Taoiseach Eamon de Valera…
He is that tall, he thought, as the very familiar figure stepped forward. For a moment, he thought of grabbing the flight officer’s sidearm. With one bullet, he could put things right. It was more then that man deserved. No, there was work to be done; he’d spent years cursing Ireland’s long and troubled history, exploited by the EU to keep them compliant, to pass up the chance to change things.
De Valera stepped forward, holding out his hand to Heekin, who flinched inwardly. De Valera wasn’t the first killer he’d shaken hands with, nor the first to be turned into a politician. He could see the bafflement in the Irish Prime Minister’s face, how much did he know? Did he know that Britain had changed overnight? Did he hear the Prime Minister’s speech before Parliament?
“You are not the ambassador I appointed to London,” De Valera said, his voice softer, less accented, than Heekin had expected. “Who are you people?”
Hanover stepped forward brusquely and offered De Valera his hand. “Sir Charles Hanover, Home Secretary,” he introduced himself. Heekin, still reeling from having been identified as the ambassador, ignored what he suspected had been intended as a deliberate insult.
De Valera tilted his head, leading them into a small comfortable house. “The British Home Secretary is Sir John Anderson,” he said. “Mr Hanover, what the hell has happened?”
Hanover allowed Ambassador Heekin to begin the explanation, waiting for the Irishman to finished, before expounding on his own negotiations. He’d ordered the IRA to be swept up before they even knew that everything had changed, and he wanted to force De Valera into a proper agreement before the Irishman started to panic. De Valera wasn’t asking bad questions; mainly ones concerned with the future history and future Ireland. The man seemed to have decided to believe.
“I wish to get one matter out of the way first,” he said in careful Irish, once Heekin had finished a basic explanation of what had happened. “I wish to apologise, for Cromwell, for William of Orange, for the Easter Rising and various attempts to hold you down.”
He smiled at De Valera’s face; he hadn’t wanted to give any apology, but it had been necessary. His staff almost lost themselves, hearing an Englishman speak their native tongue, let alone apologise for anything. De Valera himself seemed to be having difficulty focusing on him; the man was going blind. The medical science of 2015 could cure his eyesight, but unless De Valera cooperated…
“In effect, as Taoiseach Brennan’s Ambassador has confirmed, we are stuck here and are about to engage in the war that our ancestors fought,” he said. “That gives us certain… opportunities, and certain problems. One of them, I’m afraid, is you.”
He waited for De Valera to begin to protest, and then cut him off. “Quite frankly, as I just said, we do feel that a lot of mistakes were made, on both sides. We have put them behind us and we hope that you will be able to do the same. We wish to make a deal with you…”
“Then why are you purging Ulster?” De Valera asked, interrupting him in turn. “You have swept up thousands of innocents…”
“Most of whom were IRA people, or would be IRA people,” Hanover said. “The offer is simple; we will offer you a complete and united Ireland, which is what you wanted, is it not?” He smiled at De Valera’s reaction. “We know everything about you; we have all the benefits of hindsight. We don’t want Erie and we don’t want Northern Ireland; Ulster in your lexicon. You can have it, free and clear, on certain conditions. We will also allow any citizens of the 2015 Ireland who happen to have been in Britain to move back to Ireland, should you want them. We will respect your neutrality in the war, although we will expect you to be neutral in fact, as well as in name.
“After the war, we will accept Ireland into the new organisation we hope to build out of the remains of the British Empire,” he continued. He heard the intake of breath on the Irish side; they hadn’t yet become contaminated by video cameras that made any utterance from a politician eternally recorded. “In exchange, we want some things from you.”
He sensed De Valera nerving himself up to refuse, knowing that it might well mean his death. “We want you to send us all the beef, fish and other foodstuffs that you can spare,” he said. “We want you to give the Protestants… say, two counties and autonomy, but still as part of Ireland. We would like you not to have an immediate civil war over the issue, particularly since we will be repatriating all the… contemporary English personnel, but – quite frankly – that’s up to you. We won’t interfere.”
De Valera stared owlishly at him. “Is that all?” He asked. He sounded disbelieving. “All you want?”
“Yes,” Hanover said, knowing that De Valera was playing for time. He made it easy for him. “I imagine that you would like to discuss this with Ambassador Heekin, so if you don’t mind I’ll return to the helicopter and call home to report.”
Heekin felt sick. It’s my turn now, he thought grimly. He was facing a man long dead, a man hated or loved by Irishmen. He knew what he was about to do; he understood the irony of his position. At his request, De Valera ordered the room completely cleared; it was just the two of them. The great man of history and the man from the future.
“Taoiseach, I know,” he said. “I know everything. I know the only thing you achieved during Easter week was not being shot by your own men. I know; you lost the run of yourself in 1922. I know you stabbed Collins in the back over the treaty. I know you regret it. I know about your fine wee secretary, who kept you company in the USA. I know you'll never go there, because once you step off the plane – I mean boat – the yanks will have you for embezzlement.”
He twisted the knife, hating himself and hating Hanover. “I know your son is about to develop a method for making contraceptives work,” he said. “That will go down well with His Grace, I expect. I know about your cousins in Cuba; what did their mother do for a living?
“One word from me to the Irish… residents in Britain and everyone from Cork to Donegal hears about it,” he said. “I know what you want. I know; you don't want any part of the war and I know you don't want a Million Protestants in Ireland. I know that you’re going blind and they can cure that, over there, in Britain now. They can even help with the nerves that you’ve been so careful to keep a secret. They’ll make a farm in County Down richer than Park Avenue, all for just potatoes and bacon.
“I know the constitution you wrote better than you do,” he said, watching De Valera carefully. “I can get the required signatures and put everything to the people. I know where to find a judge who will swear a warrant out charging you for Collins murder. I know where to find the guards who will serve it, the remains of O’Duffy’s men.
“I know once the Mother church sees what the English have to offer; a chance to take the lead in the global church, they will dump you like a sack of potatoes. They’ll abandon you, they’ll burn you at the stake; they’ll denounce you as a wrecker. I know that you’re bankrupt, what just happened to your largest market, and to the money being sent back to Dublin, in postal orders and letters. I know…”
“Enough,” De Valera snapped. “What is the point of all this!”
“I know your place in history,” Heekin said. “It’s tarnished. I am offering your absolution, your penance, like any good priest. I am not asking you, I am telling you; you will sign the treaty that the English brought with them. They mean you no harm, for Ireland is not their country; it’s mine. Don't be afraid of the English Taoiseach De Valera, they can only kill you. I can destroy you.”