“But effective, it would seem. What can we do about it?”
“I say we issue a statement and call them on it — demand to be shown the smoking gun, as it were. Challenge them to put up or shut up. If there is anything of substance, they have nothing to gain by keeping it from us. If they refuse to bring out the evidence, it will make them look bad. Either way, we’re no worse off.”
“I’ll think about it,” he told her.
Shona’s mobile phone chirped just then. She answered it, and handed it to James. “It’s Embries.”
“Shona has informed me of her investigations,” he said. “Added to what I have discovered, I can say that this appears to be the work of someone in, or very close to, the Waring government.”
“You’re sure?”
“Reasonably certain, yes. The trail, as expected, has become very muddy. There have been so many feet tramping about in this, absolute certainty is no longer possible. Rhys and I are returning to Blair Morven first thing tomorrow morning. Do nothing until I get there.”
James called Jenny again later that night. They spent an hour on the phone together. He told her what Embries had said about the likelihood of the Waring government being involved in the smear campaign. “I never liked that man,” Jenny replied. “I would love nothing more than to rub his face in it the way he’s rubbed yours.”
“I love you, too,” James told her. “Embries is coming back tomorrow and we’re going to figure out what to do.”
They said their good-byes then, and James went to bed and rose the next morning to face yet another day of infamy in the nation’s media.
Thirty-five
The morning’s crop of newspapers brought no joy. The accusation of service misconduct and subsequent cover-up was repeated in no fewer than four papers. It was cold comfort that some of the more respectable news organizations declined to run anything more than lengthy reports of the other papers’ investigations.
Both The Times and The Guardian, in a rare moment of agreement, called for a full public inquiry into the King’s affairs since leaving the service. The Observer and Evening Standard looked gleefully ahead to the impending referendum, and predicted a resounding victory for what they called “the spirit of new republicanism” which they insisted was sweeping through the land. The Daily Star offered readers a chance to win a holiday in Florida by guessing most closely the number of votes that would be cast against the King on Referendum Day.
Meanwhile, The Sun, anticipating a royal stonewalling, condemned the lack of communication and declared it the “silence of the damned.” Carried away with their tenuous pun, they showed a computer-aided photo of James as Hannibal Lector; it looked more like a fuzzy Freddie Krueger than the King, so the insult value was minimal.
As soon as Embries and Rhys returned from London, James called a staff meeting to decide how to respond to the continued media attacks.
“There is a psalm of King David,” James began, “a king who knew a thing or two about misery.” Reciting from memory, James said, “‘Be gracious to me, O God, for the enemy persecute me; my assailants harass me. All day long watchful foes torment me; countless are those who assail me….’”
James leaned forward and put his hands flat on the table. “I am sick of being the media’s whipping boy. I won’t take it anymore.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Cal quietly.
“That’s what we’re here to figure out,” James said. He stood abruptly and began pacing behind his chair. “All I know is that I cannot and will not let it go on like this.” He flipped a hand in the direction of the front lawn where the media pack was maintaining its prurient vigil. “They allege, they attribute; they speculate and implicate — they damn you to hell with insinuation. Just once I wish one of those rumormongers out there would drop the sanctimonious attitude and lay his facts on the table for the world to see.”
“There are no facts,” Gavin put in. “We all know there is not a single molecule of real evidence to support any of this.”
“It’s like a stag hunt,” Cal observed. “The belling of the hounds is meant to make the stag run for cover. Once he does that, the chase is on — and it only ends one way.”
Embries, slumped thoughtfully in his chair, said nothing.
“I’m not going to run. I’m going to challenge them,” James replied firmly.
“We could start by giving those hyenas out there a damn good thrashing,” Shona suggested. “Retaliate with a massive media blitz calling on the instigators of this hate campaign to put up or shut up — either produce the hard evidence or start making apologies pronto.”
She slid a sheet of paper across the table to James. “As it happens, Gavin and I have drafted a preliminary statement. If you approve it, Your Majesty, we can get it to the BBC, independents, and satellites in time to be aired on the noon and evening news broadcasts.”
James read it aloud to see how it would sound on the air. They had struck the right balance — neither too antagonistic nor overdefensive. It was a model of quiet defiance, diplomacy, and logic. Everyone agreed it was a masterpiece — except Cal, who was wearing the expression of a person who doesn’t like what he smells.
“What’s wrong, Cal?” asked James, laying the paper aside. “Don’t you like the statement?”
“Oh, it’s terrific,” he said caustically. “It’ll cause about as much commotion as a fart in a hurricane.”
“You don’t think it’s tough enough?” asked Gavin. “We can give it a harder edge.”
Cal shook his head. “Man, it’s just words, words, and more words. We’re choking on all these words. Anyway, the referendum is less than three weeks away, for crying out loud.”
James stared at the statement, and thought about the presenters and reporters beavering away, hunched over keyboards in cubicles, reading copy, writing copy, filling their newspaper columns with words. Suddenly he did not want to play that game.
“Cal is right,” he said, making up his mind. “We could go on trading shots with the press until hell freezes over. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking, and I refuse to spend what is left of my reign hiding out in this castle.”
