fic: la fenice 2.2
Chapter Two Ctd.
Downing Street, London
“Prime Minister,” the young attendant said, placing a beige folder on the green leather top of the large desk. The man behind the desk - an imposing looking man; bald save for a thick greying moustache, with profound wrinkles and beady, acute brown eyes; he was old, in his late sixties, but he looked and acted somewhat younger, indeed he was full of energy and vitality - picked up the folder and flipped it open to reveal a thin collection of papers. He removed one of them and looked at the crest at the top; it was from the SSB (Secret Service Bureau). As he glanced through the documents it was clear what he was being made aware of; a foreign plot to assassinate the Kings during their visit to Venice.
The immediacy of the situation was not lost on Prime Minister Hahn. He immediately picked up his phone and dialled the Foreign Secretary. His tongue teased the edges of his moustache in something of a nervous tic whilst he waited for the Foreign Secretary to answer the phone.
“Edmund?” He asked, in a voice that would not be out of place in Stratford-upon-Avon, on the stage playing Hamlet or Macbeth; “It’s Charles, have you read this brief from the SSB?” There was a pause while the Foreign Secretary answered; “damn it man! We need more than that, and heaven knows it’ll take meteors raining down from the sky before we get the Kings to voluntarily leave Venice... yes, I know... I suggest we hold an emergency Cabinet meeting tomorrow morning, I’ll have James send you the details later this evening. Thank you.”
With that, he put the phone down, and brushed his fingers through his moustache. He stood and paced over to the window, looking out over the garden. He well knew that if this wasn’t handled properly it could well turn into an international incident. It could well be that one was coming their way whatever they did, but Charles would still do everything in his power to prevent it. If only the government had more powers! The Kings could go where they chose, do as they pleased, with no consideration for politics or public opinion. They were reckless young men, in sore need of seasoning. Charles had spent years working his way up through the party, and fought hard to win the last election; he had earned his right to govern, he hadn’t been born into the privilege. He needed the young royals safely back in London as soon as possible, until then he had to prevent a scandal of biblical proportions without sending the army onto the streets to protect them from every suspicious looking citizen.
“James,” Charles called, and the young attendant came back into the room, “who is the current Goldstick?”
“Captain Arthur Pendragon, Prime Minister,” James answered without needing to think about it.
“As chief of the Sovereigns’ bodyguard, in charge of their security as it were, does he have the authority to compel them out of a dangerous situation?” Charles asked whilst pacing up and down his office.
James thought for a moment; “no, sir, he doesn’t. His job is to provide security to their Majesties in whatever situation they are in; it is not his place to advise on the situation itself. And even if it were his place, all he could do would be to advise, the Sovereigns cannot be compelled.”
“Thank you James, you may leave,” Charles dismissed the boy and sat back down in his chair. He opened up the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a crystal tumbler and a bottle of whiskey. He screwed off the top; the sound of the tin scraping loud in the quiet of the room. He poured the golden liquid into the glass up to about an inch, then placed the bottle down. He nursed the glass for a few moments, mulling over his options, before taking a small sip, careful not to allow it onto his moustache.
Charles had been Prime Minister now for a little over nine months, and for all intents and purposes he was still finding his feet. If the plot the SSB had made him aware of was true, then it would be the first major international incident of his premiership. In one sense, he revelled in the challenge, but in another... if he handled the situation badly, it could irreparably damage his standing with the public. The public loved the monarchy. They loved their new Empire. If anything happened to the Kings on Charles’ watch, he would inevitably be the one to get the blame.
He was severely limited in the measures he could take, though. He couldn’t order the military to protect the Sovereigns without the Sovereigns’ approval, as the military answered to them not to the government. Yes, the monarchy, as a matter of convention, deferred that authority to the government; but where such a deployment would influence the Kings’ themselves, they would undoubtedly take command of their reserve powers, at the very least to understand what was going on, at which point there would be no hiding it from them.
But hide it from them they must; the Kings must not appear flustered or anxious, or the people would soon pick up on it.
It was then that a bleeping alerted Charles to an email being received. He opened the email and read, to his horror, that the foreign assassin had already attempted a strike, and that a frigate was on route for Calais carrying the bodies of two of the Kings’ bodyguards. Whilst the Kings’ themselves were unhurt, they were now well aware of the danger; and the worst part of all - the killer had escaped. Charles’ head sank into his palm in frustration. Surely the Kings would listen to reason now and cut short their visit to Venice? Oh, but if Charles knew anything of them - especially King George - it would only strengthen their resolve to stay in the city!
Charles got up and pulled his blazer on over his shoulders, did the buttons up and straightened his black bow tie. With a huff he walked down the corridor of No. 10 and knocked on the door separating it from No. 11. The door was opened and he walked in, down the corridor and into the Chancellor’s office. “Paul,” he said, “I need your advice.”
Paul Smith; a short, rotund man with a grey goatee beard and short greying hair, sat behind his desk. He spoke with the sort of posh voice that only an upper-class man from northern England can have; thick, and rumbling; “of course Charles, sit down.”
Charles sat and was offered a drink from the Chancellor, which he readily took. Nursing it as he had done his whiskey, he pondered and eventually posed a question; “if you had to move an immovable object, what would you do?”
“I’d do the impossible,” Paul answered without hesitation, “and, failing that, I’d do the improbable; the two tend to work as good as each other, in my experience.”
Charles downed some of the golden liquid in his glass; “a right royal conundrum, my friend.”
Paul sat back in his chair and gave Charles a questioning look; “this is about our little Princes?”
“Hmm, seems their fox is practically cornered by the ravenous bloodhounds, it’s getting them to see it that’s the trouble.”
“Go on.”
“Valiant is in Venice.”
Paul sat up at the mention of his name, “you mean the one who...”
“Yes, that one,” Charles interjected. “It seems he’s working for a foreign government, although we’re not sure which.”
“We were lucky to hear he’s there at all, he’s usually too good to be spotted by our radar, however well attuned it is.”
Charles placed his glass down on the coffee table in front of where he sat; “it seems the extra money you put into the Ministry of Defence at the last budget is beginning to show results.”
The Prime Minister rose and bad farewell to the Chancellor, excusing himself back to No. 10. It wasn’t doing the impossible that gave him pause; it was actually something of an expectation for a man in his position. The people always expected you to deliver them the best services in the world for the lowest taxes in the world, regardless of the realities of economics. No, the impossible was Charles’ daily business; what gave him pause was the sensitivity of the situation. Paul was right, they were lucky to receive intelligence at all that Valiant was in Venice. Either he slipped up, or he wanted it known that he was there. Either way, Charles would have to proceed under the assumption that Valiant knew that the SSB was on to him, which in itself was a very worrying thought. Charles would like to think that he merely slipped up, but he’d been in politics too long to know that life is never that kind.
Just then, a dispatch from the Health Secretary arrived with a proposed statement on nurses’ pay. Charles put the Kings out of his mind for now and settled back down to work, reading through the statement and making notes on his notepad (he preferred to write by hand). He would phone Goldstick - Captain Pendragon - first thing in the morning, and then acquaint the Kings with the intelligence after that. As they had seen Valiant, and had two deceased soldiers to deal with, they were bound to start asking questions and it was better to nip that in the bud straight away. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a sip. He had a feeling that however he handled this situation might just define his premiership. It would all come down to the Cabinet meeting in the morning; where he would be able to brief the government on the Kings’ position and the assessment of Captain Pendragon, from there they could work out a plan of action. Until tomorrow, then, Charles thought, and went back to reading the statement.