by D C Alden
‘Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment, please.’ The chatter died away and Danny’s cheeks reddened as the small crowd studied him, curious expressions on their faces. He saw one woman on the sofa whisper something to a heavily made-up blond next to her and both women giggled softly, ramping up Danny’s embarrassment. Some edged closer to him, while others lingered around the walls, their faces lost in the shadows. Danny felt like a specimen in a glass box. Ray’s strong fingers squeezed his shoulder.
‘Friends, I’d like you to meet Danny Whelan. As most of you know, Danny has been a guest of mine for a while now and I’d like to think in that time we’ve become friends, right Danny?’
Danny’s cheeks burnt a deep crimson. Thank God for the beard. ‘Er, yeah, of course Ray.’
Laughter cackled around the room and Danny felt a flash of anger for being the focus of their amusement. Ray gave Danny another squeeze and continued.
‘When Danny went on the run he used his wits to evade capture, to keep himself fed and dry. He used guile and ingenuity at every turn, hiding by day, moving like a fox through the night, his one aim to make it here, to my door, unmolested. And, more importantly, undetected.’ Ray let his arm slip, but Danny didn’t really notice. He was too busy enjoying the quiet respect that Ray’s guests were suddenly giving him. Tess appeared next to Ray and silently handed him a champagne flute. ‘You’ve all read Danny’s story,’ he reminded them, ‘you’ve all read the lies, the distortions, the snarly pictures beamed across the country. The Danny Whelan I know is nothing like that. He’s intelligent, loyal, patriotic, has a strong bond with his poor father and, like all of us here tonight, cares passionately about the future of this country. If anyone encapsulates what it means to be a patriot today, it’s this man here. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Danny Whelan.’
‘Danny Whelan,’ the guests murmured in unison, raising their glasses. Danny choked up at the mention of his father, at Ray’s kind words. In the silence he struggled with his emotions.
Ray emptied the contents of his glass down his throat and smacked his lips loudly. ‘Now, let’s get pissed!’ As the room laughed and clapped, Ray steered a grateful Danny towards the buffet tables set against the wall. The white linen tablecloths were decorated with champagne buckets, with neat rows of tall crystal flutes, and an impressive feast of hot and cold foods. Ray studied Danny’s face as he set his glass down.
‘See?’ he laughed, ‘Told you they wouldn’t bite.’
Danny stared at the carpet. ‘Ray, what you said, those words, I don’t know what–’
‘Look at me,’ Ray ordered. Danny raised his eyes. ‘I meant every word of it. You’re something of a legend, Danny, a symbol of hope to all of us.’ Ray leaned over the table, selected a large prawn from a carefully arranged display, and popped it into his mouth. ‘Every day you wake up a free man, every minute you evade the clutches of the state. That’s another small victory for the patriots of this country. You’re important to us, Danny. Even more so, now that bastard treaty is being forced upon us.’ Ray sucked his fingers clean, picked up another glass of champagne and chugged it back. He handed a full one to Danny.
‘Cheers, Ray.’ He took a careful sip, enjoying the cold crispness on his tongue. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Course,’ his host invited, chomping on another prawn.
‘If the treaty’s so bad, why have a party?’
Ray burped softly, fish breath wafting across Danny’s face. He tapped the side of his head with a greasy finger. ‘It’s all about mental attitude, son. Every setback must be viewed as an opportunity to do things differently, to reassess one’s strategy. The Movement is threatened? Shut down the Movement and go in a different direction. You thought it was dead, right? Take a look around you.’
He pointed a thick finger at the TV screen, where Jacob Hooper’s face filled the giant video screens around the stage in Cairo, his transatlantic apology and message of support barely audible over the abuse and hoots of derision around the room.
‘It’s on us now,’ Ray went on, ‘nothing we can do about it. By midnight tonight the Treaty of Cairo will be signed into European law without a single referendum in any EU country. That’s a major setback, right?’ Danny nodded his head. ‘Of course it is. In fact, I’ll go one further – I’d say it’s the end of Europe as we know it.’
