fire rattled out and shafts of light burst through the airplane toilet fuselage, the iPad cracked loudly and bounced off the counter against the ceiling, Logan was terrified, he crouched as quickly as possible as lowly as possible and, panickedly, grabbed at the lock desperately trying to open it as his hands shook violently, or nearly as violently as at least one of them had been shaking before. Successfully opening the toilet door he burst into the cabin and crouching along for the exit he desperately tried to do his trousers up. Glimpsing out the window he saw that one of the bankers had become the latest victim of the live fire incidents that had begun to plague the mercy flight in its guarded, grounded state.

Logan scrambled down the top deck stairs into the bowels of the plane and out the back, running, sensibly away from the direction of fire.

During the course of the siege the mercy flight’s staff had gradually abandoned the outer-lying planes, near to the mysteriously guarded late arrivals, after a number of incidents which had seen such figures as Dan from HR or Tom from forex whittled away, in the face of bored, callous, uncomfortable Qusai loyalists of the Qataki Army.

Sir Victor and Sir Paul, in their guise as the ostensible social leaders of the enterprise, had entreated an equally unnamed colonel, who had superseded the major, to order his men to take greater care, given the humanitarian dictates under which they were operating. The colonel had, naturally, agreed with the two knights’ concerns, with little if any noticeable effect on outcomes.

One of the stranger aspects of the siege, or so it was widely felt, was the fact that the Qatakis had continued to allow the ‘protectees’, as they were officially deemed, to communicate freely with home. Information continued to go hither and thither, which led to the bizarre sight of a still immaculately attired Diamanda and the rest often watching themselves being discussed on the British rolling news networks over a satellite link. This was, naturally, a considered part of the Qataki media strategy. It was felt that the advantages outweighed the disadvantages, such as the reportage of the breaking news that one of the bankers had just been, in effect, summarily executed.

The Qataki siege was the rolling news item du jour, it helped that the constituent figures were high status, in some cases devastatingly attractive, led successful, gilded lives, and here they were in the hands of, subject to the threat of, The Other - as it would never consciously be stated, for that would be racist.

Expert talking heads offered blood-chilling possibilities as to their possible, indeed likely future, government ministers paraded on air looking grave, expressing very little beyond a desire not to inflame the situation, their opponents subtly, and not so subtly, attacked them for their failures, and they did not, as yet, know the half of it.

“Oh God, am I a celebrity?” Diamanda asked.

“They do seem to be making much of you, and Jacintha.” Jamie replied.

“Still, I suppose there are worse kinds of infamy, to think what we could be known for, Jamie.” Diamanda beamed at him sardonically.

Logan, decently attired by now, ran in on them, huddled around the laptop.

“WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED!!?!!”

“Oh, I expect you mean the machine gun fire; that’s probably Alan, he did appear to become a bit obsessed with the supplies in the other planes, probably a bad idea to have let him out alone, I mean, what else is a monomaniac going to do but go after his whale?” Diamanda proffered chirpily.

“A MAN’S JUST BEEN SHOT, YOU CALLOUS BITCH!!!”

“Well, I didn’t shoot him…More importantly, Mr. Tremain, what were you doing out there, it’s not like we haven’t been warned…?”

Logan spluttered. He really didn’t want to answer that.

“You seem, if you’ll forgive me, Logan, a little tense, if only there were some way we could relax you’, she locked eyes with Jamie as she said this, ‘something enjoyable, perhaps, that would take your mind off certain less welcome aspects of our situation…” Diamanda toyed with her bee-stung lips.

Logan listened to her intensely.

“Would that be good…Logan?”

Just then Jacintha and Jessica climbed up the open ramp, Jacintha smiled at Logan, she was bronzed by the desert sun, but her clothes were sweat stained and her hair unattractively bleached and lank, as opposed to Diamanda’s incongruously, improbably immaculate raven bob.

“Hi, Logan.”

“Jac, Jess.”

“What’s the latest?” Jac asked turning to Diamanda and Jamie.

“Apparently, the authorities back home remain cautiously optimistic about a peaceful resolution to the crisis and remain in communication with the Qataki authorities.” Jamie replied drearily.

“Plus, according to one of the papers, and no prizes for guessing which, we’re not polling well back home, girls; or at least Jessica and I aren’t, you’re OK, Jac, with that doe-eyed humanism of yours, at least by the lights of a certain tranche of newspaper readers, in the main.”

In the background lurked Forbes Ross and his camera crew, obviously obsessed with documenting his own Hearts of Darkness in a desert milieu; he had been documenting, as much as he was able, the conflicts both within and without the group.

“Is that good enough for your hostage verité-style documentary?” Diamanda asked of him pointedly.

Forbes, wearing mirror shades and possessing a scrawny toothed smile grinned at her, made a gesture to the cameraman, and nodded excitedly.

Away from the central group Sam Kent was excitedly taking a phone call it was the electoral agent of whom he was the preferred candidate providing inside information about the selection process.

“I’ve got to say, Sam, that your profile, your involvement with this has done wonders for your candidacy; right now it’s between you and a senior accountant who’s married to Bob Switherow.”

“The shadow minister?”

“Uh-huh, that’s him.”

“FUCK!”

“Look, Sam, if there’s some way you can raise your profile even further ahead of the vote it would really help…”

“I appreciate that, that’s a, that’s why we’re here’, he replied in a rather Nixonian fashion, ‘but the scope for public relations stunts is somewhat circumscribed…”

“All I’m saying, Sam, is that it would help you…”

“That’s understood…I guess we’ll have to see…How am I playing in the ethnic block votes?”

“Great, I mean, the Arabs love you.”

“Sunni and Shia?”

“Yeah, both’, Sam heard a noise in the background, ‘Listen, Sam, I’ve gotta go, see ya…”

Had Sam been of a more contemplative form of mind he might have been amazed that the candidacy of a man presently loitering under the ‘protection’ of the Qataki army was a going concern, he was not, his moral narcissism had seen to that. He turned his devious intelligence, or what of it there was, to how he might best maximise the opportunities his internment at the hands of Qusai had afforded him.

Had Sam paid more attention to his surroundings he might also have noticed behind him, over his left shoulder in fact, the near crazed, unshaven, hollow-eyed visage of Sir Paul Fennell, staring out of his accustomed cockpit, where he had holed himself up, the better to observe his self-appointed nemesis, the unnamed and superseded Qataki major. Sir Paul had not taken well to captivity, how he pined for the splendours of The Equality Club, for its fusion cuisine and expansive drinks menu, or so ran his thoughts as he drained the last of the Johnnie Walker Platinum label he had brought with him, anticipating a brief sojourn among the dunes before departure for the comforts of the UAE. Sir Paul was also off his meds. For Sir Paul, this tribune of the creatives, a demi-god, if you will - for it was how he increasingly saw himself - possessed a degree of bi-polarity, which a strict drug regimen, and financial and existential security had allowed him to keep largely in check, expensive artistic purchases via Sotheby’s and displayed on his office wall in grandiloquent style, aside. Diamanda’s rejection also continued to rankle, which would have consequences for the future.

It was in this state that Sir Paul took to rifling through the compartments in the plane cockpit, and what should Sir Paul find, but a gun.

Sir Paul’s eyes bulged, had fate afforded him this modicum of protection? He had visions of heroically slaying his assailants, or saving himself and Diamanda, of himself as some famed, fictive secret agent on the side of right dispensing natural justice. He picked up and caressed the silver pistol and held it lovingly in his hands, eventually descending from his reverie he spied the two clips, as the nomenclature would have it and greedily put them into the pockets of his now torn and sand strewn suit. The desert and its circumstances had made of the fine upstanding pillar of The Equality Club a shooting incident waiting to happen, he would commission such acts as the membership would lambast the Americans for and, while he had no licence to, his membership at least would be revoked.

Our attention now must turn to events in the restive capital, where Qusai was attempting to establish himself as the government in the face of an Abdul Mubdee and his supporters who had, as yet, to show their hand, and against which the former would live out his fantasies as the post-modern Prince Rainier to Angelica Hayek’s Princess Grace, if the latter had fallen in love with a tyrant against a backdrop of myriad corpses, but, as the film has it: “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Gawd, this place is a fucking mess, isn’t it!?” Angelica opined crassly, as Adeel Qadir, deputed to show her around Ast’Qana in accordance with Qusai’s instruction, winced noticeably.

“Well, it has just been the location of a battle between the reactionary former regime and the people, upon whose behalf the great Emir Qusai intervened.”

Qadir looked across at the starlet, she sat open mouthed, unresponsive to this morsel of information.

The armoured car they were in trundled its way through the ruined streets of Ast’Qana, partially collapsed buildings bore the hallmarks of urban destruction, bullet holes, facades collapsed under a fusillade of mortars and artillery, shattered glass and masonry further atomising under the tracks of the vehicle. The armoured car entered the northern end of Royal Square trundling along under the baking sun, though Angelica Hayek wouldn’t know it she was being placed ready for her role.

Qadir put his head above the hatch scanning the horizon, destruction arrayed all around him, even the palace seemed at least partially demolished, and finally he spotted what he had been told to expect to see.

Standing at the centre of a group of desperate, dispossessed Qatakis stood Qusai, the Alawite Emir attired in the simulacrum of a traditional Arab prince’s robes, handsome, tall, eyes shaded against the harsh sun dispensing aid to his people, aid liberated from the mercy flight; well, it would have been churlish not to.    

The choreography of the encounter, the first, tentative encounter, proceeded flawlessly, like an especially well-choreographed ballet. Qadir scrambled out and helped Angelica dismount after him, for a moment she looked down on the scene before her, astride her articulated metal charger, attired in the garb of the civilian observer, Kevlar vests and helmets, her hair swept back into a long pony tail jutting out from the latter’s rear, an interventionist Joan of Arc, with Hollywood production values. This was how Qusai first saw his intended leading lady in the flesh, and, seeing him, as he was, she could not help but be swept up in the romance, conditioned by an overexposure to the simplistic moral narratives of her stock in trade.

Qusai dandled a mewling child on his knee, he slipped a drugged potation into its mouth and, as if by sheer magic, as if just being within the presence of so calm, beloved and beneficent a leader would suffice, a contented quiet fell over the tired, hungry, formerly and more honestly irascible infant. In this moment all critical faculties, of what few of them there had ever been deserted Angelica and she knew, instinctively, that in this she had communed with those forces that Bono had informed her of, and which had done so much to ensure he embarked on the path of righteous activism.

“EMIR!” Qadir shouted, further embellishing the fiction that Qusai was ignorant of their presence had, indeed, had no warning that he was to meet them like this.

“WHO IS IT!?! TAKE ME, IF YOU MUST, BUT HARM NOT THESE GOOD, SIMPLE, HONEST PEOPLE!!!” He shouted commandingly in an alluringly accented English, rising he began to interpose himself between the people and the Qataki armoured vehicle.

“NO, IT IS I, QADIR!!!

“QADIR, CAN IT BE!?! MY DEAR, GOOD FRIEND, QADIR!” Qusai feigned a modicum of recognition.

Qadir and Angelica, at his bidding, clambered out and strode toward the Emir, taking care not to lose their footing in the pockmarked asphalt, much of it still stained with blood.

“Forgive me, my friend, but Ast’Qana is not what it was, before this, before my brother’s brutalization!” Qusai’s eyes watered as if with great feeling, he acted consummately.

“I had heard, Emir, I had heard. But to see it like this…”

Qusai hugged Qadir tightly, exposing the American visitor to a sight of the Alawite’s cross-sectarian brotherliness. Eventually he released him and, looking, as if for the first time, he saw Angelica in front of him. Their eyes occluded from each other by their respective mirror shades they smiled, Qusai more wanly, as if to emphasise his continued pain at the state his country and people had been reduced to.

“I have not had the pleasure.” Qusai said as he bowed politely to the poster-girl of gross out comedy.

“I am sorry, Emir, this is Miss Angelica Hayek.”

“Of the movies…?” he enquired with a degree of shock.

“Yes, Emir.” Angelica replied demurely, proffering her hand to him as she did so.

Qusai took it and kissed it chastely.

“Your majesty, is it quite safe, I hear there are roaming bands of sectarians, and fundamentalists too?” Here at least Qadir spoke something resembling the truth in the sense that there were, many loyal to Qusai, some to Abbas, and the latter to Abdul Mubdee, Qusai believed that a true photo opportunity was not without risk, or so one former British prime minister who had lucratively consulted on his father’s behalf had told him once.

Qusai removed his shades as did Angelica.

“Indeed it is not, but it so grieves me that my people should suffer like this, and I should be ‘secure’…” All while he said this he locked eyes with an obviously impressed Angelica Hayek intently, the last word was spat out contemptuously. “What does my life matter if one Qataki should suffer so retrograde, so awful a series of torments as these?”

“Might we not return to the palace, Emir?” suggested Angelica.

“One supposes, despite the fact that my ministers plague me, like your agents, and stylists, one supposes, Miss Hayek?”

“Angelica, please…” she laughed flirtatiously.

“Then you must call me Qusai…”

“OK, Qusai.”

“Angelica”

Both beamed, Qusai gestured towards the palace and the party of three trudged through the destroyed perimeter of the palace, where recently the Royal Guard had been slaughtered during the assault. Qusai and Angelica enjoying each other’s company, the former playing the role of the pained, feeling monarch, the latter the ingénue American impressed by such foreign hangovers as monarchy and aristocracy. Qadir walked a few paces behind them, happy that his role in proceedings seemed to have gone as envisaged, confident that he need fear no reprisal for a botched job, wondering where such service to the Emir might take him in the new regime, comptroller of finance, perhaps, he hadn’t much of an idea about what such a figure might do, but it seemed, as a job and title with rights, of sufficient dignity.

At that precise moment across town Abdul Mubdee was staring scornfully at a French journalist. Abdul Mubdee’s faction had, naturally, decided to take hostages of its own. The French photo journalist looked somewhat scared to find himself held by several armed and bearded men, betraying as this did the all too accurate thought that he had found himself in the clutches of religious fundamentalists. Mubdee began to question the French journalist in broken English.

“You, French?”

“Oui, ah, yes…”

A line of questioning exerted a hold on Abdul Mubdee.

“What do you think of the Olympics?”

“Zey ah a celebration of our shared humanité, yes, no?”

Abdul Mubdee considered this answer. He did not like it. He considered the Frenchman’s nose, which he attributed to a strain of Semitic blood. Clearly he was a Zionist supporter of the Games and all that they stood for, something that should have no place in the Qatakistan that he envisaged. The Frenchman sweated profusely in front of him, his breathing labored, shaking, adrenalin coursing through his veins, held securely by a couple of Mubdee’s men. Abdul Mubdee looked into his eyes in a chillingly detached fashion.

Mubdee turned and spoke in Arabic to two of his associates. “Do we have the cameras, is the area prepared?”

“Yes, Brother Abdul.”

“Let us go then.”

Abdul Mubdee and the others trooped up the stairs out of the cellar, the Frenchman gagged and screaming dragged along with them, they passed through several courtyards, the Frenchman glimpsing the azure sky occasionally, shade and sunlight rippling over them, eventually they descended another, longer staircase into a dimly lit room. The Frenchman was strapped to a chair, kicking, resisting, but to no avail. The lights were turned up to reveal, in his line of sight, a digital camera on a tripod and a rather bored looking man conducting sound checks on the several cheap microphones arrayed around the room. The Frenchman looked down; the floor was tacky with a dark substance, which he took, correctly, to be blood. Then he saw the curved scimitar being brandished. A wave of terror and anxiety overtook him. Behind him there was a blood flecked Qataki flag with Islamic writing superimposed over it hanging on the wall. Mubdee started gabbling away, quickly in Arabic behind him.

“We will no longer tolerate the Un-Islamic Games, with their kafir supporters and advocacy of perverse, Western values! This Dog,’ and here Abdul Mubdee gestured at the Frenchman, pointing the tip of the scimitar into the nap of his neck, ‘had the temerity to voice such un-Godly notions to us here, well, we shall send a message, The Qataki Jihadist Army will tolerate this no more!!!”

At this Abdul Mubdee swung the scimitar behind him, both hands firmly gripping the handle, and, with all his might, brought it down on the right side of the Frenchman’s neck. Despite this rather than cleanly swipe all the way through, Abdul Mubdee found his blade stuck, awkwardly, lodged in the bone at the top of the neck. Abdul Mubdee tried, for some awkward seconds to dislodge the scimitar as the Frenchman made a horrendous sucking sound, frothing, excessively oxygenated blood spilling from his partially torn throat.

“Well, help me, would you?”

At this two of his men clasped their hands around his and, pulling together, successfully extricated the blade. Mubdee released it and let one of the men finish the job from the other side.

“Cut.” The cameraman/director stated, without the intention of black humour.

“Disseminate it on the internet; you know the drill, maybe deliver a copy to the French embassy too.”

President Hulot and Genevieve Salvage were dressing themselves having enjoyed another briefing session in his office when the president’s chief of staff burst in too exercised to notice what the average citizen would expect anyway.

“What is this!?!” exclaimed the president.

“There’s been a beheading!”

“Where!?!” Hulot asked, terrified at the prospect of its being in one of the Parisian banlieues, or worse, a fashionable arrondissement.

“We’re getting news over the internet that a faction calling itself The Qataki Jihadist Army had seized a French journalist and, well, you know the rest…” the chief of staff’s excitability melted away at that point, as he released how wearyingly prosaic such an outrage was.

“So, Qatakistan…” the president measuredly ruminated.

“This demands a response.” Genevieve opined.

“Assemble the cabinet, draft a speech, the eternal France cannot and will not be assailed like this!”

Genevieve beheld the commanding, embattled, unpopular president with awe, this balding, demi-accountant was a man.

“This is a state of national emergency, we will respond to this outrage…In the meantime, while the preparations are ongoing, Madam Salvage and I will be framing the presidential response, we are not to be disturbed for half an hour!”

“Oui, mon president.”

Claude withdrew closing the door firmly behind him. President Hulot held Genevieve to him and began to grope her; indeed some things in France are eternal.

A series of phone calls were soon exchanged between Paris and London, Paris and Washington, and Washington and London. It became clear to Washington that London was intent on resolving the desert hostage crisis and that Paris too would act, though in quite what capacity was not yet clear. For Washington’s part it was determined that overt action would likely inflame the situation and that it had more pressing diplomatic endeavours to attend to in the Pacific; and so, whilst playing golf one day, like the president he perhaps most resembled, he decided, unlike Eisenhower, to let the Anglo-French have their respective heads in the desert, America having wearied of such ventures.

“John, leaves those folks to it, I mean, they know what they’re doing, public opinion here isn’t going to tolerate any more adventurism…Tufts’ll just have to tough it out, this Qusai knows the rules, there are worse figures, so he squeezes a bit, puts us in a tough spot, I’m not sending a fleet in there, I have my hands full with Beijing…”

The president was busy lining up his put as he delivered his homily, taking the shot he missed.

“I hope you’re better at this than you are your golf game, Mr. President.”

The president grimaced. “John, you’re not helping. I just can’t get in the practice, pressures of work…Anyway, keep me appraised, after all, the Brits, the French and the Russians all seem to have dogs in this fight, so I guess it has some importance.”

“To say nothing of the current embassy situation.”

“Anything salacious to report?” the president enquired smilingly, preparing to take another put.

“Well, we’re pretty sure the French president is banging his foreign policy advisor.”

“Does it matter?” the president asked as he nonchalantly, finally managed to put the golf ball into the hole.

“Not especially.”

“Like I say, keep me appraised, I’ll be prepping for the Latin American tour next week and the Beijing summit next month, just so you know I’m doing my job, John.” The president beamed his famed smile as he gave his putter to the caddy.

                       X

Fatefully the French security establishment arrived at the conclusion that, having already, like the British, warned French citizens to leave Qatakistan, and reminded, via foreign bureaux, any journalists still remaining that it was on their own head, as well as reviewing embassy safety precautions, something already done in the light of recent developments at the American embassy, France’s response to Abdul Mubdee’s anti-Olympic provocation should be to freeze Qataki bank accounts in France and within French jurisdictions. It was felt that the measured nature of this response would be understood and that the Qataki authorities would be amenable to some form of restitution. Regrettably that would not prove to be the case, and the Qataki response in turn would have fateful consequences for the conduct of Operation Albatross.

Anglo-French co-operation had, however, also seen the latter informed of the imminence of Albatross, and the former inveigled into allowing for a French component, in the form of a squad of special forces tasked with providing forward intelligence ahead of the main force. So went the politicking behind the first joint Anglo-French military operation in the Middle East since Suez.

Qusai was not to know this, however. He was aware though of the freeze on foreign Qataki accounts in France, as well as moves to have them frozen across the EU. Unfortunately the Qusai who was informed of this was not at his most reasonable.

“Fine, fine, fine…That’s what they want to do, that’s what the Westerner’s want’, and here he made the same mistake of treating them in as monolithic a fashion as they treated the Arabs, ‘we’ll take countermeasures, bring the senior bankers, PR people, charity workers here, bring them to me! As for the rest, pack them into the planes and rig them!!!”

As he was saying this the National Security Council in Whitehall was receiving its final briefing ahead of approving Operation Albatross.

“The assets are in place, Prime Minister. Once we receive approval we shall be across the border in an hour, the French are already in place providing active intelligence, everything seems normal, though there was another accidental death today…”

“So, we’ve already lost five of the hostages…Steve, do you think we should go with the rescue mission?” the prime minister asked, turning to his deputy.

“Rescue…Yes.” he replied.

“I think it’s very important that we all indicate whether we agree we should do this or not, and I mean everyone.” The prime minister looked around the table making eye contact with each person present. Slowly they all assented, even Harry, one suspects for fun.

So Albatross was approved. Leaving Qusai’s men enough time to forcibly extricate the high profile hostages in a helicopter already on site during that window when any action on the part of the Anglo-French would have tipped them off about the impeding operation, this, unfortunately led to the NSC hearing a bitter fire fight between night vision equipped SAS men and similarly equipped Qataki soldiers over the live feed. The intended surgical extraction unfortunately devolved into a bloody and pointless massacre, with the roused, scared bankers running through a hail of bullets and tracer fire between those Qatakis not pinned down by the SAS regiment in their rear and those facing the other SAS regiment in front of the. The Qatakis, having disarmed the private security contractors, had been able to rig some of the planes to explode, unbeknownst to those bankers cowering next to them in the hope of not being shot or injured during the high intensity fire fight, eventually they began to rend the sky, the bankers, and the HIT staff with fire and twisted metal, for good measure Sir Paul, who had, improbably, managed not to be extracted and to escape, running flat out into the desert, chanced across one of the two-man French special forces teams, who, panickedly, he shot to death.

At this seeming success over those who would threaten him - one seemed to be the unnamed major himself - Sir Paul felt an immense sense of relief, followed by nervous and mental collapse as the realisation of his recent situation, and, seeming, ‘freedom’ hit home; he cried hysterically, barely audible over the horrific sounds of explosion and massacre in the distance. He held the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He had emptied the clip into both of the French soldiers’ faces. In the desperate, nervously prostrate state that now gripped him he lacked anything approaching the wit and energy to bother to search his pockets for the other one. He curled into a foetal position in the sand completely unaffected by the cold or the threat of scorpions, a shaking, traumatised wreck of a man, he had seen too much and was relieved when unconsciousness overtook him. There he lay, his victims dead beside him.

In Cobra a deathly pall had overcome the NSC as the magnitude of what had just occurred sank in. The PM and Steve both had their heads in their hands. The defence minister was ashen, even more so than usual.

“Is there any news?” Harry jauntily inquired.

“Survivors, minister?” enquired Admiral Conroy.

“Either way…So we can get an idea of what we’re dealing with, of course…”

“It will be some time before we have a certain picture as to, losses…”

“I thought so.” He doodled on his notepaper: “I wonder who’ll leak first…?”

Steve spoke. “This is, unprecedented…”

“What, a British military disaster, deputy prime minister? Hardly. It’s all of a piece with post-Suez British military policy, surely. I suppose the PM will wish to address the country, news like this doesn’t keep to itself, and a major national disaster does require the man in charge appearing to carry the can…” Harry Clark was rather pleased that his own ministerial career now seemed likely to last longer than that of the man he believed was rather intent on being rid of him.

The prime minister - white, indeed, so white as to have seemed to have visibly aged during the last few hours - raised his head. “I think Harry is right…We’ll have to have a joint press conference in the Downing Street Garden this evening, at 8 o’clock…” He rose and made to leave the room.

The defence minister stopped him: “I think, in the light of what’s just happened, a resignation, my resignation is necessary…” He was right enough in assuming that.

“And plenty more besides…I’ll, I’ll accept it in writing…” he left.

By a quirk of fate an editorial meeting had just been held in Kings Cross which had approved the publication of damning evidence pertaining to the private lives of Jamie Field and Diamanda Sangrail, Archer Strachan’s information having been confirmed to the board’s satisfaction.

The editor, a bearded, aging hipster was excited at the weapon he had been given to strike at his ideological enemies and had decided a fortiori that it would be trailed on the website forthwith and published online, as well as in print tomorrow morning.

And so stunning revelations pertaining to the moral character of I N Securities’ leading personnel came to enter the public domain, at just the same time as news that the defence minister had resigned started to filter through.

“Yes, Lord Placeman, please? Tell him it’s the acting defence minister. I think he’s going to want to speak to me.” for into the vacuum occasioned by the collapse of Humanist hopes for Qatakistan, and in particular the disaster of the attempted rescue, stepped Her Majesty’s most jaded minister.

Lord Placeman had been enjoying a fine lunch at The Equality Club pontificating on the current political scene, as well as his hopes for Qatakistan when he was interrupted by a grave looking staff member.

“What do you mean, needed, urgently? I told the office I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

The staff member leaned into Lord Placeman and whispered.

“THE DEFENCE MINISTRY!!?!! NOW!!?!!”

His fellow diners looked askance at Lord Placeman. He composed himself.

“Forgive me, I, I, I must leave immediately.”

Lord Placeman’s coat was brought to him and he was escorted out to a waiting car which swept down Haymarket and, at Trafalgar Square, turned onto Whitehall before stopping at the gates of the Defence Ministry. Lord Placeman was shown in, hurriedly walking past the exorbitantly expensive renovations, courtesy of PFI and still being paid for now, he was taken up to the Mountbatten Suite, where the acting defence minister sat waiting for him, whiskey to hand.

“Harry?” Lord Placeman asked surprisedly.

“Yes, I’m as surprised as you are, there aren’t many like me allowed in this government, the number of times I’ve had to hold my tongue…”

“But?”

“Your friends - If we may term them thus? - have colossally screwed up, possibly the greatest error since, well, your other friend Tony’s aside, Suez. It seems, and let me set the facts out for you as starkly as I possibly can; and yes, I am enjoying this; that half the SAS has been wiped out, the bulk of the hostages in the desert are dead, massacred in a fire fight between bored, better, and braver than expected Qatakis and, in the vernacular, “our boys”, and we seem to have had some friendly fire on our gallant French allies to boot, all, of course, attributable to the PM and that fuck-wit! And, what’s possibly even worse, is that I get the distinct impression something even more colossally fucked up has gone on here, something we are in the dark about, and, I think a lot of it has got to do with your intellectual, if we can use that term, fellow travelers!”

Lord Placeman sat down. “I think I need a whiskey…”

“I never offered you one.” Harry pointedly replied.

“What’s going to happen?”

“Fuck knows! I am, more by omission than commission, acting defence minister, the PM has gone into seclusion, last I heard talking of a joint press conference, him and the fucktard, at 8 tonight from the Downing Street Garden, and, or so I’ve been told, Jamie BLOODY Field and Diamanda Sangrail, who, yes, I would fuck!, are sado FUCKING masochists!!!”

“What do you think’s gone on here, Harry?”

“If I had to hazard a guess, some deeply rum business has gone on with that bank, it’s the only possible conclusion, why else would they push so hard for what’s just transpired, I mean, the fact that it was run by Conroy’s no fucking surprise! He’s a fucking managerialist!!! I couldn’t begin to fathom the whole thing though, and, from what I’ve just learnt, it’s quite possible I was the smartest man in that room, it sure as fuck wasn’t anybody else!!!”

All through their conversation Lord Placeman’s mobile had been vibrating he looked to answer it.

“Go ahead, Peter; has the media environment gone thermo-fucking-nuclear!?!”

“Harry, I think, given circumstances, I’d better get back to work…”

“Of course, do stop again soon, I do so enjoy our little chats; send my regards to the BBC, I so love them.” He stated with withering sarcasm.

The burgeoning twin crises began to ripple out through the British mediascape, reporters grasped at bits of information, Occam’s razor was applied by the brighter sort, what was known, what were the known knowns? The CEO of the bank was engaged in a sado-masochistic affair with his financial director, the defence minister had resigned, there were rumours – so far unconfirmed – that copious blood had been spilt in the Qataki desert, the prime minister and his deputy were scheduled to hold a joint press conference in the Downing Street Garden at 8 o’clock, and Harry Clark, the arch reactionary, seemed, improbably, to be acting defence minister. Upon such bases began to be written thousands of ill-considered words written from perspectives of significant ignorance.

Lord Placeman returned to Broadcasting House to find Sir Tristram Barnard waiting with baited breath importuning him as to what it all meant?

“I really can’t say, Tris…” Lord Placeman, the props of his understanding swept away was still puzzling over his encounter with Harry at the MOD.

“But, Peter, we need something, all we’re getting from government sources are either mealy mouthed circumlocutions or completely contradictory accounts which we’ve yet to be able to confirm, to say nothing of what’s gone on in Qatakistan!”

“I’m afraid, Tris, that it, it doesn’t look good…It appears, it appears’, and here Lord Placeman began to well up, ‘the government lied to us…”

Sir Tristram was touchingly, naively, equivalently moved by this. Consequently he didn’t ask anything remotely forensically detailed about what exactly the government had lied about. Why should he, he had assumed, like all right-thinking people, that the government’s, and by extension his, intentions in Qatakistan were good.

Back at the MOD Harry Clark was convening a meeting of the National Security Council, absent the distrait prime minister and his deputy.

“Right, gentlemen, ladies’, he nodded to the home secretary and another minister he had never understood the point of, ‘I want total confirmation, how many men have we lost, ball park figures for hostage casualties, and the same for Qatakis – I suppose someone has to give a sop to the human rights lobby – equipment too, though make that, given the circumstances, a lower order of priority; foreign secretary, I suppose someone had better start drafting the apologies…Oh, and Admiral Conroy?”

“Yes, minister.”

“You’re sacked!”

The admiral blanched visibly. “But, minister, you can’t…”

“Ordinarily, very probably, and, it might not last, but, given what I know, I can’t imagine anyone in this building will feel the lack of your ‘leadership’ at all keenly. Good day, admiral, I look forward to hearing about your considered opinion of me in a well-remunerated Mail article, or - heaven forfend - a book’, turning to the foreign secretary he continued, ‘however mind-numbingly jargon-y and prolix that would be.” Clark rolled his eyes.

Two marines flanked Admiral Conroy and escorted him from the room, had it really come to this for the stalwart chief of staff of such military exercises as Random Blue – war-gaming intervention in a banana republic – and Orange Express – war-gaming intervention in a genocide?

“Now’, Harry turned to the next highest ranked military officer in the room, a Major General, ‘get me Air Marshal Wisty!” Harry muttered about Conroy. “I suppose they’ll give that fuck his pension!”

“Harry, what are we going to do?” asked the home secretary.

“Simple, we are closing down the military stage of the crisis, I am as Ludendorff in 1918, importuning the frightened politicians for an armistice, and, in a post-modern spin, preparing the bureaucracy for the inevitable post-crisis inquiry, which I shall, naturally, enjoy; as for the political fall-out from the crisis? That’s dependent upon the PM and Steve, but I suspect we are going to witness the almost complete reconstruction of the government, so enjoy your time in office while it lasts, my dear, “the hour is getting late”.

The prime minister had spoken with his wife telling her about the likely end of his political career, news which as a politician’s spouse she took well. He then, eventually, convened a meeting in the cabinet room of his and the deputy prime minister’s senior advisors at which he set out the inevitable: “I’m resigning, I think you should too, Steve, we’ve simply done too much damage…”

“I am resigning, prime minister, but I disagree with that sentiment. Anyway, I have news of my own…”

A ripple of attention went around the room, what could he possibly think worth mentioning in a meeting discussing the resignation of the prime minister?

“I’m the new UN Special Representative to Qatakistan.”

“What the fuck!?!” shouted the PM’s communications and strategy director.

“Look, we know about my commitment to Qatakistan.” The deputy minister crassly continued.

“It’s a sick, fucking joke; they can’t be serious?”

“Oh, it’s serious. They approached me.”

“We know that.” said the prime minister. “But we thought you were going to refuse, you’d discussed this with the foreign secretary, and now, this…?”

“Look, its fine, I’m still going to resign, along with you, collective responsibility and all that…”

“Not to mention your role in this bleak, fucking farce.”

Steve gurned at that, he didn’t recognise that description of proceedings at all.

Attempting to get the meeting back on track, and aware as he was of how the deputy prime minister’s future actions were no concern of his the prime minister spoke: “Well, I’m going into the garden at 8, Steve will be with me, there I will set out a statement outlining what happened in simple, plain language, no questions will be taken.”

“What about PMQs, it will look like you’re ducking out if you refuse to face the opposition.”

“Fuck that, what about the foreign secretary, surely he’s as complicit in this as anyone else is, if you’ve gone whose resignation do you think they’ll be clamouring for!?!”

“You’re right…But there is no way I can stay in office after this…”

“So, you’re decided?”

“Yes, I have to go and see the Queen; she will have to be told…”

“What advice are you going to offer her?” the communications director asked cannily.

“What advice can I give her, tell her to appoint an emergency national government.”

All through Whitehall phones rang unanswered as hacks desperate for information attempted to communicate with whatever sources they could speak to, however unlikely they would be. Rumour and counter-rumour swelled into a crescendo across the media, the government seemed, and indeed was, in melt down. The only effective minister was Harry Clark, and he not even formally appointed was performing the obsequies for Operation Albatross, and, along with it, the government as it had existed these years past anyway. Hours passed and the first draft of a picture began to emerge: the mercy flight had been a desperate attempt, funded by a bank led by perverts, to re-energise its public profile, it had descended into a nightmare, at least one of the governing parties, funded by the banking sector, had authorised a risky rescue attempt which had failed utterly, the dead seemed to number in the many hundreds, some of the more fevered estimates put it at over a thousand, including the British special forces and Qataki army losses. This was, so far as conventional cognitive bias allowed, something approximating the truth. It was into this environment that the PM and Steve walked into the Downing Street Garden and took their places at their accustomed dual lecterns, cameras flashing at them, addressing the nation live on BBC One, ITV and the rolling news channels as well as many of their foreign equivalents. Suitably, mournfully attired the prime minister began to speak, he was very good at giving apologies.

“The National Security Council unanimously approved Operation Albatross, conceived to, and aimed at liberating the British hostages held in Qatakistan. Albatross was, as we now know, a failure. It is estimated that a significant number, yet to be confirmed, of the hostages are dead, a large number of the British special forces tasked with their release are also dead, as are two soldiers of the French component, seemingly as a result of friendly fire, and, of course, those men of the Qataki Army. At this stage it is too early to speak of precise numbers. Clearly, we have experienced a major national disaster. Accepting my, our, democratic responsibility, myself and the deputy prime minister have met with Her Majesty, the Queen and offered our resignations. These have been accepted, effective tomorrow, prior to which I shall answer questions in the house over the matter. The deputy prime minister will now offer a few words.”

“I couldn’t have put it any better myself; it is a real tragedy, given our hopes for Qatakistan, as well as our desire to see our hostages returned to their loved ones. I too feel keenly my democratic responsibility and have acted in concert with the prime minister. I also wish to say, to Qatakistan, that despite this regrettable occurrence, we will not walk away, and that I have agreed to serve as UN Special Representative to Qatakistan, in the hope of brokering an agreement between the warring parties, as well as, perhaps especially, ensuring the safe release of our, remaining, hostages...”

The deputy prime minister was drowned out by a flurry of shouted questions

“Prime minister, did you know I N Securities was run by a bunch of perverts!?!”

“Whose idea was Albatross, prime minister!?!”

“Deputy prime minister, are you fucking joking!?!”

Watching on the television from inside Downing Street was the communications director; he pointed at the deputy prime minister and, turning to a colleague, said: “He’s really not very bright, is he?”

They watched as, stone-faced and lachrymose, the prime minister and his deputy respectively left their stands and returned to the safety of the office.

As for the, few remaining, hostages they were getting used to their new abode, a bomb damaged formerly grand hotel in central Ast’Qana. Beyond a few bruises incurred during their forced migration none of them were, miraculously, injured and had no idea of the terrible fate that had befallen the bulk of their former colleagues. As institutions I N Securities and the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, perhaps the latter most ironically, were shadows of their former selves. But then losing the staffs of entire divisions in an atrocity will do that.

Diamanda surveyed the comparatively decent décor of the Imperial Hotel where they were being guarded. “Really, it’s certainly an improvement on the desert, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, undoubtedly.” Sir Victor agreed.

“You will take your breakfast and dinner here until such time you are moved.” stated the Qataki colonel.

“Oh, of course.” Diamanda breezily replied. “I don’t think any of us will have a problem with that.” She turned to Jacintha and, surveying her hair, whilst continuing to address the colonel, asked: “Would it be at all possible for us to use any of the hotel’s other facilities, assuming they’re still functional?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, the hair and beauty salon, say?”

“If they are still functional, by all means; though you may find it difficult, given the paucity of trained staff.”

“Oh, I dare say we’ll manage; am I right, Jac?” she sarcastically enquired.

“One more thing, you will stay in the inner courtyard rooms on the first floor, the lifts have been disabled, so do not consider the possibility of escape.”

“Into what? A warzone? No, for now, this is the least worst option, trust me.”

In the background Forbes and his film crew were documenting the damage wrought on the hotel, as well as, contrarily, those parts of it that still seemed miraculously normal, given what was going on around it. Occasionally mechanised vehicles and mortar rounds could be heard outside. It was agreed that it wouldn’t do to pay too much attention to what was going on outside.

“Aren’t you somewhat suspicious that, given the circumstances, we should find ourselves sheltered in a five star hotel?” Logan asked, seemingly of no one.

“I’d be more worried about what’s happened to Sir Paul, frankly…” Jessica answered.

“Enough.” said Sir Victor good-humouredly. “It’s late; we’ve all had quite the ordeal, I suggest we turn in.” Their body clocks having adjusted to the difference in time zone during their weeks in the desert.

With sounds of general assent they went to their assigned rooms, solitarily. No one bothered to see if the televisions still worked.

In London the cabinet secretary was briefing the leader of the opposition.

“We find ourselves in a difficult, unprecedented position. It is my understanding that the senior leadership of the Conservative party has, effectively, been decapitated by the scandal…”

“What about the chancellor?”

“Well, he is somewhat tarnished by the banking element of the scandal.”

“Good, we wouldn’t have tolerated him anyway.”

“I am proposing, on the outgoing prime minister’s advice to Her Majesty the formation of an emergency national government…

“Out of the question. We demand fresh elections!”

“I’m afraid, it is slightly more complicated than that.”

“How?” the opposition leader nasally enquired.

“It seems senior elements of the Conservative and Liberal parties, the British security establishment, and the British banking sector appear to have colluded in a manner which, if ever fully revealed, could have untoward effects on Britain’s relations with all of its UN Security Council allies, and, more importantly, its economic well-being…”

The full import of the cabinet secretary’s civil servicese made itself apparent.

“So, effectively you’re proposing the clear out of the Tory high command and a national coalition?”

“Yes, with as near to fully proportional a share of cabinet seats as possible…”

“With me as prime minister, right?”

“Ah…You see, we shall probably have to show at least some concession to wounded Tory opinion.”

“But they got us into this mess in the first place!”

“Well, as I said, it’s somewhat more complicated than that…I can, however, promise you the following, under the envisaged set-up - and, actually, it is not for me to allocate ministerial responsibilities myself, that will remain for you and whatever leadership of the Conservative party emerges - but I can tell you that we envisage you as the deputy prime minister, however you would wish to arrange that, of this government.”

“You still haven’t answered the question, who’s going to be prime minister, if not me?”

“The palace feels that a respected, national figure, trusted by the more sensible elements of both sides, would be best placed to lead us through this crisis.”

“For God’s sake, who!?!”

“Lord Placeman.”

The leader of the opposition’s eyebrows leapt up an inch.

“But…”

“As a caretaker.”

“I will have to consider this.”

“Naturally.”

“And Her Majesty feels?”

“The Crown thinks Her Majesty’s government must be carried on, however unpropitious the circumstances.”

“Who knows about this?”

“In full?”

“Yes.”

“The Queen, her principal private secretary, myself, the prime minister’s principal private secretary, and you.”

“The prime minister?”

“He suggested the general outlines, but is no longer in the loop as to how it shall be executed, being somewhat busy.”

“Well, we’ll talk.”

“Certainly, tomorrow.”

On that note the cabinet secretary left the leader of the opposition in his Commons office, whereupon the latter proceeded to stay up half the night meeting his advisers and colleagues and increasingly finding he liked the idea of returning to government presently, not least for the opportunities it would afford him to reshuffle and rid himself of his more troublesome colleagues.

What of Sir Paul Fennel? What had become of this ad man par excellence now marooned in the eerie desertscape, psychologically destroyed, a wreck of a man, the murderer of not one but two Frenchmen? Within that now hollow, bleak soul there was loosed the genie of atavistic vengeance.

His eyes opened. Piercing, maroon, ironically enough. He came back into consciousness, breathing he felt the reality of his environment around him. The cool air of the morning which would soon give way to the desert’s accustomed heat; he gripped his pistol, the tool of his vengeance, and, slowly, raised himself from the ground. He looked around, scanning the horizon, paying no heed to the corpses - his corpses - that lay mere feet from him. Sir Paul was gripped by psychosis, a psychosis so shattering that he was convinced that he could walk into the desert and there find not damnation, neither thirst nor hunger, but salvation, continued sustenance, a sustenance that would allow him to survive, with who knows what incalculable consequences?

Somehow, although he did not consciously realise it, he felt the pull of Ast’Qana, of unfinished business with his fellow hostages, with, primarily Diamanda, that bitch who had rejected him so humiliatingly, on his psyche, in Ast’Qana would he find a form of closure, of a special kind. A snake hissed as he walked past, he carried on, mindless of its present threat, for which was the most dangerous animal?

