Assassins

  ‘Did Robert the Bruce have long flowing hair and thick thighs?’ Mary said running her tongue over her lips.

  ‘Oh God yes,’ Cruid said, just to shut her up. ‘And he had a huge claymore.’ He saw Mary’s eyes widen. Silly cow.

  ‘Ok, mister Kingmaker, that sounds good. So, to be clear, you will now go off and find a direct descendent of Robert the Bruce yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he will be a Mel Gibson lookalike yes?’

  Cruid sighed. ‘If at all possible, First Minister, yes.’ He lied.

  ‘Ok, just get it done Cruid,’ Mary said. ‘And be sharp about it. We need this person in post.’

  ‘Mary, I shall clear my diary and make this a priority,’

  Having promised Mary that he’d find her a direct descendent of Robert the Bruce, never mind one that looked like Mel Gibson, with the fake hair on his chest and a stupid wig, he hadn’t a clue where to start looking. Google he imagined.

  Later that day, Mary Dewar had her entire Cabinet and her Special Advisers meet with her in Cabinet Briefing Room 2. She made sure the video cameras and the recording equipment had been switched off. What they were about to discuss was top-secret.

  The only item on the agenda was how to proceed in making Scotland a monarchy and then finding a suitable king.

  The meeting was brief. Mary got the support of her team and Cruid was given the job of hunting down a descendent of Robert The Bruce.

  Back in his office, tapping away with two fingers on his computer Cruid trawled the Internet. Jesus! He couldn’t believe the number of people claiming to be direct decedents of Scottish kings… one of which lived in Tasmania! About to give up and log off, he came across a post from Strathclyde University. The University’s Archaeology department had recently carried out some DNA tests on the remains of King Robert IV, the grandson of Robert the Bruce. That looked interesting. Cruid picked up the phone and made a call.

  Chapter Four

  London.

  Sir Roger Bottomley hated the fact that Mary Dewar had finally gotten her own way and had forced through Scottish Independence. And what was going on in her head, when he wouldn’t listen to sense when he told her without Royal Assent she couldn’t govern. He even went to the trouble of sending a team of his top legal advisers up to Edinburgh to talk to her, to explain the situation, to try and get her to see sense. What did she do? She sent them back with the message “Stop meddling in Scottish affairs.”

  When Sir Roger then tried phoning her he got her secretary telling him the First Minister was too busy to take his calls.

  The final nail in the coffin of the United Kingdom came when Mary Dewar withdrew her MSPs from Westminster.

  When Sir Roger did finally get to speak to her, Dewar told him bluntly where he could stick his silly government. He persisted in making the point, ‘without Royal assent Mary you wont be able to function as a government.’ When Dewar told him, ‘I shouldn’t worry about that Sir Roger because we have found a workaround to the problem.’ That shut him up. What was she talking about? There was no a way around it… was there? When he pressed her on what she had meant by that, Dewar ended the conversation with a warning, ‘if I were you, I wouldn’t plan on visiting Scotland any time soon.’

  Alone in his study, Sir Roger was wearing out the carpet pacing and trying to think. With the media and his wife getting on to him, demanding that he resign, what was he to do? In his head he conjured up an image of his hero, Winston Churchill. What might he have done faced with the lowest opinion poll rating of any Prime Minister, ever, and facing an open revolt within his own party? Maggie and Churchill, they had their critics and they survived. It was all right for them, they had a war… Zing! That got him thinking. The PM went behind his desk and buzzed Terry Beaumont. He told him to come straight to his office… alone.

  ‘Close the door Terry.’

  Sir Roger indicated a chair over by the far wall. ‘Bring it over here and sit down. I have something of a sensitive nature that I wish to run by you, see what you think.’

  On the way over Terry was thinking the PM was about to tell him that he had decided to resign. That would be a disaster of epic proportions. Special Advisers are appointed by the sitting Prime Minister. By tradition, when the incumbent PM left the SA’s went too. It would be the Job Centre for him. How was he supposed to tell Amanda that he was out of work? If he were to lose his job now, he could kiss goodbye to the five grand deposit that he’d just put down on the dream kitchen that he’d always promised his wife she could have. He could imagine her eczema would flare up again, so too would her irritable bowel syndrome, to say nothing of the depression that she was only just managing to keep on top of with medication.