Danny took another sip of champagne, tiny bubbles exploding inside his nostrils. ‘Really?’
‘Think about it, son. All someone has to do is find their way to Egypt and claim asylum under European law. And what happens once they’re granted leave to stay? You think they’ll wait around in that fly-blown shithole until the Egyptians pull their finger out of their arses? No chance. They’ll be winging their way westward, into old Europe, where Muslim enclaves spread like weeds, filling the cracks, expanding. A new mosque here, a faith school there, and all the while we’ve got hospital maternity wings bursting at the seams with foreign litters and governments bending over backwards to fill the begging bowls. And there’s nothing to stop these newcomers, no rules, no restrictions, no borders, nothing. The relocation programme was the start of all this. I mean, does anyone seriously believe that those bloody refugees will up sticks and relocate back to Pakistan once the war ends? Turn their backs on free health care, central heating, internal plumbing, wide screen TVs, welfare credits? Who in their right mind would do that?’
Ray selected a dainty pastry morsel that Danny couldn’t identify and popped it into his mouth whole. He washed it down with half a flute of champagne, then wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. When he started speaking again, Danny noticed he’d dialled down the volume, yet his voice and words were laced with a bitterness that made Danny feel decidedly uncomfortable.
‘We’re under attack son, have been for centuries. It’s all planned, all been worked out. They can smell the stench of our weakness. Turkey joining the EU, the relocation programme and now Cairo. You think they’re unrelated events? Think again, son. Europe may be partying tonight, but the hangover’s going to be a killer. Of course the media will paint a pretty picture at first, smiling families clutching EU passports, deluded liberals regurgitating the same old mantra about the need for millions of immigrants, otherwise our feeble little countries will fall into ruin. I give it ten years, maybe less, then a tipping point will be reached. When that happens, they won’t bother to hide it anymore. There’ll have won and a conquered Europe will sink slowly into anarchy. Ethnic violence, religious bloodletting, cities in flames, you name it. It’ll be the end of everything.’
As Ray stared into the middle distance, Danny seized the moment to belt back a mouthful of champagne. He felt thoroughly depressed by Ray’s bleak vision of the future, and as he watched his host he realised the man felt the same way too. Still, he consoled himself, by then him and dad would be half a world away, living a decent life in New Zealand and watching Europe’s downfall on the news. They’d miss home, of course, but life wouldn’t be that bad.
‘Evening, gents.’
Danny turned, saw the fat bloke, Marcus, sidling up next to Ray. ‘Lovely spread as usual, Mr Chairman.’
The interruption seemed to snap Ray out of his sombre trance. He waved a hand across the food-laden tables. ‘Help yourself, Marcus.’
‘Way ahead of you, Raymondo.’ Marcus laughed, patting his pot belly. His fingers moved to the breast pocket of his black shirt, a huge tent-like affair that gathered in scruffy folds at the ends of his wrists. ‘Got something for you, Danny. A present.’
‘Not here,’ snapped Ray. He led them out of the room to a quiet, book-lined study across the hallway, closing the door firmly behind them.
‘I thought they were your friends,’ Danny said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.
‘They are, but anonymity is one of our more formidable weapons,’ Ray explained. ‘Take Marcus here, for example. Only a few of us know he works for the government. Compartmentalisation, that’s the key to good security.’ He tu
rned to the fat man and held out his hand. ‘Let’s see it, then.’ Ray took the ID card and gripped it between thumb and forefinger, inspecting its detail. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slipped them on, holding the card up to the light. He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Beautiful. A masterpiece.’
‘It’s the real deal,’ beamed Marcus, ‘likewise the national insurance number. The upside of Cairo means the Ministry has to generate hundreds of thousands of new numbers to satisfy the expected waves of migrant workers.’
‘Leeches,’ Ray spat.
