Sir Neville and Mrs. Collier departed at nine fifty looking just a little put out at effectively being shooed out of the Prime Minister’s office. The PM even subconsciously widened his arms as he stood with them near the door, lest one of them try to bolt back in again, like a cat that doesn’t want to go out in the rain. Whether or not they would ever be privy to Dosogne, and his plans for world domination, remained to be decided but, the PM realized, he’d need to give them the impression of continued full involvement, otherwise they might decide to conduct business in the old-fashioned way – with the PM out of the loop. Not that that was really feasible any more. Ultimately he might need them for moral support, who else could he confide in? Dosogne?
The PM checked his watch: nine fifty-eight. He pressed his intercom:
‘I’m not to be disturbed for the next half-hour, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the voice of his diary secretary, through the loud speaker.
‘Not even by you.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Not even by you telling me that World War Three has just broken out.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
The PM was satisfied; he sat back in his chair and waited for Dosogne’s voice to manifest in the room. Or in his head. Apparently that was the nature of this “transmission” – everything, including the images he imagined seeing on his monitor, were all being beamed directly into his head. The PM shuddered and checked his watch again: One minute past ten. Dosogne was late! From what he’d seen of Dosogne so far he had very little faith in his professionalism. But his capabilities, or the capabilities of the Malevolence, that was a different matter. But maybe not as different as Dosogne or the Malevolence thought. True, some interesting demonstrations had been provided the previous evening, but that did not automatically mean that this arrangement – whereby Dosogne instructs the PM on what to do and he then obediently does it – would be their default method of operating. If Dosogne demonstrated any lack of political or intellectual rigour then there were alternatives: like Mrs. Collier’s assertion yesterday that Dosogne should be pulled in and dealt with, without gloves! But that was a last resort. In the meantime, he’d throw Dosogne a few curveballs and see how he handled them.
The PM checked the time again: 10:07. Where the hell was he!? A delay of seven minutes might not sound like much but under the circumstances, it was wholly unacceptable.
‘Testing, testing. Good morning, Prime Minister, this is Alan Dosogne. Apologies for the slight delay, you can expect subsequent conferences to begin very precisely on time. I know you are a busy man.’
‘Oh, do you now!?’ replied the PM frostily. But he was privately relieved that the issue of timekeeping was being taken seriously.
‘Yes, can you turn a monitor on, please?’
‘Why is that necessary if this is being beamed straight into my brain?’
‘It makes it easier to calibrate the visual data if we know where you expect to see it. Otherwise my face could just appear in front of yours wherever you look!’
‘I see,’ said the PM, switching on his monitor. Dosogne and his big comedy headphones appeared on the screen. The PM moved his head, looked away, looked back again. Presumably Dosogne knew what he was talking about: no matter what he did, his image remained fixed at the monitor screen.
‘Have you had time to reflect on yesterday’s meeting? There is an action we’d like you to take today, with the American ambassador. Could you invite him over for drinks later?’
‘For what purpose?’ asked the PM.
‘As discussed yesterday, we need to get some pretty hefty secret, or “black”, operations up and running and as quickly as possible. I know it sounds daunting but it will work remarkably easily once certain key individuals have been conditioned.’
‘Like the US ambassador?’
‘Well, he’s a minnow, but yes, after he’s conditioned to send Washington certain rather inflammatory reports it’ll be possible to get hold of the key players, and work on them.’
‘This all sounds very distasteful,’ remarked the PM.
‘I agree, Prime Minister. But this is how important human affairs have been conducted throughout history. The difference now is that it’s not the Sponsors calling the shots, it’ll be you!’
‘Except that it seems to be you that is calling the shots, Mr. Dosogne!’
‘I’m merely the technical aid. You will have the political power. We do not crave it and we are not expecting you to share it with us.’
‘Gratifying,’ the PM said blankly, ‘but who is this “we”, this “us”?’
‘I can’t reveal that at this juncture, but once some trust has been established, and once it can be demonstrated that this arrangement works as well as we think it will, then perhaps some further disclosure will be provided.’
The PM sighed: ‘Perhaps you, or your accomplice, would be interested to know that a government research establishment is currently studying organic material recovered from St James’s Park and other locations, including Finsbury Circus. All I can say is that it doesn’t look very robust!’
‘Are you referring to this Sponsor parasite that you mentioned yesterday? I have to say, after years of working for the Sponsors, I never even heard a rumour about such a thing. I assumed you were describing our current means of communication and control. But I can assure you there is no organic matter involved!’
‘What about your accomplice?’ asked the PM pointedly, ‘does he, she or it know anything about this?’
It was Dosogne’s turn to sigh: ‘err, standby…’ The image on the PM’s monitor returned to the screensaver for several seconds before Dosogne’s face reappeared. ‘No, we don’t know anything about that,’ he declared.