  ‘Sir Roger, I don’t think you should resign,’ Terry blurted out. ‘Our country needs a strong leader right now, someone with your Churchillian spirit.’ Mentioning the PM’s absolute hero was always a good thing.

  ‘What are you blathering about Beaumont? I have no intention of resigning.’

  ‘Oh!’ Said Terry.

  Watching Bottomley looking quite relaxed behind his desk with both hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair making it creak Terry thought the PM was about to say something profound. What the PM said next had him questioning the PM’s tenuous grip on reality.

  ‘Terry you know of course the Scots are revolting?’

  ‘With respect Sir Roger,’ Terry said horrified, ‘describing the Scots as revolting sounds somewhat racist. I would advise you to keep those sentiments strictly between the two of us.’

  ‘What are you blathering on about, you dullard? (His wife, Dame Edith’s much used criticism of him) I was referring to the traitorous behaviour of that… that God-awful woman… what’s her name?’

  ‘Mary Dewar.’ Terry prompted, now quite relieved to hear that the PM wasn’t going to resign.

  ‘Tell me Terry,’ the PM said pouring himself a large Scotch, ‘who are we currently at war with?’

  Terry frowned. ‘You mean, PM, what countries are we currently in dispute with?’

  ‘No Terry, I mean what countries, are we physically at war with?’

  ‘Well none,’ Terry said. ‘Unless of course you include the aircraft that we provide the Yanks, on their bombing missions that no one, not even the Foreign Secretary knows about. Why?’

  ‘Terry, we are in the poop. And I do mean we.’

  ‘With respect PM, I was hoping the next Prime Minister would see his way to take me on.’

  When the PM glared at him Terry gulped. ‘Sorry Sir Roger I didn’t mean that to sound disloyal but I have Amanda to think…’

  ‘Terry, don’t be stupid. Special Advisers are by their very nature merely lap dogs of the incumbent Prime Minister. If I were to go, you would go too. ‘Swinging his tassel loafer shoes down off his desk Bottomley said. ‘So if you wish to remain in post I suggest that you answer my question: who are we currently bombing or otherwise at war with?’

  ‘I, I, am not sure PM. None that I am aware of, which makes a change.’ Beaumont’s laugh was brief.

  Where was the PM was going with this? Terry didn’t want to be having this discussion, in private or otherwise. War wasn’t his thing. What is it he wondered with these politicians that the minute they get a little power want to flex their military muscles? God, will they never learn?

  ‘Whist you can absolutely rely on my support Prime Minister,’ Beaumont said. ‘I really don’t see how us being at war with anyone has any relevance to your… or should I say our, predicament.’

  ‘Would you like to hear my plan Terry?’

  Not really.

  ‘Does it involve us bombing people?’

  ‘Absolutely not, and not a shot will be fired,’ Sir Roger said. ‘

  Not entirely convinced Terry said, ‘ok, what do you have in mind?’

  ‘If I am to keep them backstabbing cretins out there,’ Sir Roger said pointing to the door, referring to his Cabinet Ministers, ‘from closing i
n for the kill, and one of them stealing my job, I need a war.’

  ‘You need a war?’ Terry said sitting back in his chair and not quite believing this.

  ‘You must keep this to yourself Terry, top-secret stuff, but yes, I need a war. Look. It’s not rocket science. When a Prime Minister in the past was faced with absolute ruin, they would arrange a convenient war. Faced with a threat from a foreign power, the public have always rallied round their leader.’ When the PM noticed the look of horror on his SA’s face Sir Roger said. ‘Look. I am not talking about us taking on some big guys with a lot of military muscle, just some little guys that we could easily beat up. I should think that a small war, one that made a lot of noise and lots of threats should take the heat off us. ‘

  Terry wasn’t quite so sure. He could think of quite a few politicians that did rather badly after dragging the UK into a disastrous conflict, that had nothing to do with us, and was usually on the other side of the globe but Bottomley wouldn’t have wanted to hear that. Terry, watching the PM, could sense that he already had a country in mind, most likely some impoverished tiny nation that had nothing but sticks and stones to defend itself with. So, what had the PM in mind? Was he going to do a Maggie, and send another vastly expensive task force down into the South China Sea or some such place? Terry was now regretting the five grand, down payment that he’d given the builder due to fit Amanda’s new kitchen. The builders had already placed the order for the kitchen units and all the paraphernalia. The dishwasher, granite worktops, dishwasher, washing machine, an Aga cooker with twin ovens, an American style fridge with a chilled water dispenser, and… oh my God, he can’t… he daren’t lose his job now.

