Prologue

The people had been ready.  The politicians were not.  The power brokers moved quickly.  The consequences were grave.

It would be one of those days that all historians would describe as nation defining but about which analysts and academics would quibble for decades over reasons and causes and whatever all else decided controversial issues on which a nation’s people expressed opinions.

The prime minister was huddled upstairs in Number Ten with a few close friends and colleagues as they reviewed the decisions that had brought them to this point.  New politics they had called the kinder, more friendly version of Conservatism.  It had brought them through three elections.  Hopefully, in this latest play, it would establish a one nation Tory Party that was unified and that could press on for a further three terms, in the second or third of which the now fifty eight year old Premier could gently fade into the sunset.

For an hour or two after the polls closed, he felt relaxed as he went over the indicators. The markets had surged. Sterling had peaked.  The bookies had shortened the odds.  The pundits brooked no other outcome. Sure, the polls were ambivalent, but they had been discredited in recent contests – the advent of mobiles, social media and a youth that appeared disinterested.

 The cursors had all faced north. He’d taken the right decisions, put in the hours, gone out on the hustings and generally fought the good fight. They were not supremely confident. Just happy enough that they had gotten it right and that they had done more than was required.

At Campaign OUT HQ, the others also conveyed the impression of confidence. There were high fives and raised glasses between the Gang of Four and their pals.  They looked like coming through their little contretemps with reputations burnished and profiles enhanced. They could return to their posts with vigour and a shot at the main chance whenever it materialized.  The experiment was over.  They had done their duty.  They had served the nation.  There was a remote chance that they may even have vanquished the brains trust whose idea it was.

The dinner party in Number Ten was for family and friends and a couple of staffers. It was a great success.  Lots of levity.  No shortage of wine.  The shepherd’s pie, well it was adequate.

Shortly after eleven when the merry group had gone their way, the Prime Minister settled down in front of the TV with a glass of port and a few pals to celebrate a great victory and sweet thoughts of revenge on the bastards who had challenged him.

Two constituencies in the northeast were the first to report.

It didn’t take long. 

By 2.00 a.m. the BBC had called it.

By 4.00 a.m. he realised that everything had changed.  Changed utterly.

By seven, he was outside making his resignation speech.

 

 

Chapter 1

Alex Snark was not cut out to be the hero of the Brexit crisis. He was not a nice man.  Still youngish, stature challenged and sparse upstairs, his long beak didn’t help. Nor did it inhibit him. The tyrant with the budding gut and egg shaped head could wax hot and cold.  He may have been  the best damned political consultant in the English speaking world but today the super aggressive, super successful, transatlantic import who ran the show was angry.  Strange. It was the morning after the night before.  He showed no recognition of what he had achieved.  He had pulled off the most successful coup in recent British electoral history.  Despite this, his mindset, tone and actions still replicated those of the past fifteen weeks.  Always on the job, always pushing, always fuming.  The qualities, which had gotten him to where he wanted to be.  He had become the undisputed political manipulator and vote harvester, a formidable influence within the circle of power.

  He was in a cubicle, which he sometimes occupied out on the floor, terrifying a staffer who had the temerity to show him a less than perfect few sentences, when he exploded.  First, he was shaking his head from side to side, before he snarled, “It’s too circumspect. How many times I told you, you gotta say what you mean?”

“Look, Snark you can’t say it that way.  People will take offence,” she said.  The pretty Cambridge grad had used all her talents to shape a few words that were discreet but could bring to life the latest message they wanted to convey.

“You gotta hit them with it.”

“Listen, that won’t wash.  You can’t get in peoples’ faces like that.”

“Why not?” he asked aggressively.  His face was mottled and strained.

“It’s a cultural thing.” She wrinkled her nose.  The lines etched on her forehead were deeper this time when she frowned.  “Let me have another go at it. I’ve been here all night.”  She held out a hand.

He flung the few pages down on the table and grunted.