‘Did Tom come through with the latex mask?’
‘He’s putting the final touches to it. Should be here next week.’
Ray handed the ID card to Danny, who found himself staring at his own image, complete with expertly applied latex makeup. He barely recognised himself. The name on the bio-metric card read ‘JOHN D. STEPHENSON’. Danny turned the plastic over in his hand. It certainly felt like the real thing, even down to the high-tech hologram and the EMV chip. His inspection of the card was interrupted by the silence around him. He looked up to see Ray and Marcus staring at him.
‘Well, what d’you think, son?’
‘It’s perfect, Ray. Mint.’
‘All legal and above board. Airtight,’ Marcus assured him.
Danny turned it over in his fingers. ‘Thing is, if I’m leaving the country on the quiet, why do I need this?’
Ray took the card from Danny and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Remember what I said earlier, about setbacks and opportunities?’ Danny nodded. ‘Good, because an opportunity has presented itself to us, something that will upset the party mood in Brussels.’
Marcus folded his stubby arms and nodded silently. Danny’s throat suddenly felt very dry.
‘Really? What’s that then?’
Ray didn’t reply, just turned away and opened the door to the room. The sound of laughter drifted across the hallway. ‘Soon, Danny boy. Now, let’s get back to the party, shall we?’
Marcus smiled and winked. He clapped Danny on the back and ushered him from the room.
Deputy Prime Minister Saeed flicked the embroidered vents of his tunic and gratefully re-took his seat, easing himself into the deep red cushion. It was the twelfth standing ovation since the ceremony had begun and his legs were beginning to tire. A short distance away, President Dupont stood behind a bloom of microphones as he delivered a carefully worded address that spoke of peace and unity, of economic progress and the free movement of peoples that would sweep away borders and barricades, both seen and unseen, from the face of Europe. If only he knew, if only any of the Infidel leaders realised the gravity of the mistake they were making.
Saeed looked around him, at the Europeans who clapped and cheered their own demise, and felt nothing but contempt for them. At the podium, the President concluded his speech to thunderous applause, the multitudes across the desert lending their voices to the ovation. One by one, the heads of government stepped forward and signed the Treaty of Cairo, the line of suited dignitaries winding across the red-carpeted stage as the orchestra played softly in the background. As the minutes went by, the signatories each stood in front of the marble plinth and made their mark on the treaty, then gathered at the side of the stage. Congratulations were exchanged, hands shaken, backs slapped and cheeks kissed as the signatures on the treaty slowly filled the page. History was being made, and they were all part of it.
Saeed’s turn finally came. He stepped forward as a million camera flashes lit up the night, twinkling like stars across the desert. He approached the plinth and stood behind it for a moment, admiring the rich texture of the treaty document, the rows of swirling signatures, the declaration at its head that would mark a new stage in Europe’s long and bloody history. An aide waited, the uniquely crafted Mont Blanc pen held in an outstretched hand. Saeed took it, then swirled his signature across the page next to his printed name. He straightened up and shook the waiting President’s hand as the world’s media recorded every moment.
‘Congratulations,’ beamed President Dupont.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ Saeed murmured in reply. He saw the President’s smile slip just for a moment, the eyebrows coming fractionally together as the words registered in the Frenchman’s consciousness. Any reply, if one was forthcoming, was lost as fireworks exploded across the horizon, lighting up the ancient stones of the pyramids and the night sky above in a thunderous storm of noise and colour. The dignitaries and officials seated in front of the stage sprang to their feet, cheering and clapping their joy. Car horns across Cairo joined the clamour, and unofficial fireworks whizzed skyward from thousands of rooftops across the city.
