Stanley Johnson - Kompromat

The prime minister was in the Cabinet Room. They shook hands. She motioned to him to take a seat. Barnard noted that her two aides, Giles Mortimer and Holly Percy, were in close attendance.

They spent a couple of moments in polite chit-chat. Then Mrs Killick said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here? It’s quite simple really. You were the chairman of the Leave campaign. You were and are a national figure. I was tremendously struck by the shock and concern that people on all sides showed last month when an attempt was made on your life. People trust you.’ She paused and looked straight at him. ‘I want you to be chancellor of the exchequer. I’m sure you’ll be a great success.’

The news struck him like a thunderbolt. Chancellor of the exchequer! One of the great Offices of state!

‘But what about Tom?’ he blurted. ‘Tom Milbourne?’

‘I’ve just sacked him. He came and left by the back door ten minutes before you got here.’ She looked at her aides. ‘Short and sweet. Wouldn’t you say, Giles?’

‘Short, but not exactly sweet, Prime Minister,’ Giles Mortimer replied.

Later that evening media news bulletins carried the full list of major appointments, decisions on some minor posts being carried over to the next day.

The most dramatic news was that the new prime minister had dismissed Tom Milbourne, the chancellor of the exchequer and leading Remainer, in what had apparently been a brief and ill-tempered exchange. Almost equally dramatic was the news that Milbourne’s successor was to be Edward Barnard, MP, former chairman of Leave.

The BBC’s Nancy Ginsberg commented, ‘The days have passed when chancellors were happy to use matchsticks and not much else to help them with their budgetary calculations. Given the turmoil that the Brexit vote has already brought about in terms of the drastic decline in the value of sterling, not to speak of all the other complications for the economy which may arise, the new chancellor will certainly need to have his wits about him. That said, there is no doubt about Edward Barnard’s enormous popular appeal, not merely as a leading Brexiteer, but also as a man who only last month survived a cowardly assassination attempt. Barnard is that unusual character. A man whom people, all kinds of people, seem to trust. Perhaps that is the real reason Mrs Killick has chosen him.’

Apart from Barnard’s appointment to the Treasury, the new prime minister had produced another stroke of genius. Harry Stokes, the ebullient and charismatic former Mayor of London, had been offered – and had accepted – the post of foreign secretary.

The news bulletins showed the new foreign secretary leaving Downing Street with a cheerful look as though this was the way he had planned it all along.

‘Tremendous opportunity!’ he shouted to the waiting crowd. ‘Broad sunlit uplands! Best of all possible worlds! Incredible honour!’

Nancy Ginsberg was back on air. ‘Fenella Gibson has succeeded David Coles at the Ministry of Justice,’ she explained. ‘And a Department for Exiting the European Union has been created, headed by that pugnacious street-fighter, Sam Berryman, as well as another department, designed to build new trading links with the brave new world out there beyond the EU. That is to be headed by Monica Fall, MP for Blyth.’

Later that day, Edward Barnard moved into his office in the Treasury. He found a note from the former chancellor on the chancellor’s desk.

‘Good luck, Ed, in your new job,’ he read. ‘Hope you enjoy sitting at this desk. Should give you a chance to help clear up the mess you have created! Yours ever, Tom’.

Sir Andrew Boles, KGB, KCVO, was delighted by his transfer from Moscow to Washington. With the United Kingdom heading for the door, as far as the European Union was concerned, it was obvious that the UK–US bilateral relationship would be absolutely pivotal.

Mabel Killick, the new prime minister, had called him personally.

‘Obviously we don’t know at the moment which of the US presidential candidates is going to win in November,’ she said. ‘Caroline Mann has a brilliant track record, but I can’t help feeling that Ronald Craig may surprise us all. It could be Brexit all over again.’

‘Well, if Craig wins, I’ll make it my priority to ensure that you’re the first world leader to be invited to the White House.’

World leader! Maybe that was laying it on a bit thick, Boles thought, as he put the phone down. Mrs K had served a long apprenticeship in the Home Office. She had yet to show her mettle on the international stage.

Two weeks later, Boles was already en poste in Washington, as the new British ambassador. Apart from his pleasure at being promoted to this top diplomatic assignment, the move to Washington had contributed massively to domestic harmony. His wife, Julia, had been only too happy to exchange Moscow’s stresses and strains for a new life in Washington. The magnificent Lutyens-designed mansion at 3100 Massachusetts Avenue, North-West Washington, was a consummation devoutly to be wished.

If life in Washington slows down over the summer (and it does), it resumes with a vengeance in September after Labor Day. Whenever they could, the ambassador and his wife tried to have breakfast together. This was, above all, an opportunity to fine-tune their diaries. The vital relationships in Washington, with senators and congressmen, with key government officials and White House staffers, were formed not so much through official contacts but in the course of much more personal interactions: on the golf course, at exclusive downtown clubs (some didn’t even have a name-plate on the door) and above all at small intimate dinners at home.

Around 6:00p.m. in the first week of September 2016, the car carrying Edward Barnard, Britain’s newly appointed chancellor of the exchequer, on his first official visit to Washington, swept through the imposing wrought-iron gates of the British Embassy. In spite of the residual ache in his injured leg, Barnard did his best to bound up the double staircase, to be greeted at the top by Sir Andrew Boles.

‘Edward. How good to see you. You’re looking well.’

‘I’m feeling well,’ Barnard said. ‘Even though I’ve just got off a plane.’

Half an hour later, after Barnard had had a quick shower and changed his clothes, the two men sat together on the terrace, pre-dinner drinks in hand.

They hadn’t seen each other since Moscow.

‘My God, what a summer!’ Boles began. ‘I can’t help wondering whether Mabel Killick didn’t do some kind of a deal with Jeremy Hartley. Go quietly or the coppers will be feeling your collar.’

‘Let’s not go there,’ Barnard replied. ‘We are where we are.’

He stood up as Julia Boles came to join them on the terrace. The butler served champagne and the evening sun bathed the Embassy’s vast lawn in a soft golden light.

‘We’re going to be a very small party tonight,’ Boles said. ‘We know you’re friends with Rosie Craig, so invited her. Her office said she was thrilled. Having you here was obviously a major draw. Big plus for the Embassy. Rosie’s not just her father’s daughter. Apparently he consults her on just about everything.’

‘She’s bringing Jack Varese too,’ Julia Boles added. ‘I gather you were all in Australia together a few weeks back.’

‘We were indeed. That was quite an adventure,’ Barnard said.

While they waited for Rosie and Jack to arrive, Andrew Boles summarized the current political scene:

‘Basically, Caroline Mann is in trouble. For some reason best known to himself, Wilbur Brown, who, as you know, is the director of the FBI, with only a few weeks to go before the election, has just announced that the FBI is reviewing some 30,000 of her emails, all of them mailed to or from her private, unauthorized server. This has been a total bombshell as far as her presidential campaign is concerned. Caroline has slumped in the polls.’