Snark was a legend.  For fifteen years, he had plied his trade and had become the meanest, nastiest, most ruthless political consultant and campaign manager in the English-speaking world.  His work schedules in a business that took no prisoners were inhuman.  It had its effects on him.  Some said they were episodes of ulcerative colitis, others said they had been heart attacks and others said they were unknown tropical after-effects from when he had cut his teeth in a few remote equatorial wildernesses. Whatever.  He could still do ninety hour weeks, work through the night and keep a half dozen personal staff running and jumping and fetching and researching. Campaign staff crews started at twenty and ran to several hundred.  Snark had made sure that the seventy in the London office were fully stretched since the campaign began.

At 7.00 am over a coffee in the small galley kitchen, one of his lieutenants, flushed with their success, thought he’d get some answers, “why do you drive yourself so hard?  And them? Surely some recognition is due, given what’s been achieved?”

Snark snorted, “time to get back,” he said, disappearing out the door, past the original large kitchen which had been converted into some sort of electronics centre which was wired and lit up to a standard that they would be proud of in  MI5  down the river at Milbank House.

The question had been rhetorical.  They all knew the answer.  Snark gave recognition when it was due.  They couldn’t remember the last time. In his eyes, the targets were simple, but they were never reached.  The job was always unfinished. The plotters and conspirators were always out to get them.  The media were always playing with his head.  There were dangers everywhere.  The work was never done, so the grunts had to keep their heads down on that grindstone and worry perpetually at the myriad problems that surfaced.

Right now, he was angry. Iridescent, in fact.  He was mad because he could not remember whether this was the start of the new day or the end of the old day. Didn’t matter. He woke up angry. Tended to get more angry at lunchtime. By dinner, he was frequently throwing things around the office. Most afternoons he simmered away and by evening he was either mellow or cooking up a real shit storm. They never knew what to expect with Snark. One thing they did know. The victory was down to him. Entirely. The four politicians with their widely known faces went out and said the words. His words. His ideas. He imposed discipline. A rod of iron. He’d been barking and shouting and cussing at them for the past six months.

He was prowling around the open floor, shifting from one mobile to the other, as he growled commands and issued updates when Ms. Cambridge came back with another draft.  She was attractive.  Her blouse was simple and modest.  Clearly uptight, her buttoned up appearance conveyed anxiety.  Fresh from the Cotswolds, Daddy thought an unpaid internship might either be a useful addition to her C.V. or a helpful life experience.  He was right, she was learning fast.

Snark tried his paternalistic look.  He had not risen to the apex of the political consulting world without developing some suavity and tactfulness. 

He put a hand out.  “Let me see it.”  The mouth was just a tad lopsided.  Hardly a sneer. Nor would it pass as a smile.

He put the few pages down on the nearest desk.  The hand went out again, “pencil,” he commanded. He knew how to shape and manipulate ambitious egos. This was not the time for it.  The campaign was over.  He was tired.  Emotional. He’d had a few Oxbridge types in and out of his British campaign. Same as the Ivy League cohort he used back home. One thing he had learned. They had to get the message.

He looked closely at the half dozen sentences. He stabbed at the sheets with the pencil and made a couple of frenzied marks and scribbles. By sentence three the pencil had broken. He pushed the half dozen pages off the desk.  They scattered. He threw the pencil after them.

Penelope got the message.  She retrieved the pages and retreated to her desk, looking around nervously to see who had witnessed the assault on her dignity and capability. Nothing.  Just another day at the office.  Routine.  She reached for her handbag and pulled out the pack of paracetamol, which she had found helpful on the long days.  She sneaked another look around the office.  Had she made a mistake in choosing politics as a career, she wondered.

Lenny was in a nearby cubicle, assiduously catching up with the sports news which he’d found it hard to get his normal fix of in recent weeks. When the call came, Lenny pulled himself together, breezily picked up the handset, listened for a moment or two, then tentatively stuck his head over the partition wall and interrupted Snark’s latest stream of consciousness thoughts and ravings. 

