Ivory Nation by Andy Maslen (free children's ebooks online txt) 📕

line was secure and double-encrypted, Gabriel knew Don wouldn’t go any further in explaining what he meant. He didn’t really need to.

Unlike in places like Cuba, Venezuela, or the multiplicity of African states that had fallen for Marxism in a big way, Britain’s armed forces would never fall into line behind an extreme left government, still less a prime minister looking for ways to defang them.

But still, Tammerlane’s confining the king to quarters troubled him. The phrase ‘house arrest’ came to mind. He didn’t like the image it suggested.

37

LONDON

The press secretary stepped forward and addressed the gathered journalists through the floor mic.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister.’

Tammerlane smiled at the young party official and took up position at the mic. He waited for the whirring and clicking of electronic shutters to cease before speaking.

‘Thank you. As you know, this great country of ours has suffered one terrible shock already this year. And you only have to look at social media to see that the threats our citizenry face daily are swelling like a tsunami gathering force in the deep ocean. I speak not only of escalating terror threats, especially from right-wing extremists, but subversion from foreign actors.

‘In the light of these threats, and my declared aim of keeping the people who granted me the privilege of leading this country into a bright new era of fairness and equality, I am today announcing the formation of a brand-new government department.

‘As from today, the Home Office, a relic of post-colonial thinking, is no more. In its place rises a bright citadel, where the rights of the people are put before imperial ambition and warmongering. Ladies and gentlemen, as the leader of Freedom and Fairness, and your prime minister, I am proud to announce the formation of the Department of Domestic Security.’

The room was utterly silent for two seconds, then a barrage of questions erupted.

Tammerlane patted the air for silence.

‘Please!’ he barked, a harder edge to his voice than the gathered journalists had heard before. ‘Let me introduce you to the new Secretary of State for Domestic Security, Joni Last.’

He turned to his left and beckoned a young woman to join him before the media. She strode out from the wings, dark eyes flashing, her black hair cut so short her scalp was visible in the harsh lighting for the TV cameras.

‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘My first act as the Secretary of State at DDS is to announce a temporary suspension of the normal communications channels between the media and government ministers. We are concerned that foreign state actors have infiltrated sections of the media and while we investigate there can be no unfettered access to policymakers. However,’ she said, raising her voice above the growing chorus of complaints, ‘I am also creating a centralised Government Media Office through which all requests for information can be placed for evaluation and response.’

‘This is outrageous!’ a male journalist bellowed above the din. ‘You’re creating a police state.’

She smiled at him as Tammerlane left the stage.

‘Not at all, Philip. Although I am glad you brought up the subject of law enforcement. It has come to our notice that the current policing protocols are not fit for purpose. Yes, for everyday crimes against the person and property, there is a role for traditional policing.’ She paused. ‘But as Joe has said, we live in an era of unprecedented threats to the state. Therefore, and also effective immediately, I am announcing the creation of a new force: The Internal Security Directorate. Its operatives will report to me, and through me to the prime minister. Their remit is to police matters of state security within the boundaries of the rep—’ She stopped, glanced at Tammerlane. He shook his head, a minute gesture.

‘Within our borders,’ she continued. ‘That means counter-terrorism, which is now removed from both the Met and MI5, intelligence gathering on subversives, and agents of destabilisation. They will have additional powers of detention and investigation beyond those of the police, but—’

‘You can’t be serious,’ another journalist, a woman, called out. ‘You’re talking about secret police! Parliament will never permit it!’

‘Parliament doesn’t need to permit it, Jacqui. It’s happened. The senior management team is in place, and we have already recruited a cadre of operational officers and staff to begin work immediately.

‘Look, I know some of you, especially from the right-wing press will be eager to paint this as some sort of internal coup, but nothing could be further from the truth. As Joe has said all along, our goal is to create and maintain a stable, secure and fair state in which the people’s will is respected, and the people themselves are protected. I can’t for the life of me see what’s wrong with wanting to protect the people, can you?’

Fifty-three miles northeast of the press conference, Don turned off the TV in his MOD Rothford office. Beside him, Nick Acheson blew out his cheeks.

‘Did we just see what I think we saw?’

Don steepled his fingers under his nose, breathing heavily.

‘I believe we did. He’s really going to do it.’

‘But we can’t let him, Don! I mean, this is a coup. Pure and simple.’

Don’s answer was forestalled by the phone on his desk, which had started ringing. Staring at Acheson, he lifted the receiver.

‘Yes, Molly.’

The woman on the other end, his secretary of a year and a half, sounded nervous.

‘Colonel, it’s, well, it’s the prime minister.’

Heart thumping, Don straightened in his chair, shooting Acheson a look and mouthing, ‘Tammerlane’.

As Acheson’s eyes widened, Don cleared his throat.

‘Prime Minister.’

‘Why so formal, Don? Call me Joe. And there’s no need to be nervous.’

Cursing himself for not clearing his throat before answering, Don tried again.

‘I think I’ll stick with Prime Minister. Old habits and all that.’

‘Fair enough, Colonel. Though it’s an honorific, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not serving anymore, are you?’

Bastard! Such a simple question, but booby-trapped just as surely as an IED beneath a dead body. But Don Webster, late of the SAS and