Stanley Johnson - Kompromat

But the prime minister was clearly oblivious of the unfortunate historical parallel. He read out O’Rourke’s letter with obvious satisfaction:

‘“Dear Prime Minister”,’ Hartley began. ‘“After consulting with colleagues, I would like to invite you to visit me in Brussels at your earliest convenience with a view to resolving all outstanding matters of contention that may still exist between the United Kingdom and the other members of the European Union.

Yours sincerely, Michael O’Rourke.”

The prime minister waved the letter in the air. He didn’t exactly say, ‘ha, ha, ha and ho, ho, ho!’ but that was clearly what he had in mind.

The House broke into a roar of applause. Orders papers were waved. Tom Milbourne, the chancellor of the exchequer, leaned forward in his seat to pat the prime minister on the back.

Looking ineffably smug, the Prime Minster continued, ‘Mr Speaker, I would like to inform the House that I have already written back to the president of the Commission. He has in turn indicated that, if our discussions today go well, as I am sure they will, he will call an emergency session of the European Council tomorrow, with a view to reaching a full and final agreement, which I will then of course be happy to bring back to the House.’

As the prime minister sat down, Miles Pomfrey, leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, got quickly to his feet.

‘Can the prime minister tell the House what new terms the president of the Commission is offering?’

Jeremy Hartley bounced back up once again. This was the Punch and Judy Show which went on year after year. Nobody seemed to tire of it. People called it the cockpit of democracy.

‘I am sure the Right Honourable Member for Tower Hamlets would not wish me to reveal our negotiating hand. I can assure him that I will be focussed as always on obtaining the right deal for Britain.’

More ‘Hear, Hear!’s. More applause. More waving of order papers. Honourable Members liked a bit of exercise before lunch.

As he sat there in the hallowed Chamber of the Mother of Parliaments, Barnard had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Was Hartley indeed going to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last moment? Was he planning to go to Brussels and come back with some new offer to put to the people in the Referendum, an offer which really would prove irresistible to the electorate, instead of the thin gruel he had come up with so far? He corrected himself. ‘Pretty thin gruel’ was the precise expression that Joshua Cooper, that languid young man with the impeccable three-piece suit, had used to characterize the results of the prime minister’s efforts so far.’

If there wasn’t some new deal in prospect, then what else was the prime minister up to? One thing you could say about Hartley, the man was effortlessly cool and unflappable. Always looked as though he was enjoying himself. Bloody Eton, Barnard thought.

Edward Barnard was not the only person to be alarmed at the goings-on in the House of Commons. George Wiley, editor of the Sun , Britain’s largest-circulation daily newspaper, had received the clearest possible instructions from Mickey Selkirk about which bloody side to back in the Referendum.

‘Of course, you can make up your own mind,’ Selkirk had shouted down the phone. ‘I’m just telling you that I would hope that under any and all circumstances the Sun will support the Leave campaign. Actually, not just support the Leave campaign. I want you guys to lead the Leave campaign. Time we kicked the other buggers in the teeth!’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ George Wiley asked, as he watched the prime minister preening himself that morning.

Half the office had gathered round to witness the surprising new developments.

‘Hold the front page!’ Wiley shouted.

Over in the Vote Leave offices in Westminster Tower, Harriet Marshall picked up the phone. There had been no notice on the bulletin board that morning outside the newsagents at the end of her road. But this was an emergency.

‘Westminster Bridge. At two this afternoon,’ she said.

She knew her handler would be peeved about having to come down to Westminster when, from his point of view at least, a Hampstead Heath RV was much more convenient. But today, Harriet thought, the circumstances were really special. Things were moving so fast. She couldn’t afford to leave the office for too long. If Hartley really did come back from Brussels with a new last-minute deal on offer, then the leave campaign might have to rethink its whole strategy. It would be as well to get started now.

Nikolai Nabokov, whose cover title was First Secretary at the Russian Trade Mission in Highgate, London, but whose real rank and title was that of ‘Major’ in Russia’s security and espionage service, the FSB, was indeed cross. He had been looking forward to strolling up to the bookmaker on Highgate Hill.

Nabokov sighed. His jowls quivered. He checked his watch. If he caught the Northern Line to Embankment, then walked along the river to Westminster Bridge, he’d be in plenty of time.

Harriet was already there, standing on the pavement halfway across the bridge, gazing up stream past the Houses of Parliament, like any other tourist.

‘I see the River Police are out in force today,’ Nabokov said.

‘Yes, Parliament’s in session.’

Codewords correctly exchanged, they stood there for a moment or two, admiring the view.

‘You need to get a message to Moscow urgently,’ Harriet said. ‘If the PM thinks he’s done a deal, that means he thinks Germany’s on side. So there must be a mix-up somewhere. Germany’s meant to be pushing for tougher, not softer terms, where Britain is concerned. That way more people will vote for Leave – out of sheer disgust at the way we’re being treated! You had better move fast. We need to stop this one in its tracks.’

Nabokov hurried off. In the train back to Highgate, he checked the Paddy Power app on his mobile to see that, after the PM’s remarks in the House of Commons, the odds had already lengthened against a Brexit victory. Amazing, wasn’t it, how quickly the market factored in these things. Definitely time to get a bet on.

Michael O’Rourke, the first Irish President of the European Commission, was all smiles when UK prime minister, Jeremy Hartley, entered his office on the 13th Floor of the European Commission’s Berlaymont Building in the heart of Brussels.

‘Good evening, Prime Minister,’ O’Rourke came to the door of his huge office to greet his distinguished guest. They shook hands warmly.

Hartley was accompanied by Sir Luke Threadgold, Britain’s ambassador to the EU, more properly known as the UK Permanent Representative.

‘Good evening, Sir Luke,’ O’Rourke said.

‘Good evening, Mr President.’

In Brussels, it was important to get the titles right. These things counted.

Just as they were sitting down, a tall flaxen-haired woman, in her early thirties, came into the room.

Hartley leapt to his feet. ‘Hello, Mary.’ He gave her a kiss on both cheeks. During the course of the long and painful negotiation that the prime minister had conducted with Britain’s European partners in the run-up to the Referendum, Mary Burns had gone out of her way to be helpful. Or at least as helpful as she could be in the circumstances.

As the president of the Commission’s Chef de Cabinet, Mary Burns was one of the most important people in Brussels. She organized O’Rourke’s day. Set the agenda. Nothing came into, or left, O’Rourke’s office without Mary Burns knowing about it.

‘Come and join us, Mary,’ O’Rourke said.

While the prime minister sat on the sofa, the others pulled up chairs.