Her two aides nodded their heads in unison. ‘Yes, Prime Minister, we are imagining all that.’
‘Well, then?’ the PM challenged, ‘what would we do?’
Giles Mortimer fell back on the standard response, beloved of politicians throughout the ages.
‘Well, obviously, we’re not going to answer hypothetical questions.’
‘Oh, come now, Giles,’ the PM reprimanded him. ‘You’re not on University Challenge. Do you need a few minutes to think about it? Shall I go and put the kettle on?’
The PM’s sarcasm was palpable.
Giles Mortimer was beginning to see what the prime minister was getting at.
‘What you’re saying, Prime Minister, is that it’s possible this whole Brexit business may be a total cock-up and there really isn’t any good option out there for us, there are no broad sunlit uplands waiting for us, and if that situation does arise, say eighteen months from now, we must just conceivably want to reconsider our decision to leave the European Union.’
Mabel Killick nodded. ‘Something along those lines, perhaps.’
Mortimer shook his head. ‘But that won’t work, Prime Minister, I can assure you. Parliament will never vote to withdraw our application to leave the European Union without a mandate, without the clear instruction of the people, and that would mean a second Referendum. And you’ve already ruled out a second Referendum. Categorically.’
Mabel Killick was not out to be deterred.
‘Just imagine,’ she said, ‘that the Electoral Commission had sight of that Brexit dossier. Over in the United States half a dozen Committees of Enquiry are looking into possible interference with the electoral process in the run-up to last year’s presidential election. If the Americans can raise all these issues, then why can’t we? I am sure the Electoral Commission, once fully apprised of the situation, would feel it had to look into the conduct of last year’s Referendum, and then who knows what might happen? Or what about some brilliantly enterprising individual, like Tina Moller, for instance, who won such a victory in the Supreme Court last year over Article 50? Damn nuisance, from our point of view. But you have to hand it to her – she had us running for cover. Imagine the situation if the redoubtable Tina Moller gets hold of that Referendum dossier and goes back to the Supreme Court to ask them to declare the first Referendum null and void.
‘Which way do you think the Supreme Court would rule? Don’t you think they might order, not a second Referendum, but a re-run of the first? I’d put money on it.’
The two aides were gobsmacked. They had long admired Mabel Killick’s nifty footwork, with or without the kitten heels. But this was something else again.
Holly Percy raised the obvious objection. ‘But how on earth would the Electoral Commission or some Tina Moller figure ever get to hear about the existence of the dossier? After all, there’s only one copy left in circulation and you’re taking it home with you, to hide in it your scarf drawer.’
‘How would Tina Moller ever get to hear about the Referendum dossier?’ the PM mused. ‘Well, I suppose someone would have to tell her? Or else there could be a break-in at my home. We’d have to make sure the police weren’t on duty. We do have break-ins, you know, from time to time, even in leafy Surrey.’
As her aides made ready to leave, Mabel Killick asked Holly Percy to stay behind for a second.
‘My scarves are in the chest of drawers in the dressing room,’ she said. ‘Third drawer down.’
Holly made a note on her pad. ‘Scarves. Third drawer down.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
It wasn’t President Igor Popov’s first visit to Australia. He had been to Sydney in 2005 and Brisbane in 2014. But that had been official G20 business. They might have kicked Russia out of the G8, but they could hardly expel her from the G20!
But this visit, in the early summer of 2017 (late autumn ‘down under’), was different. Popov was on holiday. He flew into Kununurra in Western Australia in the presidential plane, the sleek, dark Ilyushin Il-96, with Galina Aslanova in the co-pilot’s seat.
‘I’ve sacked Pavel Golov. Useless fuck,’ Popov had told her on their way south. ‘Golov couldn’t see what was going on in St Petersburg. It wasn’t just our good friend Fyodor Stephanov. The FSB office there was rotten through and through. As the new director of the FSB, you’ll have to clear things up there. That will be one of your first priorities. Still, a few days’ break won’t hurt either of us.’
Mickey Selkirk had sent a helicopter to Kununurra airport.
When Popov and Galina Aslanova landed at the Lazy-T ranch thirty minutes later, both Mickey and Melanie Selkirk came out to the helipad to meet them. The Selkirks had invited plenty of distinguished guests to the Lazy-T ranch in their time but it wasn’t every day they entertained the president of the Russian Federation.
‘Please don’t keep calling me “Mr President”,’ Popov insisted, as they sat down to dinner that evening beneath the stars. ‘I’m here as a private citizen. We’re on holiday.’
He leant forward to sniff the aroma of the fine, red wine the Selkirk were serving that night.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s a Grange Hermitage, 1952, the year you were born. Penfold’s vineyard, just outside Adelaide. One of the oldest wineries in the country. Your good health!’ Mickey Selkirk raised his glass.
He had really pushed the boat out that evening. If you were lucky enough to find one, a 1952 Grange Hermitage would cost you at auction around $AUS16,000, that was about around $US14,500. But, hell, Selkirk thought, better hung for a sheep than a lamb.
He drained his glass.
‘Igor,’ he began, taking Popov at his word, ‘I can’t tell you how glad Melanie and I are to welcome you and Galina to our humble home. We’ve only got a million acres here at Lazy-T and I know that’s nothing when you consider the size of your vast country. But still it’s a real privilege to have you both here as our guests. Tomorrow we are going to do some mustering. Can you fly an R22?’
‘I can fly anything!’ Popov said.
He too drained his glass. Selkirk’s Chinese manservant, Ching Ze-Gong, refilled it. As this rate, he reckoned, he’d have to open a second bottle even before the main course had been served. Selkirk must really want something from this guy, he thought. He made sure he kept as close to the table as he could.
Mickey Selkirk, he noticed, had been a bit cool since his return from New York to the Lazy-T ranch.
‘I gather the police paid you a visit while I was gone,’ his boss had said. ‘Anything I need to know?’
‘Just checking papers, sir,’ Ching had replied. ‘All in order. Illegal immigrants – big problem now.’
‘You can say that again,’ Selkirk said. ‘Ron Craig’s building a wall to keep them out. Like the Great Wall of China. You guys thought of it first, didn’t you?’
Truth to tell, both Ching and Fung had been alarmed by that visit from the constabulary. It was clear the authorities were looking for something, but whatever it was they didn’t find it.
Since then, things had settled down nicely. He was still filing his reports to Hu Wong-Fu, the owner of the Kimberley Asian Cuisine restaurant in Kununurra. There might be something to report on tonight, he thought.
Ching Ze-Gong was right about that.
‘We’ve got elections next year,’ Popov said, as Ching served the dessert. ‘I’m thinking about whether to stand again for president of the Russian Federation. Maybe the time has come to make way for a younger man. I’ve been around a long time.’