Kompromat

‘Imagine our negotiations with our EU partners go terribly wrong,’ the prime minister speculated, ‘and we don’t get the deal we’re hoping for. Imagine that we face the prospect of being confronted by tariff and non-tariff barriers on all sides and at every turn. Imagine that the City of London is going into meltdown as key firms shift to Brussels, Frankfurt or Paris with all the implications that has for the tax base. Imagine that the United Kingdom itself looks like going down the drain because the Scots prefer to stay in Europe and maybe Northern Ireland prefers to throw its lot in with the South, rather than face all the turmoil a new hard border between Northern Ireland and Eire would create.’

Her two aides nodded their heads in unison. ‘Yes, Prime Minister, we are imagining all that.’

‘Well, then?’ the PM challenged, ‘what would we do?’

Giles Mortimer fell back on the standard response, beloved of politicians throughout the ages.

‘Well, obviously, we’re not going to answer hypothetical questions.’

‘Oh, come now, Giles,’ the PM reprimanded him. ‘You’re not on University Challenge. Do you need a few minutes to think about it? Shall I go and put the kettle on?’

The PM’s sarcasm was palpable.

Giles Mortimer was beginning to see what the prime minister was getting at.

‘What you’re saying, Prime Minister, is that it’s possible this whole Brexit business may be a total cock-up and there really isn’t any good option out there for us, there are no broad sunlit uplands waiting for us, and if that situation does arise, say eighteen months from now, we must just conceivably want to reconsider our decision to leave the European Union.’

Mabel Killick nodded. ‘Something along those lines, perhaps.’

Mortimer shook his head. ‘But that won’t work, Prime Minister, I can assure you. Parliament will never vote to withdraw our application to leave the European Union without a mandate, without the clear instruction of the people, and that would mean a second Referendum. And you’ve already ruled out a second Referendum. Categorically.’

Mabel Killick was not out to be deterred.

‘Just imagine,’ she said, ‘that the Electoral Commission had sight of that Brexit dossier. Over in the United States half a dozen Committees of Enquiry are looking into possible interference with the electoral process in the run-up to last year’s presidential election. If the Americans can raise all these issues, then why can’t we? I am sure the Electoral Commission, once fully apprised of the situation, would feel it had to look into the conduct of last year’s Referendum, and then who knows what might happen? Or what about some brilliantly enterprising individual, like Tina Moller, for instance, who won such a victory in the Supreme Court last year over Article 50? Damn nuisance, from our point of view. But you have to hand it to her – she had us running for cover. Imagine the situation if the redoubtable Tina Moller gets hold of that Referendum dossier and goes back to the Supreme Court to ask them to declare the first Referendum null and void.

‘Which way do you think the Supreme Court would rule? Don’t you think they might order, not a second Referendum, but a re-run of the first? I’d put money on it.’

The two aides were gobsmacked. They had long admired Mabel Killick’s nifty footwork, with or without the kitten heels. But this was something else again.

Holly Percy raised the obvious objection. ‘But how on earth would the Electoral Commission or some Tina Moller figure ever get to hear about the existence of the dossier? After all, there’s only one copy left in circulation and you’re taking it home with you, to hide in it your scarf drawer.’

‘How would Tina Moller ever get to hear about the Referendum dossier?’ the PM mused. ‘Well, I suppose someone would have to tell her? Or else there could be a break-in at my home. We’d have to make sure the police weren’t on duty. We do have break-ins, you know, from time to time, even in leafy Surrey.’

As her aides made ready to leave, Mabel Killick asked Holly Percy to stay behind for a second.

‘My scarves are in the chest of drawers in the dressing room,’ she said. ‘Third drawer down.’

Holly made a note on her pad. ‘Scarves. Third drawer down.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

It wasn’t President Igor Popov’s first visit to Australia. He had been to Sydney in 2005 and Brisbane in 2014. But that had been official G20 business. They might have kicked Russia out of the G8, but they could hardly expel her from the G20!

But this visit, in the early summer of 2017 (late autumn ‘down under’), was different. Popov was on holiday. He flew into Kununurra in Western Australia in the presidential plane, the sleek, dark Ilyushin Il-96, with Galina Aslanova in the co-pilot’s seat.