James’ outburst stirred Embries from his meditations. He raised his head and gazed at James with approval. “Yes,” he said, as if he had been waiting for James to arrive at this conclusion. “What else?”
“No statements, no faxes, sound bites, or phone calls,” the King said. “In the Christmas interview, I said I wanted to take my message directly to the people, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Shona made to object. Embries held up his hand to silence her. “Go on,” he urged. “What do you see?”
“I see,” said James, “getting out on the road and meeting people where they are — in schools, bus queues, and office blocks, in hospital waiting rooms, tube stations, churches, and shopping malls. I want to talk to them and let them get to know me; I want to show them the kind of person I really am — not the media-created monster they read about in the scandal sheets.”
“A charm offensive,” said Shona; her face crumpled in a complicated frown. “It’s risky. It could easily backfire.”
“I’m all for it,” declared Gavin. “The King is right; we want to be seen taking positive action.”
“I say we put our boy on the road and let the people decide,” Cal added. “If the newspapers want to cover something, let them cover that!”
Embries added his endorsement, and Shona acquiesced, saying, “Your wish is my command, sir. Just give us a chance to draw up a list of venues and opportunities, and we’ll start the ball rolling.”
She and Gavin left together to begin making arrangements for James’ first foray. When they had gone, Embries asked, “You were almost convinced by Shona’s approach. What made you change your mind?”
“I’ve hidden away in my castle long enough. If I’m going to fight for the right to be King, I want a real flesh and blood confrontation. That’s what I’m good at.”
> Embries smiled, and the tight lines around his eyes eased a little. “You sound like someone I used to know,” he said.
“More coffee, Huw?” asked Donald, offering the pot.
“No, thank you, Donald — I’m floating.” The leader of the Opposition glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to keep this brief. My driver has strict instructions to get me back to the office by two o’clock sharp. I’m chairing a meeting of the Health Services Committee.”
“Well, this shouldn’t take long. I just wanted to bring you up to date on some plans I’ve been working on for a few weeks.” Taking a last sip of his coffee, he set aside the cup. The restaurant was full of businessmen, but quiet; Donald had chosen it especially. “What would you say if I told you I could make you Prime Minister?”
“I’d shout ‘hallelujah!’ and then ask who I have to kill,” replied the burly Welshman.
As leader of the Opposition, Huw Griffith presided over a motley assortment of splinter groups and marginal special-interest parties: old socialist Laborites; Celtic fringe nationalists; Ulsterites, who still clung to the hope that the Northern Counties could extricate themselves from the Irish Republic to re-create a new United Kingdom; radical Liberal Democrats; no-hope Greens; and the undead of the political graveyard; disenfranchised eurosceptic Conservatives.
Griffith’s firm, uncompromising hand had painstakingly molded the fractious assembly into a more or less cohesive coalition. Thanks largely to his considerable skill and no-nonsense leadership, the Unified Alliance had furnished a moderately meaningful opposition to Waring’s “Wall of Steel” government. Over the years, he had become extremely adept at defusing explosive situations with tact and goodwill. It was almost universally recognized among political analysts that the round, red-haired Welshman was responsible for single-handedly keeping all the unruly ducks in a row; if not for Huw Griffith, the Opposition would have collapsed in an unholy chaos of conflicting opinions, ideologies, and agendas.
“I am forming a new political party,” Donald told him, “and I want your support.”
“I’m listening,” said Huw, slumping back into the deeply padded booth. Coat unbuttoned over his paunch, tie loose, he looked like a traveling salesman on the last call of a long day.
“The purpose of my new party is to promote a single-issue platform,” Donald began.
“And that would be?”
“Preservation of the monarchy,” Donald told him. “It’s to be called the Royal Reform Party, and it’s organized solely to campaign for the defeat of the referendum to abolish the monarchy.”
Huw shook his shaggy head slowly from side to side. “Suicide.”
“I don’t think so.” Donald, eager, confident, took up his coffee cup and drained it in a gulp. “I think it’s high time we halted devolution before it’s too late. I think you’d be surprised to find how many people agree with me.”
“You’re crazy, Donald. Royal Reform Party, good lord.” Huw regarded his junior colleague pityingly. “The King is up to his eyeballs in sleaze. The press is crucifying him. Why do you want to go and stick your neck out like this?”
“The referendum is only about three weeks away. It must be stopped. It’s as simple as that. Moreover, I think you’ll find a groundswell of public opinion that this is a referendum too far. I’ll be the first to admit we’ve had some lousy monarchs, but with this new King, I believe we’ve got a new chance, and I think it would be unconscionable to proceed.”
Huw, a battle-hardened veteran of parliamentary politics, looked at his watch. “So, you’ve got the hots for this new King. To tell you the truth, I rather like him myself. But if it comes down to him or me, it’s no contest. King or no King, I will not put the party through another election defeat. Waring is weak, and his support is failing. A few more months and we should have the clout we need to bring his government down.”
“You disappoint me, Huw.”
“Sorry, but that’s the way it is. A new party is not in the cards right now. Take my advice, and just forget it. Forget all about it.”