Sir Paul, his blue suit bestrewn with dust walked into the distance, his pistol in one hand, feeling for the second clip, now recalled, with the other, a lone survivor of the Albatross massacre.

That afternoon Archer Strachan touched down in Hong Kong, having flown via LAX, on an American airline. It was here that he had arranged to meet with journalists from the London paper he had contacted, and here, publicly, he would declare his love for Jacintha Cresswell. He calmly made his way through immigration, cool, immaculate against the post-modern architecture of Chek Lap Kok, despite the rigours of a trans-continental and trans-Pacific flight. Strachan looked at the hills in the distance, the immensity of China beyond.

The immigration official, an attractive young Cantonese woman, handed him back his passport.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business.” Strachan replied seriously. “Definitely business.”

She smiled. “Enjoy Hong Kong.”

Strachan walked through the barrier, looked at the signs, and, determining where he needed to go, made his way to the high speed rail link.

Lord Placeman made his way through Saint James’s Park, crossed the road, and walked up the Clive Steps between the Treasury and Foreign Office. He turned to his left and entered, as previously agreed, the Foreign Office. A factotum proceeded to guide him through the building, and, via some tunnels, into the Cabinet Office. There he emerged, to be greeted by the cabinet secretary. They exchanged pleasantries and Lord Placeman was taken through into the Cobra briefing room.

“Gentlemen.”

“Lord Placeman.” The troika chimed.

“Take a seat.” Offered the cabinet secretary.

Lord Placeman did so. “Why do you wish to speak to me, especially in such circumstances?”

The cabinet secretary took the lead. The principal private secretaries looked grave and approving.

“Given the circumstances, which you alluded to, Her Majesty feels that, in accordance with the outgoing prime minister’s advice, an emergency national government must be formed…”

Lord Placeman wasn’t that surprised.

“To that end, it is felt that an experienced caretaker figure should be commissioned to form a government, with the adhesion of the Labour party, but that, at this moment in time, there is no Conservative leader who is, papabile…”

“No, front rank Conservative leader.” The prime minister’s principal private secretary averred.

“Indeed.”

“Gentlemen, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Lord Placeman asked.

“Lest there be any doubt, Lord Placeman, Her Majesty wishes to commission you to form an emergency national government, until such time as the Conservative and Liberal parties are able to elect their respective leaders, or for three months, whichever comes first, upon which time there shall be a general election.”

Lord Placeman could have, perhaps, discussed the democratic implications of the establishment’s chosen course of action, or contemplated what it would mean for his place as one of the great and good, he assumed he would certainly have to resign as the chairman of the BBC’s board of governors, but could probably retain the Chancellorship of Cambridge University, given the short term nature of the appointment. He certainly had no pretensions to making of it any more than that. Plus he would be able to fire Harry Clark, having no time for that wing of the party with which he was still, loosely affiliated.

“You may tell Her Majesty I accept the commission.”

So began the Placeman ministry.

Separately the 1922 committee was determining who should act as leader until a permanent replacement could be elected. Bizarrely, perhaps even more improbably, the only figure who could so act, one without any hope of future leadership ambition, was the one commanding figure of the moment, and so Harry Clark was appointed, in addition to acting defence minister, acting leader of the Conservative party. So went Lord Placeman’s hopes of firing him.

Over the course of the day the new government began to take shape, the Placeman Cabinet would consist of 11 Conservatives, 3 Liberal Democrats, and 8 Labour ministers, plus the prime minister himself. The cabinet would, necessarily, remain unstable, of the 23 ministers, 6 would be candidates in two of the constituent parties’ leadership contests.

This, however, took up less domestic attention than had been hoped, for the deranged, lovelorn figure of Archer Strachan, naturally beloved by liberals, began to take up more of a public profile. Archer had arranged to meet with some British journalists in Hong Kong, and, while Lord Placeman was forming his government, he was regaling them with all he knew about the real reason for I N Securities’ funding of the mercy flight.

“So, let me get this straight, you’re saying – and you have evidence to prove this – that the British government promised I N Securities preferential tax treatment in exchange for its funneling arms to the Qatakis?”

“Yes.”

“How come you’re the only person in the American government who knew this? Why didn’t they stop the British government from doing this?”

“I didn’t pass it up.”

“No one cross-checked what you were working on?”

“My boss seemed more interested in his golf game, to be honest.”

“So, our government, in contravention of UN arms embargos, as well as its own publicly avowed promises pertaining to ethical arms trading, shipped arms from the Caucasus via a bank, which also funds the Conservative party, and to which it also promised preferential tax treatments?”

“How many times do you want me to say yes?”

“To be fair, it also funds the Labour party as well.”

Samuels scowled at Cowling for his unwelcome remark.

High in a Hong Kong hotel suite, Kowloon visible through the rain lashed windows on the other side of Victoria Harbour, the hacks, following up their sensational exposé, continued to question Strachan from every single conceivable angle commensurate with their ideological perspective, before, ultimately, arriving at the question of Strachan’s own motives, despite the claims made in his initial email approach.

“Why have you chosen to come out with this now?”

“The reasons I outlined, disgust with the nature of American foreign policy, but also, you see, Jacintha, I’m, I’m in love with her…” Strachan’s eyes welled as he thought of dear, sweet Jacintha and the dangers she was exposed to in Qatakistan.

“But, you’ve never even met her.” Cowling remarked.

Strachan lunged for Cowling, pinning him to the wall, overcome with the intensity of his feelings.

“Don’t you ever say that again! We may not have, as you say, met! But our love is pure and true, and the only thing worth saving in this world!!!” He spat out.

Samuels moved to calm Strachan encouraging him to release Cowling from his grasp.

Strachan released his forearm from Cowlings’ throat, Cowling coughed and spluttered, rapidly taking in air.

“I think we’d better give it a rest for now.” said Samuels. “Let’s maybe meet somewhere else later, we’ll talk more informally?” he suggested to Strachan.

“Sure.” A cooler Strachan agreed.

Samuels and a still recovering Cowling left the hotel suite and returned to their own rooms on a lower floor.

Cowling spoke croakily: “You, ah, you realise that bloke’s insane?”

A look of pure zealotry in his eyes Samuels didn’t hear Cowlings’ comment, he merely said: “The guy has the information we need, substantiated, no one’s going to care he’s a little odd, if we can give them the truth!”

Cowling and Samuels got out the lift and returned to their respective rooms, nursing their very different interpretations.

Sir Victor had woken up, and, having padded around the hotel room-cum prison cell, and washed and dressed, in his increasingly worn clothes, decided to see if the television worked. Amazingly it did so. He flicked through the channels on offer before, eventually, chancing across the BBC.

Sir Victor found it difficult to make sense of what he found. He tergiversated between outrage at the conduct of Jamie and Diamanda, self-reproach at appointing them in the first place, confusion as to what exactly had taken place, annoyance at the fact that the government had fallen, and horror at the possible consequences for I N Securities; to say nothing of the creeping survivor guilt at the realisation of what he and the others had avoided through pure dumb luck in the desert.

Having gleaned all that he presently could, given the natural repetition of rolling news, Sir Victor decided to leave for breakfast, aghast at how he was going to broach the matter. Had Sir Paul been there he might have consulted him; after all, it seemed behavior more prevalent in the advertising industry, it being a creative one. One could say what one liked about Saul Weltschmerz, but at least that suicide had never given any indication of being a deviant, Sir Victor thought. Who could he consult? Had anyone else seen what he had seen? Would there be croissants?

Forbes Ross swung into step behind him as they both descended the grand staircase.

“Quite a bank you’re running there, Sir Victor.”

Sir Victor was taken aback, how much did Forbes know?

“I’m sorry?”

Forbes began crowing: “I mean, letting a couple of sado-masochists run it, not really pitching for the family investor, is it? Who chose them anyway?”

Sir Victor felt mightily sore at that jab. “The board properly oversaw the process; a former Africa minister was involved!”

“Well, you might want to get some new members, given what’s happened to the government back home; it’s beginning to look like you lot have no fucking clue.”

Sir Victor was not accustomed to being condescended to by members of the entertainment fraternity. He looked agog.

At this point he and Forbes entered the restaurant where, brazenly, Diamanda sat eating her breakfast, a fruit smorgasbord, with a wheatgrass smoothie. Looking at her nonchalantly eating Sir Victor suddenly became apoplectic.

“YOU, YOU THERE, YOU, YOU BITCH!!!” Sir Victor was aware that he would probably have to resign from a job he had enjoyed.

Diamanda looked at him coolly.

“Ah, another avid viewer of the news.”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING CONDESCEND TO ME!!!” Sir Victor got into his stride, bellowing at Diamanda. “YOU’VE FUCKING DESTROYED US, AND WHERE’S THAT OTHER PERVERT, FIELD!?!”

“Jamie’s a little delicate right now; all this is a little embarrassing for him - probably just as well we’re out of the country.”

“GOD KNOWS WHAT YOU WERE DOING DURING ALL THOSE TETE A TETES!?!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” replied Diamanda challengingly.

At this Sir Victor turned puce. Sputtering, he fell to the ground, hands clasped to his chest. Diamanda’s cold blue eyes bore into his prostrate form malevolently, Forbes and his camera crew continuing to film the scene.

Jacintha, suffering survivor guilt of her own, shouted: “IS NO ONE GOING TO FUCKING HELP HIM!?!”

Sam Kent leapt into action, with all the brio a man conscious of the need to raise his profile ahead of a parliamentary selection meeting could muster. He proceeded to loosen Sir Victor’s collar and tear his shirt open, prior to commencing CPR and massaging his heart.

“Jac, get the colonel, there must be a medic to hand.”

Jacintha did so. Sam continued to massage Sir Victor’s heart until a few minutes later Jacintha returned with a couple of Qataki medics possessing the requisite equipment, pushing Sam aside they administered the pads and proceeded to administer electric shocks in an effort to restart his heart.

The hooked up monitor started to emit the hopeful sounds of continued life. Sam and the medics’ efforts had not been in vain, there lay a still living Sir Victor Carraway amidst the bomb damaged hotel’s restaurant tables. There would be no croissants that day.

The crisis over Jacintha started screaming at Diamanda and the camera crew: “DOES NO ONE FUCKING CARE!!!?!!! A MAN NEARLY DIED, AND YOU CONTINUED EATING YOUR BREAKFAST, AND YOU CONTINUED FUCKING FILMING!!!!!!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE!!?!!”

“Well, Jacintha, if you’re not going to be rational there’s precious little point in talking with you.”

Jacintha lunged at Diamanda, the focal point of all her pent up rage and frustration, sideswiping her from her seat the two were entwined on the floor, clawing at each other.

Jessica turned to Logan, touching his crotch she asked: “Aren’t you going to do anything, to stop the catfight…?”

Logan was transfixed at the sight of Jacintha straddling Diamanda, the latter’s bosom heaving, as the two grabbed at each other. Jessica noticed how it affected him.

“Let’s go to the bathroom” she whispered into his ear.

“In a, in a, in a minute…”

“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU, YOU HATEFUL BITCH!!!”

“We all know…hate is close to…love…” Diamanda breathlessly replied. She was rather enjoying the encounter, especially when she started to get the upper hand.

Jacintha had smeared Diamanda’s makeup and ripped her top, while Diamanda had cut her cheek with one of her rings. Jacintha had also ripped both her and Diamanda’s tights, much to Logan’s delectation.

Feverishly Logan imagined the two enraged, adrenalin fuelled women engaging in an act of Sapphic love, while Jessica attended to him.

He was fortunate indeed that Jacintha was too engaged to notice his failure to intervene in any appreciable form.

Jessica slouched off and Logan followed her, crouching in an effort to hide his all too plain embarrassment, while Diamanda, virtually spilling out of her ruined top, sat astride Jacintha, hands pinning her wrists to the floor, her breasts in the younger woman’s face, conscious of the way she felt between her legs.

Diamanda’s breasts heaved as she breathed heavily, and, after an uncomfortably charged juncture, Jacintha having conceded the fight, Diamanda dismounted.

At this point Qusai, his retinue and Angelica entered.

Qusai displayed what was taken for his accustomed glib concern by the few savvier elements in the room.

“My friends, my friends, how are we?” His well-whitened teeth gleamed.

The remaining hostages looked at each other, unsure as to who should take a lead, given Sir Victor’s coronary and Jamie, Logan and Jessica’s respective absences. Sam, looking up from his place crouched down by the medical team scowled at Qusai, the target of much of his outraged, Humanist ire. Eventually, adjusting herself to at least make herself less unpresentable, Diamanda introduced herself.

“Hello, Emir…Qusai…?” she was unsure how to address him.

“Ah, are you the pervert woman?” he asked snootily, conscious of the role he was playing in front of Angelica.

Diamanda was left slightly aghast; she hadn’t expected The Emir of Qatakistan to know.

Turning, Qusai saw Jacintha, young, blond, flushed with adrenalin, lying on the floor, he went to her.

“My child, how can you be so distressed, who has done this to you?” he asked somewhat ridiculously, given the comparatively small age gap between them.

Jacintha gestured toward Diamanda with her eyes.

“Ah, the pervert woman.” Qusai nodded sagely.

At this point Qusai noticed the camera crew who had been documenting the hostage crisis from the inside; cataloguing, as had now become plain, all manner of dysfunctions rife throughout even the most ostensibly non-heterodox members of the trauma.

Qusai was on the verge of an outburst when Angelica intervened.

“Forbes!?! What are you doing here!?!” she squealed.

Forbes replied ruefully: “Work, you go where the money takes you.”

Qusai turned to Angelica. “You know this man?”

“Yeah, like, we worked on this ad for my fragrance?”

“Fragrance?” Qusai enquired. Nobody responded.

Diamanda was amused to discover the serious, intense figure of Forbes Ross had shilled for a celebrity fragrance, despite what he had proclaimed to Sir Victor and Sir Paul.

“He’s like this shit hot, artsy director now, intense, method, I think, you know?”

Qusai didn’t. But he did dimly discern how useful a man like Forbes Ross could prove in his efforts to dissimulate and blind opinion to certain things.

Qusai turned his beaming smile on Forbes and, most importantly, Jacintha. “You must stay with me, I insist, we shall get you better care and conditions, so far as poor Qatakistan can, him too’, Qusai gestured to the prostrate form of Sir Victor Carraway, ‘, but not the pervert woman and her, how you say’, Qusai scanned the room, ‘bitch!?”

At this point a disheveled looking Logan and Jessica returned to the restaurant, Jacintha was, however, too taken up with what was going on to much notice, too shaken to register the fact that the vicious, inhumane figure of Qusai was the one playing beneficent host.

Jacintha shook slightly.

“What?”

“My, my boyfriend…” she gestured toward Logan.

“He must come as well.” Qusai rather enjoyed humiliating husbands, perhaps he should have taken the time to get to know Diamanda better?

Sam was in a quandary, here he was, in the same room as Qusai, a known and vicious human rights abuser, and was he to say nothing? Or, more correctly, was he to let the opportunity to curry favour with the selection board in Islington Central slip through his fingers? How he agonised. Sam mentally ummed and ahhed, paralysed as Qusai and his enhanced retinue departed, Sir Victor laid out on a gurney roughly handled by four soldiers, deathly pale, quiet and funereal.

Sam and Diamanda were left alone in the restaurant, with Jamie upstairs, the three inhabitants of the Imperial Hotel, Ast’Qana. Sam fixated on how he might be still best able to secure the Islington Central candidacy. Diamanda was just pleased to be rid of the rest of their party, Sir Victor, after what he had said to her, particularly. Neither spoke to the other and, after some time, Diamanda slinked off to see Jamie, she could at least relieve some of his neurotically-induced stress, and, in so doing, work off her own as well. Sam was left sitting there, ignoring his silence, his moral cowardice, if he had spoken, and been shot, who would speak for the good citizens of Islington Central then, Bob Switherow’s wife? And had she stood, faced, for faced was the word Sam Kent’s attempt at rationalisation alighted upon, evil in the form of Qusai, had she tended to the wounded during a hostage crisis? No, she had not. It was on this note that Sam decided to attempt to call his contact in Islington Central’s Labour party.

Meanwhile the revelations pertaining to I N Securities rippled around the world. In London the remaining members of the board convened an emergency meeting under the auspices of Jeff and Buddy at which many an expletive was exclaimed. In a similar fashion key members of the Chinese Communist Party bureaucracy expressed outrage at the perfidy of the British government which had dared to use Chinese state backed assets to further foreign policy goals aimed at interfering in the internal processes of a sovereign power. In Paris the mass of the electorate’s opinion of René Hulot was further confirmed. Berlin signed a gas deal with Moscow.

Into this colossal fuck up there stepped Jeremy Cable-Tether, the newly appointed Business Secretary, Lib Dem tyro, a figure scarcely translated from his former incarnation as Scottish Secretary. Gravely arrayed around him were the senior civil servants of his department, experienced in the spin and counter spin of these past twenty years, they looked to the new secretary for a lead, a cue, a clue even. Harry Clark would prove to have company in taking advantage of the opportunities thrown up by the febrile present.

“Permanent Secretary, what contingency plans do we have?” he asked with all the gravitas of the former minor public school boy, the breed that formed almost the entirety of his party’s officer corps.

The permanent secretary’s mouth gaped, flapped, gabbered in a manner akin to Steve Prentice’s. “...We, we, we, do...don’t!”

Jeremy immediately understood that if nothing had been prescribed then everything was permissible. Immediately he offered the following, fateful words: “Then, given the threat to financial stability, I don’t see we have any other choice. I N Securities will be nationalised! Get me the governor!”

Within an hour the governor, agreeing with the business secretary about the gravity of the situation had come to back him resolutely, an hour after that Lord Placeman had been squared, or bounced, depending on your tastes, the Labour party leadership proved amenable, and so at Jeremy’s prompting an array of civil servants poured out from the FSA and BIS to take up their new stations in the heart of I N Securities. Naturally the British government was careful to impress upon its Chinese partners that their investment was secure and would be respected by the new dispensation, though this hardly quelled Wen and Zhou’s outrage.

Later Lord Placeman chaired his first cabinet. Arrayed around him were, in no particular order, a failed shadow chancellor returned to an equivalently humiliating middle ranking post to the one he had held in his party’s last government; the leader of the opposition, now ensconced at the foreign office, and deputy prime minister to boot; the Tory home secretary, one of the few senior Tories to have survived the scandal; the Lib Dem acting leader, an old man in a hurry if ever there was one, who had attained his ambition of becoming chancellor; and Harry Clark, improbably his party’s acting leader and the defence minister, as well as the thrusting face of Jeremy Cable-Tether.

“Foreign Secretary, how are attempts going to mitigate the fallout from all this?” Placeman enquired plaintively.

“Well, the Americans are livid, the Russians are moving a vote in the security council I can only describe as sarcastic, and, even worse, the Chinese are so outraged as to be threatening to withhold foreign direct investment!”

The bulk of the cabinet quailed visibly.

“One doesn’t kick one’s creditors in the balls, eh, Peter.” Harry averred smilingly.

“The rest of the security council’s non-permanent members are also collectively outraged.” The foreign secretary continued.

“The markets have, as expected, reacted negatively’, the chancellor stated, ‘sterling plunged, and I mean plunged, we’re hemorrhaging!!!”

“Hemorrhaging!” the culture minister repeated, glaring at the nearest Tory as he did so.

“Indeed, if this continues, we shall have to either make massive cuts’, the Labour members blanched visibly at this suggestion, ‘or repudiate our debts…”

“I did not become the Queen’s first minister to preside over the liquidation of the British economy, our end as a great power, and the attendant destruction of the welfare state!” Lord Placeman fulminated impotently.

“To say nothing of the BBC!” Harry interjected caustically.

“There’s also been rioting, outside various British diplomatic and cultural institutions across the world, to say nothing of Qataki elements at home, as well as various co-religionists jumping on the band wagon.”

“Privately I hear Washington, while publicly livid, is at least slightly pleased, as it takes the heat off the problems they’re having with their embassy in Ast’Qana.”

“What of the French and the loss of the two soldiers?”

“I’ve spoken with Laurent’, Harry spoke of his French opposite number, ‘they’re not pleased, obviously, but sufficient danegeld should at least close down that particular aspect of the fuck-up.”

“Thank God.”

“What about Admiral Conroy?”

“What about him!?!” Harry snapped defensively at the culture minister, and erstwhile shadow chancellor who had been needling him.

“Yes, I’m afraid, Harry, it won’t fly, you can’t fire the chief of the defence staff.”

“So, during a military emergency the defence minister is precluded from firing a chief of staff, even if he proves an incompetent, managerialist prick? One wonders how we would have won the second world war if that rule had been in effect; mind you, given that so many in public life now are incompetent, managerialist pricks we’d hate to show them up!”

“Yes, the cabinet feels…”

“You mean, Labour, the Lib Dems and yourself, Peter…”

“The cabinet feels Admiral Conroy deserves our full backing and reinstitution at the MOD…”

“I protest!”

“We’re prepared to hold a vote on it…” Placeman stated baldly.

“Do so. I’d rather it go on record somewhere that someone formed a correct judgement at least once during this bleak farce than it not.”

Duly the cabinet voted, overwhelmingly for the reinstitution of Admiral Conroy, only five were opposed.

“I suppose my proposal of the immediate review of all defence programmes and operations in the light of what I would maintain is Admiral Conroy’s gross incompetence is also not going to fly?”

“Would you like another vote, Harry?”

“Yes, yes I would, while you’re being magnanimous and democratic, Peter, why not?”

Harry found himself in another minority.

Lord Placeman turned to his deputy and was volubly heard to utter: “We need to find a way beyond this…”

Harry turned to his nearest colleague and whispered hoarsely, “TINO…Tory in name only…”

A profusely sweating Sir Paul Fennel on the verge of collapse stood at the crest of a dune, the sun beating down upon him mercilessly. He paused for a moment and, all strength deserting him, fell into a painful, jarring roll down its side. His arms and legs splayed out as he cartwheeled, he came to a stop flat on his chest, miraculously uninjured barring some minor cuts and bruises. A disinterested scorpion ambled within inches of his unfocused eyes. In the distance some militia men noticed the beetroot red, peeled and dehydrated figure. They debated between them whether or not to let him die, neither feeling strongly one way or the other, it was decided that he should be given up to someone, for it had been heard that Abdul Mubdee’s people took a particular interest in lone westerners. They went over to the prostrate figure of Sir Paul, rifled through his pockets, marveling at his crocodile skin wallet and taking a tranche of US dollars they dispensed with his sterling and cards, including his Equality Club membership. Sir Paul was dragged to the back of a pickup truck, bound and driven away. The wind picked up shifting the sand over the remnants of his wallet’s content, covering his Equality Club membership card.

“Mr. President, we, ah, we may have a problem…”

The president narrowed his eyes at his National Security Advisor.

“Archer Strachan…”

“Who?” asked the president.

“He’s an intelligence analyst at Fort Mead.”

“And?”

“He’s flown and he’s giving interviews, disseminating classified information to the British press.”

“Not another whistleblower!”

“Well, I’m really bringing this up because of what it reveals about what the British have gotten up to…”

“You mean we didn’t know?”

“It appears, after intelligence information was tightened up Strachan was able to sit on certain things, and that his manager, didn’t double check the information he was monitoring, or in possession of.”

“Seriously, it’s one fuck up after another with you people, isn’t it?”

“The, ah, the British, appear to have, had used I N Securities to funnel arms to the Qatakis, given certain sensitive information they had concerning the private lives of two of the banks most senior employees, but that the arms fell under the control of Qusai.”

The president’s eyes bulged. He was not happy.

“It, er, it gets worse…The arms were sourced from the Caucasus, probably, ultimately, from the Russians…”

“But Seabright, the reformists, what happened!?!”

“It appears, Mr. President, that the reformists, or what few of them there ever actually were, were dealt a hammer blow when we encouraged liberal democratic reforms that seem to have played into the hands of Qusai and Abdul Mubdee…”

“Abdul, who?”

“You’ll recall the recent execution of the French journalist, well, Mubdee is the head of the Jihadist faction in Qatakistan, he controls swathes of Ast’Qana, and represents a real challenge to Qusai’s authority, given the three way civil war destroying the country, and the threat of Kurdish independence.”

“Look, we can’t keep getting dragged into tribal conflicts in these shitholes.”

“Well, it’s somewhat sensitive, given Anglo-French links to Qatakistan, as well as their financial and energy interests.”

“You should be most concerned about the domestic ramifications of Strachan’s going AWOL, happily exposing diplomatically sensitive information to the mass media.”

“Indeed, wherever he is, get him back, get him back and get him in jail!?!”

“That could be a problem, Mr. President, he’s presently in Hong Kong…”

“Hong Kong!!! I’m due to go to China, you haul the ambassador in! No games!!!”

“Yes, Mr. President, we will, we will do that straight away.”

XI

A gaunt Sir Finbar McLuhan looked across his desk at Roland Williams, the latter rather perplexed as to why he had been called into the presence.

“Sir…”

“You might be aware that there has been…is occurring…has been’, even he was finding it difficult to get his head around ongoing events, ‘a reconstruction of the government.”

“Yes, I had…am.”

“Anyway, Williams, our recent, esteemed’, he hung faintly ironically on the latter adjective, ‘deputy prime minister, has been liaising with us about his new role, and he requested, to quote that fine, forensic mind: ‘that fellow, who wrote that tremendously persuasive document on Qatakistan’, from which all our woes have flowed…”

Sir Finbar’s pale-eyed gaze fixed upon Williams ruefully.

So this was why he had been pulled from liaising with the MOD over the ex-Albatross, the Albatross that had ceased to be, and had been the cause of quite a few other non-avian beings ceasing in that state.

“So, am I to understand that I am to be seconded to the deputy, sorry, the former deputy prime minister’s mission?”

“Yes, and, amazingly, despite a global furore, and even the amount of private pressure put on me, and as many British figures they can speak to, by the UN secretariat, he burbles on about his mission to save Qatakistan…One would have thought that level of moral narcissism impossible…Anyway, Steve wants to go to Ast’Qana, and I can’t think whether this is, for your part, a due punishment or not, as you get to fly to New York for some preliminary meetings, fun, of course, and then, presumably via Brussels, for which he has quite the yen, to Ast’Qana, a war zone…”

Williams sat there expecting more.

“I don’t know, it’s not wholly your fault, you just happened to have drafted a document, sensible in many, many places, that spoke to the worst, most fatuous prejudices of the time and was misinterpreted, or not properly appreciated, by a man like Steve…Hubris, nemesis…I’m so glad I retire in three months…Hopefully we’ll remain on the security council that long…”

“When do I, ah, when do I leave, sir?”

“My private secretary tells me Steve awaits you in his office in the House of Commons, after that? You’re his man now…I doubt that means you’ll have much of a future with us, given what’s transpired…PARSONS’, Sir Finbar yelled, an ineffably obsequious head stuck itself around the heavy mahogany door, ‘show Williams out, I have to apologise to the; well, everyone, really…” and with that sense of weary resignation Williams saw Sir Finbar for the last time.

In contrast to Sir Finbar’s mournful demeanour Steve struck Williams as possessing a tiggerish enthusiasm, which belied his incongruously teary eyes. He seemed to betray no indication that he had ever been forced to resign after instigating a major national disaster; Williams wondered how long he had been living with a pronounced sense of cognitive dissonance.

“Brilliant paper, Williams, brilliant. It really crystalised, for me, the policy options, the moral choices…I don’t think we’d have done what we were able to do for Qatakistan without it.”

Williams found this extraordinary, to say the least. He thought he had been at least slightly trepidatious about any form of intervention.

“Thank you, sir.” He was surprised to hear himself replying.

“Right, the schedule, we’ll be leaving for New York tomorrow, I have meetings with relief agencies, the deputy secretary-general; then we’ll be flying to Brussels, tying up an EU aid package, also firming up pressure on Qusai, we need to meet with him if I’m going to solve this…”

“I?”

Steve didn’t register the import of the question.

“We need to get the major sides on board, the loyalist element of the army can’t win by itself’, here Steve repeated an element of conventional wisdom that was factually correct for once, ‘if we can get a truce between the army factions and their political masters then that’s one part of the problem’, Steve was attempting logic, this was dangerous, ‘that still leaves Abdul Mubdee…” Steve’s logic supposed, of course, that leaving them to it wasn’t the least worst option.

“How would you propose to address him?”

“Intermediaries, Roland; after Brussels I want to visit various regional states, get them on board, use the Islamic world to put pressure on him.” Again, Steve supposed that these self-same parties had no interest in allowing Abdul Mubdee free rein vis his anti-Olympic crusade.

“Call me a cock-eyed optimist, Roland, “You may say I’m a dreamer”, but I can save Qatakistan!”

Roland realised it was far worse than Sir Finbar had intimated, he had found his fate shackled to a messianic figure suffering from cognitive dissonance and further divorced from reality by rose tinted ideological spectacles, men like Steve got other men killed - in fact, with Albatross, had actually done so.

“Do you not, perhaps, think that we have damaged that country enough?”

“Ah, you’re going to be the Kato to my Clouseau, I see; good, keep me on my toes, I’m sure the PM used to do the same.” Steve replied without any trace of irony. Indeed, Steve made the famed farcical inspector seem a pillar of efficacy and professional rectitude in contrast.

So Williams left for home and to pack, a sense of dread and foreboding over him, he was going with this man to the Middle East? Had he the time prior to his departure Roland Williams decided that he would have drafted a will; it seemed the bleakly prudent thing to do, as it was he hadn’t the time, and so he did what was necessary, resigned to the horrific possibilities of his fate.

As preparations for Steve’s mission went ahead Colby Tenet found himself documenting Tufts’ deteriorating mental state. The special envoy barely spoke with anyone now, barely left his office, in fact. Occasionally, when Tenet would report anything of worth or value to Tufts, the occasional missive from home, the false hope emanating from Foggy Bottom, or the altogether starker, bleaker assessments from the Pentagon, he would loiter outside Tufts’ office, the reports having been taken in near total silence, and, in so loitering, hear the occasional loaded term muttered under the special envoy’s breath: “reform, more reform”, “rights”, “triangulation”, that morning Tenet had even heard a pained cry when the news came through that Qusai had hanged the former Emir for crimes against the people. Tenet, out of morbid curiosity, had powered up one of the laptops and watched the streamed footage depicting, in full daylight, the catatonic Abbas having the noose placed around his neck, the jeering and catcalls of an outraged populace, which Tenet took to be indicative of popular opinion here, and not much manufactured, and the erstwhile paediatrician’s neck snap as he fell through the trapdoor, “mockingly unresponsive to the last”, as the narrator had it. He felt it would be kinder for Tufts if he were to paint a mock-heroic picture of the former Emir’s execution, how he bravely espoused liberal reform, he didn’t think the special envoy’s fragile psyche could bear that much bleak reality.

The embassy continued to function as best it could whilst totally locked down, communication with home intermittent, surrounded by a threatening three-way civil war, unsure whether the army units stationed around it wouldn’t defect, or even, on Qusai’s explicit orders storm the embassy and kill them all. Tenet had started to contemplate the possibility of a car bomb ramming the embassy at the express orders of Abdul Mubdee; it seemed as realistic a possibility as any of the others.

He had become the functional head of the siege on the American side, the essential replacement for Tufts’ psychological absence.

For the latter’s part he tergiversated between long periods of pronounced lethargy, and brief periods of intense activity, embarking on the production of a book, pitying and self-justificatory in tone, he alone had been right, Washington had abandoned his policy, the Qatakis too, or, rather, elements among them, had conspired to also abandon the true and correct path. Occasionally, many days of stubble apparent, he would wander over to the window and peer through the blinds, his bleary eyes taking time to adjust to the harsh, pitiless sunlight beyond. Tufts would listen for the chanting, the sounds of civil disorder and revanchism, the random explosions, the pop pop of small arms fire and whooshing of heavier weapons. These sounds, which represented the antithesis of his dreams, would infect and populate his nightmares as he slept, exhaustedly, uneasily in his office, the presidential special envoy technically and, increasingly, psychologically, unable to call anyone…

In its way Tufts cognitive dissonance was as pronounced as Steve’s, it manifested itself somewhat differently however.

For Ambassador Kropotkin in contrast war-torn Ast’Qana was at least tolerable. He carried out his duties in accordance with the instructions he was able to easily receive from Moscow, and consequently found himself meeting with Qusai and what passed for his team of senior advisers.

“I have been told to inform you that the president is most pleased with how the Qataki situation is developing, he even made a speech mocking the British…”

“Yes, I’ve had excerpts read to me, it was very amusing.” Qusai interjected.

“The Emir was most pleased with the Russian moving of a vote of censure at the security council.” stated the foreign minister.

“Well, sometimes Sergei gets ahead of himself.” Kropotkin replied matter-of-factly.

“Indeed.”

“That aside, your majesty, we thought it best to co-ordinate our positions ahead of the UN peace mission.”

“Qusai is for peace, everyone knows this!” the emir jauntily averred in the third person, which a less knowledgeable figure might have attributed to burgeoning egomania, a ship that had sailed a long, long time ago.

“The recent execution of your brother could be interpreted as belying that, Emir.” Kropotkin stated with a faint undercurrent of irony.

“The traitor and criminal, who would have decimated, annihilated his people had to go, justice, as determined in a court of law, ensured this, not I!!!”

Kropotkin let the judicial killing of a catatonic patient slide, lying, as it did, outside the confines of Russo-Qataki diplomacy, he had said enough so that the president could claim, in good conscience, that representations had been made, whatever that meant.

“We have, Boris, things in hand, we are fighting the propaganda war, Angelica Hayek is being exposed to the true face of the regime, I am out with her most days, we offer aid to the poor, the indigent, the atrocities of my opponents are occasionally glimpsed, and, at night, we discuss the political strategy; rest assured, Boris, there shall be no more high profile killings, for who is left? A major general!?!” Qusai alluded to the senior most officer of the remaining elements of the pro-Abbas faction.

“There remains Abdul Mubdee, of course…”

Qusai flew off the handle at this, Mubdee, Mubdee who had inspired and commanded the jihadist revolt, who had roused the streets of whole tranches of Ast’Qana against him, his brother, established authority.

“Mubdee will never succeed, I shall crush him, he is the jihadist cancer, the west thinks I am bad, let them try Mubdee and his theocrats!!!!! I should turn Tufts and the Americans over to him right now!!!!! Then they shall see!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Changing the subject Boris asked Qusai what preparations he had made for the impending visit by the former British deputy prime minister.

Calming himself after an uncomfortably lengthy interlude Qusai spoke: “I am to greet him with the human shields, he shall see how well they are kept, even the pervert bankers, perhaps Tufts too, I may even, as a gesture of goodwill, allow some of them to leave with him, to show the west, the British, the French, the Americans, that constructive diplomacy works better than the military violation of sovereign Qataki territory, I shall also play up the anti-colonial card, for their consumption.”

Boris nodded approvingly, he could hardly have recommended better himself.

Saif, the foreign minister spoke: “As you can see, the Emir has the matter quite in hand.”

This pleased Kropotkin, things seemed to be going much as they had hoped.

In another part of the palace Angelica was getting to know the survivors of the Albatross massacre.

“No, like, you’ve got him all, like, totally wrong!”

Jacintha would not be gainsaid. She had her view of Qusai, she had read the reports that she collated for the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, there was no way Qusai wasn’t the psychotic playboy of the middle east, was there?

“He’s evil!”

“Please, where are you getting this from, the media? I know what they’re like, like; they, like, totally make things up!”

Logan could only stare at the beauty of the Hollywood star, all while Jacintha and Angelica discussed what they knew and/or had seen of Qusai.

Jessica idly checked her phone, on the off chance she had any service.

Sir Victor’s heart monitor beeped away peaceably in the background, he seemed to have stabilised.

Jacintha had to concede the point that much of her knowledge of Qusai, if not its entirety, had been gleaned from the more ideologically approved newspapers.

“I’ve seen him’, Angelica maintained, ‘he has a beautiful soul…The way he cared for those poor, poor people; it’s one of the most moving things I’ve ever seen…”

Jacintha considered this. She couldn’t square Angelica’s fervent conviction with what she had come to know about him. How could the man she knew of be the same man who Angelica spoke of? This puzzled Jacintha, with her morally simplistic notions.

Jacintha turned away from Angelica and looked over to Sir Victor, lying gaunt and pale on the gurney in the corner. Forbes and his crew crowded at the end of the bed, filming the distressed, unconscious banker. The logic of hipsters failed to summon up any outrage at this violation of a sick man’s privacy.

Qadir entered the room, in addition to shepherding Angelica he was also now responsible for the others too.

Jacintha looked to Qadir and asked what the doctors had to say.

“He has suffered a fairly severe heart attack, it will require some time for him to recover.”

Had he been conscious none would have been more relieved at this prognosis than Sir Victor, he could hardly be expected to go on trial for his mismanagement of the bank’s affairs with a weak heart, could he? In this was the Etonian’s get out of jail free card back home, surely? As for Qatakistan, this wasn’t Africa, they didn’t jail Etonian’s involved in funding coups here, especially if one seemed to have, quite inadvertently, funded what seemed to be the winning side.

“Thanks, Mr., ah?”

“Qadir.”

“Thanks.”

“I have some other news; it seems that some of you at least, will be released soon.”

“THANK GOD!!!” said Logan. He began to shake. Jacintha went to hold him. By this stage, with the seeming relief of freedom in the not too distant future the stress on Logan, imprisoned, narrow escapee from a massacre, unable to indulge his sex addiction, took hold. He held Jacintha to him as she provided comfort, groping her as he did so.

Jessica looked at him disgustedly.

Two hardened jihadists entered the cellar, they found Abdul Mubdee in prayer, dimly lit by candlelight, the French journalist’s head sat on his desk, pulling an incongruously, grotesquely amused rictus grin. They waited some time for him to finish, and, looking as if he were just about to do so nearly spoke, before he started again, continuing for another ten minutes.

After this juncture he finally finished, turning around to them, his grim visage centred upon them he asked: “What do you want?”

“We have someone who might be of interest to you, he was found in the desert, alone, a few miles from the westerner’s aid camp.”

Abdul Mubdee considered this silently.

“He seems quite mad.”

“Bring him to me.”

“We were wondering; how will we be rewarded?”

“You will be rewarded.” Abdul Mubdee shouted for a member of his retinue, he arrived with specie for the two men.

The two men accepted the reward with alacrity, bestowing blessings upon Abdul Mubdee and his cause.

“Now, bring him to me.” Mubdee commanded.

The sun-frazzled figure of Sir Paul Fennell was dragged down the stairs and dumped unceremoniously at Mubdee’s feet, his royal blue suit was torn, his shirt dirty, his loafers scuffed, his mind gone.

Mubdee addressed him: “Why do we not kill you now, westerner?”

Sir Paul stared at Abdul Mubdee who seemed like some God-like representation of The Other to him, or would have done, in quite those terms, if he had been more or less familiar with Said’s Orientalism.

He gasped, air forcing itself over his cracked lips, dehydrated, and barely aware he could only croak, tentatively attempting speech.

“I have my men here, we could use you, for propaganda, for the glory of Allah…”

“Allah…” Sir Paul uttered painfully.

Abdul Mubdee was on the verge of instructing his film crew to ready themselves when Sir Paul spoke more.

“Allah…I…wish…only…to die…”

Mubdee turned, looking at Sir Paul, he considered the implications of this.

“You wish to die, for Allah?” he asked quizzically, thrown by the seemingly formerly prosperous westerner’s espousal of sentiments not usually associated with such figures, possessed as they were of their soulless materialism.

At this point Abdul Mubdee put two and two together, and came up with something approximating four.

“You are from the mercy flight, you are a senior westerner…and you can go where I cannot, and do what was formerly beyond my grasp…” Abdul Mubdee grinned demonically, as one can often say of those ostensible men of God. In the burned out, psychologically destroyed figure of Sir Paul Allah had afforded him possibility, great possibility.

“What do we do about HMS Lion?” Harry asked.

“I’m sorry?” asked Lord Placeman in turn.

The two were in another National Security Council meeting.

“Well, Lion, Darlan and the others are continuing to steam to the Gulf, they’re very nearly there and the cabinet, this council hasn’t decided whether it’s going to recall them, in concert with the French, or allow them to steam off Qatakistan.”

“Well, what does the defence secretary suggest?”

“My advice would be to hold them in the Arabian Sea, well away from Qatakistan, given the balls-up we’ve made of it.”

“Might it not lend an aspect of credibility to Steve’s mission?” asked the foreign secretary fatuously.

Lord Placeman considered the matter; he demurred, looked at Harry, and, petulantly, decided to agree with the foreign secretary.

Harry rolled his eyes. “So, we’re basing this decision on reinforcing the credibility of Steve, are we?” he asked caustically.

Lord Placeman and the foreign secretary ignored him.

One for the diary Harry thought.

In all the excitement and geopolitical brouhaha scarcely any attention had been paid to Lord Placeman’s successor at the BBC. Sir Tristram Barnard had assembled around him the massed ranks of the corporation’s management and HR divisions; as well as some figures who actually made television and radio programmes. Sir Tristram, unsullied by paedophile scandals, publicly untouched by a borderline insane commitment to an ideological vision of man scarcely achievable was proceeding to deliver his first keynote address as chairman of the governors at The Equality Club.

The entire address was suffused with an air of almost ineffably smug centrism. There was scarcely a nostrum of consensusite thought that Sir Tristram didn’t touch on and exult as if there could be no other way, nor indeed, was the possibility admitted that this way was anything other than unquestionably good.

Was Sir Tristram in favour of the emergency national government, run by his former boss, and even if it did contain that ghastly Harry Clark? Of course he was.

Was Sir Tristram a keen believer in forward thinking digital delivery of content to and for the people? Undoubtedly.

Was Sir Tristram willing to gloss over any concerns about how the corporation might deaden national debate and the plurality of opinion? As if he wouldn’t?

So Sir Tristram ploughed on interminably, in such a way as a more jaundiced observer - had one been in the room, in the highly unlikely event that he, or she, had been invited to The Equality Club – would have commented volubly along the lines of it previously being difficult to believe how a room of, ostensibly, intelligent people – with the proviso that they were in PR and management – could believe such arrant nonsense, but here in the 21st century we are.

Sir Tristram, having, finally finished opened up the floor to questions from the keen, incisive audience, naturally, coming from much the same, if not exactly the same, philosophical perspective, if we can use such a phrase to so dignify it, nothing at all challenging, or unexpected offered itself.

