A CALL TO ARMS

“Please, Michael, I’ll only be a few minutes, it’s most important that I see the vice president, my very life could depend on it.” Tony Blair was panting from his exertions and could barely get the words out. “Sorry, Blair, but he’s under sedation. There’s a danger he might contract pneumonia, and the doc says no visitors,” replied Michael Pinkerton, the new White House chief of staff. “But Michael, you don’t understand, those SAS bastards have threatened to hang me and most of my cabinet. It looks very much as though they might depose my government and take control. If they do that, my life won’t be worth a damn.” “From what I saw on TV, there’s no ‘might’ about it. They have taken control of all the airports and TV stations, occupied Parliament, and declared martial law. If I were you, I’d pack my bags and leave the country pretty damn quick.” “But Michael, that’s what I want to see Dick about. I want him to grant me asylum, take me back with him when he leaves.” “That’s impossible. We’ve had instructions to the effect that departure from any UK airport is dependent on screening for any person holding a British passport. All defaulters will be denied passage and taken off the aircraft.” Blair’s face went pale. “You mean that you’ve been in contact with the bloody fascists? You’ve actually been talking to them?” “Of course. We’ve got a hospital plane coming in from Germany this afternoon. It should be at Gatwick around 4:00 PM. They’ll get an ambulance to us right away, and take-off is scheduled for 6:00 PM, provided we’re in the clear.” “My God, you mean to tell me you’ve actually cut a deal with the bastards? Why, that’s tantamount to recognition of their bloody coup. I must see Dick right away, I’m sure he can’t be aware of the seriousness of the situation. Good God, man, he can’t possibly leave us in the lurch like this. He’s got to help us re-establish control at once. You’ve got plenty of troops in Germany, you could fly them over in no time at all.” “Sorry, Blair, we’re not doing regime changes this year. Why don’t you ask your friends in the EU? You’ve been a lot closer to them than us just lately. You know, the ones who don’t want to know about Afghanistan and Iraq and have persuaded you to pull some of your troops out, against our wishes.” The voice was decidedly unfriendly and disrespectful. Blair looked puzzled. “Good grief, Michael, you can’t treat your best friends like this. I was the first to back George W in both wars. It could so easily have cost me my job, but I stuck by him through thick and thin. If he was here, he would be the first to acknowledge that.” “Maybe so, but that was then. You’ve been saying some mighty unkind things about Dubya just lately, and Dick doesn’t like it, and neither do I, for that matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.” Blair looked at the chief of staff in amazement. How dare he speak him like that? Not long ago, he would have been honored to take his bags up to the finest bedroom in the White House. It must be Cheney. He had never gotten on with the man. He was hard-nosed and ruthless, just like the crooks who had brought down Enron. And he had taken umbrage when he complained to George W about the obscene profits Haliburton and the others were making out of the reconstruction contracts in Iraq. A terrible panic came over him. Things were moving too fast and getting out of control. He must make haste and try his luck with the members of the EU. Surely they would not refuse to help after all he had done on their behalf, especially his rescue of the Lisbon treaty. Alastair Campbell was sitting alone at a small table in the center of the huge dining room when Blair finally found him. There was a bottle of Famous Grouse on the table, alongside three glasses, two of which were full to the brim. “Good God, Ali, I’ve been looking for you all over. I thought you’d done a runner on me. Blair panted.” “Not me, old son. When I do, I’ll tell you first. Any luck with Cheney?” “None at all,” Blair said bitterly. “He’s given me the brush-off, at least that’s what the chief of staff told me. He’s sick and they’re all leaving at six tonight, the cowardly bastards.” “I’m not surprised. It’s like rats leaving a sinking ship. Funny how politicians always crap themselves at the first smell of grapeshot. How about the others?” “Berlusconi’s left already, so have Harper, Merkel, Taro Aso, and I can’t find Putin or Sarkozy.” Campbell whistled. “Christ, that was quick. Forget about Sarkozy. The only help you’ll get from that weasel is a gun to blow out your brains.” “Not true, Ali, he’s a friend of mine. We hit it off right away.” “Bullshit, that’s what he wants you to think. He wants us out of Europe. Jesus Christ, man, where do you think those planes came from, Heathrow? They came from Normandy, every last one of them. Now that our Rapid Reaction Force is back here, it won’t be going back, thereby leaving the French the kingpins in the European army. So that leaves Putin. Do you really fancy setting up home with mad Russians? Putin will insist on you living well out of sight, in Siberia for instance. What will Cherie and the kids think of that, going to the outside toilet when it’s forty below? Forget about the big boys, I can get us out of here pretty damn quick.” Blair’s eyes lit up. “Golly, Ali, do you really mean that?” “I do, but it’s going to cost you.” The alarm bells rang in Blair’s brain, and he looked at Campbell suspiciously. He had obviously had plenty to drink, but he was still the same old rough-tongued rascal he had become dependent on for more than twenty years. There were times when Ali didn’t give a damn about anybody or anything, and this seemed to be one of them.” “How do you mean, Ali?” he asked warily. “What kind of value do you put on your life, son?” “Do you mean in money?” “What else?” “I dunno. Everything I’ve got, I suppose, but I’m not sure Cherie would agree with that.” “Like £10 mil?” Blair was incredulous. “£10 million? Good God, Ali, you know damn well I haven’t got anything like that kind of money.” “No, but Cherie’s loaded, and there’s your house in Berkeley Square and your old home, plus the flats in Bath and that stately home in Buckinghamshire.” “Ali, they’re mortgaged up to the hilt, I doubt if our equity on the lot is worth £2 million.” “Okay, so Cherie must be worth £2 mil with all the loot she’s made on the lecture circuit, plus your take. That’s £4 mil. How much are you getting for your memoirs?” Blair looked uncomfortable. “£4 million, I think.” “That’s as is. What do you think they’ll be worth if you’re in hiding and every bastard in Britain and the Middle East wants to see you hanging from a tree or a lamp post?” -------------