When Donald did not respond, the Opposition leader leaned forward earnestly. “Listen to me, Donald, I’m serious. Waring is on the ropes. It’s taken years, but we’ve finally got him right where we want him. The British Republic Party has all but lost its majority. Next election is ours. And if you think I will stand idly by and watch you or anyone else ruin our chances, think again, my friend.”
Realizing he had been ranting, he lowered his voice, and added, “Now, I am sorry to be so blunt, but… Donald, we’re this close to victory. As of this week, Waring’s majority is down to four seats — four, for crying out loud!”
“I heard about Alfred Norris’ heart attack,” said Donald. “Who is the other?”
“Belknap,” announced Griffith. “The old pinch fist has been called before the audit committee over an offshore tax shelter scheme. Waring is pressuring him to take the heat, but my moles tell me he will happily trade resignation for prosecution. Moreover, we can get his name on the dotted line before the end of business tomorrow.”
“Then that makes it even easier,” began Donald.
“Not if you go through with this party of yours it bloody well doesn’t,” Griffith told him flatly. “You’ll split the Opposition, effectively increasing Waring’s majority at the very moment when he’s most vulnerable. Does that make sense?”
“I had hoped you would see the possibilities,” Donald said. He signaled the headwaiter, who approached with a small wooden box. Opening the box, he offered it to Huw. “Cigar?” asked Donald. “Direct from Havana by way of Jermyn Street.”
“Thanks.” Huw accepted the cigar, drew it along his upper lip as he inhaled deeply, then twirled the end in his mouth. Donald selected a cigar for himself; the headwaiter offered a small guillotine to chop the end off each cigar, and placed matches and a crystal ashtray between them on the table before retiring.
“So tell me. Why should we all line up and sing ‘God Save the King’ for you?” Huw asked, taking a long puff on his cigar.
This was the moment Donald had been waiting for. He felt his heartbeat quicken and his blood begin to race. “Because,” he said slowly, “in return for supporting my new party, I will deliver two of Waring’s seats to the Opposition.”
“Two seats?” The Welshman’s unruly eyebrows shot up. “Donald, my haggis-hurling friend, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Take away two from Waring’s column, add two to your side of the ledger, and what have you got?”
“Given Norris’ demise, and Belknap’s disgrace — a stand-off.”
“We have a name for that in Whitehall, I believe,” suggested Donald lightly.
The light came on in Huw Griffith’s eyes. It was the rosy dawn of his day of deliverance. “Hung Parliament.” He said the words as if whispering a magic formula.
“Simple mathematics,” Donald confirmed, tapping ash from his cigar. “The vote is deadlocked. As leader of the Opposition, you could instantly call for a confidence vote. With two new seats at your command, you could win that vote. Then it would be up to the King to dissolve Parliament and order a general election.”
Huw blinked at the beauty of it.
“Hey, presto! The ‘Wall of Steel’ collapses,” Donald concluded triumphantly, “a grateful population weeps, and you are swept into power on a tidal wave of change.”
Griffith sat for a moment regarding Donald with cautious anticipation. “You could get the King to go along with this? It would mean compromising his constitutional impartiality.”
“The King would certainly see the wisdom of replacing a government which has outlived its usefulness,” Donald replied. “I could get him to do it, but if the Act of Dissolution goes through, it will be ‘Good-bye, King,’ and ‘Hello, President,’ forever.”
“Ah,” said Huw, “so that’s what it’s going to cost. Saving the monarchy.”
“Obviously, he can’t dissolve Parliament if
he’s no longer King,” replied Donald simply. “We save the monarchy, and all the rest follows.”
“There is another way,” suggested Huw, blowing smoke into the air. “Don’t wait for the referendum.”
“Go for a hung Parliament now, you mean?”
“As soon as possible. Parliament reconvenes in two days. We do it then.”
Donald smoked thoughtfully. He had not anticipated this wrinkle.
“Listen, Donald,” Huw said earnestly, “your plan is sound as far as it goes. But we could campaign like blue devils and still see the referendum succeed by a country mile. On the other hand, we’d stand a far greater chance of defeating the vote if Waring and his henchmen were not around to sabotage our efforts at every turn. You said it yourself: we have to act while there still is a king. We do it now.”
“I don’t know, Huw….”
“Very well,” said the Opposition leader, leaning over the table, “off the record, just between you and me, what’s it going to take to get you to see things my way? Higher profile in the new Government? You want a seat on the front bench? You got it.”
“I think,” Donald replied slowly, “you may have misunderstood my intentions. I’m not seeking any personal advancement out of this. I want to see the Waring government assigned to purgatory as much as anyone, but not at the cost of the monarchy. I want the referendum to fail and the Act of Dissolution to disappear.”
A man in a dark suit entered the restaurant and was met by the headwaiter, who came to the table. “Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Griffith’s driver is here to collect him.”
“Thank you, Raymond,” replied Huw. “Would you mind telling him to wait? Won’t be a moment.” When he had gone, he turned to Donald and asked, “Well? What do you say?”