Sir Tristram departed guarded by a phalanx of open-necked shirted hipsters, a barrier between this tribune of the great and good, now the guardian of the nation’s morals, as he saw it, and enemy in chief of the racist sex offenders who dwelt beyond the civilised confines of London’s wealthiest post codes, with their ghastly opinions as they toiled to pay the license fee.

His purpose had been to instill in the resources, as he saw them, a correct and due appreciation of the facts, of how the last government, run by those wicked Tories, had failed to save Qatakistan for those liberal democrats who were, tragically, being shelled and shot in rolling, 24 hour high def news, with red button coverage. Furthermore, that with a man like Lord Placeman in charge, albeit for a brief period, they could once again hope for the future, indeed, he was actively mulling over one billionaire musician’s suggestion for a live concert benefitting the Qatakis even more than they had done already from British largesse.

A well known campaigner sidled over to Sir Tristram.

“Sir Tristram, might we not start to agitate for the former prime minister to face some form a war crimes trial?”

Sir Tristram’s eyes lit up, an idea he liked. Sir Tristram was awfully keen on thought crime trials, had the prime minister not handled this so maladroitly than peace may well be reigning in Qatakistan today. He had, however, nous enough to realise that it risked prejudicing the former deputy prime minister’s peace mission, but that once that was over, one way or another, it could conceivably become the corporation’s considered opinion on the matter. Sir Tristram grinned and wagged his finger at the campaigner as he walked off.

Sir Tristram would continue to do his utmost to exert his baleful influence over affairs, now from the perch of Chairman of the Board of Governors, installed in his stead an ideologically correct successor, himself now the public face of the corporation, facing Commons’ inquiries and batting away their reactionary attacks with lordly disdain, for a title was now only a matter of time, surely? So, casting off the cares of the evening, with visions of the future, of society, of Qatakistan, he made for a previously reserved private room and sank into a comfortable arm chair where he rested.

Steve wended his way at public expense over the Atlantic, back again to Brussels, from Brussels to a slew of incensed, revolutionary and unstable Middle Eastern countries, all the while being barracked and heckled by mobs which seemed to have a better handle on the full import of his stupidity than he had. Steve was also further horrifying Roland Williams as the full extent of what the latter had amateurishly diagnosed as his cognitive dissonance became glaring. Yet Williams was inescapably shackled to this grotesque exercise in peace-mongering, horrified, bedazzled, and unable to turn away from this lurid sight. Occasionally Williams would check-in on the news coverage from his various hotel rooms only to find the picture depicted of Steve’s mission was almost as detached from reality as his boss was, especially on the BBC, and, in this, he dimly discerned the hand of Sir Tristram.

During this interregnum, before Steve’s arrival in Ast’Qana, Qusai had begun to spend more and more time with Angelica, and, with copious acts of conscious, overt kindness, further inoculated her against Jacintha’s own wavering sense of certainty in her judgement on him. Qusai’s calculated charm and insistence on keeping the women with him as his treasured guests during much of the day were doing their best to ensure that they warmed to his princely demeanour. Qusai also began to come into close proximity with Forbes Ross, his own seeming enthusiasm for cinema and the sense of power he gave off very much speaking to the latter.

“Just think, Jacintha’, Forbes enthused, ‘I could be the cinema verité Riefenstahl to Qusai’s Fuhrer! Angelica, Garbo meets Braun!”

“Riefenstahl?” Again Jacintha didn’t get the reference.

Forbes ignored her, gabbling on about how much Qusai had impressed him, despite the circumstances, and, more importantly, the exaggerations, distortions and half-truths told about him in the western media. He had gone a bit Oliver Stone.

“Yeah, like, before I was here, I would never have thought that he, it was like this!”

Forbes and his crew were filming as, against a backdrop of the still partially destroyed palace, Qusai milled about with some of his soldiers and, together, they dispensed yet more aid to an injured mother.

Suddenly a colossal explosion was heard, not too far off, a plume of thick, black noxious smoke could be seen in the distance.

The soldiers moved to take the Emir back to the safety of the palace, the hostages, who increasingly no longer saw themselves as such, Stockholm syndrome having more than begun to take hold, were equivalently treated.

Finding themselves back in the palace Forbes finally, fatefully decided to risk speaking to Qusai.

“Emir, hey, Emir!”

Qusai looked at the director.

“Look, I think we need to speak. I think we can do something to help Qatakistan…”

“Come with me, we will speak, in private.”

Forbes and his film crew followed the Emir, soon, having turned a few corners, and Forbes having gotten ahead of his crew, the latter were stopped; Forbes turned to remonstrate.

“Hey, my guys are with me!”

The Emir turned: “I said in private!”

Forbes gurned, considering further protestation, he decided to do as he was told. He followed Qusai, turning another corner, walking down a corridor and into a conference room.

“Forbes, what do you wish to discuss?”

“I think, Qusai’, Forbes risked familiarity, ‘you can make better use of us.”

Qusai continued to look at the director.

“Think about it, you have a top rate film crew, an even better director’, Forbes was short on false-modesty, ‘we can sell your side of the struggle!”

Qusai smiled, aware now that Forbes had already done much to seduce himself.

“What do you envisage?”

“As I was saying earlier to Jacintha and Angelica, I could be the Riefenstahl to your Fuhrer, the Eisenstein to your Stalin! But, obviously, good; I’ve seen enough of you to know that, now.”

Qusai, the supreme actor, feigned a look of pained uncertainty. “Really? What of Angelica and Jacintha, do they feel the same; I can’t bear to think of them as hating me in any way…? I wish this war would end, well, I mean, you heard those explosions, car bombs, I expect…If only there were some way to end this…”

“Qusai, baby, the medium is the message; imagine the war told, from your side, in FULL HD!!! Better yet, 3-D!!!!! I already have a title.”

Qusai narrowed his eyes.

“The Martyr!!!!!”

Qusai smiled, he had Forbes where he wanted him, more importantly, Forbes had himself right where Qusai wanted him. He was sure that Forbes now believed, which made everything that would flow from that so much easier to have arranged and controlled.

Qusai hesitantly replied: “Forbes, my friend, it makes me think that despite our hardships, the terror, the horror, there is some reason, we have met; and, perhaps, through your chosen medium, we could help ourselves, others find some semblance of an answer…”

“Cool, Qusai, cool, very cool.”

During this period Qusai and Angelica had developed a close intimacy with one another, Qusai doing his best to engender an affinity in the Hollywood starlet, having shown her the realities of life in Qatakistan as he wished her to see them, Qadir doing his part to further the illusion.

No whim of Angelica’s was so outlandish as to be denied, despite the privation rife throughout the nation, beyond the gilded circle in which her Stockholm syndrome burgeoned, Angelica was able to maintain near Hollywood levels of style and glamour, while the regime subtly underwrote her unconscious desires, strangely only a compendious library of Grace Kelly movies was available. Taking this cue Angelica started to have her hair styled after the Hollywood princess. This, naturally met with Qusai’s approval, as anything she did or said did too.

For Angelica’s part what greater movie could she star in than this production of the increasingly alluring and attractive Qusai’s, as directed by Forbes Ross, with a teeming cast of millions, benighted, down trodden, some glamorous bit players, and, as shaped by the warped logic into which the milieu had pitched her, all in the service of a good cause and a good man.

Sometime after Qusai, Angelica also spoke with Forbes Ross of her desire to film a moving promo for the cause, and, incidentally, the man. Ideas were discussed, and so Angelica, her post-rehab cause found, came to be filmed with Qusai aiding some well-chosen poor and desperate Qatakis, Qusai displayed his best wan smile, his eyes fixed on his Qataki Angel, as she would come to be known after Hanoi Jane, the relationship would be consummated soon after, the marriage, in unique circumstances soon after that.

What of Swayne? He, exposed as an MI6 agent by the Strachan revelations, came to, horrified to find himself greeted by the leering, demonic tormenter to whose tender ministrations he would be left. Now, totally broken, spilling whatever he knew about Plan Grouse, plus other operations, and aspects of his career to his Qataki torturers, for good propaganda measure, he had been induced to implicate the Israelis, for reasons of domestic political consumption.

The tormenter – prior to their last encounter he had, almost flirtatiously whispered “No names.” into Swayne’s ear, or what was left of it – stood over him speaking to another similarly grim faced Qataki.

“We have new instructions, we are to make him presentable, that I shall leave for you, it’s more your department than it is mine.” the tormenter said to the unfamiliar figure.

“Yes, sir. How presentable shall I make him?”

“Not too much, he is to play a role in our diplomacy with the western powers…” the tormenter hinted darkly.

The foreign secretary stood up to answer questions in the house ahead of Steve’s peace mission.

“Order, order!” cried the diminutive speaker.

The foreign secretary referred to a previously submitted written question. “In addition to such matters I will have further meetings with colleagues later on today.”

“Mr. Campbell Lott-Hampton!” cried the speaker.

“In the light of the former deputy prime minister’s imminent peace mission to Qatakistan how are our efforts to repair relations at the UN going, relations which the former deputy prime minister has done so much to rupture!?!” asked the blonde, telegenic figure bumptious with an excess of self-regard.

The foreign secretary demurred visibly. “…Well, as the honourable member knows, some member states have threatened to withdraw from the United Nations in protest at our vetoing of votes of censure and calls for our withdrawal from the security council, while Russia and China have voiced the possibility of abstaining at key junctures…”

A fair tranche of the Tory right jeered at the suggestion.

“…We are continuing to make every effort to repair relations with diplomatic partners…” he continued circumlocutorily.

Harry Clark leaned over to Jeremy Cable-Tether sitting on the government benches next to him and exclaimed: “We’re fucked, basically.”

“Mr. Alan Marshal-Cross!”

The speaker had called for a weedy, bespectacled figure, best known as a stalwart of the public accounts committee. Alan rose slowly.

“Might I ask the foreign secretary what is being done to defray any likely negative impact of sanctions that might be levied against Britain as a result of the Qatakistan debacle - especially, what we are doing to prevent a reduction in Chinese foreign direct investment?” he asked with a distinct paucity of charisma.

The foreign secretary grimaced. “Her Majesty’s government is doing everything possible to restore relations with Beijing to an equitable footing, given the unfortunate role played by I N Securities in the affair, under the tutelage of the last chancellor!”

Many Tories volubly remonstrated with the party political point. Harry laughed cynically.

“You took as much money from them as we did!” he shouted at the foreign secretary gleefully.

“Sir Norman Conquest!”

A heavy-set, aged figure, indeed the father of the house stood up.

“The foreign secretary might, perhaps, be aware’, he stated plummily, ‘of the rich history of botched operations, one thinks of Lionel ‘Buster’ Crabbe and the Orzhonikidze, in British history…How are efforts going to locate the missing MI6 operative associated with what the world’s press now knows as Plan Grouse!?” Sir Norman, satisfied, sat down.

Immediately the foreign secretary replied with the well-worn formula: “It is not the policy of Her Majesty’s government to comment on intelligence matters.”

It was fair to say that the rollicking session was displacement activity for the disturbed, rather than anything attempting to hold the government to account, for it was no longer master of its destiny, events in Qatakistan and further afield had, and would continue to take on a momentum of their own.

Steve had found the past week rather trying. Several UN civil servants had resigned rather than accept assignment to his peace mission, with the result that it was staffed wholly with British civil servants who could be bullied or threatened, much as Roland Williams had been, into accepting the commission, whilst in Brussels, an equivalent number of EU member states’ representatives had refused meetings with him, an expression of their home governments’ displeasure with recent actions, which had impacted adversely on his hopes of announcing a new aid package as part of his peace efforts, one lacking an arms component, this time. By the time he arrived in the middle east his team had grown used to the mockery and catcalls, if not outright displays of anger, however calculated, that he often, if not entirely uniformly, encountered; Roland was sure the Iranian foreign minister was sardonically mocking Steve. No matter, despite all this, Steve’s messianism, his Utopian impulses saw him through the embarrassments and humiliations of New York, Brussels, Cairo, Tehran, Riyadh, and Baghdad, all the while safely ensconced in the security cordon that was the global diplomat’s milieu.

Steve had finally arrived in Ast’Qana, where a Qataki platoon had met his plane and proceeded to take him and his team to the same hotel that Jean-Pierre Murville had stayed in.

Steve surveyed the same skyline, equivalently squinting as the bright sun beat down on the city. To the left, from his vantage point in the hills to the city’s north, he could see the formerly gleaming post-modern spires of the central business district, many now smoking and burnt out, the souks and ancient white walled homes of the natives, equivalently scorched, and now home to rat like nests of insurgents, and largely non-western trapped immigrants; finally, to the right, he saw the modern suburbs which swept along the ridge that slowly but surely came back on itself and rose to the heights of Ast’Qana’s most prized area, where those governing and business elites had lived side by side, capital having fled as best it could, and now taking on more the image of an armed camp, Qusai’s new elite guarded, both from without and from within.

So he cheerfully breakfasted on jam and toast, with coffee too, as a few loud explosions resonated across the city.

“What’s happening?” he asked Sarah, his political secretary, Alison and Toby, two junior civil servants, and Roland.

“Well, we’ve got quite a few emails about the proposed bypass in your constituency…”

Steve cut her off, bored at the domestic imbroglio of a mere bypass. “I meant here, Sarah.”

Roland spoke: “Well, I’ve been told that the foreign minister might make time to see us this afternoon.”

“What about the loyalists, Abbas’s men?”

“They can’t really guarantee our safety if we leave the confines of Qusai’s security cordon…”

Steve took that on board. “…What about Qusai, then?”

“I’m not having much luck in arranging anything; our best bet is probably to put pressure on him via the foreign minister.”

“And Abdul Mubdee?”

“I think it’s highly unlikely Steve that a jihadist is going to want to meet with us…” replied Roland, putting it no more strongly.

“How about the hostages, do we know anything about how they are?”

“Well, no, since the Albatross disaster…’

Steve looked at Roland as if to remonstrate with him over his poor choice of terminology, from his perspective at least.

“Since, then…We’ve heard nothing, probably a reaction against the west, keep us guessing.”

“Steve, it seems that the survivors are probably among the legally most culpable for the abuse of the bank’s resources…” said Sarah.

Roland thought of at least one other who could be so described.

Steve was not the only one strategising ahead of his meetings. Qusai was discussing his strategy with his senior advisers.

“I’m favourably disposed to a public meeting with this Steve, this dog, who has willfully violated our territory, or so I understand, during which we can parade the hostages, all of them!”

“Even the sick old man?” asked Saif, the foreign minister.

“Even him, to show how he is being cared for.”

“I might even let some of the guiltier sort go…” Qusai mused.

“But if we let them go we lose leverage!” remonstrated the defence minister.

“Oh, Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed…Can you not see, these westerners…We give them fuel for something they can do something about, and it distracts them from further intervention in our affairs…Not all the hostages, by no means, but, as I said, the guiltier ones…The sick man, the pervert bankers…”

“But what about the MI6 man?”

“Oh, him? We dangle…We show him, in front of this Steve, but he must, of course, stand trial, for crimes against the people, as we are well within our rights as a sovereign state to do so.”

“The Americans will start putting pressure on us to release their hostages, the westerners who have taken refuge in their embassy.”

“But, unlike the British hostages, we cannot guarantee their protection, the British hostages are a smaller group, secured by us, arguably safer than they were when ‘liberated’ by their own forces…” Qusai made a dark allusion to the Albatross massacre. “The Americans, western diplomats, well; you can see Ast’Qana, what Abbas’s remnants, what Abdul Mubdee have done! But then again, maybe the time has come to let them go too…I will think about it.”

“So, we are to accede to this Steve’s request to meet me today?” asked the foreign minister again.

“Tomorrow, I think, briefly, initially; then hang out a promise of a further meeting, for lengthier discussions, whereupon a meeting with me can be arranged.”

“He might not like it?”

“Why shouldn’t he, his hotel is very comfortable, or so I hear.”

“Dwell on how oppressive your brief is, given the conflict; discomfort him with talk of his neo-colonial interventionism…” Qusai further mused.

The rudiments of Qataki strategy for dealing with the former deputy prime minister were taking shape, indeed, were more advanced and possessed greater subtlety than Steve’s own, equivalents.

In London another Liberal Democrat’s own diplomacy was going somewhat better. The following day Jeremy Cable-Tether had arrived at The Equality Club for lunch with Sir Tristram.

The Old Wykehamists greeted each other warmly, discussed the menu, made their orders and began an altogether more involved conversation.

“I’ve got to say, Jeremy, that I’m very comfortable with coalition, very comfortable, it’s so much more consensual, but it needs more men like you.” By this Sir Tristram meant us.

“I agree, Tris, it’s unfortunate that we lost a cabinet minister, after all this…” Jeremy spoke airily, as if governments collapse so spectacularly all the time.

“It’s unfortunate that Steve refuses to go away; don’t get me wrong, no-one’s more pro his peace mission than I, but him doing it just feels wrong somehow…”

“I couldn’t agree more, but he’s doing it off his own bat, at the UN’s expense, mark you, but, it’s one of those things that just has to run its course; I’ve worked with him eventually reality will make an impression, he just needs time, that’s all.”

“Nice work on I N Securities, by the way. That raid by the regulators, very telegenic, can’t have done your leadership ambitions any harm.”

“Please, Tris, too crass…As business secretary I knew something had to be done…My only regret was that it wasn’t done sooner…” To say the Wykehamist was lying would not have been strictly accurate; rather he was engaged in a comfortable level of self-deception.

“I won’t lie, Jeremy’, Sir Tris stated smugly, ‘we like you, we’re very pro you too. I can’t come out and say such a thing officially, of course, but you have friends at the corporation.”

The two proceeded to exchange political gossip, Jeremy speaking warmly of Lord Placeman, a sentiment which Sir Tristram heartily agreed with; both also spoke damningly of the awful Harry Clark, the caustic reactionary contemptuous of their finer feelings, a brute.

“I just don’t care for his style of politics, to say nothing of the man.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Tris, you should hear the way he speaks to Lord P in cabinet, shocking…To say nothing of the way he mocks the foreign secretary, I’m not sure there isn’t at least the faintest element of anti-Semitism there…” Jeremy conveniently ignored Harry’s voluble philo-Semitism, why let that get in the way of a good smear.

The following day, frustrated by the delay, Steve entered the heavily guarded Qataki foreign ministry and was shown up to the foreign minister’s office; they too exchanged pleasantries before getting down to business.

Eagerly Steve asked: “When will I be able to see Qusai?”

“I’m afraid, Mr…”

“Steve, please.” he beamed guilelessly.

“…Steve, you know how these things work’, the foreign minister adopted a similarly patronising tone to that of Steve’s former boss, ‘I must report back to His Excellency, a civil war doesn’t prosecute itself…”

Steve looked faintly crestfallen; the first time Roland had seen him like that during the entirety of their travels together.

“But, having said that, I know he is inclined to meet you, schedule permitting…”

Steve bucked up, in that way he did when established authority looked kindly upon him.

“That’s fantastic to hear…Would it be at all possible for me to at least meet the hostages, in the mean time?”

“Again…Steve…I can make no such promises right away; but its possible approval can be received for such a request…”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“I the mean time, as you say, I have representations to make to you concerning your government’s conduct of its relations with our country…”

Steve blanched at this; he might have expected such an occurrence but was miffed at the foreign minister’s wearisome insistence on it.

“Frankly, Steve, your colonialist violation of Qataki sovereignty, interference in a civil conflict, indeed, worse, provision of aid aimed at protracting that conflict, aid aimed at providing succor for that enemy of the people Abbas have served to make apparent your all too plain villainy…for such a word is not too strong to describe you...”

Steve expected this, obviously, the foreign minister was a mouth-piece of the wicked Qusai, and to sit here, in an act of supplication before one of his minions did stick in his craw, but his boundless moral-self-regard was prepared to live with it.

“For too long you British have interfered in this region, in Qatakistan, you and your French allies, oh yes, we have not forgotten their role in our history, we are aware too of the warships you have threateningly deployed in the gulf.”

Interminably for Steve, a man fundamentally uninterested in the past, the foreign minister thundered on delivering a lecture in Anglo-Qataki history, as well as voicing the displeasure of Qusai’s regime at the actions he had done so much, more perhaps than anyone else, to set in train.

“Beckford J. Pierce, in alliance with your intelligence services, much like the man Swayne, one surmises…”

Steve wondered how long it would be before his efforts were recognised by the Nobel committee.

“Of course, after you massively destabilised the region with your intervention in Iraq…”

The office was rather gaudy, he thought, not like the prime minister’s was, not at all.

“and so, here we are, you sit across from us, and, unlike you, we shall respect the laws of nations, under the cover of respected diplomatic immunity, after your mission is concluded we hope you shall never darken an immigration desk on Qataki soil again.”

Steve murmured nonsensically, his accustomed response.

Afterwards, having been shown out of the Qataki foreign ministry and into the armoured vehicle tasked with his and his teams’ protection and conveyance Steve discussed the meeting with Roland and Sarah.

“Well, I think that went quite well, considering the circumstances.” Steve said loudly over the mechanized trundling.

“In what sense, Steve?” asked Roland sardonically.

“We’re going to have a meeting with Qusai and the hostages…It’s progress, Roland, that’s what I’m in politics for.”

The vehicle trundled its way through ruined central Ast’Qana heading for the heavily guarded suburbs, the image more eloquently expressive of what Steve had actually managed to achieve than anyone could say.

In contrast to Swayne’s treatment at the hands of the Qataki Intelligence Service, Sir Paul Fennell had been treated fairly well, he was fed, imbibed a cocktail of various substances that had left him liable to a degree of suggestion, which, added to his psychological collapse and suicidal impulses made of him the perfect weapon for Abdul Mubdee. He had also cultivated quite the religious mania particularly enjoying the more radical segments of the Koran as they were read to him and he read them in turn, he was rather awed by Abdul Mubdee, who would spend much time radicalizing Sir Paul, when he was not orchestrating his terror campaign across Ast’Qana or making propaganda videos violently opposing the Olympics, the west and Qusai.

Abdul Mubdee, however, had started to become increasingly frustrated with his new secret weapon, in the sense that he wanted an occasion to use it, him. Vainly did his subordinates suggest alternatives; a market here, a government building there. None seemed right, all seemed prosaic. This preoccupation began to foul his mood, he wasn’t even enjoying the beheading videos as much as he used to, they had begun to pall. It would require just the sort of external intervention that would reaffirm his belief in a vengeful Allah whom one could decently fear. For that, however, in increasingly bad humour he would have to wait.

As for the hostages, Jacintha had picked up on something, the language of Angelica, Forbes and his film crew betrayed their increasing identification with their protector Qusai and his cause, this unsettled her, she had done her best to persuade them of his true nature, but even she had begun to doubt herself, had she imbibed the myths of the modern media too much? Her doubt and unsettled state manifested itself as a lapse into lethargy and silence; she no longer had the spiky, sinister presence of Diamanda to needle her into a state of oppositional defiance. Logan had exhausted himself with his outburst of jubilation upon learning of their likely release, as uncertain as a more detached observer would aver, though occasionally he would manage to persuade Jacintha to have sex, but more frequently slinked off with Jessica. Sir Victor, weakened by his heart attack, lay on his gurney, hardly moving.

Sam Kent obsessed over the state of his candidacy, of what he might do for the denizens of Islington Central, unaware as the other group’s members were of any promises of freedom, the candidacy his sole remaining psychological prop. Diamanda and Jamie indulged their psychosexual pre-occupations in the privacy of their guarded hotel room, goading each other into ever more extreme acts, bruised and bleeding, ironically due more to love than to war, so far as Diamanda was capable of the former.

                   XII

The American National Security Advisor asked the Chinese Ambassador to sit down.

“Ambassador, we continue to have concerns about your harbouring of Archer Strachan, who we believe has disseminated American security and intelligence information; sensitive security and intelligence information…”

“We quite understand your concerns but he is no longer within the People’s Republic of China, and no organ of the Chinese government has any dealings with him.” The Ambassador replied dryly.

This puzzled the national security advisor.

“Then, might I ask, where is he?”

“Once a person has left The People’s Republic it ceases to become our concern, it is also not our job to inform the American government as to the whereabouts of individual members of its citizenry…Though given the sensitivity of the upcoming summit between our two leaders we regret we cannot be more helpful in this matter…”

The NSA looked at the Chinese ambassador ruefully. That would be difficult to tell the president.

Meanwhile, in another diplomatic encounter, Steve felt his peace mongering was beginning to pay off; he had finally succeeded in securing his meeting with Qusai. There the latter sat across from him on a comfortable raised divan, looking down on him. Qusai had chosen to use an interpreter, which had the benefit of better ensuring proceedings worked to his advantage.

Steve had never liked this sort of arrangement, it confused him, who was he supposed to address, the principal, or the interlocutor, if the principal then that conflicted with his democratic values, if the interlocutor, then how could he be sure he was engaging with the principal?

Qusai spoke, then after him the interpreter spoke: “You will address me.”

WHO? Steve’s baffled mind screamed.

“If you will be quick, His Excellency has much on his mind and a great deal of business to attend to.”

No diplomatic small talk, seemingly.

“Her Majesty’s government wishes to ensure the hostages are in good health, while, for my part, and additionally, the United Nations wishes to conduct peace talks under its auspices, with the location and parameters of such talks to be determined.”

Steve waited as this was translated back to Qusai.

Qusai spoke to the interpreter.

“His Excellency says that we are amenable to a meeting between the UN representative, that is to say yourself, and the hostages, as for the possibility of talks he will have to consult with his senior advisors, to determine contents and possible locations.”

“I thank His Excellency for his amenability in the matter of the hostages and hope that he will prove similarly co-operative in the matter of talks.”

Steve waited while this was interpreted.

Qusai began speaking quietly, before raising his voice and ranting.

“His Excellency wishes to make it plain that he does so out of consideration for the wider international community, as well as out of his deep-seated humanitarianism, he does not do this out of any consideration for the British, and, particularly, for the last government, of which you were a member, which did so much to undermine and strain Anglo-Qataki relations with your neo-colonialist endeavours! He wishes to make it plain that, so far as you personally are concerned, he stands behind the comments made by his foreign minister at your first meeting, and that while he is well-disposed to working with the successor government he wishes for you to never return to Qatakistan as long as you shall live!”

Steve smirked nervously; being a pretty straight sort of guy he was surprised to encounter such personal hostility.

“Furthermore, while willing to discuss talks, Qatakistan cannot contemplate the possibility of any involving you in any capacity, given the role you have played in recent difficulties!”

Steve murmured inchoately, in that accustomed manner of his.

Qusai calmed himself. He continued to speak in a more measured manner.

“That said, we are willing to make a gesture of goodwill, to the international community as much as anyone else, and are willing to countenance, as previously averred, a meeting between you and the hostages, as well as, the release of some of them, at a subsequent point, independent of your departure.”

Steve grimaced at this particular point; it would deprive him of any modicum of personal glory.

He demurred, a silent Roland, Sarah, Alison and Toby looking at him, wondering whether he would accept the proposition advanced so humiliatingly to him.

“…Upon behalf of the international community, as well as, particularly, Her Majesty’s government, I accept the kind and beneficent offer made by His Excellency and ask where and when I can meet them?”

“This becomes a security question…” the translator spoke after Qusai, betraying his understanding of English. “It will have to be at a time and in a manner that best ensures the security of the hostages and of our visitors, and could well be at very short notice…In short you will have to wait until circumstances are propitious…Remember, given how things are, it would take a very brave man to guarantee even the safety of the American ambassador, Mr. Prentice.”

Steve accepted this and, despite himself, given his feelings for Qusai’s human rights abuses, moved to offer his hand to Qusai who stone-facedly refused to accept it.

The Emir gestured them to leave and, duly escorted the former deputy prime minister and his party proceeded to leave the palace for an armoured vehicle that awaited them.

“I think that went quite well.” Steve said to Roland and Sarah.

“We hardly received a concrete promise…” Roland replied.

“Ah, but, Roland, they have at least been punctilious about ensuring every meeting they’ve promised us so far…”

Roland thought about that. It must mean that they wish to gain something by it, something quite independent of ensuring the success of his diplomatic mission, never mind his own, to which they were positively opposed.

Some 200 miles to their east the Anglo-French squadron, loitering menacingly in the gulf, were engaged in anti-air exercises.

Vice-Admiral Byrne looked on approvingly as the squadron of Apache helicopters tasked with feigning an attack on the Darlan took off from the flight deck into the clear azure sky of the gulf.

He proceeded to make his way down into the bowels of the ship, to the command centre where Blyth was hunched over the central information nexus, observing the radar tracks of the choppers’ progress. Byrne hunched next to him, listening to the radio chatter, in colloquial and heavily French-accented English. From their perspective the exercise was going off fantastically. The Apache’s clung close to the surface, and, when within range, loosed their anti-shipping missiles, Darlan’s anti-missile defences immediately commenced counter-measures, but too late, its radar having been idle in order to mask its position. The loosed missiles were duly aborted, barring one, which continued homing in on its target.

“What the fuck’s going on!?!” Byrne asked colourfully.

Seconds later the missile struck Darlan’s port stern, fortunately, it being a dummy missile, it only pranged the ship, though debris did come within a few inches of decapitating a French sailor and some damage was done to Darlan’s helicopter pad.

“I want to find out what the fuck just happened!” demanded the enraged admiral, less colourfully than the captain of the Darlan was himself demanding to know at that point.

Archer Strachan found himself in a non-descript, beige room at Tehran airport, having given the British journalists what they wanted to know, he had left Hong Kong for the closest proximity to Qatakistan that he could get to without risk of interdiction by his own government. So, here he sat, having been taken aside by the Iranian authorities. He had taken the precaution of travelling on an Australian passport he had had the foresight to acquire, to avoid raising just the sort of suspicions a citizen of the Great Satan might raise in attempting to enter the Islamic republic. As, ostensibly, the citizen of a lesser Satan he expected that he might be allowed to go on his merry way, bidden by his imagined vision of Jacintha into a warzone.

Two stern-faced paramilitaries entered the room - they looked at his passport and at him. Despite the furore he had unleashed they failed to recognise that the longer-haired, dyed Aussie in front of them was, in fact, the renegade American intelligence analyst. They returned his few possessions and gestured for him to go.

Archer cheerfully left the airport and proceeded to find his way to the Royal Qataki Embassy. He entered the building, the staff of which had, following the outbreak of civil war, come out for Qusai and, addressing a woman in a niqab spoke: “I’m Archer Strachan, I wish to claim asylum in your country. I wish to see Jacintha Cresswell!”

The woman looked at him uncertainly, for she had no English.

Archer repeated himself, but slightly louder. “I’m concerned about Jacintha Cresswell, given what happened in the desert and wish to know she is ok.” he added.  

The woman held her index finger up and proceeded to make a phone call. Archer and she then stood looking at each other. Presently a man arrived.

“Good day, sir.”

“Hi, I’m Archer Strachan, I wish to claim asylum in your country. I wish to see Jacintha Cresswell.”

The man pondered what he had to say momentarily. He then gestured for Archer to follow him. Archer was taken down a corridor, up some stairs, and into an office, there he sat and waited.

A well-dressed Alawite breezed into the room, looked at him and asked: “Sir, what do you want?”

Archer exploded: “I WANT TO CLAIM FUCKING ASYLUM, YOU’RE THE THIRD PERSON I’VE SPOKEN TO ABOUT THIS!!! I’M ARCHER STRACHAN!!!!!”

“You wish to claim asylum…In Qatakistan?” the Alawite considered him as though he were mad, which was at least a correct appreciation.

“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“You do know there is a civil war on?”

Archer screamed.

“Please, sir, calm down.”

“I am a former United States intelligence analyst.” Archer said through gritted teeth. “I wish to claim asylum in your country, I wish to see Jacintha Cresswell, whom I believe you have there.”

“I shall have to talk to the ambassador…”

“You mean, you’re not the ambassador!?!”

“Please, you must wait. Can I get you anything?”

“No, just speak to the ambassador, please!?!”

Archer would be waiting for quite some time while his request was passed up the chain of command, the ambassador was informed, he then discussed the matter with his equivalent of the station chief, both agreed that they had to notify their superiors in Ast’Qana, who then had to discuss the matter, both with themselves and with Qusai, the supreme council then had to approve the request or not, which occasioned a debate about how willing Qusai was to piss off the Americans, and, in turn, how willing or able they would be to do anything about it.

Qusai mulled over the matter in front of the supreme council, eventually, after much umming and ahhing he arrived at the following conclusion: “What’s one more American, we already have Tufts, do it, but no publicity, as yet, I’d rather see what useful information he has first…”

During these few days, which saw an irate Archer Strachan camped out in the basement of the Royal Qataki Embassy in Tehran, Steve Prentice was desperately attempting to find out when he would be able to meet with the hostages. Eventually a more junior member of the foreign ministry’s staff was entrusted with communicating the time, date, and location of the proposed meeting. It would be held on the following Friday at 5pm at Ast’Qana International Airport, commensurate with the afternoon in Europe and the morning in America. Perhaps most unfortunately, the junior member of staff entrusted with communicating this information had become increasingly disenchanted with Qusai, and, consequently, very pro Abdul Mubdee.

The latter was ensconced in another Ast’Qana safe house, he would move periodically, to ensure that Qusai’s kinetic security sweeps, ironically based on tactics taught to the Qatakis by Anglo-American security advisors and based on experiences they had learnt in Iraq, couldn’t locate him. Abdul Mubdee had also begun to take curious delight in the shadow war conducted by him and Qusai against each other. Moved with Mubdee was Sir Paul, his prized weapon, and continued recipient of indoctrination and radicalisation straight from the horse’s mouth, if the horse in question had been a hardline religious fundamentalist.

It was, therefore, in yet another basement that Abdul Mubdee came to be informed as to the date, time and location of the impending meeting of Steve Prentice with the hostages. Immediately he put aside all other business and the funk that had been oppressing him these days past was dispelled as if it were no matter at all.

“Get me Sadad!!!” Abdul Mubdee cried joyfully.

Presently word was sent throughout his extensive network and Abdul Mubdee’s favourite bomb maker was ferreted out.

Sadad arrived an hour or so later from his own place of seclusion where he worked happily making all sorts of toys, some designed to kill, others merely to maim, Sadad took great joy in his work, all under the leadership of Abdul Mubdee and of Allah.

“Sadad, brother!” Mubdee exclaimed as he embraced him.

“Abdul, a joy as always.” Sadad stated, reciprocating his embrace.

“Sit.” Mubdee bade.

“Why do you call me from my vital work, brother?” Sadad asked, lowering himself into a chair as he did so.

“I have become aware, and do not ask me how, of the date and time, and location of the meeting between the infidel dog, Prentice, and the hostages.” Mubdee whispered conspiratorially.

Sadad took this news in quietly.

“I need you, brother, to design a device that may be worn by one of the infidels who has fallen into my hands, think of it as your masterpiece!”

Sadad’s eyes shone, his mind possessed by horrific, murderous possibility.

Abdul Mubdee looked at him approvingly, certain that the fine, accomplished mind was already now determining a device of great and horrific elegance, one that would, in its internal workings, and prior to its use, aver the supreme skill that a man such as Sadad brought to the jihad.

Sadad offered a burgeoning smile. “I must return to my work shop right away…Have I sufficient time?”

“You have a few days, but I shall need the device in question by Friday, shall we say noon?”

Sadad nodded excitedly, his smile beaming at Abdul Mubdee.

“Go in peace, brother.”

Abdul Mubdee contemplated the possibilities that Allah had opened up to him, and, returning to his prayer mat, engaged in renewed prayer for the successful prosecution of his cause, his visage, in contrast to Sadad’s, accustomedly grim. He would speak with the infidel Sir Paul later, sure that he would prove amenable to involvement in his plan.

“Ambassador Seabright.” Qusai stated coolly.

Tufts, eyes bloodshot, shaking slightly, right arm occasionally jerking, and indicating, if none of the other things did, his precarious psychological state, stood, barely, before the Emir.

“I invite you here today to discuss the situation at your embassy, your safety’, he hinted darkly, ‘and how we have determined to ensure, so far as we are able, the safe evacuation of a number of your embassy’s staff.”

Tufts stared wild-eyed at Qusai. “Saif, safe…Yes, safe…Safe.” he muttered.

Qusai turned to his foreign minister: “Is he, is he alright, as they say?”

“Sources tell me that the ordeal has had quite an effect on the special envoy…”

“Clearly.”

Tufts continued to quiver.

“Anyway, in the light of Mr. Prentice’s UN mission, as well as diplomatic goodwill, I am declaring a temporary ceasefire while elements of the diplomatic missions and those others currently being protected by my government are evacuated.”

Tuft’s right arm jerked violently. “Motherfucker!!!”

Qusai looked wide-eyed at the special envoy.

“Is there, is there anyone else at the embassy we can talk to?”

“You are right, Emir; they did warn us that he might not be capable, but we were inclined to dismiss such warnings…Perhaps we could discuss this matter with the station chief?”

“Why not?” Qusai cynically replied, if he could get what he wanted he wasn’t averse to talking with the CIA, Zionists though they may be.

“Ambassador…”

“SPECIAL ENVOY!!!”

“…Special Envoy, thank you for your presence, and please convey my…’ Qusai turned to the foreign minister ‘What am I saying? He’s clearly incapable.”

Tufts was escorted from Qusai’s presence.

“Any other business?” Qusai asked threateningly.

“None that need detain Your Excellency.”

“Good, I have some traitors to shoot, and then dinner with Angelica.”

“Naturally, Emir.”

“Yes, you deal with this, let the station chief know…CIA…Why haven’t we, or, actually, I don’t want to know…You deal with it.”

Qusai proceeded to enter the tunnels underneath the Royal Palace connecting it to the security and intelligence ministry, which now, more properly resembled a torture chamber. Here he found Mudabbir, Qusai’s hatchet man, the staunchest of the staunch, and the previously encountered interrogator who had gotten to know Swayne so well, casually chatting with some of his men. Upon becoming aware of Qusai’s presence they immediately fell silent.

“Mudabbir, I understand we have some traitors here, in want of punishment?”

Mudabbir stood, and, stonily, proceeded to take Qusai from his office down into the ministry’s basement, overflowing with those who had fallen into the regime’s hands, and those, furthermore, whom it could not trust.

“These men’, and here Mudabbir gestured to some boys, ‘were found graffitiing your image, Your Excellency…”

“Oh, they were, were they…? I’m not sure how I feel about that, how Qatakistan feels about that!?!”

“It infringes your and our dignity, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it does…” All the while Qusai made eye contact with the boys, weighing them up individually, as well as what he was going to do with them. “I’m sure it does, Mudabbir…”

The boys whimpered, some begged for mercy.

“How do we get this westerner onto the airfield? Won’t he be shot on sight?” Mubdee was asked.

“Not at all, brother. We’re sure his status as one of the survivors of the mercy flight, will enable him to join the rest of the hostages, the issue becomes how do we get Brother Sadad’s device to him…?”

“Yes.”

“Greed, or, better yet, belief will enable this, Allah has willed it.”

“What do you mean?”

“How secure and contented can the security or maintenance staff at Ast’Qana International be, brother?”

Abdul Mubdee’s retinue smiled as they looked at him, quite contented with his answer.

“We must know some people at least at the airport who are willing and able to help us; we just need someone to take delivery, hide the device, and then ensure, at an opportune juncture, that this infidel is able to come into possession of it…”

Throughout London news had been heard from Steve Prentice’s diplomatic mission that he had been vouchsafed a meeting with the hostages, consequently an array of organizations began putting pressure where pressure could be put to ensure their interests in the affair. Sir Tristram dispatched a team to Kuwait in the hope of ensuring access for the BBC, his commercial and print compatriots did likewise. Lord Placeman let it be casually known to all who would listen how keen he was to build bridges, and that the British media would be especially grateful for securing access.

Such news got back to Qusai as he soaked in his tub, Angelica Hayek nestled next to him, and an array of ministers, incongruously called in, suggested he pick up on the British proposals, as part of his own media offensive.

Qusai pouted and turned to Angelica. “What do you think, my little angel?”

“Like sure, Qusey’, she rubbed her nose against his, ‘why not? If it’s what the Brits want, and you are reasonable…”

Qusai smiled. “I am nothing if not reasonable…”

The ministers smiled nervously.

“Make the arrangements, let the western media arrive at Ast’Qana International, but keep them there, after their lies and slander I do not wish for them to be too comfortable.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Neither Qusai nor Angelica heard him; they were too busy with each other, and, to save further embarrassment the ministers quickly departed.

At the same time Mudabbir was gently interrogating Archer Strachan, who had finally been admitted to Qatakistan that afternoon. He had been ordered to treat him quite differently to how he had been dealing with Swayne.

Strachan sat comfortably on a sofa in a lounge overlooking Ast’Qana, honoured and secret guest of the Qataki government that he was.

“Well, Mudabbir, you know what the Saudis are like, always attempting to stir us up against the Shi’a. I can only imagine what they’ve been trying to make us do, in lieu of their own action.”

“So, what brings you to Qatakistan?”

“Honestly? Jacintha. All of my actions have been motivated by two things, a deep contempt for the actions of my government, and love, love for her.”

Mudabbir considered Strachan’s face as he listened.

“You know, doing a job like that, aware of what you’re aware of, becomes corrosive to the soul - well, I’m sure you know?” Strachan asked without any sense of irony of the Qataki intelligence operative. His moral narcissism precluded it.

Mudabbir gently probed Strachan, attempting to gauge his motives and get a sense of the man, ahead of what he supposed would be the regime’s unveiling of its latest asset; though it was fair to say that while Mudabbir smiled encouragingly personally he had little or no time for Strachan’s motive or self-regard.

Sam Kent awoke sweating, his heart pounding, he had found the increasing anxiety of his ordeal getting to him, though being less introspective than most he wasn’t sufficiently aware of his predicament to give it due attention. Sam had obsessively concentrated on the prospect of his candidacy for Islington Central, given a boost, or so he thought, by the footage of his courageously saving Sir Victor’s life, even if he was a banker, and it did involve him barking instructions at some non-white people.

He got out of bed and tried the television, it didn’t work. He panicked at the thought of how out of the loop he was. He tried his phone to find, miraculously, he had a signal! Not even stopping to question it he dialed the number of the constituency’s agent, his man on the inside.

“Sam, where the fuck have you been?”

“Is that a joke?”

“I’ve been trying to contact you, the news is immense!”

“What news!”

