Christopher Nuttall: The Fall of Night

Caroline took a moment to sort it all out in her mind. “You must be aware that the European Union has become much more unpopular in both Britain and France, to cite, but only two cases,” she said. It was true; the British believed that Europe had been ruining British industries, while French opinion blamed the endless influx of Algerian and Palestinian refugees on the EU. “Why do you feel that your… transnational group would win elections to the European Parliament?”

“We have already won seats in several elections across Europe,” Daphne reminded her dryly. “I have also been offered the chance to compete in the Liberal Democrat internal elections for leadership as the party approaches the coming election.” She smiled. “I don’t know if I will be running as an independent MP, or if I will leave that to others within the Front and take up the nomination, but it should give you some idea of my… electoral chances.”

Caroline considered. There had been a time when it had been almost unthinkable for politicians to switch parties; now, it happened almost as often as footballers changing football clubs. What did it mean to the country? Had the Liberal Democrats decided that Daphne was a vote-winner, or had their own Far Left insisted on her challenging the current leader, or…?

There were too many possibilities. There were people who would detest her; they wouldn’t vote for the Liberal Democrats if it meant that Daphne got to plant her arse in Number Ten. The march today wouldn’t help matters; for everyone who saw the marchers and felt admiration, there would be ten who would be disgusted. The Far Right was also making a comeback; the fallout from the American War, everyone was certain, would eventually fall on the United Kingdom. They allowed themselves to forget London, Glasgow, Blackburn…

Daphne stood up. “I would love to continue chatting to you, my dear, but I fear that I have to walk all the way to Speaker’s Corner and give a speech,” she said. She grinned suddenly. “Of course, it is only five minutes from here, and the stewards have kept the passage clear; would you like to come with me?”

Caroline shook her head. She had been lucky to be granted the quick interview, but there was already too high a price; the price for the scoop of walking beside Daphne was too much for her to pay. There would be dozens of audio and visual sensors trained on her as she mounted the soapbox — literally; the Front had found one specially for her — and she would gain nothing from being close to her.

“Be seeing you, then,” Daphne said.

“Break a leg,” Caroline replied.

It would not have surprised Zachary Lynn — or the man who had refused to think of himself as anyone other than Zachary Lynn — that the Police had a command post near Hyde Park. It was common sense… and, if the government of the day had little in the way of common sense, or even self-preservation instincts, the Metropolitan Police had plenty of experience in real police work. And besides, Lynn himself had a command post, far too close to the heart of the action for anyone’s comfort.

Lynn himself smiled as the marchers flooded into Hyde Park. There were more than he had predicted, even with his own opinions of the degree of foolishness of the British public set very low indeed. It was impossible, among other things, to give every citizen an ‘above average’ income, let alone provide a counterbalance to America and cut the military at the same time. France’s attempt at ‘assisting’ Algeria should have proven that… that, and the reappearance of the Argentinean claim to the Falklands.

There was a buzz in his earpiece. “Sir, we have apprehended Baz Falkland,” his aide said. The aide knew everything, the only person in Britain apart from Lynn who knew the entire scope of the plan. If the Police stumbled onto them, he would have to carry on while Lynn killed himself to prevent interrogation. “Do you have any specific instructions?”

Lynn nodded. “The same as usual, assuming that the Police haven’t noticed,” he said. They had a link into the heart of the Metropolitan Police, a mole who had provided information that they had used for their own reasons; they would know pretty quickly if the Police had realised that Baz Falkland had been more than just muscled away. “Tell him that he can work for us at good rates of pay, or he can enter the Thames with concrete overshoes.”

On the display, broadcast by half a dozen news channels, some of them old and trusted, some of them new and inexperienced, Daphne Hammond was beginning her speech. It was a good speech, one of her speechwriter’s best; she would condemn the Americans, praise the European Union, and promise a new Heaven and a new Earth if her party was elected. He was proud of Daphne Hammond, in his own way; it was a shame that her talents could not be used openly for the cause.

He smiled. American flags were burning, London was almost at a standstill, and the plan was moving ahead.

It was turning into a very good day.

Moscow, Russia

The line of cars appeared out of nowhere, seemingly entering the city at the same time and angling into a single line that advanced mercilessly towards the Kremlin. They were all black, all with tinted windows; the police herded the population of the city out of the way as the cars flashed onwards. There were few protests; the citizens of Moscow knew that their lords and masters were in the cars, many of whom deserved actual respect. A handful of criminals, convicted and sentenced to work as brute labour, made obscene gestures as the cars passed; their supervisors, themselves brutes, laid around them with their whips. Order would be maintained.

General Aleksandr Borisovich Shalenko sat in his car as the vehicle entered the Special Security Zone at the heart of Moscow, the heart of Russia. Decades of war with the Chechnya rebels and the re-absorption of the former SSR states in Central Asia had made Russia a target for every international Jihadist group; even the extreme control practiced over the citizens by the new government found it hard to prevent all attacks. No one was allowed to enter the Special Security Zone without being searched, not even a General and one of the President’s closest friends and confidents; Shalenko would have had the guards executed if they failed to search him with as much care as they would devote to a lowly civil servant.

“Papers, please,” a guard said, his AK-2015 pointed just away from Shalenko’s chest. He wouldn’t hesitate to fire if there was something seriously wrong, or even if his suspicions became aroused; no one would forget the truck bomb that had devastated Stalingrad, or the LNG tanker that had devastated Oakland in America. Shalenko passed over his papers without comment; the days when Russian Generals could barge though security were long over. “You may pass, sir.”

The driver took the car into the car park, where it would be searched, while Shalenko himself walked into the guardhouse. The search process was through; the guards removed his service weapon even as they checked his identity, his possessions, and the contents of his security briefcase. They weren’t cleared for any of the information in the briefcase; they had to wait for one of the President’s aides to inspect it for them, just in case there was a bomb inside. It wouldn’t be the first time that an unsuspecting officer would be turned into an unknowing suicide bomber. Finally, however, Shalenko was permitted access into the inner heart of Russia.

“Welcome back, General,” Colonel Marina Konstantinovna Savelyeva said. Her official rank was Colonel; her position as chief aide to the President gave her status and power well above her station. In Russia, power, responsibility and rank sometimes existed in inverse proportion to one another; Shalenko himself had once been a mere Captain with Colonels and even Generals reporting to him. “The President is keen to begin the meeting.”