  ‘I can see the point you are making PM,’ Terry said becoming anxious, ‘and I have to admit it has some merit, however, I’m not convinced that us going to war with another nation state, however small, unless it was in support of the Yanks, is politically a sound move. If you need to create a distraction for the media hounds to tear into, Sir Roger, might I suggest that we embark on something a little less risky?

  ‘Such as.’ Sir Roger said pouring himself another whiskey.

  ‘Off the top of my head, how about we have MI5 dig up some dirt on a celebrity and then feed it to the media. If this person was a household name, say a highly paid football star, or a chat show host, that might take the heat off you?’

  ‘But only for about five minutes.’ Sir Roger said. ‘Besides, dragging up dirt on people is too risky.’

  Maybe the PM was right. Beaumont was thinking back to the number of times that a small sleazy article about some minor celeb, ended up with a Cabinet Minister getting caught with his trousers down.

  ‘Frankly, that’s a rubbish idea Beaumont,’ The PM said. ‘To get the press and my critics off my back I am going to need a far bigger distraction. I want you to listen to my idea. You are going to love it.’

  Terry doubted it.

  ‘I am planning,’ Sir Roger said quite animated, ‘ to start a punch up with a small nation. Not an all-out war as such, just a lot of sabre rattling, lots of threats movement of troops and such.’

  ‘Ok,’ Terry said warily,’ It wasn’t hard to figure out the PM had a country in mind. ‘What exactly do you mean by sabre rattling?’

  ‘You know the drill. We have our armed forces mobilised. We have them carry out military exercises in our parks. Have our tanks rumbling through our High Streets, that sort of thing. Do t you think the air raids warning thingamajigs still work?’

  ‘You mean the air raid sirens Sir Roger? No, I am pretty sure they were all taken down in the fifties.’ Terry looked back at the door. He thought about making an excuse to leave before an image in his head of Amanda looking pasty and saddened rooted him to his chair. ‘Sir Roger, you mentioned a country: who exactly do you have you in mind?’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue. See if you can guess.’

  Terry sighed. ‘Ok.’

  ‘This country is an oil producing nation.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Terry rolling his eyes up and thinking: Kuwait, or perhaps the United Arab Emirates, no it has to be… ‘You mean Qatar?’

  ‘Nope, try again. I’ll give you another clue: these people have a weird national costume.

  ‘Erm… Turkey?’ God he hoped not.

  ‘Uh huh, try thinking up north.’ Sir Roger pointed behind him at the wall, which didn’t help. He was quite enjoying this little game.

  ‘North! Oh I get it,’ Terry said convinced he had the answer. ‘You want to revisit the cod war, have a go at Norway again?’

  ‘Norway! What are you talking about Terry? Why would I want to start a war over a shoal of cod? For Gods sake man, wake up. I am talking about a country that is much closer to home.’

  ‘You don’t mean…?’ Terry pointed at the same wall, vaguely north.

  ‘Exactly Terry, Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland! Beaumont exploded. ‘Sir Roger, just because they voted for independence you can’t start a war with the Scots! Prime Minister this is not Culloden.’

  ‘If you don’t like my plan Terry, I can very quickly replace you with another of my Special Advisers.’

  An image of Amanda looking depressed became lodged in his head. The five grand deposit for the kitchen sharpened his mind. He definitely didn’t want another SA stepping in and taking over his special relationship with the PM. Attack Scotland! For Chrissake! What was he thinking? And what would the Queen say about that? He was thinking he had better come up with another diversion plan… but what? One of his few special skills, and why the PM liked to use Terry was because the SA was good at thinking on his feet He had an idea… and quite a brilliant one, he thought.

  ‘Prime Minister, that’s an excellent plan, however, bear with me while I run this by you. This plan doesn’t involve anyone going to war. No one get’s hurt, and this will definitely get the media off your back. Would you like to hear it?’