“Elections in less than three months, and, seemingly, you lot are coming home! And, even more amazingly, I’ve managed to keep the candidacy question open; hell, at this stage we could probably get you selected as an act of solidarity, even if you didn’t come home!” the agent said insensitively.

“So, I’m still going, I’m still active…”

“You have no idea how powerful the sympathy vote is here, add that to the respect we have for you, having the balls to go there, suffering what you’ve undoubtedly suffered…” the agent’s voice was full of admiration.

“Home…?’ Sam asked.

“Don’t you know? It seems Prentice’s mission has come off, or so he says, prick! You’ll be home by Saturday, seemingly.”

“Home…” Sam repeated.

“Look, anyway, I’ve gotta go, busy, busy, but I’ll frame this to put you in the best light, of course, we can’t have that bitch winning selection; just think Sam Kent Labour Prospective Parliamentary Candidate…” the agent ran off.

Sam felt ebullient, his spirits lifted by the import of the message from home, he had attained his wildest dream, or at least one of them along the road to the cabinet, power, and being able to save humanity in the manner that he saw fit. Sam danced around the room grinning dementedly, home by the weekend, a general election in the offing, and, therefore, Westminster within three months!

A few doors down in the wrecked Imperial Hotel Diamanda and Jamie were considering their own position.

“What are we going home to?”

“Prison, I dare say…”

“Must you always be so fucking glib, Diamanda!?”

“What do you expect? I prefer to look the bleak horror of reality square in the face; as for our getting out of here, I’ll believe it when it happens; I’m still minded to think it most likely that we’ll die horribly here in the desert, Qusai is a psychopath, after all; and as for our – ahem – personal enthusiasms, they’re hardly regarded with a superabundance of respect out in this Godforsaken – contrary to whatever the yokels think – place.”

Jamie put his hands up in exasperation.

“Yes, Jamie, unresting death’s a whole day closer now!” Diamanda hectored him. “Like I said, what do you expect!?! We survived the massacre of the bulk of our colleagues in the desert through pure, dumb, luck! If the government, not to say our BFF’s in the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal had had their way we’d all be dead by now! And they’re, supposedly, the nice people!!!”

“Jesus, Diamanda, you’re so fucking bleak! How can you talk and think this way!?!”

“What, without ending up in an asylum? Simple, self-medication’, Diamanda shook one of the hotel minibar’s liberated libations, ‘that and sometimes, I’m the top, sometimes I’m the bottom…”

Jamie looked flushed.

“What, Jamie, too truthful, cutting too much to the quick of your impaired male psyche?”

Jamie seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack.

“Would you like me to beat you!?! Make you pay for having the temerity to think that you in any way shape or form deserve me!?!” Diamanda swigged from the bottle of vodka, got up and, glaring, looked for a suitably offensive item. She enlightened upon a wire hairbrush.

Jamie shrunk into the corner staring at her, hair disheveled, her black hotel dressing gown hanging off her enviously curvaceous form, her silk negligee underneath, an unhinged look on her face, she looked gorgeous.

Diamanda advanced on him swigging from the bottle and swinging the brush threateningly, he continued to crouch into the corner.

Striking at him Diamanda exclaimed: “Ah, you like it don’t you!?! Admit it!!! Admit how pathetic you are!!?!!”

In London the Cabinet was discussing the seemingly imminent return of the hostages.

“It seems Qusai is keen on release a fair tranche of them as a gesture of goodwill, as for quite who and quite how many, that is something he has chosen not to communicate to Steve.”

Harry guffawed.

“Well, it’s progress, foreign secretary.” Lord Placeman replied.

It had become apparent to Harry that the axis around which British foreign policy now revolved was Lord Placeman and the foreign secretary, playing the role of Sir Tristram in their affairs, he jaundicedly surmised.

“Harry,’ said Lord Placeman, turning to the defence secretary, ‘how are things going with the allied squadron in the gulf?”

“Well, naturally, the French aren’t too happy about the recent training accident; still, at least we didn’t kill anyone this time, so there is that…I am, however, as confident as one can be about a scratch force that has previously trained under an austerity programme and is commanded by one of Conroy’s protégés…” Harry, aware of the temporary nature of his power and influence, was cheerfully telling the truth as he saw it, if he were in a Roman farce.

Lord Placeman looked at Harry darkly.

“Anyway’, interjected the foreign secretary, ‘arrangements are in place for the Anglo-French summit at the weekend, the President, the prime minister and the defence minister, as well as senior advisors will be flying to Chequers for talks.”

“Talks, good’, said Harry, “jaw-jaw, better than war war, what? Depends on who’s running it, I suppose…Speaking of which, foreign secretary, Peter, what news from Washington, Beijing and New York?” he asked pointedly.

The foreign secretary looked embarrassed. “The ah, the sense of outrage is palpable…”

Harry smiled.

“Perhaps we should arrange for the proclamation of some new form of doctrine, call it the Placeman Doctrine, in which Great Britain publicly announces its refusal in future to interfere with the internal processes of countries the problems of which are of no direct concern to us?” Harry asked faux naively.

Lord Placeman and a slew of others looked at Harry askance. It took them some moments to recover.

“…We are all familiar, are we not, with Harry’s sense of, sense of humour…?”

“Who said I was joking?” Harry easily rejoindered.

“Harry, that’s not the sort of speech Lord Placeman would make…”

“I know that, but, from the point of view of avoiding such ludicrous excesses in the future…”

“Thank you, Harry.” Lord Placeman stated baldly.

“Truth through conflict, Peter; you know that.”

A renewed bout of glaring broke out.

“Foreign Secretary, what have we done to appease…I’m sorry, assuage, the Chinese?”

The foreign secretary glared at Harry even more venomously than he had previously.

“Oh, I’m sorry; your lot don’t have a monopoly on uncomfortable Nazi references.”

“ENOUGH!!!” shouted Lord Placeman. “We cannot hope to weather this storm if we just sit around the table taking pot shots at each other! I declare this cabinet meeting closed and will speak to each of the party leaders before the next one!”

Harry said nothing, he was just grateful they hadn’t been subjected to a sickening moral encomium from Lord Placeman.

Jacintha and Logan lay in bed house prisoners in the Royal Palace, the subject of some griping from the more traditional elements of the regime, given their unmarried status, to say nothing of the notice they had made of his frequent adjournments with Jessica Grunwald.

“I can’t believe how taken in Angelica is by Qusai…?”

“Jac, what do you mean, he’s been perfectly good to us…”

Jac narrowed her eyes as she looked at him.

“What? OK, I accept what the media say about him, although, I am finding it a little hard to square what I’ve observed with what I’ve heard, and, supposedly, seen…”

Jacintha looked outraged and turned away from Logan, she entered a protracted huff at his insensitivity, determining not to speak to him until he showed due contrition.

So passed the final day before the expected handover of the hostages: Lord Placeman met with his senior colleagues individually to castigate and assuage depending on how he saw fit; Sir Victor remained pale on his gurney; couples argued and made up, after their fashion; Sam looked forward to the future; Steve awaited his moment in the sun, that he might show the international community, as well as his former colleagues back home what they would miss, and Abdul Mubdee ensured the fulfillment of his plans against Qusai, the west and, as he saw it, the Olympics. All the while Sir Paul, broken, fractured, psychologically destroyed Sir Paul obsessively dwelt on a terrible and destructive God, whose willing instrument he would be, and whom he would avenge.

                   XIII

“You have them ready?” Qusai asked Mudabbir.

“Yes, Your Excellency, the MI6 agent and the American ambassador, and Strachan will be among those present at the reception.”

Qusai smiled.

“Do you think it wise, your Excellency; to risk provoking the Americans in such a public manner?” questioned the foreign minister.

“Saif, you worry too much…We are simply tweaking the lion’s tail, yes? We hand over the ambassador’s staff, even Tufts – we certainly have no desire or need to keep him, and it subtly shows the Americans, the American public our good faith, and a degree of our capacity for vengeance…”

“I trust in your judgement, Your Excellency.”

Qusai smiled even more broadly than before. “As for the foreign media, are they in place?”

“Yes, we have stands for them on the airfield, opposite the runway where the plane will be situated, in front of the stand…”

“And it is one of the British planes?”

“The only serviceable one left, after the attack, yes.”

“As for the security situation?”

Mudabbir spoke: “It’s only westerners, the media have already been triply checked; the airfield is secure; and so have and are the hostages.”

Qusai looked at him narrowly.

“I’m sorry, protectees…”

“Good, good. As for my speech, that’s fine, I have it all up here…” Qusai tapped his forehead. “Now I want the pervert bankers, the MI6 agent, the American ambassador, and the other protectees prominently sat beside me, and that Steve too, everyone else can be sat off to the side.”

“I will give the necessary instructions, Your Excellency.” Mudabbir agreed.

“I shall also want a few of my ministers and generals in the background; that the people must see.”

“What about the navy?”

Qusai looked at Saif, pursed his lips and gurned, as if to indicate that it was of no matter.

Diamanda, Jamie and Sam were hustled out of the armoured personnel carrier and into the side entrance of the Royal Palace. There they found Logan and Jacintha, exhibiting noticeably cool body language toward each other, Jessica sat looking bored, and Sir Victor still wired up to a heart monitor, beeping steadily where he lay.

“How are you guys?” Sam exclaimed. It was fair to say that he was the most buoyant member of the group.

Logan and Jacintha were silent, Jessica grunted, Sir Victor beeped away. Forbes and his crew were intent, as usual, on recording the experience.  

“Guys, we’re going to be home soon!” Sam enthused. “OK, I know it’s been an ordeal, but, HOME!!!”

“And what awaits you when you get there?” Diamanda asked, pointedly.

Sam ignored her question; he was practiced at avoiding such unwelcome interruptions, beside the loss of his own colleagues hadn’t bothered him overly much.

“Look, the important thing is, we’re here, we’ve made it!”

“What about Sir Paul?” Diamanda again.

“Look…”

“I mean, for all we know he’s lying dead in the desert, or he’s been murdered, or…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” Sam had finally lost it. Diamanda’s unremitting stream of realism had finally shifted the mask of mind-numbingly, unremitting optimism that reflected Sam’s fundamental weltanschauung. Contrary to his professed values he was about to attempt to beat a woman. Logan and Jamie rushed to restrain him. Jacintha looked at Diamanda with a degree of hostility but decided, after her last encounter with her, that it wasn’t worth the effort. Jessica remained looking bored. Sir Victor’s heart monitor beeped slightly faster, as if aware that the nemesis of his career was in the room.

Forbes thrilled, realizing that he had ever more extreme material for the documentary that would be at least one of the outcomes from this.

A stream of extreme, misogynistic language emanated from Sam, the word cunt being a particular favourite, the eloquence with which he used it underlining his particulars as a public speaker.

“THAT FUCKING CUNT, PERVERT, WE OUGHTA HANG THE FUCKING LOT OF YOU!!!”

Jamie and Diamanda both supposed that he meant them as bankers, not as members of a sexual minority, given his ideological preconceptions.

Sir Victor’s heart monitor beeped even more loudly.

“CAN WE PLEASE HAVE SOME DECORUM!?!” shouted Qusai as he entered the room, Angelica on his arm, the couple flanked by guards, Asrar trailing behind them.

Everyone looked at them, except Sir Victor, whose beeping quietened and slowed down somewhat.

“People, people…This is a great day, for Qatakistan, and for yourselves.” he averred smoothly as he decoupled himself from Angelica, she smiling inanely as he did so.

“Quselica is outing itself as a couple, we can no longer deny our love’, Qusai turned to Angelica and smiled sickeningly, ‘and, for you, of course, there is to be release…Well, for some of you…”

Sam wailed.

“Who is that?” Qusai asked irked.

“It’s Mr. Kent.” replied Qadir who had accompanied their entrance and had been tasked with looking after the protectees.

“Oh…’ Qusai peered over at the distrait Mr. Kent, ‘Do not worry, you we do not want…’ he turned back to Qadir, ‘He’s the likely parliamentarian, yes?”

“Yes.”

Qusai demurred momentarily, looking perplexed as he considered the possibility.

“What funny ways they have in the west…”

“So that’s why he was so enthused about going home.” Diamanda whispered to herself.

“Anyway, people, you will be pleased to know that you will be going home, some ceremony permitting.”

“Who are you keeping then?” asked Jacintha, as she grimly assessed the loathed tyrant.

“Oh, merely the man Swayne, an MI6 agent, some Americans, no concern of yours, and Mr. Ross’s film crew, to whom we have returned their passports, in expectation of their completing some film work here, whereupon they will be allowed to return home too.”

Relief suffused the room. Sam was reassured and made a strange sound indicating this. Sir Victor beeped along peaceably, a medic monitoring his vital signs as he did so.

In all the excitement and hubbub no one thought to ask about Sir Paul, and why should they, he was presumed dead.

That morning he had been roused at dawn, shaved, cleansed, and dressed, whereupon religious rites were incanted and conducted by Abdul Mubdee. Sir Paul took them in his post-breakdown fashion, his maroon eyes nervously darting from face to face, incapable of all speech beside the hadiths he imperfectly recited, so imperfectly as - beyond the occasional word of broken Arabic - to approximate gibberish, he would intersperse these with howls of anguish and expressions of a desire to die as an instrument of Allah.

Abdul Mubdee regarded all this approvingly.

Sir Paul was then taken up the stairs into yet another courtyard and loaded into a beaten-up 4x4. This vehicle conveyed him through Ast’Qana’s old town, out of the city onto an expressway, and then, finally, to an exposed tunnel through which flowed a stream on the perimeter of Ast’Qana International. Here his handlers met with a member of the airport’s staff who had been paid to hide him as well as the device he was to use. Sir Paul and the member of staff looked at each other so as to ensure that when the time came they would know who to look for to ensure the successful prosecution of Abdul Mubdee’s design.

While the British hostages were sequestered in the Royal Palace an equivalent convoy of armoured personnel carriers had also been tasked with removing the remaining staff from the American embassy. A stressed, emaciated Tufts had to be helped into the back of one of the vehicles by Tenet and others. They were promptly conveyed, down the same bomb damaged expressway to Ast’Qana International, subject to an airborne escort, whereupon they were secured in the main terminal building.

It was now the turn of Steve Prentice’s mission to be moved into place. The same vehicles used to move the American embassy staff returned to Ast’Qana and collected the former deputy prime minister and his retinue, or Roland and Sarah - Toby and Alison having been left at the hotel - as they were better known. They were then taken the same route, with the same escort, in expectation that overwhelming force would be enough to deter whatever any potential jihadi had planned.

All the while the western media were forced to sit in the blazing, oppressive Qataki sun, burning and dehydrating as they did so, with no offer of the succor of water to assuage their aches and torments, for this too was part of Qusai’s fun. He had no interest in their comfort or well-being, and why should he, given what they had, all too accurately, written and filmed about him. So there they sweltered, anticipating the imminent arrival of Qusai, beneficent bestower of freedom on those westerners who had suffered so much from the fall out of the Qataki civil war.

And they waited.

This went as much for the British government’s senior members who had, like their ill-fated forebears, gathered in Cobra in anticipation of an imminent release of the hostages. As the minutes ticked past it became increasingly apparent that they were being kept waiting on the whim of Qusai. Even Steve, irrepressible, fool-hardy - to be no more unkind - Steve began to wilt under the hellish warmth of the late afternoon Qataki sun. A hubbub erupted when one of the more rotund hacks assembled on the seating that had already garnered the unflattering sobriquet of The Scaffold fainted from sun stroke.

Still the minutes, nay hours ticked by as the sun beat down upon them. They were aghast, how dare Qusai have the temerity to treat them this way!?!

Eventually there seemed movement on the part of the authorities, how the media thrilled, they had something to report, something seemingly even consequential with which to report to ‘live’ cameras on a time delay, or live blogging streams. Admittedly, those in the know had the better coverage over verified private networks the Qataki authorities were streaming to actually live.

Eagerly the world watched the live feeds, whether actual or merely notional, as it was confirmed that the Americans held for so many weeks in their embassy were being paraded in front of the media. Much comment was made on how drawn the American ambassador, former champion of the reformists, looked, his arm jerking violently. What could this mean for relations between Qatakistan and the west went the question.

Lord Placeman and the foreign secretary could talk of nothing else as they watched the unfolding story.

They waited some more.

Finally an immense convoy of armoured personnel carriers arrived, though, by this stage, the media circus was so dehydrated and bereft of energy as to find it very difficult to summon up much enthusiasm, even from those in a profession that prized borderline deranged levels of such a quality. The convoy, however, drove past the stand, whipping up dust which deluged the waiting Americans, media and former deputy prime minister. It then headed for the terminal building where people proceeded to exit the vehicles. Generals, ministers, protectees, security personnel swarmed around the entrance to the terminal as they gradually filtered inside.

Here, in the VIP section of the terminal, Qusai began to preside over the unfolding media event, Angelica Hayek by his side throughout.

“Mudabbir, bring me Steve, I wish for him to meet the protectees first!”

Mudabbir left the building and jumped into an APC, which rolled off.

Qusai spent minutes contemplating the motley group of hostages arrayed around him in the VIP airport lounge. Soon enough the APC was heard beyond the air-conditioned entrance to the terminal. Presently a visibly wilting Steve Prentice, Mudabbir by his side, hoved into view. He smiled inanely at the hostages.

“Hi.”

“I wish for you to meet the staff of the American embassy.” Qusai interjected. “Also those who survived your provocation in the desert’, he gestured to the I N Securities and Kruger Randwick Balls Associates people, or what few of them remained, ‘and, of course, Mr. Swayne, of MI6…”

Steve betrayed just enough self-awareness to blanch at this.

“Hard-working people’, Steve began in a manner so conditioned by the requirements of the sound bite, ‘I’m here to bring you home.” He avoided eye contact with the visibly tortured Swayne as he did so.

The British hostages and Diamanda regarded him with a mixture of apathy and sullen contempt; the Americans were more excited at the prospect of being allowed to return home, which ensured that they avoided betraying the fact that most of them had no idea who he was.

Steve continued to smile at them.

“Steve?” asked Diamanda innocently.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to face charges along with Jamie, Sir Victor, and myself?”

Steve burbled as usual before eventually finding some semblance of an answer. “I, I don’t think, I can comment on current legal proceedings…”

“That’s a shame, after all, if you hadn’t pressured us into funneling arms who knows how much less damage we might have done, at least Sam and his friends only provided food aid, although given the circumstances that too was a weapon, albeit a less deadly one than several cargo planes packed to the rafters with light and medium weaponry, just the kind one needs for prosecuting a civil war, as I’m sure Qusai appreciates; why he ought to have welcomed you!”

Qusai smiled at the suggestion.

“As I, as I said…I can’t comment on sub judice matters…”

“Does the British constitution even have a right to silence…I mean, it’s a bit iffy on free speech as it is, so there’s no reason why it should, I suppose…”

Steve turned to Qusai. “I think, I think I’ve seen enough, they seem fine…”

“Yes, we have provided care for Sir Victor, and the Americans are largely OK, except for Tufts; my people tell me he seems to have suffered some form of a nervous breakdown, which is understandable, given the circumstances.” Qusai spoke laconically. “What of your agent, Mr. Swayne? Aren’t you going to talk with him?”

Steve pulled an odd face and left for the exit.

“Mudabbir!”

“Yes.”

“Move them out…Wait, does anyone require a bathroom break before we face the world’s media?”

A dozen hands shot up.

“OK, Mudabbir, let them do whatever, first, then have them taken to the stand, I shall join you once everyone is assembled.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The hostages proceeded to visit the bathroom under guard, albeit a less observant guard than usual, given their concentration on western hostages, who had, hitherto, betrayed no inkling of a more fanatical deportment. As for the hostages themselves, they had their own preoccupations and were less inclined to notice, given the mixture of the two groups, a stranger in their particular midst, and anyway, even if asked, or challenged, he could always have said, truthfully, that he belonged to the other group and that there must have been some kind of mistake. He didn’t look noticeably different to any of the others anyway, as gaunt, as withdrawn as a great deal, as dressed, even if somewhat bulkily. So Sir Paul Fennell funneled out of the bathroom with some Americans before being further funneled into a waiting APC which proceeded to take them from the VIP terminal to the stand, a waiting cargo plane to their left, the wilted representatives of the world’s media in front of them.

Here Logan saw Sir Paul from a distance and tried to attract his attention, desperate to find out what had happened to his boss, whom he had neither seen nor heard from since before the Albatross massacre. He gently elbowed Jessica to his left to let her know what he had seen, she too narrowed her eyes and, having located the figure of Sir Paul, watched him with great interest.

The information that Sir Paul had been seen circulated around the British hostages, omitting Sir Victor whose gurney had been left inside the VIP terminal, it having been determined that he would be the last to be loaded aboard.

Finally, with everyone in their assigned place a small convoy of armoured limousines departed from the VIP terminal carrying Qusai to his spot. A vast, raised podium attached to the stand where the hostages were sat was the spot from which he would declaim. Knowledge of this would, presumably, or so the investigators surmised, be germane to Sir Paul’s thought processes.

The convoy stopped off to the right and, surrounded by a retinue of heavily armed guards, Qusai, Angelica with him, got out of the middle limo, he ascended the stairs, assisting Angelica as he did so. Eventually he reached the top, some five or so feet above the hostages to his left. The media had begun to enliven by this point, fully expecting that Qusai would finally address the world. Qusai looked as though he was about to speak when he pushed Angelica forward. He was seizing his propaganda coup for all it was worth.

Angelica spoke: “Before, like, before Qusai, speaks he wanted, I wanted to offer a few words of my own’, Angelica looked down nervously at Forbes Ross and his film crew below, ‘about this remarkable man…”

“Who is this?” asked Lord Placeman as he watched proceedings from the Cabinet Office.

“It’s Angelica Hayek.”

“Who?”

“She’s a film star.” answered the foreign secretary.

“Extraordinary…”

“Before I came here’, she continued, ‘I’m not ashamed to say I had problems with drugs, but, despite what we’re told to think, I’ve found some wonderful, wonderful people here, in Qatakistan; I didn’t know where it was either…Anyway, despite what we’re told to think, it’s a fantastic place, not without its problems, but with men like Qusai I’m sure a better Qatakistan can be built…” Angelica looked at Qusai lovingly.

While it was early evening in Qatakistan, and early afternoon in Paris and London, in Washington it was morning. The national security advisor had just got into his office and had just turned his television on. As he became increasingly aware of what Angelica Hayek’s presence in Qatakistan meant he had but one thought: the president isn’t going to like this.

“…I’ve seen how Qusai has so bravely defied the imperialists…”

Qusai gestured to Angelica to wind up, confident that she had served her purpose, lending Hollywood glamour to his regime.

It now, finally, became Qusai’s turn to take the podium.

His address was, in the main, in Arabic, which he proceeded to use for a good half hour, after which he slipped into his accented and eccentric English.

“I have with me today one of the criminals who has so brazenly interfered in our affairs’, Qusai gestured to Steve, ‘he was part of a criminal cabal determined to funnel arms into our country, to protract a civil war and our misery by arming those inimical to Qataki unity!” No one said Qusai had to be entirely truthful, but he was near enough.

“We here respect international law! Which is why Steve Prentice will be allowed to leave, with the protectees; protected from those factions threatening Qatakistan; but we cannot allow Swayne, an MI6 agent’, Qusai gestured to him among the other hostages, ‘to escape justice, given the role he played in arms funneling, and in Operation Albatross…Swayne will stand trial!”

This news was not taken well in Whitehall, nor by Steve, who at least had the decency to look visibly embarrassed.

“As a country that respects international law we have also decided that we shall grant asylum to Archer Strachan, whose beloved is also presently in the country. Those who would expose the intolerable abuses of the West have a friend in me!”

Lord Placeman, mindful of the special relationship, turned to the foreign secretary and spoke: “This isn’t going well, is it?”

“About as well as can be expected given the motives underpinning British policy.” Harry interjected.

Some would have questioned the wisdom of Qusai so obviously allying himself with an embarrassment to the American government, and, ordinarily, they might have been right.

“As a gesture of goodwill, however, I shall be returning the American diplomatic staff, whom I have endeavoured to keep safe throughout the horrific ordeal of civil war; fuelled, in no small part, by the Americans’ own allies, the British!”

Qusai let this accusation hang there, as Abbas had and like Swayne soon would.

“I shall, personally, put them on the plane now!”

Qusai had, successfully, played the drama of the hostage crisis to occasion maximum embarrassment to the British, as well as divide American opinion, resolving the hostage crisis but retaining Strachan, present today. Given the divided nature of American government, and the impotency of the former, he was, at this stage, wiser than he and his advisors knew.

 All through the speechifying Sir Paul had, understandably, been somewhat tense and nervous, though not in a way that was noticeably of a different order of magnitude to that exhibited by most other people having to spend hours in the hot sun on an airport’s tarmac surrounded by heavily armed men in the midst of a civil war.

Sir Paul had, quite fortuitously, found himself surrounded by the American diplomats, and other western diplomatic hostages, his former confreres from I N Securities, Kruger Randwick Balls Associates, and the Humanitarian Intervention Tribunal, or what few of them remained, were off to his right and rear, between him and the VIPs, Qusai, Steve, Tufts, etc.

Sir Paul was, therefore, tensely contemplating when exactly, in Allah’s greater glory he should detonate the suicide vest that was somewhat cumbersomely worn underneath the distinctly careworn Savile Row suit he had been wearing since his arrival in Qatakistan and before his PTSD-induced breakdown during Operation Albatross which had led to the murder of two French special forces soldiers. Muttering to himself about the fact that that Sangrail bitch was too far away for his liking.

It was, at this point, during the handover, when the media were surveying the faces of the hostages that Lord Placeman was heard to exclaim: “I say, is that Paul? Paul Fennell?”

The BBC camera lingered on the knight of the realm.

A civil servant spoke. “It does appear to be; that’s some good news, we feared he was lost in the desert…”

 “Oh good, decent chap, Sir Paul, you know, he’s an interesting fellow, we’d sometimes have lunch at The Equality…”

Sir Paul stared into the row of cameras, Qusai declaiming thunderously in the background. A guard idled underneath him, turned, and considered him. Logan noticed this, craning forward he moved in front of Jacintha somewhat. Toward the back Jamie got a sense of foreboding, he turned towards Qusai, within sight of him. The guard considering Sir Paul looked alarmed and began gabbering in Arabic. Qusai turned and saw Jamie tearing toward him, a look of determination across his face. Sir Paul tore open his blazer revealing Sadad’s instrument of terroristic horror, looking in all more like something Diamanda would make Jamie wear, screaming “ALLLAAAHHH AAACCCKKKBBBAAAHHH!!!!!” Sir Paul detonated the suicide vest.

Jamie fell onto Qusai and Angelica, pushing them to the floor as the blast enveloped the stand, Diamanda having had sense enough to follow the alarmed Jamie. Those in the very back row, Sam, Jacintha, some of the Americans were rocketed from their seats, while those before them were torn into by shrapnel. Few further forward survived, Sir Paul’s head, detached from the rest of his body by the force of the blast arced a parabola landing at the foot of the BBC cameraman whose frame lingered on the former knight’s detached head, the mouth contorted into a grotesque grimace before someone had sense enough to change the feed or return to the studio.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Harry in the Cabinet Office. “I guess there’s a hole in your next dinner party roster, Peter.”

The western media panicked.

Sam Kent lay on the ground behind the now smashed stand, the breath knocked out of him, trying desperately to ignore the horror around him, his eyes screwed tight all he could hear was the screaming.

Fortunately he didn’t look to his left; a detached hand lay on the floor next to him.

Jamie lay on top of Qusai and Angelica breathing heavily, he felt Diamanda wriggling on top of him, her hand tapping the small of his back as if non-verbally communicating the fact that she was ok. The podium structure had shielded those beneath the rim from the blast. Steve had not been so lucky, a piece of shrapnel had lacerated his carotid artery; this had left the floor slick with his blood. Tufts too had been wounded quite severely. Roland and Sarah had dived to the floor in barely sufficient time, and, while wounded, weren’t mortally so. Sarah screamed when she realised that she was wet with Steve’s blood.  

A score of Forbes’ film crew had also suffered flesh wounds, but had been sufficiently distant from Sir Paul - the epicentre of the explosion - to ensure that they escaped with their lives.

This had not, alas, been true of Colby Tenet and the bulk of the American and other diplomatic hostages.

The soldiery began corralling the media away from the scene of horror that had been the ordered stand but scant moments before, while still others of their numbers began securing the person of the Emir and sifting the scene for survivors, now, axiomatically suspects, and evidence indicating what had transpired.

Lord Placeman and the foreign secretary were dumbstruck.

“This can’t be…?”

“Suffering a little cognitive dissonance, are we, Peter? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I just saw a knight of the realm suicide bomb the Qataki Emir and, more importantly, a tranche of American hostages on live television; mind you, given whom we’ve been knighting these days, we should really be surprised that this sort of thing doesn’t happen more often…” Harry helpfully offered.

Lord Placeman and the foreign secretary continued to look at the TV screen as it repeated the scenes of horror ad nauseum.

“Prime minister, it’s the national security advisor.” said the Cabinet Secretary.

Lord Placeman looked puzzled, he was already here.

“From Washington. He, ah, he doesn’t sound pleased.”

Strachan wandered around the rear of the former stand desperately looking for Jacintha, his ear drums perforated, he swayed and staggered through the detritus of the attack, slipping on blood and standing on detached limbs.

He fell to his knees, landing on Sam Kent, before recoiling and lurching further to the left. There he saw Jessica, a gash on her forehead, cradling a bloody, unrecognisable figure in her arms, he turned again, and there he saw Jacintha, unconscious, lying on her back. He went over to her and lay beside her, his right arm draped over her shoulder.

Up on the podium some soldiers were recovering a miraculously uninjured Qusai, Angelica, Jamie and Diamanda.

The latter two were about to be dragged off when Qusai, disorientated, but certain spoke. “Stop! This man, he saved my life! He is a friend of Qusai! Take him somewhere safe, the woman too!”

Qusai then turned to Angelica, he held her to him. “Are you ok!?!”

She nodded, looking ashen as she did so.

“Where are we going!?!” Qusai shouted to General Qays.

“We are going to take you to the Royal Barracks until we are sure you are safe!”

Already a helicopter sat on the airfield away from the scene of carnage that lay all around them.

Qusai and Angelica boarded it as another one landed - this one for Jamie and Diamanda.

Jamie and Diamanda looked down, numbed, as their helicopter circled over the disaster area, soldiers could be seen stripping anyone they encountered still alive and conscious, while they did the same, with even less ceremony or regard, for those bodies, or at least those things recognisable as bodies, that remained.

Among those keenly observing, so far as whatever media coverage would allow, was Abdul Mubdee, who took a justifiable pride in his success, for it was Allah’s will; not even such things as luck or agency would be allowed to spoil the all too apparent beneficent hand of God, which had ensured his deployment of Sir Paul and Sadad’s weaponry. Mubdee obsessively watched the coverage online, sure that there was no way that Qusai could have survived such horrors.

Mubdee contemplated what his successful strike at the head of the regime would mean for his position, his prestige would be high, even more soldiers would defect to him, perhaps even higher profile figures would; as for the western powers, he was quite sure they had no further stomach for involvement, while the Russians and the Chinese would probably be all too willing to treat with him, he imagined a rosy future in which Qatakistan was won for Islamism, women wouldn’t drive, adulterers and perverts, as he saw them would hang from cranes, and there would be no Olympics. Better yet, he imagined broadening his ire at internationalism, how dare the Qataris host the world cup, it would be haram! He would see that they would get the message too – or so at that moment he thought.

Mubdee sat in yet another anonymous, shaded courtyard in Old Ast’Qana enjoying his triumph, prior to recording a gloating video to be uploaded to the internet in which he would take credit for the attack on the hostages at Ast’Qana International, and, in his way, make it far more difficult for the situation to be resolved. It was one of those moments of restful repose for him, he enjoyed his oneness with nature, the coffee, rich and sweet, that he had to hand, and contentment with a job as he saw it well done. In such moments the twisted sociopath felt something akin to what more ordinary souls felt in being alive.

        XIV

“Is the summit to go ahead?”

“Yes, René, of course, we will have much to talk about.” Lord Placeman replied.

“Indeed. I’ll see you tomorrow, as arranged.”

The line went dead.

Lord Placeman had left the Cabinet Office and returned to Downing Street. It was here, having just spoken with the French president, that he surveyed his senior colleagues, the foreign secretary and leader of the Labour party, and the acting leaders of the Liberal Democrats and the Conservatives.

“What are we going to do?” he asked balefully, aware now that Steve Prentice was dead.

“Retribution, you mean?” Harry asked sardonically.

“We can’t allow an act of terror like this to go unchecked!” the Lib Dem declaimed.

“Strange, how things turn out, after Iraq, and now here you are baying for blood…”

“HARRY, FOR ONCE CAN YOU BE FUCKING CONSTRUCTIVE!!!?!!!” Placeman roared at him.

“Oh, I am, can we not play at fucking Utopia! What are our options here!?! It’s quite likely the only people left alive from I N Securities’ ill-fated flirtation with public relations are criminals wanted for the previous government’s policy of funneling arms to a tin-pot Islamic regime, a policy which you probably supported, under the ludicrous notion of saving humanity! In which case we could lob a few missiles, proclaim Qusai suitably chastened - that is assuming he did it, which I doubt, what with the terrorist behind the attack happening to have been a dinner companion of yours, prime minister; or we pull out, I daren’t risk another military endeavour led by Admiral Conroy!”

“What about the Americans?” an ashen faced foreign secretary asked.

“Yes, what about the fact that a British subject murdered a score of Americans, live, on television!?!”

“What about Steve!?! He was murdered!!!”

“All very well, if anything, whoever’s behind it - probably Mubdee, or some even more psychotic faction - has probably done the international community a favour.”

The acting Lib Dem leader, who had been pacing the cabinet room, went for Harry, disgusted by the callousness of his attitude. Lord Placeman and the Labour leader looked on aghast. Harry eventually got the upper hand, pushing the enraged right honourable member into the wall, where he crumpled to the floor weeping.

Harry breathed heavily as he composed himself.

“So, I take it that Labour and the Liberal Democrats would back some form of military action?”

The Labour leader assented, as did the Lib Dem from the floor.

“Harry?”

“Oh, the Conservatives? Possibly. But me? No. Hell, I’ll even resign over it, I see myself as Baldwin in 1922 saying enough over Chanak. In fact that’s what I’m going to tell my backbenchers, I’m acting leader, they’re presently stunned, first over my predecessor, now this. I can walk us out of this bleak charade, you’ll have enough for a negative majority at least, probably even the education secretary will lead a tranche of Tories into the division lobby with you, but you know how he feels about neo-conservatism…Qatakistan, I’m just so tired of it fucking all…”

“Am I to assume you’ve resigned?”

“No, not yet, and maybe I won’t, but we’ll have to see how things develop, Peter. There is, however, one more thing, given the gravity of the situation; I think the House should be recalled tomorrow.”

“Fine…” Placeman replied dispiritedly.

“Jesus, the Brits have really fucked this up, haven’t they!?!” asked the president rhetorically as he practiced his putting in the Oval Office.

“It’s still not entirely clear what happened, but it does seem as though a British peer or something is responsible for the suicide bombing of the embassy staff, we’re not above suspecting that Qusai was behind that; I mean, you don’t just walk around a secure airport with a suicide vest.” This particular advisor was keen on confirmation bias, albeit unwittingly.

“Dammit!!! This drags me into all this shit! What are we doing?”

“Well, Mr. President, there is an Anglo-French summit being held tomorrow, it’s likely, given the presence of their naval taskforce in the Gulf, that some form of retaliatory action will be approved…”

“Great, that’s all we need.”

“Perhaps we should suggest we join them…?”

The president considered this, the associated political imperatives, the need to undertake some kind of action in response to the mass murder of American diplomatic staff, and, finally, the fact that he would miss his accustomed Saturday morning golf game.”

“Fine.” He replied peevishly.

The following morning the House of Commons convened to pay tributes to the deceased former deputy prime minister and to debate British policy over Qatakistan. Lord Placeman observed gravely from the Peers’ Gallery as the foreign secretary paid tribute to Steve Prentice.

It came Harry Clark’s turn to speak.

“The House will know that I had my differences with Steve, and I’m not going to gloss over them; and so, like Lloyd George at the time of Neville Chamberlain’s death I shall avoid charges of gross hypocrisy.” Harry promptly sat down, his punches duly pulled.

Less sensitive members of his party took the opportunity to lambast the memory and record of the recently departed, Sir Norman Conquest enjoyed alikening him to Lord North in the deleteriousness of his policy.

The liberal elements of the British media enjoyed pouring scorn and hate on those who had had the temerity to speak more emotionally honestly in the debate.

Much of the comment that they approved dwelt inanely on the man’s innate cheerfulness and sunny demeanour, as well as, oxymoronically, those episodes of lachrymosity for which he was well known.

After a couple of hours it was felt that the House had said all there was to say, under parliamentary privilege at least, and permitted in the public sphere about the deceased. It grew rowdier as the likely direction of British policy in response to the tragedy was discussed.

Much coverage was given to the orations, if we can still term them thus, offered by the contenders for two of the major political parties’ leaderships, as well as those of the acting leaders. The acting Lib Dem leader’s speech was commended widely, not least for its bitter and vengeful tone, for one of them had been injured, and their ostensible philosophy could be put aside. Harry Clark, however, had to pull off quite the trick, sufficiently ringing as to accord with sentiment, but, additionally, sufficiently ambiguous as to leave an element of doubt that could be called upon to his advantage or at least interest at a later date, ahead of the 1922 committee meeting he intended to call following the Anglo-Franco-American summit at Chequers.

At a suitable juncture during the debate Lord Placeman left the Peers’ Gallery for the prime minister’s office where he had arranged, surreptitiously, to meet Sir Tristram, with whom he would further conspire.

“Tris!” a worried looking Placeman wryly greeted his former underling at the BBC.

“Peter, are you ok? You look terrible!”

Wearily Placeman gestured Tristram to sit down. A crueler observer might have determined that Lord Placeman had been diminished by the highest office.

“Things aren’t going well, Tris, not well at all…”

“Harry?” Tris reflexively asked.

“He’s just, just awful; a wrecker, Tris, a total bloody wrecker!”

Sir Tristram needed no real convincing, after all, he didn’t share the man’s prejudices, for Harry Clark was the sort of man who had prejudices.

To the outside observer, whether cruel or not, the sight of the prime minister briefing the Chairman of the BBC against the leader of the largest political party should be recognised for what it is.

“Well, Peter, is there any way you, we can be rid of him?”

“Oh, you’re a good man, Tris, a good man, and yes, it’s possible; I think he’s determined to torpedo any action over Qatakistan; well, you heard that disgusting thing he had to say about Steve this morning!”

Tris nodded sadly at the all too accurate depiction of Harry Clark’s sentiments.

“But, Peter, what’s exactly happened, what’s happening?”

“Jihadis and reactionaries seem intent on wrecking the country; it’s difficult to imagine a peace process now, and the Lib Dems are baying for a response…It’s likely we’ll be bounced into some precipitate action, that does nothing to help the Qatakis, it’s awful, awful…”

“How could this happen, Peter? All that aid, the good intentions, the reformists in Ast’Qana…” Sir Tristram ruminated on the disaster, in no wise paying attention to any possibility of his own culpability.

“I know, Tris, I know…and now I have to come to some kind of an agreement with the Americans, the French, Labour, the Lib Dems, and the Tories…”

The two looked at the plasma screen carrying coverage of the arrival of the French and American presidents at Gatwick, Marine One idling in the foreground as René Hulot and his American counterpart stood deep in conversation on the tarmac.

“I guess, Tris, I’ve got to go.”

A convoy of government cars left Whitehall carrying Lord Placeman, the foreign secretary, Harry Clark, and, in an act of tokenism, the acting Lib Dem leader, the forty or so miles to Chequers. They arrived just as the light was dimming over the horizon and Marine One, as well as an attendant retinue of Black Hawks and French helicopters landed on the front lawn. Forced smiles and open gestures were the order of the moment as the sound of the rotors made conversation impossible. The tall well known figure of the president bounded out of Marine One his pained smile betraying an irked man deprived of his golf game leaving the altogether more avuncular figure of René Hulot in his wake.

Harry Clark shouted at the Labour leader: “THIS’LL BE INTERESTING, CONSIDERING THEY’RE ALL ABOUT AS POPULAR AS EACH OTHER…”

It would be a long, long evening, which suited the Americans, given the time zone difference.

In Ast’Qana it was very nearly Sunday morning. The security services had been deluged with information and tasks and were desperately trying to ascertain what exactly had happened at the airport. Medical staff had been tasked with triaging and treating the survivors, or those survivors who could be saved. As for Qusai, he had, while lucky, been recovering from the near miss, while those most drawn into his presence, Angelica, Forbes, finally had a reason for their Stockholm syndrome to segue into outright collaboration, so outraged were they by the attack on Qusai and their personages, and so in love with Qusai was Angelica, and so in love with the artistic possibilities opened up by Qusai’s absolutist power was Forbes.

The survivors, having been stripped to check for any further devices, were consequently sent to various military medical facilities; Tufts, Jamie and Diamanda had, separately, been sent to different buildings on the site of the Royal Barracks; Roland and Sarah were kept in a facility on the site of the airport; Swayne was sent to the Intelligence and Security Ministry; Strachan, Jacintha, and Logan were sent to a now thoroughly occupied Ast’Qana Central Hospital. Sir Victor remained at the airport VIP terminal in a stable condition.

During this interregnum authority devolved on Mudabbir. This was neither more nor less sinister than one should expect, given the circumstances. He knew his place within the regime, was quite contented with it, in fact. Not for him was there any attempt at a power grab, he knew and feared his boss too well for all that. He was well enough satisfied to ensure that Qusai’s men were out, in force, and visible in those areas of Ast’Qana and the wider country they controlled at least. The crackdown served its ostensible purpose, sending a message to the wider public, though by no means curtailing the activities of Abdul Mubdee and his jihadis entirely. As for Mubdee he was basking in the warm afterglow of his coup, crowing over the internet, taking responsibility for the suicide bombing at Ast’Qana International Airport and the substantial, though yet to be entirely confirmed, deaths.

Diamanda looked at Jamie, a large, deep cut running laterally down her forehead, which would serve to give her a distinct scar.

“You’re all bruised…And for once I’m not responsible…” she smiled.

