Simon Blackwood's silence was more alarming than any scream. For three days, he reported nothing on the "Thorne matter." He went about his other duties with his usual robotic efficiency, but there was a distance in his eyes, a hollowness I had never seen before. He was a cracked mirror of the machine I had built.
I didn't press him. To show anxiety was to show weakness. Instead, I tightened my grip on other fronts.
I held the first "National Unionist Summit," a grand, rally-style event in Birmingham. Before thousands of cheering party members and a sea of roaring lion flags, I laid out the next phase of my vision: "National Autonomy."
"We have purged our house of the enemies within," I thundered from the podium, my voice amplified to a deafening roar. "Now, we must free ourselves from dependence on the outside world! Why do we import food when our fields can feed us? Why do we rely on foreign microchips when our engineers are the best in the world? Starting today, we begin a new industrial revolution! Our mission: to make Britain fully self-sufficient in food, energy, and technology within a decade!"
It was autarky, wrapped in the flag of patriotism. Economically, it was perhaps insane. But politically, it was a masterstroke. It gave the people a grand, unifying purpose, a new enemy (global dependence), and reinforced my narrative of Britain standing alone against the world.
…
Meanwhile, the echoes from the outside world began to filter in, bringing with them a different perspective.
Excerpt from a Leaked Transcript of a NATO Meeting in Brussels:
US Air Force General: "Einstein is a wild card. On the one hand, he's boosting his defense spending and backing Israel, which aligns with President Trump's goals. On the other, his deals with Moscow and Beijing over Africa… that fundamentally undermines Western influence there. He's playing both sides."
French Foreign Minister: "Playing? He is setting fire to the chessboard! He has normalized autocratic rhetoric in the heart of Europe. Every move he makes emboldens the extremists in our own countries. He is not an ally; he is a contagion."
Excerpt from an Underground Liberal Online Forum in the UK:
User 'Cassandra': "Is anyone else noticing? The 'disappearances' are increasing. It's not just immigrants now. Professors, journalists, lawyers… anyone who speaks out too loudly, they just… go. My friend's husband was arrested two weeks ago for signing an online petition. Hasn't been heard from since."
User 'GuyFawkes2.0': "That Exemplary Citizen Program is a trap. They're using it to map our social networks. My mate lost his job because his score dropped. Why? Because he had lunch with his cousin, who once attended a pro-Palestine protest three years ago. It's the digital Stasi."
Excerpt from a Phone Call between a Pensioner in Kent and her Daughter:
Pensioner: "I don't know, love. Of course, things feel a bit… tense. But the streets are safe. For the first time in years, I'm not afraid to go to the shops after dark. And the grandkids… they look so smart in their Young Lions League uniforms. They're learning about Churchill and the Golden Age of Britannia. It's better than all that gender nonsense they were teaching before, isn't it?"
I saw these reports, compiled by my now fully loyal MI5. They told the story of a nation cleaved in two, and I was holding the axe.
…
On the fourth day, Blackwood finally requested a meeting. He met me at the secure flat in Pimlico, the birthplace of our Green Park conspiracy.
He looked like a different man. There were shadows under his eyes. He no longer looked like a wolf; he looked like a man being hunted by the wolves of his own making.
"I've handled it," he said, his voice empty.
"And?"
"Valerie Thorne… and the two members of her team. They had a gas accident at her flat last night. A leak from an old boiler. Very tragic." He said the words as if he were reading a weather report. "All their data has been secured and wiped. The trail is dead."
I nodded slowly. He had passed his final test. He had murdered British intelligence agents on my implied order. He was now bound to me, not just by ambition, but by shared crime.
But as I looked at him, I saw something dangerous. A crack in his armor. He had done the unthinkable, and it had broken him. A dagger that has done its duty too often begins to dull.
"Good work, Simon," I said, my voice deliberately warm. "You have done the state a great service."
"Have I?" he whispered, more to himself than to me. "Or have we just become bigger monsters to fight the smaller ones?"
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "History doesn't care for morality, Simon. Only for results. And we are getting results."
I knew in that moment that Blackwood's time as my most intimate confidant was drawing to a close. He knew too much, and now he was beginning to feel the weight of that knowledge. He had become a risk.
…
I needed a distraction, both for the country and for myself. And I knew exactly what it would be.
Two weeks later, I flew to Africa. Not as a diplomat, but as a warlord.
In a small, cobalt-rich, civil-war-torn West African nation, I met with the President we had helped install. On a dusty airbase, under the watchful eyes of British Special Forces advisors, we signed the Joint Security and Development Treaty.
Britain would train and equip his new army. In return, British mining corporations (and their silent Russian partners) would get exclusive, 99-year rights to all of the country's cobalt reserves.
The news was met with outrage at the UN, but with a shrug in Washington and assenting silence in Moscow and Beijing. I had created a fact on the ground. The British Empire, in a new and more ruthless form, was back in Africa.
As I stood on that hot tarmac, feeling the African sun on my face, I felt alive. This was where Britain's destiny lay. Not in the tedious debates of Europe, but in the bold conquest and exploitation of new frontiers.
I had found my people a new enemy and a new purpose. I had given them an empire to build.
But as I flew back to London, my thoughts returned to Simon Blackwood. He was the last loose thread in my perfect tapestry. And I knew, with a cold certainty, that the thread had to be cut. Soon.