  Sir Roger puffed on a cigar, took it out, wet and dribbling and pointed it at his SA. Terry glanced up at the smoke alarm that had been Gaffa-taped over.

  ‘Go ahead, but I warn you Terry, your idea wont be anywhere near as good as mine.’

  Terry looked back at the door to make sure it was shut.

  ‘Prime Minister, I want to create a pseudo-war.’

  ‘Of course you do… what’s a pseudo war?’

  Terry said, ‘have you heard of wikiLeak?’

  ‘You mean them damn commies that go around leaking state secrets and putting the west at risk from the Russians? Dashed blighters should be horsewhipped.’

  In Sir Rogers opinion there was no shortage of rotters that he’d like to see get a damn good thrashing with a horse crop. He’d start with them commie union officials– then them interfering anti – hunting – longhaired weirdoes – and then his fourth year geography teacher at Eton – not to forget them lazy people sponging off state benefits. ‘What about wikiLeak?’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Terry feeling his way, ‘leaked emails are not just the domain of spurious sections of society that have an issue with capitalism. Governments around the world have set up entire departments to feed the media with information and misinformation.’ Terry paused for effect. Adopting a conspiratorial manner, Terry said. ‘Prime Minister we really can’t allow the Scots to steal our assets in Scotland. Just think about the consequences for our economy if we lost the oil revenues for a start

  Terry almost ran to the PM who seemed to be having a heart attack.

  Sir Roger slammed his hand down on his desk. His empty whiskey glass leapt in the air. ‘Damn and blast their eyes,’ Sir Roger stormed. ‘Terry, we must do something. Call a COBRA meeting. We must get our military mobilised…’

  ‘Just a second PM,’ Terry said using his hands to placate his blustering boss. ‘I was talking hypothetically. As far as I know, no such plans exist, however… what if; say a dissident Scot was to leak an email that exposed the Scottish Government as having those plans? The news would create panic in
the media. You could then go to the House and make a statement to announce the UK is now under threat from a foreign state and you have no choice but to take robust action.’

  ‘Robust eh? I like that. Where did you say the email came from?’

  ‘It came from a dissident Scot who was unhappy about leaving the UK.’

  ‘Make a note of his name Beaumont,’ Sir Roger said. ‘When this is all over I shall award him a gong.’

  ‘Prime minister…’ Terry sighed. ‘No such email exists. I will invent one that I shall call “ScottiLeak” and then distribute it to the media, who will react with fury.’

  ‘Fury eh? I like that. And tell me again, what exactly does this “wonkyleak say?’

  Terry sighed again. ‘ScottiLeak, will expose the Scots plans to take over our oil platforms in the North sea, overrun our military bases, throw out our troops and capture our weapons, our warplanes, our navy ships and our nuclear submarines?’

  ‘My God!’ Sir Roger exploded,’ they wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Well of course they wouldn’t.’ Beaumont said gently, ‘the email will be a fake… a forgery, one that I made up. But having said that, who’s to know that it isn’t true?’

  ‘I will know.’ Said Sir Roger.

  ‘Yes, of course you will know, because I just told you Sir Roger, but other than just the two of us no one else must know. It will be our secret.’

  ‘So… let me get this straight,’ Sir Roger said. ‘You will get an email, from some Scottish person, who has got the arse because the Scots have voted to leave the UK.’ Beaumont nodded.

  ‘And then we go to war with them?’ Sir Roger said speaking past the cigar that was dropping ash down his waistcoat.

  Terry Beaumont was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned the bloody email. Then he remembered Amanda and her IBS, her depression and the kitchen…

  ‘Prime Minister… Just… just… please leave it to me. I will create the ScottiLeak email and I will distribute it. You need do nothing other than act shocked when you hear what the Scots are planning.’

  ‘Right.’ The PM said. ‘Tell me again what they are planning?’

  ‘Erm, you’ll need to wait until you get the email Sir Roger.’

  ‘Good man Terry. We finished here?’ Sir Roger said and pulled from his waistcoat pocket the gold hunter watch dangling on an Albert chain. He checked the time. ‘You can go now. Miss Sweetwater and I have some important matters to attend to.’