Jamie looked at her wide-eyed. “You do realise that’, he looked at his watch, or where he thought his watch would be, it had been lost in the explosion and its aftermath, had the medical staff taken it?, ‘we were suicide bombed by Sir Paul Fennell just…about thirty hours ago…! …We don’t even know if any of the others are even still alive!?!”

“Come on, Jamie, you know I can’t resist a contusion…”

“What, the fuck, Diamanda!?!” Jamie motioned her to sit down on the sofa in the hospital room. ‘Are you a psychopath!?!”

“Perhaps…”

“You’re not concerned about Jacintha, Sir Victor, Logan, any of the others…?”

“Not superabundantly, Jamie. I mean, let’s be honest, if it hadn’t have been for Jacintha, Sam, the touchy feely crowd, our situation might not be anything approaching like it is now; as for Sir Victor, he’s made his feelings plain; and Qusai, well, if his gratitude can get me, us’, she demurred slightly, ‘to anywhere lacking an extradition treaty, well that’s fine by me, unless you’re especially interested in prison homosexuality?”

Jamie looked at her, he was appalled, but not that appalled.

Swayne was, at that moment, asking questions. “What’s happening? Am I going home?”

“Probably not, Chris, you’re an enemy agent, caught committing acts inimical to the public security, if I know Qusai, when he’s back in the saddle, he’ll insist you stand trial; like Abbas did…Consider yourself lucky to have survived, for now…”

Mudabbir closed the door on him.

Qusai and Angelica had spent the past day or so in dark seclusion, recovering from their minor injuries, Qusai nursing psychotic desires of revenge, which he hoped he would with cold detachment enact, while Angelica hung her arm over him as they lay together, silently communing, her own preoccupations were quite different, and Qusai eventually picked up on them.

“Angelica…”

“Yes, Qusy…”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Qusy, yes, I shall be your queen…”

Both lapsed into renewed silence and, eventually, sleep, dreaming of the propaganda and the pageantry that would announce this most high profile of unions.

At Ast’Qana Central Hospital a frenetic Archer Strachan stood watch over the unconscious form of Jacintha Cresswell who would stir occasionally, despite the medical staff’s avowal that she was, in fact, going to be fine, Archer couldn’t bring himself to sleep, his love being the reverse to the peaceful affections of Qusai and Angelica. So intent was Archer on Jacintha that he, understandably, failed to make any attempt to check on Logan, whose prostrate form lay but scant yards from him in another hospital room. Logan was the subject of altogether greater medical interest than any of the other survivors, much time and effort would be spent on stabilising him, but to that we shall return.

“Well, Pete, it’s difficult to see how you folks could fuck this up any more; am I right, Artie?”

The National Security Advisor turned to Lord Placeman. “The president has some concerns about the British conduct of Qatakistani affairs.”

Lord Placeman shifted uncomfortably.

René Hulot sat looking not displeased at the president’s obvious ire at their mutual ally.

Harry Clark looked amusedly at the American defence and security establishment who dominated the room, larger than the Franco-British delegations combined.

The acting Lib-Dem leader volubly agreed whenever anyone suggested using force to avenge their fallen former leader.

“I think, we’re all agreed that some display of force needs to be undertaken, but we can’t afford or justify an invasion, much as we might wish to…”

“Which presupposes that Qusai is responsible…” Harry interjected.

“Pete, this Abdul Mubdee figure is all over the internet claiming that he used a westerner, a senior westerner to carry out the suicide bombing, the suicide bombing which seems to have claimed dozens of American lives, do you have any comment on that…?” asked the president.

Lord Placeman looked wan.

“Allow me, to interject, Mr. President. I think Pete, Lord Placeman, is deeply embarrassed by this, it appears, we have strong reason to suspect, that the suicide bomber was Sir Paul Fennell, a senior advertising executive…Or formerly a senior advertising executive, and also knight too, given the circumstances’, Harry turned to Lord Placeman, ‘they do lapse when the recipient dies, don’t they; after all, isn’t that what happened with that chap, DJ, broadcaster, what’s his name…?”

Lord Placeman and the Labour leader glared at him.

The American president looked at Harry with a puzzled expression.

“So, a land invasion is out.” Hulot stated.

“Indeed.” replied Lord Placeman.

“We could send an aircraft carrier?” Hulot suggested.

“And how long would that take?”

Genevieve Salvage spoke: “At least a fortnight, or so the defence ministry has told me.”

The French defence minister nodded in agreement.

“Do you realise how bad it looks, a British advertising executive slaughtering Americans on the evening news?” the president asked baldly.

Lord Placeman looked even more wan.

“Oh, it’s not all bad, Mr. President, I understand The Equality Club is strongly considering revoking his membership, upon confirmation, you understand.”

“So, you’re not going to invade, which it seems you don’t have the capacity to anyway, a carrier will take too long to deploy, although it would buy time to confirm exactly what happened; how about an air campaign?”

The foreign secretary spoke: “There are diplomatic complications, given our lack of influence to effect anything positive at the UN at the moment, as well as the Arab Spring we can hardly ask and expect the Saudis to allow us to place RAF assets and conduct an air campaign, after Albatross and the I N Securities revelations…”

“There remains the naval task force in the Gulf…” suggested Genevieve.

President Hulot nodded sagely.

“So, the full panoply of options available to the British and French are some missile strikes?”

“What about you, Mr. President, might the Americans…”

“Sorry, Pete, René, I appreciate the outrage over this act of terror, which the United States government is regarding as such, but we’re not sending the Fifth Fleet in to topple Qusai, even if I’d like to - had the situation been obviously less convoluted, had the suicide bomber not been British, we might, perhaps, have succeeded in steering public opinion along with us, but if Qusai proves amenable…I mean, we’re more concerned about Archer Strachan, to be honest, folks back home are not happy about him, hell, I’m livid!”

“There are no obvious red lines here. Qusai had treated our hostages well, offering sanctuary to a traitor is not axiomatically a casus belli, and, at this stage, having everything you ever actually wanted hardly seems a realistic proposition.”

Lord Placeman looked even glummer. For all their faults where was a gung-ho Republican when you needed them?

“Pete, René, take my advice, and we’ll join you in this, offer an ultimatum, a couple, or a few days, demanding the return of whoever remains, the dead too, demand some form of arbitration, perhaps monetary remuneration, order a targeted assassination of Mubdee, lob a few Tomahawks at Ast’Qana proclaim honour satisfied and depart the battlefield as a victor…”

“But what about our commitment to Qatakistan?” asked Lord Placeman naively.

Harry Clark rolled his eyes.

The president ignored the remark. “Hell, I’ll order a few guided missile cruisers to join your squadron right now!”

Lord Placeman grasped at the straw of the ultimatum, might he not be able to use it as some form of lever?

“OK, this ultimatum is an intriguing suggestion, what form will it take, exactly, will it be a joint ultimatum?”

Lord Placeman hoped that the diplomatic instrument of an ultimatum might postpone such an unsatisfactory use of force, if he could protract American engagement he might succeed in getting them to help him do what he believed he had achieved in the Balkan wars. Qusai would be toppled, Mubdee destroyed and liberal democracy allowed to flourish in Qatakistan.

Harry Clark ruefully supposed as much.

The American president looked at René and they both nodded.

“Yeah, sure, a joint ultimatum, we’ll submit drafts, circulate them tonight and discuss them tomorrow morning.”

“Are you ok with this, René?”

“Oui, it is fine by me.”

The principals and their senior advisors departed the long drawing room, the president smiling knowingly at his national security advisor when he noticed that President Hulot was retiring to his room in the company of Miss Salvage.

Lord Placeman, the foreign secretary and their officials began drafting the ultimatum. Harry leaned over to one of his assistants and whispered. “You couldn’t drum up a dram, could you? I want something to enjoy this with.”

“You’re going along with this?”

“For now…It’s all material for the memoirs…”

Jacintha started to come round, oppressed by a splitting headache, the slightest movement on her part very nearly occasioning vomiting. She lay there her head throbbing, her heart beating strongly.

Archer lay slumped in the hospital room’s chair where he had slept lightly and uncomfortably, he started to wake, becoming aware that she was conscious, he leapt up and skittered to the foot of the bed.

“Are you ok!?!”

Jacintha moaned painfully.

“DOCTOR! DOCTOR!”

Jacintha moaned again.

The medical staff came rushing in.

“Doc, she’s, she’s awake!”

The doctor examined her, shining a torch into her retinas, to which she responded with further sounds of pain and discomfort.

“She has concussion, but is very, very lucky, certainly luckier than the man we are treating.”

“Is there anything you can do, for the pain?”

“Sir, we are in the middle of a war zone, pain management isn’t a priority right now…” The doctor and his attendants left as quickly as they had arrived.

Archer sat by the side of her bed stroking her hair. “Easy, Jac, easy, it’s just you and me now…”

This alarmed Jacintha considerably, her head was throbbing, and she was being caressed by a strange man in the middle of a civil war.

Archer began whispering into Jacintha’s ear: “Hey, baby, it’s me, Archer, I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but, I’m the guy who gave you the information about those perverts at I N Securities; you see, I used to work for the NSA, I was an analyst, and I became fed up with the malevolence of the organisation I worked for; well, Jac, I started to monitor various peace groups, including yours, and that’s how I became aware of you, I guess…Look, I know this is all a lot to take in, but, baby, all you need to know is, Archer’s here for you. We did it, didn’t we? We struck a blow against the industrial-military complex, the warmongers in Washington, and here I am, by your side, I don’t know about you, Jac, but I’ve never felt closer to anyone in my life, when I first saw you, you looked so beautiful, so hopeful; I kept your picture from your dossier, a copy, obviously, I didn’t want to risk giving the game away, or anyone getting the wrong idea, people can so easily misinterpret things…So, they moved me from peace groups to finance and I started monitoring the bank, and it all just came together, I knew the role you had in monitoring Qatakistan for HIT, and I had the opportunity to help you, to help the Qatakis against various factions with their machinations…I mean, that’s all the how, Jac, not the why, I think you know the why now, I, I love you, I love everything you stand for, how you contrast with the petty compromises and the bullshit, I knew a soul as beautiful as yours would do what was necessary…I love you, Jac…”

Jac’s head kept throbbing, making it difficult for her to concentrate enough to take in or make much sense of what Archer was saying, though she had sense enough to realise his strange protestations of love.

Jacintha replied simply: “I, I have a boyfriend!”

At Chequers that Sunday morning the heads of government and their foreign ministers assembled to discuss their respective drafts of the proposed ultimatum to Qatakistan.

“I’m sorry, Pete, but it’s patently clear that there is far greater overlap between our draft and that of the French.”

“France cannot accept the maximalist definition put forward in the British document.” Genevieve averred.

Glumly Lord Placeman, now denuded of optimism, accepted a document based on the French and American proposals. The foreign secretary was merely happy that some form of public co-operation between Britain and America could be publicly averred, preferable as this was to the barracking and protests that British diplomacy had grown used to since the revelations about the bank and the failure of Albatross. Indeed, he and Sir Finbar McLuhan seemed, by far, the happiest people in the room.

Lord Placeman had no choice to but to agree to the proposals.

René Hulot leaned over to Lord Placeman. “Peter, what is this I hear, is it true, zere are some Tories who want to pull out of the government?”

“They’re split, and I don’t think Harry is long for this government…”

“Can you do this, without their support?”

“Depending on how severe the split is, we’ll most likely have the votes. I have the support of the Labour and Liberal Democrat parties, and, of course, the BBC, while most of the press seems on board.”

“Your predecessor, he was a brave man; you are a brave man…”

Lord Placeman did not think to consider the ramifications of this.

“So, we’re agreed?” asked the American national security advisor. “The American, British, and French governments demand the immediate return of the surviving hostages, the appointment of an independent panel of inquiry to investigate the circumstances leading up to the suicide bombing, the handover of Abdul Mubdee, to face an international court, and some form of peace talks, under UN auspices?”

One voice spoke up. “I shall have to have the agreement of my parliamentary colleagues.”

The previously warm environment of the room chilled perceptibly.

“Harry, we are on the verge of sanctioning an ultimatum possibly leading to military action here, we can’t have you playing games!”

“Oh, I’m not, I just feel that my colleagues should have a say before backing three unpopular political leaders engaged in a desperate attempt at assuaging outraged public opinion and/or furthering ludicrously utopian ideals…”

“Harry, what would you prefer, we let them die!?”

“I’d probably sell them the arms with which to do it, it seems less dishonestly dishonest than just giving them to them, but that’s neither here nor there, I feel, given that description - and all due offense Mr. Presidents – that we should pause and consider; by all means, present your ultimatum, we shall then decide whether we should endorse your enforcement of it.”

“I can’t believe that, during this protracted crisis, fate should have thrown you up!”

“You believe what you want, Peter, it’s done so much to help the Qatakis after all, but, yes, I find it unlikely, given the probable trajectory of my career, that I find myself the acting leader of my party, by acclamation, a power that is, by its nature fleeting, but I have determined to have fun with it. Consider me the realist cavalier to your utopian roundhead.”

The Americans and French looked on agog. How could such a man have managed to get himself elected in such an age, let alone find himself holding any position of power or responsibility?

The American president interjected. “So, you’re in favour of our issuing the ultimatum but against enforcing it? That’s intellectually incoherent.”

“As though that’s an unanswerable argument; it’s neither more, or less so, than a great deal of the suppositions and bases for the decisions I’ve heard offered by a great many in this room. All told, I just have a tremendously bad feeling about how this is going to go, and perhaps someone, holding a position of responsibility, should publicly aver that; I mean, I wanted to fire Conroy, did, in fact, but that lot’, Harry gestured to Lord Placeman and the other two party leaders, ‘insisted we rehire him, the military genius behind Albatross…You think this is going to end well?”

The president turned to Lord Placeman. “Aren’t you going to fire him?”

“I can’t, it would risk creating a constitutional crisis; he is, effectively, pro tem, the leader of the largest party in our parliament…”

Both presidents looked doubtfully at Lord Placeman, worried by this illustration of his impotence.

The British foreign secretary spoke. “Don’t worry, the ultimatum has the backing of the Labour party…”

“And the Liberal Democrats.” Their acting leader averred.

“And probably some of my own party, at least.” Harry spoke chirpily. “I just think that there should be at least one political grouping not utterly discredited by Qatakistan that emerges out of this, bad enough you’re likely to face a hiding in November and spend the last years of your presidency a lame duck, and as for René…”

Harry’s blunt realism did not go down well.

“I’d be amused to discover quite how the Labour leadership has geed its troops up to support this, given its own unhappy history with desert interventions, still I suppose Qusai’s espousal of traditional Arab values, in or near Arabia at least has acted as an incentive, and I know for a fact that Lord O here’s been having lovely little tête a têtes with Auntie; have you seen the coverage? It’s glowing! So fling your missiles, we’ll see what happens, I’m on my way out, and hopefully at least one of the contenders for my own party’s leadership will exhibit some common sense, if that is a quality that people look to at all in this post-modern paradise we inhabit.”

“Are you quite done, Harry!?!”

“Soon enough, and about as soon and as much as the rest of you…”

Jacintha had started to feel better, though still regarded Archer Strachan’s protestations of love with a degree of suspicion, given their sincerity and their lack of any prior acquaintance she was justified in this. She had begun to even feel well enough to agitate for news concerning Logan and to even envision leaving her bed and going to see him. Given the comparative paucity of her life experiences she was not suspicious of the medical staff, who were distinctly cagey when it came to averring any information concerning the well-being of Mr. Tremain.

Ultimately, however, Jacintha’s winsomeness was sufficiently persuasive, along with her insistence on standing on her rights, such as they could be recognised in the midst of a socially conservative country during a civil war, as to extract a promise that she could visit Logan presently. Still no one vouchsafed any information concerning the precise nature of his condition.

Archer was precious little help at all concerning Jacintha’s valiant efforts; indeed, a distinct, jealous peevishness set in at any mention on her part of her absent beau.

Ultimately, however, she was able to unsteadily hobble down the corridor toward the room where Logan was confined.

Logan had moments of pained consciousness, though fundamentally rested in a state of wooziness underpinned by high levels of morphine. During his brief excursions into the former state he could be heard asking for his phone, which did ring and buzz occasionally, but he was in no position to answer to it. His position, flat on his back, exposed his immodesty, despite his current situation the physical manifestation of his sex addiction was plain for all to see.

It was the sight of the heavily swaddled, erect figure of Logan and member that Jacintha saw through the window, a steady, though distressed heart rate visible on the monitor, a morphine drip beside the bed. It was a scene she found distressing. Archer held her to him, her back to the window, watching the pitched sheets of the injured man on the other side, Jacintha, facing the other way, wept.

“Will we have to consult with the Russians, the Chinese?”

“We have no intention of further involvement with Qatakistan.” averred the president, Lord Placeman regarded this painfully.

“That means no regime change?” asked René Hulot.

The American NSA spoke: “No regime change, the American government accepts that Abdul Mubdee is probably practically and morally culpable for the suicide bomb attack on the British and American hostages, but waits for an independent inquiry.”

“He is also of course guilty of the murder of the French journalist…” Genevieve averred.

“But if the Russians and the Chinese feel sufficiently strongly, then they can veto us at the UN.”

“We’re prepared for that eventuality…”

No one thought to question the import of that statement by the president, or the irony of the assembled internationalists’ willingness to violate the rule of law.

“I don’t think they’ll do anything, anyway, if we approach them, tell them our intentions are limited, we’re lobbing a few bombs, making a few demands, enough to save face and assuage honour…”

General agreement rippled around the room, with the exception of Lord Placeman, who still felt the pull of his moral commitment to Qatakistan, but also entertained hopes that the Americans might be bounced into playing a greater role, rather than embarking on so crass a course as mere punishment.

The internationalist lawyers in the room seemed especially pleased with themselves.

“Right, I will speak with Qing and Vladimir.” said the American president. “Then we will issue the terms, and then the ball is in Qusai’s court.”

Harry smiled at Sir Norman Conquest as he ascended the rostrum. He had assembled his parliamentary party, wishing to inform them as to the state of the negotiations with the French and the Americans. Harry had deliberately avoided any of his colleagues running for the leadership, not wishing to give them any possible advantage, for he disliked them as heartily as they disliked him.

“Ladies, Gentlemen…It’s no bloody good. You have a soon to be lame duck president, the most unpopular French president ever, and Lord Placeman making policy under, at best, the dictates of whether it’ll play in Peoria, or, at worst, under humanist delusion!”

The education secretary rolled his eyes; he suspected he wasn’t going to like what he was going to hear.

“Qatakistan’s fucked! Leave ‘em to it. They’re on the cusp of sanctioning even further, pointless military action; as if we can do anything about the fact that Sir Paul Fennell seemed to have taken an advanced course in radicalism and martyrdom. Most of the hostages who remain are criminals, who paid for Russian arms which are now in the hands of Qusai and which have further fuelled the conflict; I don’t know about you, but leaving them there seems to accord with natural justice. Qatakistan isn’t worth a single penny of the taxpayer’s money; never mind any further, avoidable loss of British life.”

Many of the massed ranks of the parliamentary Conservative party stood agog.

“I’m aware of my status as your acting leader, but I can’t countenance any further involvement in this bleak charade, it is my fervent belief that our opponents are on the cusp of making an historic error, one which we have a fleeting window to avoid embroiling ourselves in, sometimes you just have to thank God you’ve recognised it in time and act accordingly.”

“What do you expect us to do!?!”

“Munich!!!”

“You disgust me!!!”

Went the cat calls from a mixture of non-plussed and oppositional voices.

“I intend for the Conservative party to withdraw from Lord Placeman’s emergency government and the blame for the impending disaster!”

The education secretary looked at Harry with disgust, eyes glowering through his thick black-rimmed glasses.

“I intend for us to vote on the matter tonight, and for us to act accordingly!”

Harry appraised the room, he thought it quite likely that the party would split, perhaps irretrievably, but he also thought he had enough gravitas, and the situation was dire enough, indeed, had been recognised as being dire enough, to ensure that at least half of his colleagues, perhaps two thirds would join him; it was only the ineffably careerist remaining third or so that he doubted, and he was inclined to damn them too.

“We will have an open and frank debate…Chaired by the speaker…”

At this a furore broke out, small cliques consulted each other, noise redounded throughout the room, a half dozen senior backbenchers and ministers rose as if catching his eye in order to speak.

Harry made eye contact with Sir Norman who was among them; the latter smiled as if to say you have no idea what forces you have unleashed, a sentiment Harry anarchically shared.

“Better an end with horror than horror without end…” he murmured to himself.

News of the outbreak of anarchic democracy within the parliamentary Conservative party began to buzz across the information networks of London, client hacks were called from wherever they were in order to ferret out any information they could, the political class was soon astounded at such rumours and counter-rumours as emerged, while Lord Placeman suffered yet another severe headache at this blow to the stability of his government.

Ensconced with his advisers at Chequers he spoke. “What is to be done? What is to be done?” he whispered to the cabinet secretary.

“Prime minister, you know the parliamentary arithmetic as well as anyone; though we can’t be certain, we’re hearing rumours that the education secretary is prepared to lead a faction that will remain with the government during the crisis…”

“Doesn’t Harry have any idea of what he’s doing?” he asked the Labour leader plaintively.

“What will it mean for the democratic underpinning of the government?”

Harry looked on admiringly as the innate and ancient prejudices of his party roused themselves, he had loosed a monstrous, revanchist genie, in implacable opposition to the modern impulses he so loathed and so blamed for the disasters that had befallen British policy in Qatakistan.

A clique of modernisers had bewailed the abandonment of Qatakistan, of the government’s humane and decent policy, but its tribunes soon realised that they hadn’t the support of the majority in the room, for they were too discredited for all that.

Sir Norman roused himself, what would the father of the house say? To whom would he lend his not inconsiderable weight and heft, would his be a voice of moderation, or, as the modernisers saw it, one of black reaction?

“Those in the party know my record,’ he rocked back and forth as he spoke, ‘they know too that a party divided against itself cannot stand, or, more prosaically, split parties do not win elections; but neither do discredited ones!”

Harry smiled at the partiality of his historical references and lessons.

“We must each of us search his or her consciences and determine whether the British government has not, in fact, done harm enough to Qatakistan, and whether our continued commitment might not do greater injury than should we choose, equably, to depart the contested field!”

The education secretary put his head in his hands where it lolled slightly.

“I would often speak with Anthony, after Suez…”

Harry laughed at the sardonic nature of Sir Norman’s address.

Upon Sir Norman’s conclusion the education secretary sprang to his feet, catching the eye of the diminutive speaker, acting in his accustomed role for the occasion.

Known for his command of language and penchant for the obscure term he launched into an oration drawing on all the emotions so often called upon in contemporary political discourse only to become increasingly aware of how little these registers seemed to affect his colleagues, he began to speak haltingly, baffled at the all too apparent failure, comparisons of Harry and his ilk to the men of Munich were met with a stony silence, references to the shared brotherhood of man and our commitment to one another went likewise, and, eventually, he just stopped, shaken at his defeat.

Silence descended.

Sir Norman turned to Harry and, volubly, exclaimed: “Shocking how one’s geography can go awry, mistaking Suez for Munich.”

Harry laughed; a myriad of his colleagues did likewise, for the education secretary had been rendered ridiculous.

Harry rose. “Ladies, Gentlemen, I propose we put the matter to a vote, will the Conservative party withdraw from the coalition in protest at its foreign policy!?!”

Soon enough the parliamentary party marched into the ersatz division lobby, right honourable members acted as tellers.

“The ayes to the right, 287.”

“The noes to the left, 15.”

Harry was exalted, the Placeman tendency, as he saw it, had been utterly routed in his own party, and, if the 15 felt strongly enough to remain with Lord Placeman he would be dependent on deals with the minor parties. Harry felt quite satisfied; he had succeeded in doing his best to wreck Lord Placeman’s government, with its ludicrous policy.

Within minutes this news was disseminated to the mass media, and, through it, to the cabinet secretary and thence a distraught Lord Placeman.

Lord Placeman and his senior advisors, plus the two party leader’s remaining in his government considered what the vote meant.

“You have a bare majority, Peter.”

“If the Tory minority comes over.”

“They will, he’s a decent man, we’ve often enjoyed the same dinner parties…” Lord Placeman thoughtlessly averred, speaking of the education secretary.

No one pointed out that the same had been true of Sir Peter Fennell, late suicide bomber.

“You’ll need to speak to him, of course.”

“Of course…But we’re so far in, with the Americans and the French, we can’t back out now.”

Lord Placeman thought, of course, of how he might best advance his own designs, no matter how unpropitious the circumstances.

“You’ll need to reconstruct the cabinet…”

No one said again.

“How much disaster can befall a government?” Placeman asked seemingly of no one.

“What are you going to tell the Americans and the French?”

“Nothing, until this is resolved, which it will be, in time for us to join them in issuing the ultimatum.”

Lord Placeman had realised that, whatever happened the Tories were split enough for him to do that.

Tufts - that stalwart American envoy - had found himself - plus some facial laceration - kept under maximum security within the confines of the Royal Barracks. He had already been psychologically impaired by the rigours of his time confined to the embassy. Consequently the trauma of the suicide bombing had made comparatively little impact upon him, bar the aforementioned minor physical damage. Tufts welcomed the quiet and the dark, the world having been too much with him, the repose from responsibility was quite freeing. There he would lie, burbling away in the darkness of his room, contented.

Sam had been kept in the same hospital as Jacintha and Logan, where, his physical ailments, slight as they were, were attended to. His major problems, however, were, like Tufts’, psychological, he had developed post-traumatic stress disorder. In the hours following the attack he would experience intense flashbacks and bouts of acute anxiety which made relaxation impossible. Sam was in acute psychological distress. His phone rang.

“Hell, hell, hell-o…”

“Sam, congrats, what you’ve been through, the sympathy vote’s really come through, you’ve been adopted!”

Sam couldn’t quite take this in; mentally he was still dwelling on the screaming that he had heard following the bombing.

“Sam, Sam, do you understand what I’m saying? You’re the candidate for Islington Central, and, in all probability, the next Member of Parliament; congratulations!”

“I…I…I…” Sam stuttered, beholden to his trauma.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put out a statement, I’m amazed I was able to get through to be honest, anyway, I’m sure you’ll be home soon, my guess is the Qatakis will want you and the others out of their hair sharpish, we’ll talk, strategise and the rest when you get back.”

Sam kept stuttering as tears rolled down his face. He couldn’t make the screaming stop.

Mudabbir, shown in my a sensitively faced young man, made the rounds, alighting upon the relevant organs of the state, or at least those still functioning, to determine progress with the investigation. It was in this capacity that he found himself at a barely functional morgue looking upon the cold, stiff, chilled cadaver of Steve Prentice. Mudabbir inhaled the air, thick with the stench of decay, the result of Ast’Qana’s now irregular electricity supply. No one had yet had the time to clean the corpse, it had merely been stuffed, dressed, caked in blood, into the drawer.

“Carotid artery nicked by shrapnel from the suicide bomb, he hadn’t a chance.” the medical examiner dispassionately averred as, his head subtly cocked to one side, he stared intently at Steve.

Mudabbir looked down at Steve, the latter’s eyes bulging from his skull, flared his nostrils, and took this all quite philosophically.

“All the same, I’d like a report, I suppose we’ll need to give the international community something…The things we waste our time with…”

Mudabbir turned away, leaving the examiner alone with the object upon which he would level his tender ministrations, gently and sensuously caressing Steve’s bruised face.

Qusai was meeting with his senior advisors. Saif expected that he would wish to know about the progress being made with the inquiry into the bombing, and how a suicide bomber had been able to successfully breach the security cordon around him.

“My council, I am to be married.”

The council’s members looked at each other scrutinizing themselves and their responses.

“Angelica and I feel it would be the perfect response to our recent difficulties, a sign of hope for Qatakistan, a cross-ethnic gesture, to unite our disparate peoples.” Qusai narrowed his eyes as he said this, attempting to draw out anyone who would dare to suggest otherwise.

“When will this wedding take place?”

“What about your brother’s children?”

“By the end of the week, it is, as they say, a whirlwind romance…” Qusai lost himself momentarily in a reverie. Coming to he spoke: “Are not my brother’s children conspiracists, dedicated to the overthrow of my regime?”

They were six and three.

“Well, yes…”

“Then why has not Mudabbir dealt with them!?!”

“What is Your Excellency suggesting…?” asked a more junior minister.

Saif spoke: “His Excellency suggests nothing; merely that the state acts in accordance with its duty…”

So, euphemistically, Qusai and his council sanctioned the murder of two children.

“The council accedes to my marriage?” Qusai asked, for form’s sake.

The council, representing the Alawite, Sunni, Shia, and Christian minorities who populated Qatakistan, or at least those elements which remained loyal to Qusai, rather than his deceased brother, or Abdul Mubdee, did as was expected of it and officially approved the marriage of the psychotic Emir to a soon to be former Hollywood actress and drug addict, a fairy tale indeed, if ever there was one.

“The marriage will not be as ornate as perhaps my bride and I would like, but it shall be a marriage during wartime, and we understand the necessity for certain strictures. It shall be done under Alawite rites, Angelica is happy to convert, but there should be an element to the service encompassing the other faiths too…” so Qusai burbled on discussing the disparate elements of the wedding, little of immediate consequence was touched upon, not a mention made of the inquiry into the suicide bombing which had so nearly claimed his own life, never mind what the western powers might do next.

Late Sunday evening London time the western powers issued their ultimatum to Qusai. The remaining hostages were to be returned, an independent panel of inquiry was to be appointed tasked with investigating the suicide bombing, Abdul Mubdee was to be handed over to an international court to stand trial, there were to be talks about talks. Unless these demands were met within five days there would be consequences for Qatakistan.

Such were the public demands, privately it was suggested via back channels that the United States wished for Qusai to voluntarily surrender Archer Strachan, while the British also wished for Chris Swayne to be returned, the French offered to soften their stance in return for some oil concessions.

All the while the civil war between the army factions, which could have been more forcefully prosecuted by Qusai had he not been distracted by Abdul Mubdee’s vicious Islamist insurgency, raged on. Mubdee’s effort remained uncrushed owing to Qusai’s need to eliminate those army units still loyal to his deceased brother. No single force contending the three-way civil war-cum-insurgency was strong enough to ensure victory on its own, and Ast’Qana became increasingly reduced to a burnt-out, war-torn shell of its former self. The contending sides, broadly speaking, had broken down into Mubdee’s increasingly radical Shia, Abbas loyalists in the military who became increasingly dominated by a Sunni faction, and Qusai’s regime, which was the closest thing to an ethnically diverse faction, dominated by the Alawites and Christians, with Sunni and Shia minorities, held together through their control of and access to Qatakistan’s wealth, as well as long-standing ties of tribal and political co-operation. The Kurds retained a wary distance from any of the three major factions.

It was of this society that the western powers made their public demands as their leaders stood abreast of each other at rostrums on the Chequers lawn, Lord Placeman, the host, and architect, in his way, of British involvement, or at least further British involvement, flanked by the two presidents.

Having completed the issuing of the ultimatum the two presidents rushed to find what impact, if any, it had made on their public perceptions, they were dismayed to find that, despite the heightened drama of hostage crisis and likelihood of military action, they remained as unpopular as they had been for quite some time.

                     XV

“I’m happy to accede to most of these demands, they’re reasonable enough, given the circumstances.” Qusai averred. “After all, an honest inquiry would only find what we’ve found, wouldn’t it?, that the suicide bomber was British. That hardly troubles me. As for the hostages, OK, largely, but I do owe those pervert bankers, they saved my life; say they died in the attack, who does that leave?”

“Sir Victor, who seems to be recovering from his heart attack, albeit slowly…”

“Mudabbir, I don’t care; don’t tell me how they are, just whether they’re dead or alive, and how we’re going to repatriate them, ok!?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. OK, the human rights people, Tremain…”

Qusai narrowed his eyes as if enquiring as to who.

“…The public relations man…”

“Ah, ok…”

“Miss Grunwald…And, ah, that’s it…”

“How many came?”

“On the mercy flight?”

Qusai nodded quickly.

“It must have been about 150…”

“Who was the PR man from?”

Mudabbir consulted his notes and read uncertainly. “Kruger Randwick Balls’ Associates.”

“Remind me to never have them do my PR.”

Mudabbir laughed darkly.

“Oh, one more thing, should we find out whether the westerner’s regard Forbes and his crew as hostages, and what’s the American position on Angelica?”

“What about the talks and Abdul Mubdee?”

“Officially? We’re happy to have talks about talks, perhaps in Istanbul, or, more pointedly, in Baghdad, or Doha, perhaps, though who do they envision us talking to?, the Sunni faction?, fine, but Mubdee’s Islamists?, so, we’ll have fun with that. As for Mubdee…That’s potentially problematic, you know how the Americans are, if I could get him, and give him to them, or, preferably have him killed, he wouldn’t be a problem, but I can’t, so he is…” Qusai contemplated this.

“What about the MI6 man, and Strachan?” Mudabbir asked.

“Swayne, we will put on trial and hang. What are the British going to do about it? Strachan? I assume we’ve gotten as much use out of him as we’re going to get, put him on the same plane as that girl he’s obsessed with, and the others, fly them to Europe, Rammstein, maybe…”

“So, the only outstanding demand is Mubdee, and we can’t do anything about that…”

“Well, they’ll have 90% of what they wanted within about a day or so, what’s the worst that could happen?”

At that moment Boris Kropotkin entered the room.

“Ah, Boris; Boris, Boris, Boris, how are things my friend?”

Boris looked his usual careworn, efficacious self.

“Qusai, I do hope you are not going to defy the western powers, they seem set on acting outside the UN on this, they have tabled no resolution for us to veto, and have averred to the president that they envision using some degree of military force if their demands aren’t met...”

“Relax, Boris, I have just discussed this, with my council, we are giving them pretty much everything they want, the only thing we can’t give them is Mubdee, and most definitely not because we don’t want to.”

“Qusai, I fear that while they will appreciate that they will still have to make some kind of gesture to assuage public opinion in their own countries.”

“Boris, are they going to invade?”

“No.”

“Have they reinforced their naval forces in the Gulf?”

“Slightly.”

“Where could they possibly base air forces for a sustained aerial bombardment?”

“Nowhere, after the Albatross disaster and given how successfully the British alienated everyone diplomatically, no one would have them.”

“Exactly…A few cruise missiles, I shall take this punishment, who knows, they might even do me a favour, and hit Mubdee or the rebel military forces…Now, let us talk of more pleasant things, I am to be married, and you are to be invited, you are coming, I trust?”

“Of course, Qusai, of course, I’m sure the president would…

“No need, I understand the difficulties of the present time, Angelica and I have discussed the need for a wartime wedding. It is to be on Friday. Short notice. We have a foreign film director who has been given a personal insight into our problems and will serve as the official documentarian of the celebrations, do you know his name, he is Forbes Ross?” Qusai beamed at Boris as he regaled him with his appreciation of the eminent director and how he had come to identify with the struggles encountered by Qusai in his efforts to establish his regime in the face of religious fundamentalism and suicide bombing. Boris was rather numbed by all this, but smiled and agreed anyway.

Later that afternoon Forbes sat opposite Mudabbir, he looked debauched, his dark glasses and black ensemble went well with the places that his time in Qatakistan had taken him.

Mudabbir’s office, which had been El-Tabir’s, looked no different to how it had been during his predecessor’s time; whether from neglect, conscious decision, or mere lack of opportunity no one took the time to say.

“Mr. Ross, how can I help you?”

“I, um, I have to do some reshoots…Reshoots, all important…Those FUCKS!!!, you know, who armed Sir Paul…Well, I don’t, I don’t like what they’ve done!!!”

Mudabbir was somewhat perplexed by Forbes’ meandering, inchoate request, if it was one.

“Mr. Ross…”

“Look, he can kill every single last fucking one of them, for all I care…Do you know what it’s like to see the world through Qusai’s eyes!?! Do you!?! I was there man, around the stand, I saw what happened, I saw what went down, and, ok, dead Americans, you reap what you sow, yeah!?, that CIA fuck I’ve heard about…Those bankers…Well, I had a beef with them; they paid well, but it was fucking nauseating, and I got the film essay of a lifetime…Qusai’s convinced me, I’m a believer…”

“Mr. Ross, please.” Mudabbir intoned forcefully. “My instructions are to help you in any way I can, commensurate with the public safety…”

Forbes nodded nervily.

“But reshoots, of what?”

“Enemies, man, enemies hanging from fucking trees!!!”

Mudabbir shook his head and, simply, said: “Mr. Forbes, there are such things that shouldn’t be seen…Unless…”

Forbes leaned in, taking his glasses off.

“How do you feel about Abdul Mubdee’s men…?”

“Islamo-fascist fucks!”

Mudabbir considered Forbes’ eyes, they burned with the intensity of the fanatic, truly his time in Qatakistan had, like Sir Paul, albeit in a different way, radicalised him.

“Come with me.”

Mudabbir and Forbes, joined by an armed retinue, made their way down to the Security and Intelligence Ministry’s basement. Forbes was too wired at what possibilities might present themselves to experience any trepidation at just the kind of journey that would terrify a saner man.

Forbes was taken into a warren of maximum security cells vastly oversubscribed in its accommodation.

Mudabbir put his hand around the back of Forbes neck and politely but firmly held his face up to a small window, Mudabbir’s face loomed next to his, with his other hand he pointed to the cell window.

“In here we have three men found carrying parts for explosive vests, they were part of a larger group that resisted, we have only kept them for intelligence purposes, kill them for me now and you can have enough not so willing extras for your movies until the end of time, or your final release date, whichever comes first.”

The Forbes of some months ago would never have dared entertain such a notion, but the Forbes of today, wholly adrift from the banal moral certainties of the western liberal democracies, only offered an unhinged smile as Mudabbir offered him a gun…He had seen Salô, only collaboration with a less welcome reality could allow the artist within to surpass Pasolini, he hadn’t his crew with him at the moment, but next time, with his HD cameras he would film indelible images.

Forbes accepted the gun, Mudabbir’s men opened the door, and he strode in, loosing a clip at the prostrate figures.

One of the guards looked at Forbes witheringly from behind; Mudabbir merely thought that he preferred Tarantino.

Adeel Qadir, contrarily, was doing the rounds, informing the individual batches of hostages, or at least those still either sane and/or conscious, that they were to be repatriated imminently. He experienced a surprising range of responses to this news, Tufts gabbled incoherently; Sam Kent was hysterical, when he first met him, so it was difficult to gauge how he truly felt about the news, as he continued to be so as Adeel made his excuses and left; Jacintha seemed relieved, while Archer Strachan seemed too wrapped up in her to think about what this might mean for him; Jessica Grunwald, recovering from her minor head injuries, a stitched scar visible on her forehead, seemed pleased, which brought him to Jamie and Diamanda.

“I’m afraid there seems to be a slight complication, or, rather, you have a choice to make…”

Jamie scrutinized the American sounding factotum. “What do you mean choice?”

“Well, as you know, you are wanted for your role in the illegal arms shipment and subsidiary charges at home, while Qusai feels indebted to you for your role in saving his life.”

Jamie and Diamanda looked at him none the wiser.

“Qusai is willing to tell your governments that you died in the suicide bombing.”

Diamanda smiled. Jamie took slightly longer to process this.

“Fine by me!” Diamanda exclaimed.

“Whatever…”

“You are not going to discuss this?”

“What avoiding jail and the lurid sensationalism of what passes for the media back home, if Diamanda Sangrail died a few days ago, that’s fine by me; you can take any samples you need to leave at the scene to add verisimilitude right now.”

“But where are we going to go?” Jamie asked plaintively.

“A lot of Africa, quite a bit of the Middle East, some parts of Asia.”

Jamie looked at Diamanda as if to ask how she knew.

“Jamie, you’ve been working in banking since the crash and you’re honestly going to tell me you haven’t kept abreast of Britain’s and America’s extradition arrangements, just in case? Not that anyone did go to prison, although at least a couple of our late, unlamented colleagues came close.”

“But what about your…”

“Family? I’m over forty and was, until recently, a senior banking executive, what family? My parents are dead. And, as for yours, what would you rather they had, you in prison, or, ok, ‘dead’, but alive…If you see what I mean?”

“But what about our culpability…”

“Culpability!?!” she burst out laughing. “Sure, when the prime minister, Qusai, Sam Kent, and pretty much everyone else involved in this serves time then I’ll feel a moral imperative to do likewise, but until hell has frozen over…” Diamanda continued to laugh hysterically. “You’ll be mentioning the price paid by Steve Prentice next!”

Jamie’s momentary doubts were dissipated by what he saw as the ineffable correctitude of Diamanda’s absolute cynicism.

Adeel looked at the two of them puzzled by their response to his news.

“What Diamanda means is, we appreciate Qusai’s gesture and trust a suitable location will be found to deposit us.”

“Yes, if you can suggest someone capable of arranging forged passports for us we’ll be most appreciative.”

Jamie worried they were pushing their luck.

“Jamie, you did save his life.”

“I will take this request to Qusai and Mudabbir; we shall let you know as soon as possible.”

Qadir left them to whatever those two happened to enjoy doing to each other.

Logan started to drift into pained consciousness; he heard the sounds of Jacintha, Jessica and a stranger talking around him. He felt the weight of the swaddled bandages around his head, distorting the sound somewhat, he was conscious of his erection, as he usually was, but every time he tried to use his eyes sharp stabbing pain cleaved into his forehead, his arms felt deadened, he was conscious of no feeling below his elbows. How long had he been unconscious? What was the last thing he remembered seeing? Sir Paul. Shouting something to; or at someone; or something below him; in front…? And then? He barely had time to register, an explosion, of some kind, he remembered raising his arms. Logan began to panic.

“HELP!?! HELP!?!” he began screaming at the top of his lungs.

Jacintha, Jessica and Archer crowded around him, he felt someone touch him, an offer of physical reassurance? He wasn’t minded to be placated by such a gesture; he was too traumatised by what had befallen him, by not knowing what had happened to him since he lost consciousness.

Medical staff rushed in, fearing that the screaming portended an especially active death rattle. Fate had no such thing in store for Logan, however. Staff sedated him. The presiding doctor regarded Logan ruefully; the time would soon come when he would have to inform him as to his precise status, something he wasn’t especially looking forward to.

“What’s wrong with him!?!” Jacintha pleaded. They had been too intimidated by the nest of medical equipment around him to breach it in any meaningful way; they were as clueless as the patient himself.