“I’d say it was one of your Yank friends,” Lenny announced, holding up the handset.  “Line three.”

Snark snorted and grabbed the instrument.  He’d been grunting and cussing since 6.00 am.  “I’ll take it in my office,” he shouted at the handset.

He slammed the door after him.  Suddenly, the atmosphere was brighter.

Snark didn’t need another distraction.  The shouting, jostling, chanting, heckling and screaming across the river in Parliament Square and elsewhere around London was sufficiently close to penetrate his consciousness.  The drone from the TV in the conference room, radios scattered around the place and numerous computers with their speakers on indicated it was no ordinary day.  That local background noise was annoying him, even though he was totally tuned in and interested.

The campaign staff was unsettled. The phones hadn’t stopped.  The stressed out occupants seemed to be lost or at least looking for guidance in the changed circumstances.  Things were tense enough without Snark doing his number on them. Even though it was just after seven, people were on edge.  Crowds were baying outside.  Parliament, Cabinet Ministers and public officials were under siege.  The meeja, as the press and TV were collectively called in Snark speak, was camped on their doorstep.  Worst of all, Archie Madison wouldn’t leave him alone to complete his work.  Every hour or so he was shaking his tree to see if any fruit would fall. Madison liked the limelight.  Of all the MPs and ministers, he was the media darling of Campaign OUT.

 

Chapter 2

It was the end of a long day. A lousy July day. As bad a time of year and as bad a day as it is possible to get in D. C., which as a southern city, can be hot and steamy. President Sam Snead was not in good shape. He had been closeted with advisers and meetings all day. Now the AC was on the fritz and the Oval Office was humid. It was hot and downright sticky. The conditions made him think of the world outside the massive mansion where he served as a prisoner.

This time of year, this kind of day, reminded him of the career he almost had in golf. A distant relative of the famous major winner of the same name, President Snead believed that he could have been as good as his namesake in golf, if he hadn’t been distracted by  student politics in his late teens. He had also been under the misapprehension that his political career might have endured as long as that of his golfing ancestor who’s record in tour wins had never been bested, even by prodigies like Tiger. That’s where he should be, out on the course. No difficulty there having a cool one without the implied criticisms.  He had standing invitations for Congressional, Winged Foot, and Shinnecock Hills.

Instead, he was shackled to his chief of staff, as they sweated the details of the disaster that was likely to hit them in November. With the polls showing the Grand Old Party behind by some twenty per cent in around thirty states and in every single Congressional district that hadn’t been fixed by either of the parties on the basis of a truly creative gerrymander or an equally imaginative bribe to voters.

Dave Haggerty sat comfortably back in a corner of one of the sofas. The President  sat in the corner of the one opposite, when he wasn’t jumping up and down with a fly up his ass. The man was on a downer.  He had only just reached the final months of his first term.  Ridiculous. A nonsense. So what,  if the party didn’t get the requisite votes?   Why should either of them care? When their day in the sun came in another four years and they could escape from the fetters of government, a wonderful third career awaited them both. Making money. The idea was very appealing. They had partnered together for thirty years on the way up, when Snead took all the honours. In their twilight years, they would both need the  partnership to continue but Haggerty was resolved that the balance of advantage would be his, next time around. He had three years and three months of the President’s memoirs completed already. Nice couple of million for him to start with, whilst his pal explored the wonders of Congressional and Winged Foot.

“Look, we have to decide something on Martinez,” Haggerty said. “He needs you up there twice over the coming weeks. Firstly, there’s a fundraiser. Then he wants you for his closing rally.  After that the Convention.  He wants to be there to support your nomination.”

President Snead was exploring how Frederic Remington had reproduced the sense of energy exhibited in the famed Bronco Buster bronze that sat on the chest of drawers to one side of his desk. “Who?” The President said without turning away from the sculpture.

“Jorge Martinez – San Jose”

“With a name like that, I thought he’d be a Democrat?”

“He was a Democrat.”

“Was?”  President Snead was puzzled.