It was a sight like no other. Saeed’s senses drank in the celebrations and the smile that creased his face was a genuine one, a triumphant one. The years of hard work, the political manoeuvring, the deal brokering, the unwitting sacrifices of his brothers and sisters in Luton and London, had all amounted to this night. President Dupont was the first to leave, gliding back towards the air-conditioned comfort of the Egyptian premiere’s palace in his black Mercedes limousine. Saeed joined the other leaders as they filed slowly towards the steps at the side of the stage, pressing flesh with many of his colleagues on the way, the words of congratulation sincere for the most part. At the top of the carpeted staircase he waved to the world’s media and the ecstatic crowds beyond, his memory recording the scene for future recollection. It was truly an amazing sight.
It was at that moment, just before he turned to step down, that he noticed two things. The first was the Irish and Danish premiers, standing in line behind him as they waited to board their respective limousines. While they shook hands warmly with their colleagues around them, their expressions said something else entirely. The smiles were clearly strained, their words lacking conviction. But it was the eyes that told Saeed the rest: doubt, certainly, fear, he hoped – for the opponents of Cairo, there would be much to fear.
The second event made his heart beat faster, a warm glow spreading across his chest, the adrenaline pumping through his body. Beyond the pillars and columns of the magnificent stage, the flags of every European Union state hung limply from a forest of flagpoles, teased into occasional life by a sluggish night breeze. It was lost in the darkness, briefly lit by the last of the fireworks and the sophisticated lasers, but Saeed’s eye caught it none the less. It wasn’t there earlier and Saeed assumed that it wouldn’t be there much longer, but to those that recognised it the point had been made.
The wind picked up then and the flag unfurled, snapping open to reveal the white Shahada inscription emblazoned across a black background. For that briefest of moments, the flag of the Khilafah, the global Islamic state, flew above the unwitting heads of Europe’s elite.
Saeed descended the stairs and climbed into his waiting limousine, the smile on his face a little wider.
‘Well Gabe, what did you think of that?’ Sully got to his feet, stretching his muscular frame. ‘Not a bad show, huh? Minister Saeed did the country proud, don’t you think? A true statesmen.’
Bryce shrugged his shoulders, studying his fingernails. Inside, his mind was a whirlwind. Hooper in Washington, Tariq in Cairo, the treaty now written into European law. Things were happening so fast Bryce found it hard to cope with the deluge of information. He kept one eye on the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen. The City had clearly welcomed the treaty, the global markets responding positively to the formalisation of the energy and trade deals that the treaty had cemented. On the screen, the streets of Cairo were mobbed, hundreds of thousands dancing in the streets while cars inched their way through the crowds, horns blaring and EU flags waving. The scene was the same across Europe; London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, every major city witnessed spectacular fireworks and celebrations on a scale that Bryce thought breathtaking. In a few weeks Britain had been transformed from a land plagued by creeping social division and economic uncertainty to a nation filled with hope and a newfound confi
dence, where people danced in the streets and new deals struck with new partners promised a future of prosperity for the continent.
No wonder Bryce was yesterday’s man. He was a forgotten figure, a symbol of Britain’s bleak past. He’d been banished, in every possible–
‘...that Gabriel Bryce couldn’t be here tonight.’
Bryce stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the screen. A studio panel in London, well-known political commentators grouped around a huge circular table, a giant screen behind them, the fireworks that rippled across the night sky, throwing the Houses of Parliament into deep shadow.
‘Yes, unfortunate for Bryce, but Jacob Hooper chose the Afghan talks and a state memorial service in Washington over one of the most important nights in Europe’s history. An inexplicable decision by any standard.’
‘What about his live link address?’
‘Well, I think that did more to highlight the torrid time he’s had in America, rather than show support to the treaty itself. Once again, it calls into question his political judgement.’
‘Another British Prime Minister potentially undone by Cairo?’ invited the well-known newsreader chairing the event. The smug expressions around the table made Bryce twist his fingers in anger. He took a deep breath and relaxed, aware that Sully was studying his reaction. On the TV the debate continued.
‘It’s now generally accepted that Gabriel Bryce was going to announce his retirement prior to the Downing Street bomb. His continued opposition to Cairo had made him deeply unpopular in the party...’