‘I see,’ replied the PM. There was a short pause. Dosogne stared blankly at the PM for several more seconds before resuming, presumably having received new instructions or advice:
‘So, do you agree to meet the ambassador? We’ll need precise timings and you can indicate these when they are known by sending a text message to–’
‘A text message!’ exclaimed the PM, ‘will that be secure?’
‘One hundred percent secure, Prime Minister. Just send us the time in the form of a four digit number. Send it here:’
A text number appeared on the PM’s screen and he hastily scribbled it down.
‘Did you get that, Prime Minister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent, well that’s all–’
‘Not so fast, Mr. Dosogne. I am going to do precisely nothing until I have received proof that you… and your accomplice… can actually deliver what you claim.’
‘The proof is in the eating, Prime Minister, you will see it when you meet the ambass–’
‘No, forget the ambassador. I want to see hard evidence that you can establish a hidden and wholly unaccountable “black budget operation”, one that is shielded from scrutiny, one that will work and one that won’t come back later to blow up in my face! It’s not a test of your alien gizmo that I’m interested in, you demonstrated that yesterday, it’s a test of your competence in utilizing that gizmo to perform a very difficult, almost impossible, political and accounting manoeuvre.’
‘I see, well these will be rolled out over the next few–’
‘No, Mr. Dosogne, you are not listening to me. I want a demonstration today, before I speak to the ambassador. I’ll arrange a meeting with him, but if you can’t deliver what I ask, it’ll just be a cosy chat about golf! And you may still get pulled in for further questioning.’
Silence at the other end! Ha! Dosogne looked rattled. He was glancing furtively to his left and that, the PM had now worked out, meant that he was receiving more instructions. Time to step in before Dosogne spoke again:
‘I have something specific in mind,’ said the PM.
‘Go on,’ replied Dosogne after a short delay.
‘It concerns the ash cloud that fell on London, we’ve since discovered that it’
s loaded with rare-earth elements. Enormous amounts. Enough to finance much, if not all, of the operations planned. At the moment the discovery is classified; that much is easy, but how do we gain exclusive and absolute control over this wealth? Presently the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, is handling this – not an organization very capable of keeping secrets, nor one that would approve of any dodgy accounting… So how would you like to handle that one?’
‘Standby, Prime Minister,’ replied Dosogne, before his image vanished again. Several seconds passed without any response, so the PM stood to stretch his legs. Eventually Dosogne returned:
‘Yes, Prime Minister, this is actually very good news, the more real money we have to work with, the easier this will be to run. What you ask is, in effect, what the Sponsor system was designed for. We can set something up and have it ready for your approval by… 5pm? Is that acceptable? I respectfully suggest that you arrange your meeting with the ambassador for some time after that.’
So casual about it, thought the PM. Either this apparent confidence was real, or it was not:
‘Yes, that is acceptable, but talk is cheap, Mr. Dosogne. If you can show me a system that works, one that funnels the funds from rare-earth sales to where we want them, and can do that without anyone noticing, and do all that by 5pm! Well, we’ll be in business. No doubt about it!’
The PM instantly regretted the enthusiasm that had crept into his voice at the end. He knew now that he could push Dosogne onto the back foot, and that’s how he should leave him – tottering on it at all times. Acting star-struck did not help with that!
‘Excellent. We’ll be in touch,’ replied Dosogne.
‘Just a moment, Mr. Dosogne, there is another matter, although this is not a test as such.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister?’
‘The Gang of Four.’
The PM watched as Dosogne’s smile vanished more quickly than a British heat wave, current one excepted.
‘What about them?’ asked Dosogne, almost peevishly.
‘We’ve lost their trail, we even think they’ve departed London–’
‘I would suggest we leave them be, wherever they are. They’ll not help us, but they could cause us significant problems.’
‘The British government does not share that view, Mr. Dosogne, the Gang of Four precipitated all of this and since you continue to stonewall us on their true identity we feel obliged to continue our investigations. Maybe tracking them down is impossible or even foolhardy – or maybe it’s not. Bottom line: We still want them, Mr. Dosogne! All we want from you is their current location, if you know it.’
Dosogne looked horrified. At least this made it all but certain that the Gang of Four were not the party behind Dosogne and his alien bag of tricks. ‘Stand by,’ he said reluctantly, before his image vanished for a third time. After about a minute he returned:
‘Russell Tebb and Ceres were arrested last night and charged at Trowbridge, Wiltshire: Drunk and Disorderly. They have both since been released.’
‘What!?’ The PM could hardly believe his ears. Being arrested for drunken behaviour was one thing, the fact that they were both briefly held in police custody and neither himself nor MI6 had apparently got to hear about it was quite another!
‘They’re trouble, sir. I reiterate: if they’re not causing trouble in London – we really should leave them alone!’
In due course, The PM terminated his “conference” with Dosogne. He pressed his intercom:
‘I want to see Sir Neville Stonehatch and Mrs. Collier in here – now!’
***