After a minute or two there was a knock on the door of the Oval Office.
“Come in!”
Tyler walked through the door and shut it behind him.
The President had his back to Tyler and was looking out of the window at the rolling lawns outside. His hands, which were clasped behind his back, were clutching a sheaf of papers of some kind. He turned around and pointed the papers at Tyler.
“What’s the meaning of this?” He demanded.
Tyler saw that the President’s face was red and blotchy.
“The meaning of what, Mr. President?”
“The deaths from the war we’re waging. We’re taking heavy casualties. Tremendously heavy casualties.”
“What war? Do you mean the war with the zombies? Are the zombies killing a lot of our people?”
“No, you damned fool. Our own one-man army is killing a lot of our people. Havoc is costing us more lives than all the zombies put together. He was meant to be running a low-profile operation. We can’t afford to win the war this way, or I’ll be sunk at the next election. We need to find another way of getting rid of the zombies, a way that won’t result in so many deaths, and won’t alarm the American voters. Who else do we know besides Havoc who’s an expert on killing them?”
“The British Prime Minister. He’s the one who can help us. He cleared the zombies out of his own country a few months ago. He’s called Camemblert. You’ve met him a couple of times, remember?”
“Camemblert? That ass-hole? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. He can’t fart and chew gum at the same time.”
“Well, he does seem to have got rid of the zombies they had over in England, sir.”
“I can’t go to that stuck-up ass-hole Camemblert for advice. I’d sooner see the U.S. of A. overrun by zombie commies than do that.”
“That’s what it might come to, sir, if you don’t ask him how he did it.”
Tyler picked up the receiver and dialled Camemblert’s number. He immediately got through to the switchboard at 10 Downing Street.
“Yes, how can I help?” It was a female voice speaking in immaculate upper-class brit tones.
Tyler felt himself go weak at the knees. Like all Americans, he was a sucker for a posh British accent.
“It’s the American President on the line for Prime Minister Camemblert,” he said.
“Putting you through now sir,” she replied.
Tyler held the receiver out to Doughnut.
“You’re being put through even as we speak, sir,” he said, covering the mouthpiece of the receiver with his hand. “You better speak to him nicely.”
“All right then, I’ll do my best,” Doughnut growled. “But that limey ass-hole better not push me too far this time. I’ve had just about as much as I can take from that patronising bastard. What’s he called again?”
“Camemblert, pronounced like the cheese. His first name is Tarquin.”
“Tarquin, what kind of a name is that?”
Reluctantly, Doughnut took the receiver from his aide and put it to his ear. There was a male voice with a stuck-up limey accent on the line.
“Camemblert here.”
Doughnut twitched his toothbrush moustache in annoyance.
“Tarquin, it’s me, Adolf, the American President.”
“Adolf, how nice to hear from you. How are things over in Washington D.C.?”
“Couldn’t be better Tarquin. How are things in Limeyland, I mean, England?”
“Thoroughly spiffing. We had a few sticky moments a couple of months ago with some zombies. I got my Foreign Secretary to ring and tell you about that, do you remember?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Anyway, I had this brainwave about how to deal with the zombies and we completely got rid of them. Problem solved. How are you getting on with them on your side of the pond?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. We’re plugging away, you know, getting on top of the situation, and we definitely have it under control, but if you have a few tips you can share with me, well, you know me, Tarquin, I’m always keen to listen to advice.”
Camemblert, who was slouching at his desk, pushed his chair, which was on castors, backwards, and put his feet up on the desk with his legs crossed. He leaned further back in his chair.
“Advice,” he said. “We British are always keen to help our American friends with advice when we can. You know how much we value our special relationship with you, Adolf,” he said.
Doughnut felt his blood pressure rising. He breathed deeply.
“We value it too. Now about that advice—”
“Tell you what,” said Camemblert, “why don’t you come over, and we’ll have a chat about it. We could call it a summit meeting or something. We wouldn’t have to tell the public what it was all about. I never tell them anything, anyway, not when I can help it. What do you say?”
“I’m a bit pushed for time, Tarquin. Why don’t you just give me your advice over the phone?”
Camemblert yawned and stretched out his free arm.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I’m on my way to an important meeting. Look, you get your people to talk to my people and arrange a date to come over and we’ll talk about it then, okay?”
Limey asshole, thought Doughnut.
“That’d be wonderful, Tarquin. I’m looking forward to it.”
“So am I. See you soon.”
“Yeah, see yah soon.”
PART III: ENGLAND AGAIN
CHAPTER 1
The boyishly handsome Prime Minister put down his telephone and sighed.
“Do you know something, Johnson?” He said, moving a cowlick of his black hair from his eyes with his hand. “That’s the sixth this morning, and it’s not even ten o’clock.”
“The sixth what, Prime Minister?” Asked Johnson, his Aide, as he decanted the teacups from the tray he’d just brought into the P.M.’s office at number ten Downing Street.
“The sixth Head of State, Johnson. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”
“Of course I’ve been listening, Prime Minister,” said Johnson. “I wouldn’t want to miss a single one of your pearls of wisdom, now, would I?”
The P.M. scrutinised Johnson’s face carefully for signs of sarcasm, but not a single muscle on it flickered.
“Nor do the Heads of State it seems,” he said, after an awkward pause. “They’re all asking me for advice.”
“I’m sure you’re more than capable of giving it to them, Prime Minister,” Johnson muttered urbanely as he stirred the tea.
“I ought to be by now,” said the P.M. “I’ve told any number of them how to go about getting rid of their problem.”
“That would be the zombie problem, I presume, Prime Minister.”
“That’s right, Johnson. That was Doughnut, the American President, on the line. One month ago, people like him wouldn’t have given me the time of day. Now, just because I’ve single-handedly got rid of the plague of zombies from this fine country of ours, they’re queueing up to talk to me to find out how I did it, even that stroppy Russian leader, whatsisname, Putrid. He was on the blower first thing this morning asking me what to do about his zombies. This could be the dawning of a new age for our country. We could become world leaders once again. I could be the man who puts the Great back into Great Britain.” He jutted out his jaw in his characteristic determined way. “We feel the hand of fate on our shoulder,” he said.
Johnson raised an eyebrow.
“We, sir?”
The P.M ignored him.
“Some of them have been laughing at us behind our backs for years,” he continued. “Now they’re going to get their come-uppance. We’re going to be laughing behind their backs from now on, because they’re going to have to listen to us for a change, especially the fucking yanks. The fucking yanks have been getting right up my wick for long enough. Now it’s my turn to get right up their wicks. I’m going to tell them to stop bossing us around and finally admit that the British way of doing things is best, and always has been the best.”