“I will have to tell Mr. Tremain myself, when he is conscious and calm.” With that he and the rest of the medical team left the room.

Jacintha, Jessica and Archer stared at the dosed patient, his erection had visibly wilted.

“Good news, Peter.”

Lord Placeman barely responded to Sir Tristram.

“The Qatakis, I mean. Qusai has agreed to the talks proposal…”

“Provided the Russians are involved.” he replied depressedly. Sir Tristram shared this outlook.

“Well, he’s agreed to return the surviving hostages, and to the independent panel of inquiry…”

“Which is going to find what, Tris? Why’d Paul have to go and do something so awful like that…?”

Sir Tristram grimaced; a senior tribune of The Equality Club committing an atrocity was somewhat awkward.

“I’m depressed, Tris, I think the Americans will have enough reason to bomb Ast’Qana, and we’ll have to join them, and then they’ll go home, honour satisfied…It wasn’t like this in the Balkans.”

“Still, at least Harry’s out of the government…” Sir Tristram put his foot in it again.

“What, to gleefully laugh from the sidelines!?”

“You still lead a national government…”

“I am the creature of the Labour and Liberal parties, the small faction of Tories who have stuck with us are principled but an irrelevance in the long term…

“Cheer up, Peter, you’re an honourable and decent man, you’re Qatakistan’s best hope!”

The irrational optimist in Lord Placeman’s soul seized on this support and smiled, the deeply sublimated realist, however, knew that he had spoken far more sense than Sir Tristram. Fatalism had taken hold of Lord Placeman by this point; he was in office, but not in power. Within days the few hostages who survived would be home, Qusai had acceded to the easier of the western demands, only the handing over of Abdul Mubdee remained outstanding, and he understood that was more for American domestic political consumption than anything.

Lord Placeman listened uninterestedly to Sir Tristram’s gossip, he spoke well of Jeremy Cable-Tether, the newly promoted business secretary and recipient of just the sort of praise that had so often been garlanded on his ill-fated predecessor, whose rotting corpse now lay in a Qataki morgue awaiting repatriation, as well as the new defence minister Alan Marshal-Cross.

He had so often enjoyed his tête a têtes with his former subordinate at the BBC, and Sir Tristram, a sound man, undoubtedly had his uses, but perhaps at this moment in time Lord Placeman just wasn’t in the mood.

The atmosphere in Number Ten’s study was positively funereal, possibly only Steve Prentice was, at that moment in time, colder, though it depended on the continuity of the electricity supply

Lord Placeman stared out of the window, as rain bucketed from an overcast sky lashing central London.

The American president was in conference with his National Security Council.

“Artie, shoot.”

“Qusai’s acceded to most of our demands, we can expect Tufts back at Rammstein tomorrow, day after at the latest; they’ve agreed with the inquiry panel, and the talks; but Abdul Mubdee is a, is a sticking point…”

“But we get Strachan back, right?”

“We, ah, we do indeed.”

“Well, if we can’t have Mubdee alive, then we’ll have him dead. We’ll join the Brits and the French with the missiles on Friday, and, if that doesn’t get him, I’m sure we can loiter a drone or two off Ast’Qana, in anticipation of some actionable intelligence.”

General assent went around the table.

The president was pleased with the brisk decision making, he did love the drones, they had proven so useful before, and he was also used to whacking terrorists and then burying them.

Admiral Byrne looked through his binoculars as three United States guided missile cruisers swung into formation beside the French ships of his flotilla. The maneuver seemed to be going according to plan but the more he looked the more it seemed that one of the American vessels had misjudged its proximity to the French warships. Byrne tensed as he saw the impending accident occur, he saw sparks fly as the USS My Lai pranged the bow of the Darlan with its own.

“Captain Byrne, could you possibly enquire as to whether any of our ships are capable of conducting basic maneuvers without committing avoidable errors!?!”

The blare and squawk of communications between the scratch force could be heard throughout the bridge.

Perhaps Admiral Byrne should have been more worried, with this following the accidental attack on the Darlan by his own helicopters; fundamentally, however, he ascribed the errors to lack of recent multi-nation exercises, he would be certain to run a full task force missile strike exercise ahead of the expiry of the allied ultimatum on Friday though, confident that the possible strike, which he was still inclined to discount, would go ahead smoothly, if it even needed to.

“Yes, Admiral; “there appears to be something wrong with our bloody ships today.”

“Pardon?” Admiral Byrne narrowed his eyes at Blythe.

“It was a reference.”

Admiral Byrne turned away looking out at the My Lai and the Darlan as they began to ensure a wary distance from one another in the brilliant sunshine. He must aver Blythe’s insolence to the promotion board in some way.

A couple of Apache helicopters streaked past disrupting his line of thought, he nodded, regarding this display of air power approvingly. He thought momentarily as to why the mere presence of the taskforce hadn’t ended the British involvement axiomatically, but his was not to reason why, the politicians, he surmised contemptuously.

On Wednesday morning a conscious Logan Tremain was finally sufficiently conscious and calm for his doctors to inform his as to the full extent of his injuries.

He lay there as his doctor explained.

“Mr. Tremain, you have been blinded and have lost both hands, as well as one of your forearms. There is no easier way to put it.”

Upset wracked his prostrate form.

This was not enough, however, to disrupt the physical manifestation of his sex addiction. The doctor, rather embarrassed by his proximity, made his excuses and left.

“JAC!!! JAC!!!” he screamed.

Jacintha, who had been waiting outside the room while the doctor explained the patient’s medical status immediately rushed in, Archer, who had been cloyingly, permanently by her side these past few days loitered in the doorway sullenly.

“Logan, Logan, what’s wrong?”

“You don’t know? You don’t know?” he repeated.

“They haven’t told us anything, and we were too scared to interfere.”

“I’VE BEEN, I’VE BEEN BLINDED…AND I’VE LOST MY HANDS!!!!!”

Logan’s phone rang insistently, absent mindedly Jacintha reached for it, offering it to him, in the unconscious hope that it would distract him from the full horror of his predicament.

“Logan, answer the phone, I’ll hold it for you…” she blurted out thoughtlessly.

“IT HAS FINGERPRINT ID, JAC, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FUCKING ANSWER IT!!!”

Jacintha wailed at the full realisation of her thoughtless insensitivity.

Just then a troop of Qataki soldiers entered the room, medical staff protesting their officious manner.

“You are Jacintha Cresswell, Logan Tremain, Archer Strachan and Jessica Grunwald?” the latter two having been brought into the room by other members of the medical team.

“Yes.” Excepting a distraught Logan, they collectively averred.

“I have orders to take you to the airport immediately, you are to be repatriated.”

Logan and Jessica were in tears; Archer was obsessively watching Jacintha, hanging around her in expectation of offering comfort, paying no heed as to what his deportation and return to American authorities might mean.

The major in charge of the detail hustled Jacintha and Archer off to be taken to a waiting car. He turned to Jessica, who was bruised but competent.

“You will stay with Mr. Tremain as we transport him.”

Jessica silently agreed, not that she had a choice.

The same team had also been tasked with transferring Sam Kent from the same hospital, where they found a deeply traumatized PTSD sufferer incapable of independent movement or resistance, when they bodily moved him to waiting car he merely wept constantly. This was what Jacintha and Archer were greeted with when they arrived at the same car. They were promptly sped to the airport ahead of Logan and Jessica.

Those constituting Steve’s former retinue were moved without incident, while a similar security detail had been tasked with moving Tufts from the Royal Barracks, and Sir Victor had remained under medical care in the VIP terminal at Ast’Qana International Airport.

Jessica found herself in the back of an ambulance with Logan; they were escorted by a military convoy.

Logan was aware of someone’s presence. “Who’s, who’s there!?”

Jessica silently gurned at the awkwardness of the situation, with her lover, former lover?, lying blinded and amputated on a gurney in front of her.

Eventually she spoke. “It’s a, it’s me, Logan…”

“Jessica, Jessica, it’s, it’s…”

“Good to see me…”Jessica tensed.

“Jessica, it’s been, it’s been a few days…”

“Yeah, I know, since the…”

“No, it’s been a while…” Logan moved his chin slightly downwards towards the tent pitched in the medical bedding.

“Logan, I, ah…There are people here…”

“Jessica, when the fuck am I going to be able to wank!?! I HAVE NO FUCKING HANDS!!!”

Jessica demurred.

“Jess, do this for me…”

Jessica looked at the medical staff monitoring Logan’s condition on the screens as she surreptitiously reached under the bedding and firmly clasped his manhood.

“Talk dirty!!!”

“Look, ah, Logan…”

“Talk dirty, bitch…”

“I, ah, I don’t think this is working…”

She continued pumping away.

“That’s it!” Logan groaned.

“Is that how you like it?” she asked haltingly.

“YEAH!!!” he roared as he climaxed, catching the attention of the medical attendants.

“Look, er, Logan, when we get back, I mean, I really think us; I mean, there never really was an us, it was always more you and Jacintha, that’s your us, if we’re honest…”

“WHAT THE FUCK, JESSICA; YOU’RE BREAKING UP…”

“Not breaking up, just thinking you can’t really cheat on Jacintha, given the emotional challenges you’re going to face…”

“YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!”

“Are you still role-playing, because I thought you’d finished…”

“I’M NOT FUCKING ROLEPLAYING!!!”

“Let’s stop seeing…OK, poor choice of term…You need to focus…You need to…You and Jacintha, that’s my advice…”

Jessica lapsed into silence as Logan cried hysterically. She was honest enough to realise that, for her, this was much less awful than any continued involvement with Logan upon their return. Unlike him she could leave Qatakistan comparatively uninjured, she might even have a chance at returning to something approximating her old career upon her return to London. Why put herself through Logan’s trauma unnecessarily, far better to leave Jacintha to it, she had the kind of sweeter disposition that could bear such burdens. Or maybe she would drop in, once a month; Logan might have need of the occasional hand job. That’s the sort of thing a good person would do, given the circumstances, and she wasn’t wholly heartless.

The airport was completely locked down while the hostages were loaded on to the Russian transport plane, Jacintha, Archer, Jessica and Tufts walked on, Sir Victor, now in a wheelchair, and Logan were loaded on side by side, a distraught Sam was helped aboard by Alison and Toby, while a shaking Sarah escorted by Roland followed behind; the fallen former deputy prime minister’s casket was unceremoniously shunted up the rear ramp. There would be no media, after last time.

The plane flew into Iranian airspace before entering eastern Turkey, whereupon it was met by an escort of the latest model of US fighter planes.

It proceeded without incident to Rammstein air force base where an array of military personnel and federal agents were waiting.

The transport plane taxied into position on the runway. The federal agents, tasked with arresting Archer Strachan under several treasonous charges, boarded the plane where they found him continuing to bother a numbed, distraught Jacintha Cresswell, he remonstrated with the federal agents, but was soon taken from the plane cursing imprecations at the agents and imploring Jacintha to remain true to him come what may, which would be several decades of solitary confinement at an especially harsh American penal facility.

Tufts was escorted from the plane in an altogether more sedate fashion. His reception had been discussed by the president and his senior advisors. They had decided that it would be altogether more low-key; he embodied the disappointments of recent Middle Eastern policy too much and was also too visibly traumatized by his experiences for the president to agree to that particular photo opportunity.

The plane containing the British hostages, having refueled, continued on to Gatwick. Upon their arrival an ambulance was waiting for Logan and promptly took him to another hospital, while Jacintha and Jessica became the subject of a tug of war between various officious bureaucrats whose government bodies were tasked with interfering with others.

Sir Victor, who was feeling significantly better, having been well-treated, was wheeled down the ramp, whereupon, at the behest of Jeremy Cable-Tether, a female police superintendent from the City of London constabulary, that body tasked with investigating fraud, arrested him.

“Sir Victor Carraway, it is my duty to arrest you in connection with massive fraud and violation of arms trading regulations by I N Securities, you have the right to remain silent, you do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

The superintendent’s arrest of the recent coronary patient was considered overzealous by some but was at least in keeping with the temper of the times, and some considered that at least one high profile figure associated with the disaster needed to feel the full weight of the law, with the chairman of I N Securities, a bank that had provided funding to both major political parties, deemed as good a choice as any, given that Guy and Buddy were of an insufficiently high profile, while Bob Maitland, a financial illiterate could hardly be blamed.

Suffice to say the telegenic figures of Jacintha Cresswell and Jessica Grunwald became the subjects of much media attention and hyperbole. Offers were vouchsafed them by all the major media groups, Jacintha became, effectively, the Princess Diana of the affair, tragic, in terms of the hand that fate had dealt her and Logan, she consequently became the subject of others’ hopes and dreams, society’s dominant voices opining that she had no other choice but to marry and care for Logan following his ordeal, or at least to try to, and, given her own deportment, who was she to deny such heartfelt imprecations? Her own union would form a tragic mirror to that of Qusai and Angelica, which was regarded, in its turn, disapprovingly, as long as it was extant.

Jessica’s return to Britain would prove, perhaps, easier. It was symptomatic of the times, given her involvement in the PR disaster that befell I N Securities, as well as having been a chosen subordinate of that knight of the realm and suicide bomber Sir Paul Fennell. It was perhaps naïve to believe that she would ever go back into her accustomed milieu of London public relations. No fear, however, like Jacintha a range of offers came her way, and she had no strong moral objections to bearing her flesh to excite the tabloid press, she even had, albeit briefly, a reality series which saw her attempt to adjust back to life in Britain after the events experienced in Qatakistan.

Hers became a weightless existence of life in camera; Jessica had no need for conventional employment, she really contributed nothing to wider society other than a degree of sensation, but after what she had been part of contributing to Qatakistan that was just as well. The world could hardly bear it.

Swayne was tried, convicted and summarily executed, which many took to be a snub to the British, but which many also felt was an unavoidable, indeed even reasonable, act of ire.  This caused the British foreign secretary a degree of discomfort, though less than he felt spending time in the Persian Gulf, given a combination of his ethnicity and local sensibilities. He declined the Foreign Office suggestion that he pass through Jerusalem on his way home.  

The following day Qusai’s envoys met with the allied, Russian and Chinese foreign ministers, and a UN special envoy, of an altogether less controversial choice, he had merely been a senior figure in a corrupt African regime, and was consequently able to avoid any degree of scrutiny by the more self-lacerating elements of the western media.

Broadly it was felt to be a good first meeting, which was the point, from Qusai’s perspective, and was reported as such. Qusai’s delegation also formally assented to the appointment of a UN-led inquiry into the suicide bombing at Ast’Qana International Airport which had done so much to bring them together.

While the international meeting was continuing in Doha - the Americans having bridled somewhat at the mischievous suggestion that it be held in Baghdad - the allied fleet of some nine vessels undertook its joint exercise in preparation for the action they seemed increasingly likely to take, contrary to Admiral Byrne’s innate belief.

Unfortunately the exercise was aimed more at testing processes rather than the systems underpinning them. Consequently Admiral Byrne was quite contented that the allied force was perfectly capable of undertaking any proposed action they could realistically be called upon to execute, even with Admiral Conroy in charge in Whitehall. A full and real live fire exercise, though quite unimaginable within the confines of the Persian Gulf would quite possibly have unveiled the problems which would lead inexorably to geo-political disaster.  

Ominously, however, as local time slipped by and the clock ticked irredeemably into the early hours of Friday morning Qusai had still to surrender Abdul Mubdee, indeed, had truthfully claimed that, given the nature of the Qataki civil war, could not do so.

Diamanda and Jamie had become aware of the fact that it seemed likely that some form of military action would be taken against Qatakistan and were, understandably, keen on ensuring their exit from the country as soon as their fake passports could be arranged. It was in this spirit that they met with Mudabbir on Friday morning. They entered his office to find him wryly regarding the contents of a strong box sat squarely in the middle of his desk.

Mudabbir looked up and regarded them gravely.

Jamie smiled at him wanly. Diamanda smirked fulsomely.

A carriage clock ticked incessantly in the background.

Mudabbir beckoned them over, giving no indication as to what they might find. Diamanda pursed her lips, to give her credit - as many governments had - she had a suspicion as to what it might be.

Peering over the edge of the box they were confronted with the decapitated head of Sir Paul Fennell, former knight of the realm, occasional dining companion of the prime minister, suicide bomber, and member of the Equality Club; and now, in a manner of speaking, existing in that state where all men were.  

In all the hubbub, the remains, such as they were, of Sir Paul had been forgotten, and only now was Mudabbir tying up that particular loose end.

A faintly pleased Diamanda and queasy Jamie stepped back from the strong box.

“Well…” Diamanda stated.

“Well…” Mudabbir replied.

“We’re here to collect our passports…” she insisted.

Mudabbir looked faintly disgusted as he fished around inside his drawer; they were in his office at the Security and Intelligence Ministry.

“How are you going to leave the country?”

“What is this, border control!?” Diamanda asked sharply.

“I think, Diamanda, he means, what with precious few international carriers operating out of AQIA these days, and roaming bands of insurgents it might be ever so difficult for a couple looking like us to, you know, leave…alive…”

Diamanda pursed her lips at this all too apparent spanner in the works.

“You can relax’, Mudabbir averred, ‘Qusai feels keenly your saving his life, he has said to me, Mudabbir, ensure they leave, I shall ensure this. Despite what I hear about you two…”

“How are we to leave?” Diamanda asked, paying no heed to his apparent disgust.

“We shall send you to Iran, with papers, by helicopter; after that, it is up to you…”

“Thank you, thank you…”

“Any advice?” Diamanda cut in on Jamie.

“Don’t fly, especially to Switzerland.”

“Oh well, we’ll have a nice train journey, Jamie. I always wanted to see Turkey.”

“Ah, what time…”

“This evening. We’ll collect you; don’t worry, you’ll be out before the bombs start falling, Qusai owes you this.”

Mudabbir gestured for them to leave; as they did so a beaten man was brought in, the door closed behind them, leaving the stranger to who knew what fate.

As for Qusai himself, he was quite prepared to suffer the consequences of recalcitrance on the score of Abdul Mubdee; he had more important things to think about, for he was to be married, on the same day that the ultimatum was to expire. Qusai had spent much time on wedding preparations over the past week, Angelica had spent her time on nothing else. Qusai had neglected much of the diplomatic drudgery and left Saif to deal with it, while Mudabbir had the security situation much in hand.

Angelica’s own distraction also allowed Qusai to slip away from her for a few nights, which he enjoyed in his accustomed debauchery, fortunately not all the Russian prostitutes had been able to leave Ast’Qana, and some had even fallen into the hands of his own forces, and not those of Abdul Mubdee where they would have been received quite differently.

By the time Diamanda and Jamie left Mudabbir’s office preparations were well in hand for Qusai and Angelica’s wartime wedding. The wedding was to be held in a secure compound overlooking Ast’Qana the villas of the city’s hitherto most prosperous suburbs having been secured against any possible repetition on the theme of Sir Paul Fennell’s suicide bombing. Only staunch Qusai loyalists were invited, and only the staunchest of the staunch played the vital roles of the Alawite ceremony.

The wedding was to take place in the afternoon, Forbes Ross acted as the official documentarian of the proceedings, having confirmed his loyalty to the regime and the artistic possibilities it afforded him.

Angelica had buttonholed Forbes and persuaded him to film her talking about her hopes and dreams, of how she had fallen in love with Qusai, with the simple, decent folk of Qatakistan, he loved so much, and whom she had come to love having seen them through his eyes.

“Like, until I met Qusai, life was, well, not like totally bad, or, like, totally, good; I mean, I’d had my problems with drugs, and; I’m just so, totally, glad to be here today, to have met and seen Qusy, to really have gotten to know and to love him, I mean, isn’t it every girl’s dream to find a handsome prince?, and, I’m going to be a Princess! Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s just; it doesn’t seem real!!!”

Forbes eyed the assembled Qataki elite with a certain degree of jaundice, he just let the people and the images speak for themselves, he was dialing in his performance, Forbes was far more interested in how he could document, with vivid recreation, the horrors of war, of how he could create, with Qusai’s connivance, the greatest, rawest war film of all time, an extreme Peckinpahist essay.

Presently Qusai and Angelica Hayek were wed in a warm, well maintained garden under the rites of his people, immediately the images were taken they were disseminated throughout the internet gaining the attention of the celebrity gossip sites and occasioning much comment of a critical nature on the Hollywood starlet’s decision to marry a man best known for human rights abuses, in those quarters so preoccupied.

At about the time Qusai and Angelica were married the security services had conveyed an armoured car to take Jamie and Diamanda to the airport and their new lives as Bruce Vaughan and Jennifer Harring. Neither could say they were sad to be leaving the bombed out country that rolled past them.

In their own unique ways they considered what they had been through since their arrival and how they had seemed to have survived when so many had not. Jamie and Diamanda, or, rather, Bruce and Jennifer had been the implements with which powerful and delusional people had attempted to put their ideological preoccupations upon the world, failing colossally as they did so. For, in attempting to do so, they had loosed forces they didn’t understand, and most certainly could not control.

At sunset Bruce and Jennifer stepped aboard a Qataki helicopter as its pilot ran his checks prior to departure. Within a few minutes they were ready to depart and the vehicle ascended into the descending night.

At about the same time the wedding party overlooking Qatakistan was in full swing.

Abdul Mubdee, free, the architect of much mayhem and murder was peacefully ensconced in one of downtown Ast’Qana’s courtyards, his habitual milieu. He prayed fervently for the realisation of all his designs still buoyed by the success, as he saw it, of his strike at Qusai, the westerners, the Olympics and all they stood for. Consequences that he would help to bring about would ensure there would be no Olympics in Ast’Qana.

In the Pentagon, the ultimatum having elapsed, the use of force was authorised, this was equivalently confirmed by a distraught Lord Placeman, under the pressure of his colleagues at Cobra in Whitehall, and by the French in Paris.

Moscow and Beijing were aware of what was likely to occur and, while opposed, for reasons of self-interest, weren’t expecting any surprises.

Admiral Byrne received his orders from Admiral Conroy in Whitehall, and, having confirmed that his French and American subordinates had received equivalent confirmation ordered the commencement of a cruise missile strike on Ast’Qana. He hadn’t expected he would have to do this, and merely expected that, having to, his crews and those of his allies would perform as procedure expected them.

In the weapons room aboard the Type 45 destroyer HMS Dunkirk the joint Anglo-French ordinance team loaded an unusually marked cruise missile, developed at the behest of Steve Prentice, into the launcher, urgency precluding a more leisurely perusal of the intended ordinance. It will be recalled that the interoperability programme advanced by Admiral Conroy was still in full swing aboard Dunkirk.

Cruise missiles from the allied fleet streaked toward Ast’Qana targeting the security and intelligence ministry, the Royal Palace, a number of other prominent buildings occupied by the regime, with, additionally, token strikes on the Abbas faction and the locality Abdul Mubdee was believed to possibly be inhabiting.

The wedding party turned as it became clear that a number of missiles had struck Ast’Qana, huge explosions visible over the skyline as they did so, Qusai with his arm around his new bride’s waist, a massive blinding flash happened, this was followed by a wall of heat and a red tinged mushroom cloud which lit up the sky over the city of some two millions.

The central two kilometers of Ast’Qana, and, coincidentally, the most densely populated part, was, along with anyone in it, totally destroyed. The mushroom cloud barely touched the troposphere, but, at 40,000 feet was visible from the back of Jamie and Diamanda’s helicopter as it flew into Iranian airspace.

The wedding party was within range of the radiation dissipated from the blast. This would claim more lives, in addition to those blinded by the flash.  

In Cobra it rapidly became clear that something disastrous had occurred.

Lord Placeman screamed for information. It became a matter of public knowledge that he was never the same again after the accidental nuclear strike on Ast’Qana.

Historians from the mid to late 21st century became fascinated by the whole episode, given what flowed from it; in solidarity the Arab oil producing states placed a strict embargo on exports to Europe, which crippled the already damaged European economy, Britain became the target of a slew of sanctions, this tipped Britain and Europe into depression, which had a knock on impact on the world economy. Harry Clark’s first words at the following prime minister’s questions “Well, at least you got Abdul Mubdee” came to be regarded in especially poor taste, most especially by those whose preoccupations had done the most to bring about the chain of events that led from the death of a disabled Qataki to the mushroom cloud.

The British had, accidentally, launched a nuclear tipped cruise missile, which had been developed, as we have seen, at Steve Prentice’s behest as a possible option should a Trident type deterrent be deemed too expensive. It had been scheduled for testing. Its presence aboard Dunkirk was a bureaucratic oversight. In the days following the French desperately tried to distance themselves from the British. Admiral Conroy retired on a full pension, as was to be expected of the society he served. Britain’s involvement in Qatakistan resulted in the collapse of the British economy, pan-European depression, and, consequently, the gutting of the increasingly irrational pretensions underpinning both the welfare state and British military power, to say nothing of its wider consequences.

Of those others who survived the cataclysmic episode, Diamanda and Jamie succeeded in evading detection by light of their new identities and further succeeded in securing access to funds Diamanda had had the sense to funnel to Swiss banks after the government began to take an interest in I N Securities; Sir Victor became that rarest of things, a banker who served time at Her Majesty’s pleasure; and Sam Kent succeeded in winning election to the House of Commons at the subsequent general election, which returned a hung parliament; he represented, ostensibly (though his PTSD precluded this in fact), the people of Islington Central for 5 years, refusing to resign, incapable of discharging his duties. Lord Placeman, even he by now a broken, depressive figure, was retained, cynically, by the political parties as prime minister, a modern ramshackle Mac, as none wished to incur the hatred and enmity any incumbent would garner, given the economic collapse and direction of affairs. Roland wrote a book about it, damning, of course.

As for the character of Lord Placeman, justifiably, the historical record tends to discount the circumstances that brought him to office, the considered judgement being that his intentions were…Well, you do the rest…

[eliotist]

My Dissertation

From the mists of antiquity comes this, my first ever lengthy piece of writing...

Examine the constitutional and political significance of the events of 28th February-4th March 1974

  Introduction

 The general election of Thursday 28th February 1974 was the first since the 1920’s in which no party had received an overall majority, and, as such, the events that flowed from it serve as a unique example in the modern era of the constitution and political system working under these circumstances. The ruling principle during such times is “that the Queen’s Government must be carried on”[1] while that of the party leader’s is to contend for power within the confines of this precept whilst also ideally ensuring that “In no circumstances must the Queen be embarrassed or drawn into or be suspected of being drawn into political strife or partisanship.”[2]

 The potential for conflict, however, naturally exists; though happily for Her Majesty in these precise circumstances when dissent emerged, perhaps most publicly in the form of criticism of Heath’s actions “as ‘bordering on the unconstitutional’ in a letter to The Times on 4 March 1974 by Lord Crowther-Hunt, a constitutional expert, shortly to become a minister in Harold Wilson’s Labour Government”[3], it failed to draw her into political controversy. This was an issue raised subsequently by Jim Callaghan, then Labour Party Chairman and would really have become an issue had Labour sought to assert its perceived rights, as we shall see.

.

While the leaderships of the other Parties will also feature, the main focus will, in the ensuing constitutional and political drama, be on the Conservative and Liberal Leaders. In analysing these events we will also be provided with an insight into, so far as it is possible, how the Palace maintains and conducts its contacts with the other members of what Phillip Ziegler labels the ‘Golden Triangle’[4], the Cabinet Secretary and the Queen’s and Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretaries, so vital to the conduct of the constitution generally and especially in the context of the period under discussion. Finally we will also see how, via the ‘Golden Triangle’s deliberations on the Sunday afternoon, such events impact on the Palace on an altogether more practical level; with Queen Elizabeth II having to interrupt a diplomatic tour in order to attend to her domestic constitutional duties.

 The central focus of the constitution during this period, however, was on Heath as Prime Minister. Beyond the actions he actually took, his own position also raises other theoretical constitutional issues which raised comment at the time and have continued to do so since; in what precise circumstances was the Palace called on to act?, can a Prime Minister in Heath’s position face Parliament?, can a Prime Minister seek a second dissolution of Parliament and, following such a ‘request’, “under what conditions [can a Monarch be] entitled to refuse one”[5]? More broadly it may also provide us with a glimpse into both a fin de siecle Number Ten and Government as well as a close account of the actual constitutional processes by which a Government ends, albeit in the rather traumatic circumstances involved in unexpectedly losing an election and then failing to cobble together a coalition, rather than, as seems to be more historically regular, by an outright defeat.

 The events of this period present us with a number of key questions that require answering on a number of counts. How did the constitutional conventions work in the circumstances of 1st-4th March 1974? How did the men who in such circumstances operate the constitution actually go about doing so? How did political pressure either facilitate or constrain this operation? What precise role did the Parties play in deciding the turn of events? In answering these questions I will see how the constitution responded to events and worked its way towards maintaining its ruling principle. We will also analyse and evaluate the role played by the important players in the constitutional drama, the Prime Minister, the Queen, their respective Private Secretaries as well as the Cabinet Secretary and the other Party Leaders as well as how the various Parties political leaderships operated.

A fuller analysis of the events of 1st-4th March 1974 is now possible primarily as a result of new documentation that has come to light under the auspices of the ‘thirty year rule’ which in spite of the Freedom of Information Act 2000 still largely applies. Key documents such as Heath’s Principal Private Secretary, Robert Armstrong’s ‘note for the record’ dated 16 March 1974, released as a result of a request under the act by Christopher Collins, and the Cabinet minutes of the time as well as ministerial memoirs and subsequent works by historians help to further flesh out the episode. The result should be a keener and more nuanced appreciation of the events of this key period as it unfolded and along with that, how the constitutional and political system worked in this special set of circumstances.

 The structure of the dissertation is chronological with an introduction giving way to succeeding chapters surveying each day and the issues raised before coming to a conclusion. This approach is by no means perfect, but then neither is a thematic approach. It has, however, the merits of facilitating a strong narrative and allowing at appropriate junctures an in-depth analysis of issues as they were raised, and therefore provides the reader with an appreciation of the thoughts and discussions of the protagonists as events unfolded. It primarily offers a perspective on events via Robert Armstrong’s account though with other protagonists’ views presented in documentation, i.e. Francis Pym, by then Northern Ireland Secretary, on Irish feelers, or from a longer term perspective via subsequent memoirs, be they Heath’s own or his then Energy Secretary and Party Chairman, Lord Carrington’s, as well as most recently interviews I have conducted with a number of pertinent figures such as Carrington or Armstrong himself.

 The purposes of this work are to add to the store of available knowledge but also to create a synthetical and, as has already been noted, more nuanced appreciation of the events described as well as seeking to place them within their historical and political contexts. Above all it is an attempt to understand this constitutional drama on both these levels but additionally also on the level of the individuals involved as well as the circumstances in which they found themselves.

  During the course of the night of 28th February 1974 the exit polls began to come in showing a projected result that did not bode well for a Conservative Party confidently expecting a majority of around 40 or so seats. As Campbell, Heath’s biographer has written;

 “At Bexley [Heath’s Constituency], and simultaneously all around the country, the confidence of Tory workers was suddenly deflated. The BBC computers were predicting a stalemate. Heath arrived at 12.40 am, making only ‘curt, negative comments’ in reply to journalists’ questions. By the time his own result was declared, around 1.30 am, the national picture was still unclear. ‘But Mr Heath was obviously very worried. His smile seemed forced and weak, and there was none of the usual clasping high of the hands.’ He did not stay long in Bexley, but was driven straight back to Downing Street, facing the shattering prospect that he would have to make way for Harold Wilson the following day.”[6]

 That evening, however, and indeed for much of the following day, the position was by no means certain and as Heath retired it remained to be seen precisely what exactly he and the Government would do.

                Chapter One Friday 1st March 1974

 There was another key figure whose prerogatives might have to be called upon to resolve the constitutional drama and who was being recalled from a tour of Australia in case she was required, Her Majesty the Queen. From a constitutional perspective events on that Friday 1st March fitted for the Sovereign a unique, for her reign so far, set of circumstances, for as Bogdanor subsequently wrote;

 “The sovereign’s role in appointing a prime minister is today normally formal, and is confined to summoning to the Palace the elected leader of the majority party. There are, however, two

circumstances under which the sovereign still has a genuine discretion. The first is where there is a hung parliament-that is, a parliament in which no single party enjoys an overall majority. The second (is) when, because of war or economic crisis, a coalition has to be formed.”[7]

 The Queen arrived from Australia at 9.25 am and with her attendant aides proceeded to go straight to Buckingham Palace. Her link with Government was Her Principal Private Secretary, Sir Martin Charteris, who along with Robert Armstrong, the Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary and future Cabinet Secretary and Sir John Hunt, the Cabinet Secretary, were the key figures in operating the constitution. This is attested to by Robert Armstrong’s ‘note for the record’;

 “Sir Martin Charteris rang me up from Buckingham Palace as soon as he arrived, at about 10.00 a.m., and I went around to see him and Mr. Phillip Moore [Charteris’ Deputy]. I reported on the current situation, and agreed with … Charteris that at this stage The Queen could only await events: she would not be called upon to take action unless and until Mr Heath tendered his resignation, and if and when he did so it would then be her duty to send for Mr Wilson. It might well not be until mid-afternoon that the situation began to become clearer.”[8]

 Pimlott’s biography of The Queen accords with their conclusion when quoting Harold Wilson and after he writes;

 “‘A Government was in existence,’ wrote Wilson later, defending the constitutional principle which provided him with his second term of office, ‘and until it resigns, following the election results, or a defeat on the Queen’s speech, the Palace can only observe the classical doctrine, “We have a Government.” For as long as Heath chose or was able to stay in office, the Palace regarded itself as a mere spectator. ‘The Prime Minister is Prime Minister until he resigns,’ says Lord Charteris. ‘Only when he resigns, must the Queen act.”[9]

  There would be questions over how the Queen’s prerogatives might be exercised in certain circumstances as well as when she was actually required to discharge them but for now the constitutional ball was very much in Heath’s court.

 His own opinion as well as that of his colleagues would develop over the course of that Friday and were perhaps best represented by coincidentally the first of Heath’s colleagues to see him that morning, Lord Carrington. They met at 10.30 with;

 “the television and radio computers predicting a Labour majority of ten over the Conservatives. On that basis Lord Carrington thought that resignation was the only possible course for the Government. But as more results came in the difference narrowed; at one time Conservative Central Office was speaking of a dead heat, but by the end of the morning it looked as if the difference would be five or less, in favour of Labour.”[10]

 The position was not so pronounced as to induce a decision to resign and seemed to offer the lifeline of possibly forming a coalition. Carrington reflected this mindset perfectly, initially for resignation but sufficiently changing his opinion as to endorse, however coolly and with whatever reservations, carrying on. This ambivalence was not apparently confined solely to the politicians, according to Bernard Donoughue, soon to be the head of Harold Wilson’s Policy Unit;

 “One odd incident at lunchtime. Robert Armstrong phoned Marcia [Williams, Wilson’s Political Secretary] to say ‘things are confused here’ and to ask for [Wilson’s] movements [this] afternoon. Gave the impression they were about to resign.”[11]

 Heath and Carrington did not, however, make the decision to carry on alone; as Lord Carrington put it; “I think that there was a sort of inner circle but the Cabinet was kept informed. But he had in his inner circle, I think, probably most of the people who at that time mattered.”[12] This accords both with Armstrong’s note and Heath’s standard practice; an inner group was brought in to consult before the options were presented to the Cabinet. Soon after Carrington’s meeting with Heath there occurred one with the addition of more of that inner circle with Anthony Barber, the Chancellor, Robert Carr, the Home Secretary, and Jim Prior, Lord President, joining them; with Sir John Hunt and Armstrong also present. Armstrong’s account of this meeting bears quoting at length as it portrays the collegial way in which the meeting was conducted, a proto discussion to that held by the Cabinet later on that day as well as the options open to the Government;

 “There was considerable discussion of the result, and analysis of the possible courses open to the Government. There was no enthusiasm for the idea of a coalition with the Liberal and Labour Parties, and in any case no reason to believe that Mr Wilson would be prepared to join such a coalition. There seemed therefore to be three possible courses open to the Government:

 (1)                to resign forthwith;

 (2)           to continue in office until parliament met, and then to resign if defeated

               in a vote on the address in reply to the Queen’s speech;

 (2)                to try to come to some kind of understanding with the Liberal Party, as

a basis either for a Conservative administration with Liberal support or for a Conservative-Liberal coalition.”[13]

 As Heath wrote in his memoirs, in accordance with the ‘Golden Triangle’s’ earlier deliberations; “the government of the country had to be carried on regardless of what I felt and, on the basis of the results, I had a clear constitutional duty to see if I was best placed to carry on that responsibility (and) we had special reason to fear the consequences if Labour was to form a weak minority government.”[14] A position agreed with, interestingly enough, by Harold Wilson;

 “there were suggestions that, as the Conservatives had fewer seats than Labour, and were having difficulties in securing allies, the Labour leader should have been invited to try. This would have been contrary to precedent. A Prime Minister was there-at Downing Street. If and when he resigned that would have created a new situation. Alternatively, were he to face Parliament without allies, and be defeated, then he would resign. As things were there was no vacancy to fill.”[15]

 It was also a line endorsed by Carrington when he comments, “[Heath] was the most upright of men and honourable person you would ever meet, I think that probably that feeling influenced his wish to carry on.”[16] In spite of misgivings Carrington voiced later, “Heath explored with the Liberals the possibility of a coalition but nothing came of it – which I think just as well. I don’t believe the electorate would have taken kindly to the two minority parties [excluding] the majority party”[17], such a narrowing of the gap as occurred, allied with constitutional rights and politico-governmental calculations as well as personal feelings led to a preliminary decision to approach the Liberals. These latter currents in the Inner Cabinet’s conversation are reflected in Armstrong’s note;

 “Because a Labour Government would be committed to large … increases in public expenditure, as well as to settling the miners’ dispute at any cost and the abandonment of any statutory incomes policy, the economic measures which the situation required them to take would need to be severer than those which a Conservative Government would have to take. And, in political terms if a Labour Government took office, Mr. Wilson would be given greater initiative in choosing the ground and the timing of the next election, and greater power to shape events so as to put his party in the most favourable position to win it. If he took office now, the Labour Party might well be in office until 1980 or even later.”[18]

 Given Labour’s commitment “to more left-wing policies than had been practiced before 1970, and to renegotiation of [European Community] terms of entry … assessments of Conservative politics in … 1974, and in interpreting Heath’s role in those events, [have paid] too little attention … to Tory fears of the damage that a Bennite Labour Government would do to … Britain.”[19]

 Naturally enough the Palace was informed of this decision soon after the meeting broke up for lunch when at 15.30 Robert Armstrong on Heath’s instructions went to the Palace to see Charteris. Armstrong;

 “told him of the present thinking of the Prime Minister and his colleagues [and] he agreed that in the situation that had emerged the Prime Minister was entirely within his constitutional rights either to wait and meet Parliament or to see whether he could come to an understanding with the Liberal Party which would enable him to form an administration which could command sufficient support in the House of Commons to carry on government (a similar view had been expressed on television by Mr. A. J. P. Taylor). It remained the case that The Queen would not be called upon to take action unless and until Mr. Heath tendered his resignation.”[20]

 So far only the Government and the Palace had taken a hand in events as they unfolded. It remained, however, for the Opposition to do so. The Labour Party might have taken rather a different and more disruptive approach to proceedings. In fact they made very few official interventions. A press release was sent out on Friday afternoon and aside from the expected Tory-bashing it stated “the Labour Party is prepared to form a Government and to submit its programme for the endorsement of Parliament.”[21] The Opposition was prepared to quietly wait, not necessarily an occurrence which would recur in any future equivalent situation, as Jim Callaghan then Labour Chairman commented in 1991;

 “[We] decided that we would allow Mr. Heath, we would not challenge him, we would allow him to carry on and to try to make any arrangement that he could. We did this because we were fairly satisfied that he wouldn’t be able to make such an arrangement. But if he had seemed likely to, then I think I would have taken a very different view about the situation.”[22]

 As for the likely outcome Hennessy has this assessment of Callaghan and his position on Heath’s actions; “An old pro like Callaghan knew that, even with Liberal support, the electoral arithmetic would not add up when converted into what counts: MPs on seats in the House of Commons. [As Heath was also aware]”[23] The problems Heath faced were not as acute as perhaps they might have been, but there always existed the possibility that Labour might have further worsened things for him and that was something of which he must have always been mindful.

 Heath now took the full Cabinet into his confidence when they met at 17.45. The discussion centred on the three options available to the Government as quoted from Armstrong’s note. Discussion of the third option, gaining support whether short of or actual coalition to continue in office, led on to the Ulster Unionists as a prelude to discussing the Liberals. The minutes report that “support from the Ulster Unionists must be regarded as unreliable, although they might decide to support the Government without trying to insist on any deal, which would be unacceptable, over the Northern Ireland Assembly or Executive.”[24] This was so because, as Heath wrote subsequently, “we had [via the Sunningdale Agreement] established power-sharing in Northern Ireland”[25], the result of which is best described by Denham and Garnett as “[an] attempt to solve the crisis in Northern Ireland [that] broke the historic Tory link with Ulster Unionism”[26] as it was seen as a concession to Republicanism. With the Unionists alienated the rationale for a Lib-Tory coalition was discussed at length;

 “although the Government had not obtained the strong mandate which it had sought, there was a large anti-Socialist majority which supported both an incomes policy and Britain’s continued membership of the European Community [and] It was also arguable that the public opinion polls had encouraged many traditional Conservative voters to feel that they could safely vote Liberal because of doubts about … but still see the return of a Conservative Government.”[27]

 Discussion also entailed political calculations and anticipated Liberal demands; “If they went needlessly out of office, a Labour Government would attribute the economic situation to Conservative mistakes and, with the later benefit of North Sea oil, might remain in power for a very long period.”[28] It was in fact decided, as Heath summed up, that;

 “he should consult the Leader of the Liberal Party about the chances of a coalition or an arrangement whereby the Liberals would support an agreed programme to deal with the immediate situation. The object [being] not to do the best possible deal with the Liberals but to force them to show their hand and to discover the sort of programme which they would support. His approach … would however be without commitment, and members of the Cabinet should remain in London … so that he could consult them further. In the meantime no indication should be given to the Press of the Government’s intentions. He would be having an Audience of the Queen immediately after the meeting and a Press statement would say simply that he was going to report to her on the situation.”[29]

 In addition the continuing dispute with the miners was also briefly discussed, which assuming the Conservatives stayed in office, would still have to be resolved.