“He joined us three years ago. Got in on your coat tails. Fourteenth District.  California.”

“I see him on TV all the time. Always finding fault with our legislation.  Claims it handicaps his people”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“So, he’s still very much a Democrat?”  The President’s scowl was mean.

“Spiritually, he is.  Except that, technically he’s one of us.  He’s supporting an important bill coming up in the next few months.”

“Which bill?”

“Immigration.”

“How can Martinez of all people support us on immigration?”  Again, the troubled look crossed Snead’s face.

“Don’t ask.”

“But we want to stamp it out.  Eradicate immigration and all that goes with it .  It was a campaign promise.”

“He’s willing to go along.”

“But he’ll be a loser both ways. No Hispanic support and all the Silicon Valley money in his District will go to Ovington.” The President was concerned. He stopped stroking the horse’s ass and faced his pal

“So what?”  Haggerty was a bottom-line guy.

“So how will he get elected?”

“We fixed the boundaries of his district, that’s how.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. He’ a problem, or was a problem, or will be a problem.  How did we get on to discussing Martinez?  The President asked.

“We started off by discussing current problems.”

“Martinez may very well be a problem. We got plenty of problems but I don’t need that one right now.  I pay you to sweat the small stuff.”

“I get it. You want to deal with big issues only?” Haggerty asked.

“Deal with is not a phrase I’m familiar with. Get rid of – maybe?”

“China? Is that big enough for you?”

President Snead was still restless. He’d rambled distractedly back towards his desk. Running his finger along the edge, he stood admiring it, as he considered whether China should be tackled just then.  He decided to play for time.  He’d had his fill of problems.  “I thought we had them where we wanted them? Haven’t they turned capitalist?”

“That’s the problem.”

“That’s a problem?”  The President was annoyed by the persistent obstacles.  He turned away from his preoccupation in assessing  the artistic merits of the pieces in his office and faced Haggerty.

“Yeah, they’re messing up our markets one at a time. We don’t manufacture anything in this country anymore.”  Haggerty sounded regretful as he said it.

“What about iPods and icars and iplanes?”

“Planes look set for Brazil or maybe Canada. Cars? Definitely China.”

“Okay, you got my attention.”  The President moved around and sat at his desk adding emphasis to his words.

“They’re moving in on our markets. The EU could fall next.”

“Europe?” The President looked shocked. I thought Europe was sound?”

“It’s disintegrating.”

“We were talking about China. Now, you’re telling me that Europe is a lost cause.” China is a gigantic carrion crow, poised to pull at the rotting pieces of Europe.  The

 Chinese are invading; they’re displacing us over there,” Haggerty said.

“I get it; you’re talking about vulture capitalists.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Britain.” 

“You don’t mean Great Britain.”

“I do, literally.”

“How come?”

“The Brexit vote.  The results are in.”

“Oh yeah, I saw something about that on TV.”

“You did and you need to heed it.  Same issue as here, immigration.  In addition, the great unwashed.  They’re getting edgy.  Not getting their fair share of the cake, or so they believe.

“Let me think about all that.  You mentioned Britain. They were here earlier in the year. I had lunch with them. Promised to play golf with what’sis name. I talked to him. He told me they were having some kind of troubles over there. We discussed the possibilities of Britain becoming the fifty-first State.  He didn’t think it would help.  Might be a hard sell, he said.  They are already trying to get out of a relationship that has gone sour.”

“That’s the problem. You put ideas in his head.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, he liked the thought.  He’s exploring the options of hooking up with someone new.  Now they might become the thirty-fifth province – you know, like Sichuan or Hunan?  In any event, they’re making preparatory moves.  They don’t like their present partners, the EU.  They are about to serve notice on them that they want to move out.”

“Relationships are difficult, aren’t they? The President asked.

There was a light knock on the door. Mrs. Snead stuck her head in, saw that there were just two of them and walked in. “Just back from playing golf, dear. Dinner in an hour, after I shower.  How about Chinese?”

