The PM paced around his office; it was nearly 5pm and time for another tête a tête with Dosogne. What would he have for him? The terse text message received in the middle of his awkward meeting with the chancellor had not revealed very much – just the time of this appointment. He chose to take that as a positive sign. He needed a positive.
The chancellor had, as expected, been furious at the perceived show of disrespect earlier. The PM was hoping to spin his profanities as a stress induced outburst but the Asperger's chancellor had always been oblivious to the troubles and perspectives of others and that excuse just wouldn’t wash. The PM had been forced to eat humble pie and apologize. Profusely. That at least had averted the immediate threat of a coup but, longer term, the threat remained. The chancellor was, of course, preoccupied by the prospect of a severe recession hitting the country and damaging his reputation; he was demanding the implementation of various draconian economic measures to pre-empt disaster as he saw it. The PM had no intention of signing up to any of these as he now no longer saw the point: the UK could simply spend its way out of trouble, bankrolled all the way by countless rare-earth billions. But he couldn’t spell that out to the chancellor, not without at least partially bringing him into the loop, and he was never going to do that! He gave his chancellor the impression of consent, largely by agreeing with everything he said. However, if Dosogne could deliver, he’d get rid the chancellor at the earliest appropriate moment and then use Dosogne again to deal with any political fallout. He almost couldn’t wait!
He shook his head. The old political instincts were coming to the fore again, and, quite frankly, there were much more serious matters at hand – like saving the human race, for example.
‘Agh!!’ This stank! This wasn’t politics, not his type of politics! This required…‘a statesman!’ he finished, out loud. Actually, if this all panned out–
‘Testing, testing. Good evening, Prime Minister, are you receiving me?’
The voice came from his left and he quickly spun around to view his monitor, yep there he was, and bang on time!
‘Receiving you loud-and-clear, Mr. Dosogne.’
‘Good. The black budget operation has been established according to your earlier guidelines: DEFRA are no longer involved and you can now manage the funds yourself, with or without our assistance. Should you wish to divert monies to or from the treasury – you can do that as well.’
The PM was impressed, impressed as a ten-year-old boy would be on receiving an amazing birthday present. It was incredible! This must be the work of the Malevolence, no human could do this! He studied the image on his screen: Dosogne looked distinctly frazzled; maybe even alien fungi occasionally got stressed! Except Dosogne, of course, was just the human lackey.
‘I’m impressed, Mr. Dosogne, but proof of the pudding and all that…’
‘Indeed, Prime Minister. I will now attempt to talk you through the technicalities, erm, they are quite formidable, but I can assure you that security is not, nor ever will be, an issue to worry about.’
‘Does that include knowledge of the ash cloud’s composition? There’s still a lot of ash to be collected, and anybody can have it tested.’
‘Yep, we managed to place a stop on that before it went viral. Several parties have been investigating, but only a small handful of labs can handle the relevant tests and we’re doctoring their reports as they are sent back. It just needed a classic Sponsor solution: break the communication links; disrupt all online gossip concerning the matter; ensure the power brokers only know what you want them to know. Nonetheless, a number of people do know about this, but they’ve been effectively quarantined. It’s dealt with.’
‘Very thorough, Mr. Dosogne. Okay, proceed.’
5.30. The PM’s intercom buzzed. The interruption came as something of a relief. He spoke into the speaker: ‘Stand by a moment, please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s my five-thirty, we’ll have to wrap things up for now, but, err, I think we’ll need to schedule another meeting regarding all this. It is, as you say, rather technical. Anyway, despite that, I am fully satisfied that this is viable and so I will proceed as per your instructions re: the American ambassador.’
‘Excellent! Are you meeting the ambassador now?’
‘No, he’s at six, as I indicated in the text. This is MI6. I’m following up on your lead concerning the “Gang of Four” and I don’t want any interference with this one, understood?’
‘Yes, please text us when you want to go over the RETC procedures again.’
‘Sure, will do.’
Dosogne’s image vanished from his monitor, but he would be back at six to “condition” the ambassador. That would be interesting to observe; would there be any signs? It was disquieting to think that Dosogne – and chum – could just as easily be doing that to himself, although he’d received assurances that that would not be the case and would in fact be counter-productive. Smelled like spin. He hoped not. Well, if he had been nobbled surely he’d grasp all this black budget shit better…
‘Send Sir Neville through, would you?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
***