 Opinion at this and subsequent Cabinet meetings was subject to some degree of turbulence which we shall see to an even greater extent later. Mrs Thatcher, then Education Secretary, has subsequently voiced criticism of “the “horse-trading” [which] alienated the public”[30]. Though this is contradicted by then Defence Secretary, “Ian Gilmour[‘s] [recollection] that Sir Keith Joseph [Health and Social Services Secretary] was the only member of the Cabinet who seemed uneasy about the “horse-trading” while it was going on.”[31] While Joseph’s biographers believe this arose “not from any sense that Heath had behaved improperly, but from a new disillusionment with the government’s record which made him reluctant to carry on the fight”[32]; Joseph was after all to have the sort of post-office Damascene conversion to full blooded free-market ideas which resulted in many such headaches for colleagues. This unease over the situation is reflected in the Cabinet minutes; “It would clearly be wrong for the Conservative Party to hang on to power at the expense of its principles”[33]. Though the Cabinet agreed on the course to pursue and pursue it Heath did.

 At 19.30 Heath had his Audience of the Queen, the nature of which is unknown [to avoid embroiling the Monarchy in political controversy these meetings are kept strictly confidential] to us but we can be sure he informed her of his intentions toward the Liberals, though to what degree we cannot know, while Armstrong met again with Charteris doubtlessly informing him of his own analysis. Armstrong commented subsequently on his relationship with Charteris; “he became a close friend, so we were able to talk easily and freely and to iron out problems or any problems which seemed likely to crop up.” [34]

 While they were at the Palace word was sent by the Ulster Unionists, more precisely by;

 “Mr. de Vere Walker, of the Ulster Group of the Monday Club. Purporting to represent the views of [Unionist MP] Mr. James Molyneux, the message said that Mr. Molyneux and the six other Ulster Unionists returned at the election were incensed at being reckoned separately from the Conservatives by the radio and television commentators, and could be expected to accept the Conservative whip in the new House of Commons.”[35]

 As Armstrong goes on to comment, “The significance of this was clear. If the seven Ulster Unionist members were counted with the Conservatives, [they] would have a majority of one or two over Labour even without the Liberals, and with [them] would be in a position in which no combination could form a majority against them.”[36] There were, however, insuperable obstacles in the way of such an arrangement as we shall see.

 Upon their return from the Palace Armstrong attempted to contact Jeremy Thorpe, the Leader of the Liberal Party, to arrange the Cabinet-sanctioned meeting while Heath left soon after for dinner at the Wolff’s [Michael senior political adviser and speechwriter to Heath, and his wife Rosemary] with Lord and Lady Carrington and Jim Prior, a dinner described by Prior as “decidedly wakish [with] Ted … completely shell-shocked.”[37] After Heath’s return;

 “a short time after midnight, Mr. Thorpe rang back. He spoke to the Prime Minister, and readily accepted his invitation to come to Downing Street at 4.00 pm on Saturday 2 March. He told the Prime Minister that he was content to leave it to him to decide whether the visit should be announced in advance; they agreed that nothing should be said that evening, and Mr. Thorpe said that he would try to get away from his home in North Devon without attracting the attention of the journalists there”[38]

 The talk was set for the Saturday, the course, for the next few hours at least, set. There was nothing for Heath to do now but to wait.

 What of the key decisions made that day? There were to my mind two key ones: the Palace’s adherence to precedent allowed Heath to continue in office until his decision to resign; and the Cabinet’s decision to exercise their constitutional rights and to carry on in office, with as we have established the constitutional initiative resting with Heath and the Conservatives, meant they didn’t resign. Upon these two essential decisions rested the consequent development of events and so the constitutional drama played itself out over the ensuing weekend.    

     Chapter Two: Saturday 2nd March 1974

 After reading that morning’s papers Heath’s first business was the ‘news management’ of his upcoming meeting with Thorpe; “he thought it desirable that an announcement … should be issued as soon as possible, so that public opinion knew the course of action being followed by the Government.”[39] Armstrong then details the instructions given him by Heath as well as the actions he took;

 “He instructed me to prepare the draft of an announcement, and seek Mr. Thorpe’s agreement to its issue. I spoke to Mr. Thorpe on the telephone shortly before he was due to leave his home for Taunton. [Whereupon] He agreed that [it] should be issued, but asked that it should be delayed until after his train had left Taunton, so that he was not besieged by journalists on the train.”[40]  

 The intended course of events was, however, pre-empted as “by noon the press were already aware – apparently from Liberal Party sources – that Mr. Thorpe was on his way; and so, after consulting the Prime Minister, I authorised the immediate release of the announcement.”[41] It is unlikely that should there be a future recurrence of a hung Parliament any of the Leaders of the main parties would be absent from Westminster and this exemplifies exactly why.

 This provides an opportune juncture to discuss the media and its role in such events. The media environment of the Seventies is as different to that of the Twenties when the last hung parliament occurred as ours today is from the Seventies. The coverage was not of the rolling twenty-four hour variety we have now. Lord Armstrong himself commented on this;

“I should think it would be more difficult. Presumably the electronic media would be busy interviewing people, the television was already going strong and radio of course. Those directly advising the Palace or the Government would be very unlikely to give interviews in those circumstances. Their duty would be to give advice to the person they were advising, other academics might well contribute to the media but it would be in that sense unauthoritative. I think you must assume that Number Ten and the Palace between them are capable of holding a course despite all that. We shan’t know until it happens.”[42]    

 As Lord McNally currently Liberal Democrat Leader in the House of Lords, as Tom McNally Callaghan’s Political Secretary during his Premiership and in the light of his Labour experience in the Seventies commented upon such a situation;

 It will be a moment of great hysteria and individuals and organisations will have a spotlight trained on them of intensity such as they’ve never had before. And I’m quite sure there will be a good deal of pontificating and, perhaps, a little breaking rank. My wider advice to the Liberal Democrats is to ‘shut up’ during this period. [It] will take a very cool nerve.”[43]  

 As Hennessy agrees when he comments on the financial impact;

 “Since 1974 we have seen the electronic revolution creating hyper-sensitive, quick-reaction twenty-four hour global money markets and [allied with] the electronic news-gathering system now means that, unlike the long March weekend in 1974, every player in the future rerun will be followed by a camera team. Someone somewhere will say something silly but plausible enough for the markets to be [shaken].”[44]

 Governmental uncertainty as reported by the media impacts on the confidence of financial markets and such reaction is now faster and more protracted than ever. So far as dealing with the media and the markets is concerned, Heath on that Saturday had it easier than any future successor in his situation is likely to.

During the course of the morning further word was also heard from the Ulster Unionists when;

 “Dame Ruth King [an eminent Unionist] rang up, speaking to Robin Butler [to pass] on a message she had received from [Craig, Paisley and West] to the effect that the price for their co-operation … was very moderate: they would simply want a commitment to new elections to the Northern Ireland Assembly.”[45]

 Harry West, Leader of the Unionists had also sent a telegram, the text of which reads;

             IMMEDIATE AND URGENT UNITED ULSTER UNIONIST

           MEMBERS ELECTED TO WESTMINSTER PARLIAMENT REQUEST

           URGENT MEETING TO DISCUSS MUTUAL CO-OPERATION WITH

           THE CONSERVATIVE AND UNIONIST PARTY AWAIT REPLY

                                                                       HARRY WEST[46]

 These approaches to Heath, allied with the reported views of Molyneux, showed further eagerness on the Unionists’ part to talk.

That morning Carrington and Pym discussed the Unionists with Heath. Pym “advised strongly against any attempt to come to an understanding with the eleven United Ulster Unionists, or even with the seven who were members of the Ulster Unionist Party. [As] Their objects in Northern Ireland were totally at variance with the policies to which the Government were committed.”[47] Carrington on the other hand, “pointed out that three of the seven Ulster Unionists had been members of the last Parliament, and had by virtue of the affiliation of the Ulster Unionists to the Conservative Party automatically received the Conservative Whip.”[48] He then went on to say, importantly in terms of the constitutional and parliamentary context under which they were having the discussion;

 “That did not of course mean that they had accepted any obligation to support the Government in all votes; indeed, they had conspicuously not done so, and on other issues as well as Northern Ireland issues. But by the same token all seven would automatically receive the notice which the Whips’ Office was issuing today. There was general acceptance that this did not justify counting their seven seats as part of Conservative total in order to claim a majority over the Labour Party.”[49]

 Heath next met with “Sir Michael Palliser [PUS at the Foreign Office], with whom [Armstrong] had arranged to have lunch, [who] called at 1.00 p.m. and [Heath] invited him up to the flat, with Sir John Hunt, for a glass of sherry.”[50] Soon-after “[they] went out to lunch at the Giulietta-Romeo Restaurant in Soho [whilst] The Prime Minister lunched alone in the flat.”[51] The Civil Servants’ lunch served the purposes of keeping Hunt and Palliser informed. As Armstrong said of Hunt and Palliser’s position respectively; “I certainly kept [Hunt] in touch, all along, with what was going on. He was at that stage relatively new in post and he seemed content to leave it to me to take the lead, as it were, with the Queen’s Private Secretary”[52], and; “one dimension of any crisis like this [is] its impact on [the] international relations of the country.”[53]

 The “Queen’s close advisers [also] kept in touch with Whitehall. ‘Martin Charteris rang Sir John Hunt a couple of times, in effect to ask what [Heath] was going to do. The question [being] “What is the scenario the Queen is going to be confronted with?”[54] The same was also true when Hunt and Charteris met that Saturday in St James’s Park. These contacts related to concerns over whether the Prime Minister might request another dissolution and whether ‘request’ meant request or demand. On this count as Lord Charteris has said “it was all very dicey”[55]. This issue counts as one of the constitution’s most complex and potentially troublesome aspects and Charteris’ comment has caused Hennessy to ask;

 “Why? Question number one was: what would happen if Heath failed to strike a deal but faced the new Parliament with fewer seats than Labour anyway, found himself in difficulty (which he would have been) and asked The Queen for another dissolution of Parliament, thereby – should she grant the request – triggering another election?”[56]

 Charteris’ response was to say; “‘You see, another sort of rule is that people don’t get dissolutions twice. And, after all, Ted Heath had asked for the first dissolution.’”[57] Lord Armstrong agrees when he says;

 “It’s in (these) rather particular circumstances when there’s just been an election and its inconclusive then I think The Queen would be very unlikely to say ‘no I won’t grant the request’ but I think she might well have said ‘before I consider granting a request I wish to have further consultations to see if there is any way of carrying on the Government for a period without an election.”[58]    

A change of Prime Minister is implicit within the last part of Armstrong’s phraseology. If the Prime Minister who was in Heath’s circumstances then insisted on another dissolution he would either be precluded due to this insistence from continuing in office and have to resign or would have to face Parliament and then likely be defeated in which case he would again resign. In either case the likely alternative would then be called and if he then failed to carry on for a period without an election then it might be, and in Charteris’ view would be, granted. So far as the issue stands over all Armstrong has consistently voiced the opinion that a request is simply a request and therefore the Monarch has discretion over granting it. This position was further enhanced via the advice sought out by the Palace when “Sir John Wheeler-Bennett [King George VI’s Official Biographer] quoted Arthur Balfour to Charteris, to the effect that ‘no constitution can subsist on a diet of dissolutions.’ [Which] Charteris interpreted as meaning: ‘If you have a Parliament that is fresh from the electorate, it should somehow serve its time before you have another election.’”[59]

 Perhaps the best answer was probably arrived at when “Charteris remembers saying, ‘It isn’t automatic [that] the Queen’s going to say “Yes” or “No”’. But if Wilson had asked ‘the Queen would have been very pushed not to give it to him. But … it was much better the way it was – that he carried on until the autumn.’ Equity required Wilson to be granted one too if he persisted in such a request.”[60]

Upon his return to Downing Street Armstrong set about drafting an aide-memoire for Heath’s meeting with Thorpe whilst Pym wrote a memo on the Ulster approaches. The Conservative response to such overtures was justifiably wary as is encapsulated in Pym’s written advice;

 “that there would be great dangers in a meeting with Messrs. West, Paisley and Craig, but that it would be quite natural to have a meeting with West as Leader of the Unionist Party. Unfortunately in the telegram West refers to the United Ulster Unionist members, and the Secretary of State suspects that he would try to bring Paisley and Craig with him.”[61]

 It was decided that, “If Mr. West said that he was hoping to bring his colleagues, it should be implied that this would not be very welcome [which] could be done by remarking that the telegram had been signed by Mr. West alone; that he is Chairman of the Ulster Unionists; and that this would provide the most natural basis for a meeting”[62] with, as the memo puts it, “the aim [being] to agree that Mr. West would come by himself.”[63]

However, it was soon time for Thorpe’s arrival and at 4.00 p.m., attended by Anthony Richards his aide, arrive he did. Heath’s own later account-from his memoirs contains a concise account of the essentials of his meeting with Thorpe as well as an interesting reference to Hunt and his role that afternoon;

 “I asked Thorpe to consider three possible arrangements. First, a loose …pick and choose [arrangement]; secondly, full consultation on … a government programme … which the Liberals would then support; or, thirdly, a coalition in which Thorpe would be offered an unspecified Cabinet seat. I told him that the third arrangement would be my preferred option, to ensure stability. Thorpe expressed a strong preference for the post of Home Secretary, but I made no such offer to him. Before the meeting took place I had been warned by the Secretary of the Cabinet that there were matters in Thorpe’s private life, as yet undisclosed to the public, which might make this a highly unsuitable position for him to hold. Thorpe also raised the subject of proportional representation.”[64]

 Only Heath, Thorpe and Armstrong were present at this meeting but consequently due to Armstrong’s presence there exists a note of it dated the following day. According to this note Heath began by invoking the historical precedents before steering the conversation to the question of democratic legitimacy and his constitutional duty; “Though the Conservative Party would hold five fewer seats than the Labour Party, the Conservative Party had polled a larger number of votes. The Liberal Party had polled nearly six million votes, though it would have only 14 seats in Parliament. There was thus a substantial majority of voters who must be presumed not to want a Socialist Government.”[65] This was a prelude to a discussion of the three options as set out in his memoirs and associated issues. They discussed the Nationalist dimension, their position on resolving the Miners’ pay dispute, proportional representation, the seriousness of the economic situation and the concessions they might make to ensure a joint programme.

 Heath’s answers to the points raised by Thorpe did not deviate from the decisions arrived at in discussion with his colleagues over the course of the previous day or so. On Northern Ireland Heath told Thorpe that;

 “He and his colleagues were of course entirely committed to … Sunningdale and there was no question of any deal under which he and his colleagues would modify their commitment to these arrangements in exchange for the promise of support at Westminster. But seven of the eleven were members of the Ulster Unionist Party, which was affiliated to the Conservative Party, and would automatically receive the Whip. [With] The assumption [being] that they would continue to support the Conservative Party on other issues than those of Northern Ireland.”[66]

 Thorpe then asked Heath how he saw the new Parliament and was given the following appreciation;

 “there would be 296 Conservative members. If the 14 Liberal members voted with [them] and the seven Ulster Unionists … on non-Ulster issues, the resulting combination would have 317 votes, which would be equal to all the remaining votes (excluding the Speaker). It was [also] by no means certain that all the remaining 16 non-Labour members would vote with the Labour Party: Mr. Milne and Mr. Taverne would no doubt normally do so, and probably the Welsh Nationalists; but it was thought that some at least of the Scottish Nationalists (“Tartan Tories”, as the Labour Party called them) might support a Conservative-Liberal administration.”[67]

 Discussion of the Nationalist Parties led on to where the Liberals stood on regional policy, an area where the two parties’ policies significantly coincided. On the first count;

 “Both wanted to see … the Kilbrandon Commission [investigating measures of devolution for the United Kingdom’s regions] implemented [and Thorpe] thought that the Nationalists would go a very long way to secure a commitment to that [but] recognised that constitutional reform carried lower priority than the measures to deal with the economic situation. [While Heath] recalled that he was committed to carrying out the proposals in Sir Alec Douglas-Home’s report on devolution for Scotland.”[68]

 While on the second they discussed the Miners’ dispute and how it should be resolved;

 “The position of [Heath] himself and his colleagues would be that the dispute should be settled on the basis of the Pay Board’s report [and following confessing the difficulty he would face if the miners failed to settle under those circumstances as well as Thorpe averring that he would have no solution to such an eventuality] The Prime Minister asked Mr. Thorpe whether he agreed that the miners’ dispute should be settled on the basis of the Pay Board’s Relativities Report. Mr. Thorpe said that he did so agree.”[69]

 Thorpe then raised the issue of proportional representation. Heath stated that “He would have to consult his colleagues before he could give any indication of views or policies on this subject.”[70] There then occurred, as part of wider musings on a projected ‘joint-programme’, a discussion on the economic situation in a paragraph that bears quoting at length;

 “Mr. Thorpe recognised that the economic situation would require unpleasant measures. The Prime Minister thought that it should be possible for the two parties to agree upon measures the burden of which was distributed in proportion to the capacity to bear it. On a Privy Councillor basis the Prime Minister told Mr. Thorpe that preparations had been made for a drawing on the International Monetary Fund and for extending for a further period the official sterling guarantees which were due to expire on 31 March. These would require very early decisions and action by a new administration. Mr. Thorpe suggested that there would be an all-party support for an immediate IMF drawing. The Prime Minister was not sure that it was possible to count on this: the Labour Party might be critical of the terms of such a drawing. Mr. Thorpe, remembering British experience of December 1967 and very recent developments in Italy, acknowledged the validity of this point.”[71]

 This was a significant practical factor standing in the way of a Con-Lib coalition forged on a minority basis; even with some degree of Ulster Unionist support it would have been difficult to have envisaged it surviving the uproar caused by such an approach to the IMF in addition to the problems caused by the continuing miners’ strike. Referring back to devaluation in 1967 both Heath and Thorpe would have been aware that Wilson actually had a majority.

Discussion of a joint programme, however, continued with both Leaders agreeing on their respective positions on European membership and anti-inflationary policy. Heath;

 “said that he would still like to agree with employers and unions a voluntary policy … [but] he thought that in present circumstances the possibility of this was remote [and that there was] no alternative to continuing with a statutory policy, based on the existing machinery. [While] Thorpe [felt] that Stage III was now too generous. [Though] The code could of course be changed at any time, and the Government was ready and willing to consider possible changes, though there were obvious difficulties about major changes in the middle of a wage cycle.”[72]

 The basis of a projected Con-Lib programme had been ironed out but other factors mentioned during the course of the meeting seemed to overshadow an attempt at coalition building. Among these were the likely economic outlook exacerbated by Conservative-Trade Union differences as well as the fact that both men were limited in terms of what they could actually offer to each other. Heath’s intention, as mandated by the Cabinet, has already been established. Thorpe’s own position was limited owing to the nature of his party, a fact that he acknowledged after having listened to Heath’s appreciation when he said; “that he could not enter into any discussion or commitment … without consulting his colleagues”[73] and borne out by contacts with other Liberals-for example between Timothy Kitson, Heath’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, and Anthony Richards during their respective Leader’s meeting, as Armstrong wrote; “Kitson subsequently reported that Richards was likely to advise Thorpe against entering into any arrangement with the Conservative Party, but that he thought that Thorpe might well decide differently.”[74]

Heath next consulted his Cabinet colleagues at 18.00 when, Home, the Foreign Secretary, Hailsham, the Lord Chancellor, Barber, Carr, Prior, Carrington, Whitelaw, Secretary of State for Employment, and Humphrey Atkins, the Chief Whip met in No. 10. Heath “recounted in detail what had passed at his meeting with Thorpe (who) was evidently being kept on a very tight rein, and unable to enter into any kind of commitment without consulting his colleagues.”[75] So far as continuing the Liberal approaches were concerned they “confirmed their assent to the course of seeking to find out whether an arrangement … was possible, though they recognised that this process could not be allowed to drag on for too long.”[76] They also discussed Ulster again;

 “[with] those present [agreeing] that there could be no question of a deal with them, for the sake of support at Westminster. They [also] agreed that the seven Ulster Unionists could not be counted in the reckoning of Conservative representatives at Westminster [but] … there was no question of declining their support, if it was offered without conditions.”[77]

 It is, however, unlikely to imagine the Unionists being so naïve as to barter away a strong bargaining position for the dubious political purposes of saving Heath’s bacon.

Instructions were given commensurate with Pym’s written advice inviting West to a meeting with Heath. The Pay Board’s report, its publication and the attendant political issues were also briefly discussed.

 There remained, however, one further piece of business for Heath that evening;

 “a message was received from Mr. Edward Taylor MP, about a private approach which he had received from representatives of the Scottish Nationalists.”[78]

 The exact line of communication between Taylor and the SNP was via;

 “His agent who was formally a member of the SNP and came over to the Conservative Party, (who) had a lunch engagement for Monday with Bill Lindsay, Vice President of the SNP (who) suggested Taylor might join them, and when Taylor agreed to this, subsequently telephoned back that he would like to bring along either McIntyre, the President of the SNP, or William Wolff [Party Chairman].”[79]

As Robin Butler, then a Private Secretary in Number Ten, has written in the memo just quoted, “They implied that there was something which they would like to communicate; but said they would intend keeping the occasion entirely confidential.”[80] Beyond detailing a plausible deniability approach to the meeting the central point of interest was that;

 “Mr. Taylor got the impression that the message might be something to the effect that, if there was a possibility of a Scottish Assembly, the SNP would be prepared to be helpful over votes of confidence; but he had no firm idea of the details at present.”[81]

        This feeler is interesting in that the SNP had increased their representation in the new Parliament and that Heath’s own attitude as well as some, such as Lord Home, in the Tory leadership meant that some sort of understanding might perhaps have been reached with the Nationalists. This is not to say that such an understanding could easily have been reached, elements within both the Conservative Party and the SNP may have been considerable barriers, predicated as the latter’s position might have been upon an independence or nothing mentality as well as, more pragmatically, a concern that the accusations of ‘Tartan Toryism’ might have stuck and therefore eroded their electoral base. There are also potentially interesting questions thrown up by the scheduling of the Taylor-SNP meeting. Scheduling it on a Sunday might, more prosaically, have raised undue attention and consequently alarmed opponents. The more interesting questions are raised by Heath’s acquiescence in the scheduling of the meeting. His position on the date could signify, among other things, either confidence that the Government would still be in office by then or the sending of a signal to confuse and wrong-foot his opponents depending on whether he knew or not it would likely leak or merely that he was tired, expected nothing of it and acceded to it on that count.

                      Chapter Three Sunday 3rd March 1974

 Between the Scottish feelers and the Sunday morning Heath had dinner with Robert Carr. At 23.30 p.m. he returned to Downing Street to retire for the night. The following morning he left with Mr and Mrs Kitson at 11.00 for lunch with Lord and Lady Aldington [a former MP and junior minister and close personal friend to Heath and his wife]. According to Lord Prior, “Toby Aldington would have told Ted Heath what he wanted to hear. On the other hand Lady Aldington might have told him a few home truths. (But) I don’t think she did on this occasion but she did on other occasions.”[82] For Heath this was probably a personally reassuring occasion.

  Meanwhile in London the two Principal Private Secretaries spoke;

 “Sir Martin Charteris rang up during the morning to say that he would like to have a further talk with Sir John Hunt and me that afternoon. We agreed to meet at 10 Downing Street at 4.00 p.m. I mentioned to Charteris that, if Mr. Heath proved to be able to form an administration with Liberal participation, it was for question whether he should carry on without resigning, or whether he should tender his resignation to The Queen and immediately be invited to form a new administration, following the precedent of Mr. Ramsay MacDonald in 1931.”[83]

 This, along with the consultation over requesting a dissolution, exemplifies the use of precedent in guiding the practitioners of the Constitution. Lord Armstrong attests to this himself when asked about previous constitutional guides such as the ‘Deadlock file’ from 1964, drawn up that October in case of a hung parliament, or the ‘Senex letter’, written by Sir Alan Lascelles, King George VI’s Principal Private Secretary, under that pseudonym, against the backdrop of the 1950-51 Parliament and detailing the circumstances in which a dissolution might be refused, when he says; “I’d done a certain amount of homework beforehand and I’d certainly read that letter.”[84] So far as the issue of consulting outside commentators was concerned Armstrong has said; “I don’t remember that I did so myself but I was conscious that the Queen’s Private Secretary would be consulting outside (and of Charteris) He I’m sure talked to Lord Blake [the eminent Historian, and, as we have seen, Sir John Wheeler Bennett].”[85]

 Things remained relatively quiescent for the rest of that afternoon until, in Armstrong’s words;

 “At 3.30 p.m. Mr. Thorpe rang to say that he had conferred with Lord Byers, Mr. Grimond and Mr. Steel [both Liberal MPs and respectively past and future interim and future leaders of their Party]. A decision would have to await a meeting with all his parliamentary colleagues; but he would find it useful to have a talk with the Prime Minister later in the day. I set a time of 5.30 p.m. I rang Lord Aldington’s home to report these developments. The Prime Minister was asleep, but Lord Aldington and Mr. Kitson said that he would be back in London in time to talk to Mr. Thorpe at 5.30 p.m. I rang back to Mr. Thorpe, to confirm the time. I had thought that Mr. Thorpe had in mind another meeting, but Mr. Thorpe said that he thought that a telephone conversation would be sufficient, and preferable, in that it would not attract public attention. I tried to report accordingly to the Prime Minister; but he had already left Lord Aldington’s.”[86]

 Soon after Armstrong met with Charteris and Hunt, to discuss the more prosaic issue of the practical impact of events;

 “At our meeting … Charteris said that The Queen would have to decide by the following morning whether to go back to Australia on 6 March as planned, or to delay her departure. This decision was one for The Queen to make without ministerial advice either from British or from Australian ministers, since only She was in a position to balance the conflicting considerations. Sir Martin said that The Queen had virtually made up her mind to delay her departure; Sir John Hunt and I said that we thought that this decision was right, indeed inevitable. It was agreed that the decision should be announced from Buckingham Palace when it had been conveyed to and cleared with the Australian authorities. It would then be for question whether The Queen should return to the East for the State Visit to Indonesia. We agreed that this would be a matter upon which The Queen would have to act in accordance with the advice of whatever British Government emerged from the present situation.”[87]

 Heath returned to Downing Street; “at about 5.20 p.m., and after a brief talk with (Whitelaw, Prior) and Hunt, he spoke to Thorpe on the telephone at about 5.40 p.m.”[88] Beyond the initial pleasantries Thorpe quickly cut to the chase;

            “There are two matters and it is no good beating about the bush.

                               The first is that from my soundings there is a lack of enthusiasm

                               for a proposition such as you suggested, either Opposition support

                               or coalition support, in the light of your own position as PM: the

                               feeling being that you called an election and failed to get the

                               mandate that you sought. The second position is that before

                               there could be talk about an agreed package of economic proposals,

                               a very strong feeling is felt about the electoral system of the

                               six million and the fourteen MPs. I believe that with regard to

                               the first matter I raised, I don’t believe that that is insuperable,

                               I think that I can handle my Party on that issue. On the second

                               issue I believe that I have to have something firm to put

                               towards them. And I think that what they have in mind is not the                                          

                               sort of suggestion of a Royal Commission which might report

                            some day but some sort of proposal which one might expect to see

                            implemented within say six to nine months. And after that then the

                            situation could well change from genuine support from the

                            Opposition bench to actual coalition. Now I don’t know whether

                            you have had a chance to talk to your colleagues on that one,

                            but presumably you might be in a position to give some

                            indication before we meet tomorrow”[89]

 Heath’s brief response, “I will try to do so, yes. When you say something immediate, what have your people got in mind?”[90], led on to discussion on the technical points of any projected reform measures before the most interesting part of the conversation;

                         “The next phase I think is if we actually got this on the statute

                                 book, then if you were still so minded I think we might be

                                 able to make our support one stage firmer.

                                 Prime Minister

                                 You mean actual participation in government?

                                 Mr. Thorpe

                                 Put it this way, I don’t rule it out – it becomes a distinct

                                 possibility. But without any electoral system they would

                                 frankly feel that the difference between a minority Labour and

                                 a minority Conservative government are matters which are outside

                                 their control and the two other party leaders must determine that

                                 for themselves.”[91]

 Thorpe had set out the essential barrier, electoral reform, preventing any form of Con-Lib co-operation. He had also set out, aside from his own position vis-à-vis his party, the mindset of many of his most influential colleagues, something to be confirmed subsequently by Lord Carrington as we shall see.

 As Armstrong recounted soon after;

 “The Prime Minister then had a meeting with [Home, Hailsham, Barber, Pym, Carr, Prior, Whitelaw, Carrington and Atkins and] described to his colleagues the conversation he had just had with Mr. Thorpe. The colleagues authorised [him] to make it clear to Mr. Thorpe that they were not interested in discussing any arrangement which included a change in their own leadership.”[92]

 The crux of the meeting was, however, articulated by Carrington when he “said that, the more he thought about it, the stronger was his view that nothing short of full Liberal participation in Government would constitute a satisfactory arrangement. Other colleagues agreed with this view.”[93] Though circumstances as discussed militated against this, as the meeting acknowledged;

 “even a formal “Con-Lib” coalition government would be likely to encounter considerable difficulty in settling the miners’ dispute. The Pay Board’s recommendations were very generous, and would no doubt constitute a basis on which an incoming Labour Government could quickly settle the dispute; but it was to be feared that, with a Conservative or even a “Con-Lib” government, the NUM would continue to stand out for their full claim. Unless there was a formal coalition, the Liberals might not be induced to try and stand on the Pay Board’s recommendations.”[94]

 The political disadvantages were also discussed; “it would give the Liberals a veto over the whole of the Government’s programme, and would involve some sort of commitment on electoral reform which very few Conservatives would be keen to offer and many might refuse to support, however cautious and qualified it might be.”[95] These were, however, judged as being “outweighed by the disadvantages of allowing the Labour Party to form a Government (and) It was therefore (deemed) right to continue the discussions with Thorpe.”[96] Though the following provisos were to apply;

 “there could be no question of any change of Conservative leadership, no arrangement short of full Liberal participation in Government could be regarded as forming a basis for forming a new administration which could command sufficient support in the House of Commons to enjoy the necessary degree of confidence at home and overseas, and that on electoral reform the Cabinet could not go beyond a commitment to support the setting up of a Speaker’s Conference to examine the matter and make recommendations which could then be the subject of a free vote in Parliament. They could not commit themselves to commending a particular scheme of electoral reform to a Speaker’s Conference, Conservative representatives on the Conference to supporting a scheme put forward by the Cabinet, or Parliament to voting for any particular scheme of reform, or indeed reform in principle.”[97]

 The conclusions reached at this meeting and later endorsed by the Cabinet, along with the previously articulated Liberal insistence on these measures, effectively put paid to the possibility of any coalition. This was the essential divide between the two parties. It was also recognised by those present when they “agreed that the Prime Minister should reply accordingly to the points raised with him by Mr. Thorpe in their telephone conversation, fully recognising that, however keen Mr. Thorpe … might be to come to some arrangement, it was not likely that the Liberal Party as a whole would be prepared to accept an arrangement under these conditions and that, if they were not so prepared, there would be no course open to the Prime Minister other than to resign.”[98] In recognising these points the Government also effectively recognised its own demise and so discussion immediately turned to the processes by which it would end;

 “In view of the significance of this decision, it was agreed that it should be put to the Cabinet at a meeting at 10.00 a.m. the following morning, on the basis of a draft of a letter for the Prime Minister to send to Mr. Thorpe in time for his meeting with his parliamentary colleagues at 11.00 a.m. But there was general agreement that the uncertainty could not be allowed to continue longer than another day or so; it was therefore agreed that the Prime Minister should see Mr. Thorpe later that evening to indicate the gist of the letter which he expected to be sending the following morning.”[99]

 The constitutionally interesting aspect of this conversation was that no-one seemed to favour facing Parliament and being defeated on a Queen’s Speech. There are, however, questions on this count, for example, as Bogdanor puts it;

 “there is no twentieth-century example of a party without the largest number of seats meeting parliament. It would, therefore, perhaps appear unusual were a party with the second largest number of seats to insist upon meeting parliament. But there is no way in which an incumbent government can be forced out of office until it has been defeated in the Commons, and the sovereign is in no position to take action until that has happened.”[100]  

 This option does not really appear to have been actively considered, though Ramsden has written that “Some like Maurice Macmillan [Paymaster General and son of the former Prime Minister] urged [Heath] to announce that as nobody had won, and as his party had got the most votes, he would meet Parliament as Prime Minister; this would challenge the other parties to defeat him on the Queen’s speech”[101], and the phraseology the uncertainty could not be allowed to continue another day or so is in fact code for resignation. It was moreover an option that had it been insisted upon would not have changed the essential termination of events; the only choice they had was resignation sooner rather than later.

Liberal insistence on electoral reform had also been reinforced by contacts with figures within the Liberal leadership, as we have seen with Anthony Richards, and are perhaps best illustrated, in terms of the concerns behind them, by Carrington’s dealings with Lord Byers arising as they did out of this meeting. As Armstrong recounts;

 “Lord Carrington undertook to get in touch with Lord Byers that evening or the following morning, to see what his position might be and to represent to him the following arguments in favour of a “Con-Lib” coalition and the difficulty for the Cabinet of committing themselves on the subject of electoral reform further than had been agreed in discussion.”[102]

 In Lord Carrington’s own words; “[Lord Byers] had been a quite distinguished member of the House of Commons … his ear was very much to the ground [and] he represented a good lot of feeling in the Liberal Party generally.”[103] But so far as the purpose of their meeting was concerned, the unlikely prospective coalition; “He didn’t want a bar of it. He thought what would happen, would be that they would disappear. He was very against it on that basis that the Liberals would lose out and be swallowed by the Conservatives.”[104] Thorpe’s own keenness, apparent in the documentation but discounted in his own memoirs, in the context of a party as democratic as the Liberal one counted for nothing. At almost every turn contacts with Liberal figures, be they the Leader’s own aide, his fellow MPs or an influential and politically astute Liberal peer had contradicted the Leader. Whatever his inclination this was a weight of opinion that could not be ignored and would ultimately frustrate Heath’s constitutionally mandated attempt at forming a coalition.

 At the end of the meeting Heath “instructed [Armstrong] to invite Mr. Thorpe to come to Downing Street for a further conversation at 10.30 p.m. In the meantime he went at 9.00 p.m. to 11 Downing Street to dine with [Barber, Joseph, Thatcher, Peter Walker, Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, Geoffrey Howe, Secretary of State for Consumer Affairs, and Kitson, after which he told Armstrong] that these colleagues had expressed their agreement with the conclusions reached at the earlier meeting.”[105] Whilst Heath was at dinner Armstrong worked on a draft letter to Thorpe “[along] the lines agreed in the ministerial discussion, to serve as a speaking note for the … conversation with Thorpe and as a basis for the Cabinet’s discussion the following day.”[106] Thorpe arrived at the duly appointed time and was told by Heath;

 “that from the point of view of the stability and confidence of the new Administration full Liberal participation in Government was preferable to all other arrangements. He had now discussed the matter further with his colleagues; whose view had strengthened that full Liberal participation would be essential to ensure a stable administration. They did not think that Liberal agreement to support an agreed Conservative programme in the House of Commons would be sufficient. [With] The Prime Minister [making] it very clear that he and his colleagues had very much in mind the difficulty of managing Government business in the House of Commons under any less formal arrangement.”[107]

 Heath then starkly tackled the Liberal stance on his leadership; “The Prime Minister said that he was bound to tell Mr. Thorpe that his colleagues had told him that they would not agree to serve under any other Prime Minister (and that he) was at liberty to verify this by talking to one or two of the Prime Minister’s colleagues”[108].

It was not, however, long before electoral reform, the essential barrier to their co-operation reared its head;

 “[Heath] and his colleagues could not honourably undertake to deliver anything like this. He doubted whether there would be sufficient measure of agreement on the principle to enable him to commit the Party; and he could certainly pledge neither the Party nor the Cabinet at such short notice to a commitment to the introduction of a proposal before there had been any opportunity to study the subject in depth.”[109]

 The furthest Heath would go was to say “[that] He and his colleagues … would be prepared to support the setting up of a Speaker’s Conference.” Thorpe’s response recognised the divide between them;

 “on the question of support or participation, he had to have in mind the need to keep his Party in Parliament and in the country together. In his view there was no possibility of the Liberal Party agreeing to participate in the Government at this stage, though the prospect might change if and when a measure of electoral reform had passed.”[110]

 Beyond the refusal on either side to compromise on the vital issue nothing else said at the meeting was very important. This is not to say that alternatives and other political issues were not discussed just that ultimately they did not affect the vital decision. Thorpe, for instance, discussed an invitation he had received from Wilson to talk tomorrow as well as alternative arrangements to the ‘preferable’ Liberal participation in Government; “(saying) that he had it in mind that agreement should be reached on the content’s of a Queen’s speech, and his Party would then be committed to the support of that programme for the period until the next Queen’s speech, when the matter could be looked into again.”[111] He, however, ended on the following essential point;

 “It was now for the Prime Minister and his colleagues to decide whether an arrangement on the lines he had described would be sufficient for the purposes of establishing a stable administration and commanding confidence at home and overseas, and whether they could take the further step towards a commitment on electoral reform which he had indicated.”[112]

 By this point Carrington and many others felt that this was no longer enough and Heath, replying for form’s sake; “said that he would be meeting his colleagues at 10.00 a.m. the following morning, and would send a message or letter to Mr. Thorpe as soon as the meeting was ended.”[113] Heath’s last piece of business was to arrange a press release concerning the meeting and with this done spent his last night in Downing Street. If he was crushed on Friday how must he have felt on that Sunday night?

                       Chapter Four Monday 4th March 1974

 The drama had however to run its course. While Heath slept, Kitson and Butler acted on arrangements. Heath had determined not to return to Downing Street upon his resignation and was offered the use of Kitson’s flat instead. Consequently they spent most of that evening and the early hours of Monday morning clearing it for Heath’s arrival.[114] Heath was next seen by Armstrong at about 9.00 a.m. when he “went up to … the flat to ask if he was content with the draft letter to Mr. Thorpe [whereupon] He made some alterations, and invited [Armstrong] to have copies ready but not to circulate it to the Cabinet unless he asked [him] to do so.”[115]

 The scheduled Cabinet meeting convened at 10.00 a.m. After recounting the essential points of the Conservative-Liberal discussions it soon came to electoral reform and Heath’s own position; “that the most that could be offered … was a Speaker’s Conference. Indeed he had stressed that he could not honourably undertake to deliver more than this”[116] Lord Carrington’s brief report on his conversation with Lord Byers further reinforced the unlikelihood of coalition; “he had seen Lord Byers who felt strongly that a coalition would be the end of the Liberal Party. He favoured an arrangement with the Government with proportional representation as the price, but felt that the Liberal Party might not be prepared to go as far even as this.”[117] Whitelaw, aware of the generous conclusions of the Pay Board report, though not having personally read it,  then contributed, making an essential point that had been recognized in one of Heath and Thorpe’s earlier meetings;

 “It offered big increases in miners’ pay which the Liberals would certainly support: but it was now questionable whether the miners would accept it from a minority Government with Liberal support only.”[118]

 The minutes continue;

 “there was a general agreement that the matter had now needed to be brought to a head urgently both from the national and Party’s point of view. There had been widespread support within the Conservative Party for the approach to the Liberals but the Government’s back bench supporters  were increasingly worried by talk of a deal with the Liberals over proportional representation and were unlikely to support any action leading towards that end.”[119]

 It is perhaps at this point, even though the possibility was fundamentally dead, that Mrs Thatcher according to Bogdanor, though not reflected in the minutes and in contradiction of Gilmour, “hitherto one of the more silent members of [Heath’s] Cabinet, is said to have burst out, ‘Oh, no we couldn’t. Think how many seats we would lose.’”[120] Campbell writes;

 “A number of [Heath’s] senior colleagues would have paid [this] price; Mrs Thatcher was one who certainly would not. ‘Although I wanted to remain [Education] Secretary’, she wrote in her memoirs, ‘I did not want to do so at the expense of the Conservative Party’s never forming a majority Government again.’ How many others in that Heath-dominated Cabinet would have joined her in defying him can never be known; it was never put to the test.”[121]

 The Liberals were not the only party in the new House of Commons whose lack of support would impact;

 “An arrangement with the Liberals would in any case be insufficiently stable, and Mr. Thorpe was asking too much and offering too little. There was no possibility of an arrangement with the Ulster Unionists or with the Scottish Nationalists who were left-wing and opposed to the Government’s European policies.”[122]

 That same day the SNP relayed via Edward Taylor their position which kept the possibility of co-operation open; “they indicated their inclination was to support a Conservative rather than a Labour administration [and] that Mr. Gordon Murray, a Vice Chairman, had been authorised to negotiate on behalf of the Parliamentary Party.”[123] With the Conservative’s failure to work with the Liberals and the Unionists and their own attractiveness as potential partners this was, however, no longer relevant.

  In effect the Monday morning Cabinet became a crucible of all the obstacles between Heath and the possibility of coalition, obstacles such as the parliamentary majority or other parties disposition toward the Conservative Party, and; “[that] a decision to face Parliament without guaranteed support to provide an overall majority would seem to many to be a discreditable attempt to hold on to power.”[124] The result of this was that, in Heath’s summation, the Cabinet agreed;

 “that only a firm coalition … could ensure their continuance in office, and also that it would be inadvisable to offer more to the Liberals than a Speaker’s Conference on electoral reform in order to obtain such a coalition. The chance of this proving acceptable now seemed remote but it would be necessary to await a formal reply from the Leader of the Liberal Party before tendering his resignation. It was therefore necessary to send Mr Thorpe a letter forthwith confirming the offer of a coalition with a Speaker’s Conference on electoral reform, but making it clear that the Conservative Party could accept no commitment to legislation on electoral reform. He had prepared a draft for this purpose, the final text of which he would settle in consultation with a few of his senior colleagues.”[125]

 Heath’s penultimate Cabinet, however, ended on the following note;

“On the assumption that Mr Thorpe rejected this proposal outright this might be the last meeting of the present Cabinet and he wished to thank his colleagues for their loyal support during their years in office.

 THE LORD CHANCELLOR said that the members of the Cabinet would for their part want to thank the Prime Minister for the leadership he had given to them.