“Yes dear, I’ll be there.  Matzo Ball soup, is that Chinese?”  President Snead was hungry.

“With maybe General Tso’s to follow?” she was still holding the door.

“When did we meet him?  I thought we were at home this evening?”  He turned to Haggerty, “Do I need a briefing?  I don’t want to talk to any of our military.  I always have to have that terrible Chin woman with me when I meet them.”

“Can I mix you a Martini and have it ready?” The last time Mrs. Snead had mixed a Martini was seven years ago. Her last Martini had been seventy minutes ago. She’d already got a start on the evening’s festivities.

Nonetheless, the President liked the idea.  “That would be nice. I’ll be right up,” he said to her as she pulled the door behind her.

“Dave, solve that British problem.  They’re pissed off with us. The Secretary of State and his loose mouth was letting fly at them at some conference in some God forsaken spot.  It’s forcing them under water.  I owe them.  I don’t want them selling out to the damned Chinese, or the Russkis.  Do what you have to do.  Britain is a vital national interest.  Get  the CIA working on it.  Discreetly.”

Chapter 3

The head of the European Commission strode purposefully along the Brussels boulevard undeterred by the threatening sky with its light drizzle. Had he stopped to reflect, he might have considered it a more hospitable city than his native Paris. Paris perhaps was not homely, but Brussels fell much shorter on that axis than the French capital.  Brussels did have one advantage.  He could function there more readily in his native French, although at this point in his life, he was competent in half a dozen languages. The extraordinary traffic of individuals into and out of its bleak centre, at all times of the year, made Brussels a city in transition, somehow seeming to lack the permanence of any other major European metropolis. Jean Marie Ricard was not in reflective mood.  He was intent on taking the first step in his master plan – deal with the Brits.

He had been in the business of politics for more years than he cared to remember.  He had started as a young trainee economist somewhere in the bowels of the Bank of France.  Half a lifetime later, he had emerged to serve a couple of terms as a cabinet minister. Now, he was on the final leg of a second career as President of the EU Commission. He had his eye fixed firmly on a third. It would be a glorious swansong to cap an illustrious record of achievement.

His remuneration as President of a major European institution was lousy.  In his opinion.  The prestige was enormous, the perks more so. Unusually the perks were not part of the package.  He had been forced to develop them himself.  Nonetheless, he had been able to survive on his lousy pay.  What he would or should have paid in taxes had been securely and secretly placed to one side to underwrite the cost of landing the third career.  At sixty-three, it was expected that Jean Marie would be on wind down. The reality was that he was only getting started. He had a much larger prize in his sights.

Thankfully, he had a wife who was somewhat agreeable to his plans generally, even if she was unaware of the specifics. French women were understanding that way.  His particularly so.  That quality of silent compliance meant keeping out of the way and being tolerant of his foibles. She got what she wanted from the relationship.  She was happy with that.  He did not interfere in her world, nor she in his.

The Commission was not known for its excitement, until the EU’s world had started to fall apart.  He had learned to fashion his involvement in the political and regulatory worlds to provide stimulation for himself and for the countries whose economies he was supposed to foster and guard. However, in recent times he and his institution had experienced too much of a roller coaster type existence, akin to what Alan Greenspan, one time Chairman of the Fed, famously called The Age of Turbulence. The Commission used to be marked by disturbance every half dozen years. The financial crisis, Greece, the immigrant onslaught from North Africa had changed everything.  Three cataclysmic events over five years.  Now the damned Brits wanted out.   Recently his world had experienced a further series of economic flurries, which had threatened to destabilise it.  The Brits now wanted to turn that world  upside down and derail a spectacular career and toss him on the dross heap with the rest of mankind.  A short time to go and new objectives in mind, Ricard was determined to crush any threats to his future. His plan was simple.  He had to show leadership in the crisis.  He would start by putting down the upstarts.  Britain and a few other nations had lost the run of themselves.  The Commission meeting on Wednesday might be a good place to start.