                                 The Cabinet –

                                 Took note, with approval, of the Prime Minister’s

                               Summing up of their discussion, and warmly

                               Endorsed the remarks of the Lord Chancellor.”[126]

 As Armstrong recounts;

 “When the draft was circulated, discussion concentrated mostly on the last paragraph, conveying the commitment to a Speaker’s Conference on electoral reform. The discussion took longer than had been expected [perhaps because of Mrs Thatcher’s intervention?], and the letter did not leave Downing Street until about 12.15 p.m. [with] Robin Butler [taking] it over by hand to Mr. Thorpe’s secretary at the House of Commons.”[127]

 It was now for Heath to await the likely, and indeed expected, response from Thorpe. Soon after “it was reported on the radio and news tapes that the meeting of the parliamentary Liberal Party had ended at 1.00 p.m. in unanimous agreement. A small group was to meet at 2.30 p.m. to agree the terms of a reply for Mr. Thorpe to send to the Prime Minister and a press statement.”[128] Naturally enough Heath’s actions during the last few hours of his premiership were wholly commensurate with the dispiriting nature of events as they unfolded; “[he] lunched alone in the flat. After 2.30 p.m., [Whitelaw] came round to discuss … the Pay Board’s report on miners’ pay. At about 3.30 p.m. the Prime Minister instructed [Armstrong] to inquire about the progress of the Liberal Party’s drafting. The reply eventually came, together with a copy of the press statement, at about 4.15 p.m.”[129]

 Thorpe’s letter recounted the general course of their discussions before coming to the issue of a ‘Government of national unity’- something Thorpe had suggested but that was, owing to Labour’s avowed position, unlikely to happen, stating;

 “At this stage I do not think it would be helpful to comment on the assumptions that you have made concerning policy save to say that in the present economic emergency I think that sufficient common ground and good will could be found between all Parties [in contradiction to what he agreed with Heath concerning willingness to pass rigorous economic measures] to sustain a National Government. As the enclosed Press Statement indicates, this would have our enthusiastic support. I would urge you to approach Party Leaders for this purpose. Accordingly, I do not believe that a Liberal presence in the Cabinet, designed to sustain your Government would prove acceptable.”[130]

 As Armstrong says;

 “The Prime Minister discussed it for a few minutes with Mr. Whitelaw and Lord Carrington, and I then prepared a draft reply which the Prime Minister approved. The Prime Minister instructed the Cabinet to be called at 4.45 p.m. to consider the letter. It was about this time that he confessed to me that he felt worn out.”[131]

 Heath’s last Cabinet was brief, only just over half an hour, and to the point;

 “Mr Thorpe, as expected, had rejected the proposal for a Liberal presence in the Government: but had instead suggested the calling of a conference between all the Party Leaders with a view to the formation of a National Government. Although in this view this suggestion was not a practicable one, he had judged it advisable to reconvene the Cabinet. At their earlier meeting the view had been expressed that at some stage the political and economic situation of the country might require the formation of a National Government, but there had been agreement that the time for it was not ripe. He did not see that Mr Thorpe’s proposal called this judgement in question. There was too great a difference between the policies of the Conservative and Labour Parties, and the Leader of the Labour Party would almost certainly rebuff an approach at a time when the economy might be thought about to recover from the three-day week rather than enter a new period of crisis. He saw no reason therefore to alter his decision to tender his resignation to The Queen although in his reply to Mr Thorpe he would make the point that if a Labour Administration were formed and pursued Mr Thorpe’s idea he would consider very carefully an invitation to a meeting of Party Leaders.

                                 The Cabinet –

                                 Took note, with approval, of the statement

                               by the Prime Minister.”[132]

 Heath soon set the necessary actions in motion and these, as reported by Armstrong, provide an excellent example of the constitution working through its necessary processes against the backdrop of the human drama of a premiership coming to its end, and as such bears quoting at length;

 “He instructed [Armstrong] to seek audience of The Queen at 6.30 p.m.; in the meantime he would pack up a few things, and he would like to say goodbye to the staff and give them a drink at about 5.45 p.m. [Armstrong] rang up Charteris at about 5.25 p.m. and arranged for the audience at 6.30 p.m. The staff assembled in the Blue Room at 5.40 p.m. The Prime Minister came in a few minutes later, and circulated among them saying goodbye. I left the party for a few minutes at 6.00 p.m. to ring Mrs. Marcia Williams, to warn Mr. Wilson that he could expect a telephone call from Buckingham Palace at about 7.00 p.m. or soon thereafter, and to find out where Mr Wilson would be. At about 6.10 p.m. the Prime Minister said a few words to the assembled staff. He said that the staff was the No. 10 family and that he could not have been better served, and he thanked them for all they had done. I replied very briefly, saying that it was a very sad occasion for the family who were proud to have served him, thanking him for his kindness and thoughtfulness to us all, and wishing him good health and better luck”[133]

 Soon after Robin Butler took Heath’s reply to Thorpe at the House of Commons and a statement was issued to the Press announcing Heath’s audience with The Queen and his intention to resign. After the release of the exchange of letters between Heath and Thorpe he left for the Palace at 6.25 p.m. In Armstrong’s words;

 “I went with him; and on the drive we neither of us said a word. There was so much, or nothing, left to say. When Sir Martin Charteris had taken the Prime Minister to The Queen, he came down to the Equerry’s Room and took me to his own room. When we arrived there, he made some expression of sympathy: I do not remember exactly what he said, but I remember that I nearly broke into tears when he said it. He showed me, and I agreed, the draft of an announcement to be put out from Buckingham Palace when the Prime Minister had resigned. We discussed the events of the last three days; and we also discussed The Queen’s plans. Sir Martin Charteris said that she would open Parliament herself on Tuesday 12 March, but without ceremonial. We agreed that it seemed likely that the new Prime Minister would advise her to carry out the State Visit to Indonesia thereafter, as evidence of a return to more normal conditions.”[134]

 With Heath’s resignation only now was the Palace required to act and in terms of the course open to The Queen Pimlott writes;

 “In theory, the Queen now had several options. Since no single leader or party could automatically command a House of Commons majority, it was constitutionally open to her to invite Thorpe or some other prominent figure and ask … whether they could form an administration. In practice, however, it would have been surprising not to have turned first to the head of the party which, though not the biggest in votes, had obtained the largest number of seats. Indeed, to have exercised her theoretical right in this regard would have been seen as a deliberate slight to the Labour Party – not least because of her consistent policy of taking the course of action that seemed least controversial.” [135]

 So that evening Harold Wilson duly became Prime Minister.

    Conclusion

The events of 1st-4th March 1974 and the documentation they generated will supersede the Deadlock file as a guide to constitutional precedent for the simple reason that while Deadlock was drawn up in the last-minute expectation of a hung Parliament that didn’t occur the documentation within the PREM 15/2069 file details constitutional and political processes against the backdrop of an actual hung parliament. The Senex letter is a different case it deals with a specific issue, the granting of dissolutions, which will continue to have relevance in its own right so long as we have a constitutional monarchy and the Prime Minister continues to be able to so request.

 An examination of events over this period illuminates the operation of the Constitution as well as the importance of its guiding precepts, that ‘the Queen’s Government must be carried on’ and that ‘she not be drawn into political controversy’. It shows the benefits conferred by its flexibility as well as the importance of the neutrality of those operating it. While Lord Prior said, somewhat mischievously, “Charteris of course was a Tory”[136] the documentation bears out that his primary responsibility was to The Queen and there is in the documentation or memoirs no trace of his alleged private views affecting the discharge of his duties. Hunt and Armstrong both fulfilled the role of the impartial but loyal civil servant a fact which again testifies to the effectiveness of the ‘Golden Triangle’ in helping determine the constitutional outcome.

 The Prime Minister’s role and questions surrounding it are also thrown open. While Crowther-Hunt may have questioned Heath’s role publicly, many, including his own leader Harold Wilson and Charteris, agreed that for Heath’s part there was no question, he was Prime Minister until either he resigned or was defeated in the House of Commons. This was a fact determined by his incumbency not the size of his Party in terms of Commons seats. Had Labour won a majority he would have resigned as is the standard practice, they, however, did not. There existed with the Liberals some possibility of coalition which he was constitutionally able to pursue, even though close colleagues were unconvinced and circumstances ultimately worked against him.

 The issue of dissolutions was also raised and considered primarily by the Palace owing to the difficult and therefore politically controversial position it would put it in had Heath asked for another one. The advice elicited from Wheeler-Bennett and Lord Blake as recounted by Charteris and supported by Armstrong’s opinion have led to a position where any future Prime Minister in Heath’s position would be very unlikely to be granted a further dissolution. The main contention concerns his successor. Should he then ask for another dissolution soon after one had been granted would it be allowed? Ideally only after the just elected Parliament had served for a sufficient period would such a request be granted. There are also practical considerations barring a further dissolution hot on the heels of the earlier one; in 1974 “Neither Party [was] in a position to put into another election the kind of resources they had put into the original election”[137] it is likely a future recurrence would in this instance operate similarly.

 The Parties themselves served to restrain Heath and Thorpe. Entrenched Party opinion prevented them from compromising on electoral reform and thus forming a coalition, whether ultimately successful or owing to the parliamentary arithmetic likely otherwise. Further division over Sunningdale had a similar effect in terms of Conservative-Ulster relations whilst the other Parties, Labour, The SNP and the Welsh Nationalists as well as the few key independents were staunchly anti-Conservative and would have presented a Parliament likely to have wrecked any coalition had it been instituted. Given the multi-Party system which now holds at Westminster it is likely a working Government, be it a minority or coalition one, would emerge out of a hung Parliament. Owing to those Parties inclinations it is less likely that the Conservative Party would be part of it due to the distaste it is regarded with in a great many quarters.

 A further factor that separates any consideration of a hung Parliament from another one might be termed the ‘constellation of parties’. It is difficult to compare very different Parliamentary environments. They differ from one generation to the next. Just as in 1929, which prior to March 1974 there had been the last hung parliament, Labour was in the process of replacing the Liberal Party as the main alternative contender for power while only seven years previously much Irish representation had been removed due to the founding of the Free State and Parliament in Dublin, so the situation in 1974 differs from that today. In addition to the Conservatives and Labour, the Liberals have increased their position to 63 MPs and there are about a half dozen other groups consisting of between 3 and 9 MPs as well as independents.

 In terms of the media pressures, to which Heath was subject, they were, as has been noted, greater than those faced by Baldwin but will be easily outstripped by those faced by any future successor. Concomitant with this will be the impact political uncertainty relayed via the media has on the financial markets. March 1974 will indicate compared to 1929 the direction in which things are going but it will not provide an entirely fitting precedent. Such pressures may also be compounded by multi-party democracy. Any possible future negotiations, even if unsuccessful and resulting in a minority government, would in such a context have an even greater impact for the simple reason that markets hate uncertainty and possibly for a good many days governmental uncertainty is what they would get.

 There is another great difference between March 1974 and now. The advent of Devolution has meant that there exists within the British polity a chamber whose Labour and Liberal Democrat members’ have experience of power sharing. Therefore it is something the requirements of which would be known in certain circles. Such knowledge would also be more easily accessible to the leadership of their respective parties should they find themselves in similar circumstances in Westminster.

 There are differences, however, Scotland operates a proportional system, Westminster does not whilst the Conservative Party still wins the majority of votes in England. Therefore to a certain extent it would be a useful guide but until Westminster also embraces a form of proportional representation not an entirely fitting one. The way in which a Scottish First Minister is appointed may however be of great relevance. As Riddell has written;

 “the appointment of the First Minister has to be approved by the Parliament. [As] happened when Donald Dewar’s appointment was approved by a combination of Labour and Liberal Democrat members after the May 1999 election. The formalities of the royal prerogative were recognized since his name was then submitted to the Queen for approval and appointment by the Presiding Officer, or Speaker.” [138]

 This could be applied to Westminster, with Riddell additionally suggesting,

 “ a Prime Minister [who had] just lost [his or her] majority at a general election would not be allowed to seek an immediate replay in a second election unless he or she could win a vote in the House. By definition in these circumstances, the combined vote of the other parties could deny such a dissolution, forcing the Prime Minister to resign and giving another party leader a chance to form a government.” [139]

 In short Riddell suggests, along with the transformation of the appointment of the First Minister, putting the onus of appointing a Prime Minister on Parliament itself rather than the Crown. Should this happen the situation would unfold quite differently to March 1974. This suggestion also adheres to the formula for another election soon after an earlier one. In such a scenario the Prime Minister who had ‘lost’ would face Parliament be defeated and resign he would therefore not be able to call another one, his successor would have greater discretion to do so and like Wilson under Charteris’ judgement he would probably get his chance, the major difference would be the authority under which it was done, Parliament rather than the Crown. This would perhaps increase its likelihood    

We have seen that the political circumstances then extant frustrated Heath but not the constitution. A working government emerged and went on in October to win a slim majority of 3. The constitution was able to operate in the difficult circumstances of those days in March because of its flexibility combined with the long established precedents of continuing the Queen’s Government and avoiding embarrassment which all concerned worked by. Fortunately the main beneficiary of the outcome of those events, Wilson, was schooled in constitutional tradecraft and knew that it would be he who would be called upon to hold the Queen’s commission. It is fitting that the end should be on this note as it illustrates the essential use of these events as a guide to any future hung parliament. It covers the ground and resolves many of the issues raised but a consideration also raises the divide between this crisis of the past and any of the future. The events of March 1974 helped to sharpen existing precedents by confronting them with just the sort of series of events they have evolved to resolve. This is why Deadlock could be considered as being put in the shade. In 1974 they confronted the actual scenario, along the way sharpening the response and drawing out, should there be a recurrence, the ground of likely contention next time around.                            

            Bibliography

Interviews:

Lord Carrington

Lord Armstrong

Lord Prior

Primary Sources:

TNA PREM 15/2069 Events leading to resignation of Edward Heath’s administration, 4 March 1974

TNA CAB 128/53 The situation following the general election 4 March 1974

Secondary Sources:

Eds Stuart Ball & Anthony Seldon   The Heath Government 1970-1974  A Reappraisal (London: Longman, 1996)

Vernon Bogdanor       The Monarchy and the Constitution    (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995)

John Campbell            Edward Heath A Biography   (London: Jonathan Cape, 1993)

John Campbell            Margaret Thatcher Volume One: The Grocer’s Daughter (London: Pimlico, 2001)

Lord Carrington          Reflect on Things Past            (London: Collins, 1988)

Andrew Denham & Mark Garnett      Keith Joseph   (London: Acumen, 2002 ed)

Bernard Donoughue   Downing Street Diary             (London: Jonathan Cape, 2005)

Edward Heath             The Course of My Life                        (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1998)

Peter Hennessy           The Hidden Wiring                  (London: Victor Gollancz, 1995)

Peter Hennessy           The Prime Minister                 (London: Penguin, 2000)

Peter Hennessy & Simon Coates        The Back of the Envelope Hung Parliaments, the Queen and the Constitution     (Glasgow: Strathclyde Analysis Papers, 1991)

Ben Pimlott                 The Queen: A Biography of Elizabeth II        (London: Harper Collins, 1997 ed)

James Prior                  A Balance of Power    (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1986)

John Ramsden             The Winds of Change Macmillan to Heath 1957-1975 (London: Longman, 1996)

Peter Riddell               Parliament Under Blair          (London: Politico’s, 2000)

Harold Wilson             The Governance of Britain    (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1976)

               Appendix One

Please note that any quotations taken from my interview with Lord Armstrong are subject to his approval which at the time of writing is pending. Consequently any such material should be kept confidential.

                     Appendix Two

 Friday 1st March

00.40               Heath arrives in Bexley for his count accompanied by Michael Wolff          

                        and William Waldegrave, his political secretary.

01.30                               Heath’s result is declared. He leaves for Downing Street soon after.

09.25                The Queen returns from Canberra arriving at London Airport, she then    

                                goes to Buckingham Palace.

 10.00                Sir Martin Charteris speaks to Robert Armstrong when they arrive at

 Buckingham Palace. Armstrong then went to see him and Phillip

 Moore, they agree that The Queen could only await events.

 10.30                Lord Carrington sees Heath. TV & Radio predict a Labour majority of      

                                 ten over the Conservatives. On this basis Carrington thought      

                                resignation the only option. The difference however narrows with

                         Conservative Central Office at one stage speaking of a dead heat.

                        By the end of the morning the difference in Labour’s favour became

                        clearer.

 12.00                Heath meets with Barber, Carr, Prior and Carrington with Hunt and

                                 Armstrong also present. They discussed the situation and options at

                                 length before agreeing to refer to the Cabinet. Lunch followed.

 15.30                Heath orders Armstrong to see Charteris. Charteris agrees that in this  

                        situation Heath was entirely within his constitutional rights. The

                              Queen would not be called upon to take action until he resigned.

                                   Statement issued by Labour

 17.45                                 Cabinet meeting convenes.

 19.30                                 Heath has an audience of The Queen. Armstrong sees Charteris.

  Mr de Vere Walker of the Ulster group of the Monday Club phones                                

                        reporting that Jim Molyneux and the 6 other Ulster Unionists could            

                        be expected to accept the Conservative Whip.

 20.00                Heath returns from the Palace. He then proceeds to the Wolff’s in  

Holland Park for dinner where they are joined by the Carringtons and

Jim Prior. Armstrong attempts to contact Jeremy Thorpe.

 .

  Saturday 2nd March

 00.00               Thorpe rings back, he and Heath talk. They agree to meet in Downing  

                             Street at 4 p.m.

 10.00               Heath tells Armstrong to announce his meeting with Thorpe.

                            Armstrong then spoke to Thorpe to arrange the announcements

                               release. It was arranged to be released after Thorpe’s train had left

                               Taunton for London but Liberal leaks pre-empted this arrangement so

                               after consulting Heath Armstrong released it anyway.

                         Dame Ruth King phoned passing on a message from Craig, Paisley

                               and West saying their demands would be moderate. West had sent

                               Heath a telegram.

 11.00               Various ministers came and went, among them Pym who advised

                       Heath against any attempt to come to terms with the 11 United Ulster

                               Unionists or even with the 7 Ulster Unionists.

 13.00               Michael Palliser arrives, he and John Hunt have a sherry with Heath up  

                               in the flat, they then go with Robert Armstrong to the Giulietta-Romeo

                               restaurant, Heath remains in the flat lunching alone.

 15.00               Armstrong returns to Downing Street and prepares an aide-memoire

                               for Heath’s meeting with Thorpe. Heath and Pym discuss West’s

                               approach and decide on asking what he has in mind.

 16.00               Thorpe, attended by Anthony Richards, arrives for his meeting with

                               Heath. During the meeting Kitson talks with Richards and gets his

                               view on the possibility of a coalition. At 16.20 Thorpe felt the

                               discussion had reached its end whereupon Heath protracted it as he had

                               to do again at 16.45 before it eventually ended at 17.20.

 18.00               Heath meets with Home, Hailsham, Barber, Carr, Prior, Carrington,

                               Whitelaw and Atkins in Number Ten. He informs them of the Thorpe

                               meeting. They agree on persevering in an approach to the Liberals and

                               to meeting again at 5.30 p.m. tomorrow.

                         Messages are also received from Edward Taylor from the SNP.

 21.0                                   Heath dined with Carr

 23.30                               Heath returns to Downing Street.

   Sunday 3rd March

 10.30                               Sir Michael Fraser calls on Heath in Downing Street.

 11.00               Heath leaves with the Kitsons for lunch with the Aldingtons at their

                               home in Kent.

                         Charteris calls to arrange another talk with Hunt and Armstrong who

                               raises a procedural question, if Heath does form a coalition should he

                               carry on without resigning or resign and then immediately be invited to

                               form a new administration as Ramsay McDonald did in 1931?

 15.30               Thorpe rings having conferred with Lord Byers, Jo Grimond and

                               David Steel saying a decision would have to await a meeting with his

                               parliamentary colleagues the next day but a further conversation would

                               be welcome. A time was set for 5.30 p.m. A report comes in of a

                               hijacked BA flight which causes Armstrong to call the Aldingtons

                               where the PM was asleep. He is assured he will be back in time to talk  

to Thorpe. He rang Thrope back to confirm only to discover that he

preferred a phone conversation to an actual meeting.

Armstrong was then driven from his home to pick up Charteris, they then walked across St James’s Park to Horse Guards Parade.

   16.10               Charteris and Armstrong reach Horse Guards going to Number Ten via

                       the Cabinet Office. They meet with Hunt to discuss whether The    

                       Queen should resume her tour of Australia.

 17.20               Heath reaches Number Ten and has a brief talk with Whitelaw, Prior

and Hunt.

 17.40               Heath speaks to Thorpe on the phone. He then subsequently meets

                       with Home, Halisham, Barber, Pym, Carr, Prior, Whitelaw, Carrington

                       and Atkins. They authorise him to make clear that they were not

                       interested in any arrangement which included a change in their

                       leadership. Carrington said nothing short of full Liberal participation

                       in Government would do, others, citing political considerations and the                                            

                       economy as reasons, agreed. They decided on this basis to continue to

                       seek coalition but only conceding a Speaker’s Conference on electoral

                       reform. If the Liberals were still unwilling then there was no other

                       course but to resign. This conclusion would be put to the Cabinet in

                       the form of a letter tomorrow. The uncertainty could not be allowed to

                       continue so it was agreed that Heath should see Thorpe tonight to

                       indicate the gist of the letter to be shown to and endorsed by the

                       Cabinet and then sent to him. Carrington undertook to see Lord Byers

                       to gauge his position and set out the Conservative one on both Con-Lib

                       and electoral reform.

 21.00               Having instructed Armstrong to invite Thorpe for a further meeting

                       that evening Heath dined with Barber, Joseph, Thatcher, Walker,

                       Howe and Kitson at Number Eleven, Downing Street. Heath told

                       Armstrong after that they expressed their agreement with the

                       conclusions reached at the earlier meeting.

                         Armstrong prepared a draft of the letter to Thorpe so as to serve as a

                       speaking note for his and Heath’s meeting that evening in addition to.

                       its intended use for the following morning’s Cabinet meeting.

 22.30               Heath meets with Thorpe for around half an hour then arranges for the

                       press to be informed which with Thorpe’s agreement the Chief Press

                       Secretary does.

 Monday 4th March

 09.00               Heath is shown the draft of the letter by Armstrong and makes a few

                       changes he then asks Armstrong to have copies prepared for the

                       Cabinet.

 10.00               The Cabinet convenes to discuss the letter they also hear from Heath

                       on his meeting with Thorpe and from Carrington concerning his with

                       Lord Byers. The Cabinet endorses the conclusions arrived at by the

                       inner-Cabinet meeting last night. The circulation of the draft letter led

                       to discussion on electoral reform and resulted in the Cabinet meeting

                       lasting longer than expected. The Cabinet meeting did not end and the

                       letter did not leave Downing Street until 12.15.

 12.45               Kitson puts contingencies into effect. William Armstrong, John Hunt

                       and Victor Rothschild come to the Cabinet room to take their leave of

                       the Prime Minister over a glass of champagne. It was not a cheerful

                       occasion.

 13.00               Reports of the Liberal Parliamentary Party meeting in unanimous

                       agreement come through. A small group is to meet at 14.30 to agree

                       the terms of a reply for Thorpe to send to Heath and a press statement.

                       Heath lunched alone in the flat.

 14.30               Whitelaw comes to Number Ten to discuss the Pay Board’s report on

                       miners’ pay.

 15.30               Heath instructs Armstrong to inquire about the progress of the Liberals

                       drafting. Armstrong inquires and is promised a reply in about half an

                       hour.

 16.15                               The reply and a copy of the Liberal press statement arrive. Heath discusses it with Whitelaw and Carrington, Armstrong prepares a draft response. Heath then instructs the Cabinet to be called for 16.45. He confessed to Armstrong at this time that he felt worn out.

 16.45               Heath’s last Cabinet meets and decide that Thorpe’s reply effectively

                       rejects Liberal participation in Government and ends negotiations.

                       They approve Armstrong’s draft response with some amendments.

                       They also noted that Heath would tender his resignation as soon as

                       possible. The Cabinet ends at about 17.20.

                         Heath said he didn’t wish to return to Downing Street after his

                       resignation instead he would go to Conservative Central Office and

                       then to Kitson’s flat. He instructed Armstrong to arrange an audience

                       of The Queen at 18.30. In the meantime he would pack up a few

                       things, say goodbye to the staff and give them a drink about 17.40.

 17.25                               Armstrong phones Charteris to arrange an audience.

 17.40               Staff assemble in the Blue Room in Downing Street. Heath comes in

                       soon after to circulate and say goodbye.

 18.00               Armstrong phones Marcia Williams, Wilson’s Political Secretary to

                       warn Wilson to expect a call from the Palace at about 19.00 and to

                       findout where he will be.

 18.10                               Heath says a few words to the Downing Street Staff.

 18.15               Robin Butler took the Prime Minister’s reply to Thorpe over the House

                       of Commons.

 18.20               Statement to the Press announcing the Prime Minister is to visit the

                       Palace at 18.30 to resign. The Thorpe letter is released at the same

                       time.

 18.25               PM leaves Number Ten for the Palace with Armstrong. The journey

                       passed in silence.

 18.30               Heath is received at the Palace and resigns soon after.

[1] Peter Hennessy  The Prime Minister (London: Penguin, 2000) Page 25

[2] Ibid Page 30

[3] Vernon Bogdanor The Monarchy and the Constitution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) Page 149

[4] Hennessy in a footnote in The Hidden Wiring (London: Victor Gollancz, 1995) accredits Philip Ziegler with this phrase in a conversation dated 13 June 1991.

[5] Bogdanor Ibid Page 81

[6] John Campbell Edward Heath A Biography (London: Jonathan Cape, 1993) Page 614 The actual result was Lab, 301, Con, 297, Liberal, 14, United Ulster Unionists, 11, SNP, 7, Welsh Nationalists, 2, 2 ex-Labour independents and another non-Unionist Irish Member. This would not, however, be clear until Sunday as is attested to by the Parliamentary arithmetic given to Thorpe by Heath on the Saturday.  

[7] Bogdanor Ibid Page 89

[8] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Events leading to resignation of Edward Heath’s administration, 4 March 1974, Note for the Record Page 1

[9] Ben Pimlott The Queen A Biography of Elizabeth II (London: Harper Collins, 1997 ed) Page 419

[10] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Pages 1-2

[11] Bernard Donoughue Downing Street Diary (London: Jonathan Cape, 2005) Page 48

[12] Lord Carrington Interview 13,6,06

[13] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 2

[14] Edward Heath The Course of My Life (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1998) Pages 517-8

[15] Harold Wilson The Governance of Britain (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1976) Pages 25-6

[16] Carrington Interview

[17] Lord Carrington Reflect on Things Past (London: Collins, 1988) Page 266

[18] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 3

[19] John Ramsden The Winds of Change (London: Longman, 1996) Page 385

[20] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 4

[21] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Statement issued from Transport House

[22] Hennessy Ibid Page 23

[23] Hennessy Ibid

[24] TNA, PRO, CAB 128/53 CM (74) 9th Conclusions The Situation Following the General Election  Page 1

[25] Heath Ibid Page 517

[26] Andrew Denham & Mark Garnett Keith Joseph (London: Acumen, 2002 ed) Page 233

[27] Ibid

[28] TNA,PRO, CAB 128/53 CM (74) 9th Conclusions Page 2

[29] Ibid Page 3

[30] Denham & Garnett Ibid Page 234

[31] Ibid

[32] Ibid

[33] TNA,PRO, CAB 128/53 Ibid

[34] Armstrong Interview

[35] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 5

[36] Ibid

[37] Jim Prior A Balance of Power (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1986) Page 95

[38] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 6

[39] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 6

[40] Ibid

[41] Ibid

[42] Armstrong Interview Ibid

[43] Hennessy The Back of the Envelope (Glasgow: University of Strathclyde, 1991)

[44] Hennessy The Prime Minister Ibid Page 30

[45] TNA, PRO, PREM15/2069 Note for the Record Page 7

[46] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Telegram from Mr. Harry West, 2 March

[47] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Ibid

[48] Ibid Page 8

[49] Ibid

[50] Ibid

[51] Ibid

[52] Armstrong Interview

[53] Ibid

[54] Pimlott Ibid Page 419

[55] Hennessy Ibid Page 24

[56] Ibid

[57] Ibid

[58] Armstrong Interview

[59] Hennessy Ibid Page 24

[60] Ibid Page 25

[61] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Mr. Pym’s advice on Mr. West’s Telegram

[62] Ibid

[63] Ibid

[64] Heath Ibid Page 518 Presumably these matters would be Thorpe’s alleged homosexual relationship with Norman Scott out of which flowed the scandal which ultimately brought Thorpe down. Thorpe allegedly plotted to have Scott murdered so as to silence him. The farcical result of this attempt being the execution of Rinka, a dog Scott had borrowed from a friend to protect him, with he himself being spared when having shot Rinka the would-be assassin’s gun jammed. Attitudes toward sexuality in public life in the Seventies being quite different to today, the scandal resulted in a trial and, in spite of acquittal, disgrace for Thorpe.    

[65] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note of meeting with Mr. Thorpe, 2 March Page 1

[66] Ibid Page 5

[67] Ibid

[68] Ibid Page 6 Home also looked into Devolution, though from a more Conservative perspective.

[69] Ibid The Pay Board regulated wage claims as part of the Government’s counter-inflation strategy.

[70] Ibid Page 7

[71] Ibid  

[72] Ibid Page 8

[73] Ibid Page 4

[74] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 9

[75] Ibid

[76] Ibid

[77] Ibid Page 10

[78] Ibid Page 11

[79] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Message from Mr. Edward Taylor, MP, 2 March

[80] Ibid

[81] Ibid

[82] Prior Interview 2,8,2006

[83] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 11

[84] Armstrong Interview Ibid

[85] Ibid

[86] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Pages 11-12

[87] Ibid Page 13

[88] Ibid

[89] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Transcript of telephone conversation between the Prime Minister and Mr. Thorpe, 3 March Pages 1-2

[90] Ibid Page 2

[91] Ibid Page 3

[92] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 13

[93] Ibid Page 14

[94] Ibid

[95] Ibid

[96] Ibid

[97] Ibid Pages 14-15

[98] Ibid Page 15

[99] Ibid

[100] Bogdanor Ibid Page 151

[101] Ramsden Ibid

[102] TNA,PRO PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 15

[103] Carrington Interview Ibid

[104] Ibid

[105] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 15 It is interesting that Mrs Thatcher did not seem to raise any of her concerns at this dinner in contrast to what she is supposed to have said in Cabinet.

[106] Ibid Page 16

[107] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note of meeting between Prime Minister and Mr. Thorpe, 3 March     Page 1-2

[108] Ibid Page 2

[109] Ibid

[110] Ibid Page 3

[111] Ibid Page 4

[112] Ibid

[113] Ibid

[114] Conversation with Lord Butler 26,7,2006

[115] TNA,PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 16

[116] TNA,PRO, CAB 128/53 CM(74) 10th Conclusions Page 2

[117] Ibid

[118] Ibid Pages 2-3

[119] Ibid Page 3

[120] Eds Stuart Ball and Anthony Seldon The Heath Government 1970-1974 A Reappraisal           (London: Longman, 1996) Bogdanor cites Private Information.

[121] John Campbell Margaret Thatcher Volume One: The Grocer’s Daughter (London: Pimlico, 2001) Page 255

[122] TNA, PRO CAB 128/53 CM (74) 10th Conclusions Page 2

[123] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Message from Mr. Edward Taylor MP, 4 March

[124] TNA, PRO, CAB 128/53 CM (74) 10th Conclusions Ibid Page 3

[125] Ibid Pages 3-4

[126] Ibid Page 4

[127] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 16-17

[128] Ibid

[129] Ibid

[130] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Mr Thorpe’s reply, 4 March Page 1-2

[131] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 17

[132] TNA, PRO, CAB 128/53 CM (74) 11th Conclusions

[133] TNA, PRO, PREM 15/2069 Note for the Record Page 18

[134] Ibid Page 18-19

[135] Pimlott Ibid Pages 419-20

[136] Prior Interview Ibid

[137] Armstrong Interview Ibid

[138] Peter Riddell Parliament Under Blair (London: Politico’s, 2000 ed) Page 234

[139] Ibid Page 235

t

[eliotist]

Thoughts on the likely developments in France. I had considered before the events of last week that Sarkozy might be knocked out, the greatest disappointment of this not being the return of Carla Bruni as first lady, she did a lovely version of a ribald Georges Brassens number, which I appreciated - see above. One assumes Fillon will win Les Republicans’ nomination for the presidency in April/May next year. Which is where it gets interesting, if we assume that the run-off will be between Fillon and Marine Le Pen. Effectively the choice will be between a Thatcherite, seemingly, Catholic and the reactionary alternative, who, from a French perspective, is probably more economically traditionalist. Key elements of French society will to a greater or lesser extent be alienated from this choice. The left won’t have a candidate, but working-class hitherto left voters, who seemed quite willing to flirt with Le Pen at last year’s regional elections, can be easily imagined aligning themselves with her, who has also pitched for the gay vote, which in turn would be alienated from a Catholic traditionalist, who on this basis might win Muslim votes, either way assuming a depressed turnout from these constituencies. Throw in further terrorism and Le Pen tarring Fillon with his establishment status and the ‘old’ approach, and/or Erdogan turning the taps back on vis migrants and I would tend to assume that all bets are off. Fillon should win, but then they said that about Hillary Clinton, or us voting to stay in the EU.  

[eliotist]

A tired, grey dawn has broken...

Tony, Tony, Tony…The weekend press was rife with comment about the imminent return of the bland one, whom centrists are just itching to get behind that we might leave this populist nightmare behind. Their thought processes, such as they are, not mine. I find myself favouring a Blairite return on a quite different basis, framed almost wholly from the perspective of black humour. We can enjoy him attempting to secure a seat in the face of Momentum, succeed, presumably, in queering the pitch to make a Tory, centre right, majority impossible and preside over, most likely, a weak centrist government the major achievement of which would be to further discredit its values. You have to remember that when things were going well he wasn’t that good a prime minister, and a lousy negotiator, Gordon, his middle east ‘role’, no break as the Germans had on eastern member states’ migrants, so imagine how cruelly funny it would be to see him attempt politics now? Presumably this will all end with a radical student, educated in an academy, ironically, aged 20, outraged by the historical ’betrayal’ of 1997 – again the thought processes of the delusional and disturbed – assassinating ‘the master’ sometime next year.

[eliotist]

"First they came for the Christians, but the Liberals explained that the Christians were evil, so I accepted it; then they came for the nudists, but the Liberals explained that nudists were cishet white scum, so I accepted it; then they came for the gays, but the Liberals explained they had privilege, and if they were Jewish too, well, they probably deserved being thrown off those tall buildings; and, when, finally, my turn came there were enough hot takes and think pieces to condemn me too, so that was fine."

[eliotist]

Lord Donoghue’s Diaries

It was interesting to discover that Lord Donoghue’s latest diaries, relating to his period as a shadow minister and then minister in the Blair years, are being serialised in the Daily Mail. I met Lord Donoghue a couple of times during my callow youth as a political history student at Queen Mary, and have signed copies of the previous two published volumes relating to his time as head of the Policy Unit under Wilson and Callaghan. Consequently, the historian manqué in me was interested to read some high quality political gossip. Given my own idiosyncratic take on the cold war, at key stages led by a sex addict, functional alcoholics, and from the invalid ward of a Soviet hospital for the first half of the 1980s it was interesting to learn that Wilson’s Alzheimer’s was diagnosed in 1971, and that, for our part, one of our PMs during those MAD days, had a deteriorating neurological condition.

Much more enjoyable gossip about the Labour party, and broader British political life ensues. Animal rights extremists raise his ire when they lovingly mail a razor blade to him and family, and their fellow travellers, including one Elliot Morley, later jailed for expense’s fraud, if memory serves, incur a degree of warranted remonstrance. We also find Callaghan enjoyed the benefit of reduced restaurant expenses, but also didn’t really identify with Blair, whose own conference rally is unfavourably compared with that reputed to have cost Kinnock the 1992 election, and Hitler’s at Nuremberg. There are also amusing pieces of gossip about the contemporary Tory party, with Major depicted as coldly destroying John Moore and securing his own status as heir apparent, while the cabinet secretary, Sir Robin Butler, has to hurriedly clear a conference room/office to please Michael Heseltine and save his own from the deputy prime minister’s covetous eye.

Of perhaps more contemporary relevance are Lord Donoghue’s entries on how Thatcher’s dealing with the trade union bogey had made Labour electable - while, perhaps not entirely in similar vein, but not entirely removed from it either - and his comments on political correctness. While the Conservatives under Thatcher had successfully curtailed union militancy, and Labour came to embrace that, with the result that it became safe to elect Labour again, perhaps Labour and race serves as the thematic mirror to that; in the sense that while the Labour right happily came into power in 1997 on a wave of perhaps overblown accusations of institutional racism, they never confronted their more extreme elements on the issue, and now, having sown dragon’s teeth, find themselves the prisoners of those aforementioned elements who, unbiddable in their maximalist definition of the term in a country which has changed in this regard, derangedly fixate on the matter from the perspective of ideologically extreme and intellectually questionable pseudo-disciplines, to the benefit of the contemporary Conservative party.    

[eliotist]

Austria

Not one to find empty, uplifting sentiments persuasive, I do wonder what we can take from the Austrian presidential result? Well, the Green candidate won by the skin of his teeth, and in no way decisively enough to torpedo dark insinuations of fraudulent postal ballots, one assumes. Some have sought to seize on the election of an unabashedly pro-migrant Green as an unquestionable triumph, despite polling showing that a lot of ‘his’ voters, in the context of a run-off election, which is not the same as a more pluralistic parliamentary one, were inspired by the old W.C.Fields’ motive of never voting for anyone, always against. Context makes this contention even more problematic, in the sense that should Van der Bellen decide to stand on his prerogatives and dismiss the centrist coalition government which initially opened Austria’s borders, before, in reaction to how well that went down with the mass of the electorate, closing them again what would it be replaced with? Oh yes, according to opinion polls an FPO-dominated coalition with the OVP as Robin to its Batman.

[eliotist]

Barlow!

I see Gary Barlow has popped up somewhere, with all the charisma of an ineffably beige man during a taupe convention in the 1970s. He's like a living evocation of a beige psychedelic trip if you can imagine the excitement of a psychedelic trip denuded of the riot of the full spectrum of colour and replaced with shades of beige. If you became the Star Child at the end of 2001 and evolved at a hyper-accelerated rate into a being of pure beige, only then could you dimly begin to discern what level of Barlowesque beigery is possible. Or maybe Altered States would be a better analogy? Gary Barlow is an experiment in abnormal psychology and sensory deprivation aimed at evoking a state of pure boredom through synaesthesia. He isn't just beige, he IS beige!!! Or maybe he's Tarkovsky, if Solaris took, as its central emotional experience, boredom rather than grief? The essential colour palette would remain the same. Maybe he is beige become something encroaching on self-awareness, “How can it not know what it is?” Oh God, such dully garish colour!!!!!

[eliotist]

On Integration

So, Trevor Phillips appears to have made some interesting comments. Admittedly not couched in quite the same apocalyptic tone Enoch Powell used, but along perhaps similar lines. I particularly like his use of the phrase “diversity and its discontents”, a subtle allusion to Freud? It’s possible that the experience of multiculturalism has allowed us to have a more grown up discussion about such matters, the old establishment public opinion formerly deferred to shutting it down post-the-incorrectly-named-Rivers of Blood with that old incantation “racist”. We know now that certain groups find it easier to integrate than others, whether they be less visible or not, whether by this we refer to fellow white Europeans or perhaps some religious minorities, of the more secular/less devout variety, e.g. Hindu voters finding themselves voting alongside Jews and the English for a Conservative government. Others, conversely, do bring more problems in their wake, and again it’s not just an issue of skin colour, one thinks of Romanians and organised crime, as well as everybody’s friend the Islamist, stalwart adherent to enlightenment values and in no way a chiller of everybody else’s’ collective freedoms, such as taking the piss out of religious extremists, or not getting blown up and/or groped in a shopping centre.

I think a lot of us have legitimate practical concerns about the diversity project, not the values and aspirations underpinning it, but issues like the impact our comparatively open borders have vis demographic pressures and funding public services at a time when the new normal is getting public spending under control, especially when considering that lawyers make a lot of money from helping women falsely claiming that they were subject to FGM stay in the country, or getting a one legged alleged double murderer who lied about being Kosovan citizenship. I find it difficult to see how society benefits from having liars and a disabled murderer here, but that could just be the bigotry talking.

Phillips speaks of a possible backlash, which I can believe, if people feel that the aspirations underpinning multiculturalism aren’t tempered with a sense of realism, most of us do not hate each other, and certainly not for reasons of racial prejudice, and being told that we do by people who make a living from exacerbating that sense of grievance seems more likely to bring about something akin to what those hypocrites claim they fear than not. Lastly, a point Phillips didn’t make, it’s possible that the most integrated Jewish population in Europe before the first world war was Germany’s, we should bear that fact in mind, given the tragedy that later occurred. If there is to be, as Phillips fears, a backlash, it won’t, in my view, be aimed at those groups who have integrated, and with whom many of us have consistently positive interactions, it is far more likely to be against those groups who have shown themselves less willing and less likely to integrate, who are less OK with our prevalent social values.

Frankly, I like the enlightenment and the values it has given to western society, and I am emphatically not OK with surrendering them in the face of a religion I don’t share and which is opposed to western freedoms. Phillips’ mentioning of the cultural links underpinning the horrors of Rotherham makes renewed sense in the face of events in Austria, where vast swathes of the electorate look as though they have deserted the traditional centrist parties for the post-fascist Freedom Party. If the centrist parties don’t address legitimate concerns than what is to stop ‘their’ voters finding an alternative that shares and reflects their concerns about the abandonment of enlightenment values, perhaps particularly female voters, gay voters, the white working class who feel a bullying, reactionary Liberalism has betrayed them for a chorus of Liberal ‘intelligentsia’ and Islamicist leaning voters? Stranger ironies have happened in politics then people finding that in post-fascist parties which have embraced constitutional politics. This is the backdrop against which Phillips has sought to make his intervention. It explains reports of gay voters backing the Front National, or of events in Austria these past couple of weeks. Liberalism desperately needs to reform itself in order to save the things within it worth saving, if it doesn’t, it might expedite the arrival of things it consciously rejects, if not, and in returning to Freud, subconsciously masochistically desires.