God's Crusade

Part Eighteen

"Chill out Shap...keeping calm is essential here," Alistair Forbes said very firmly, using his shoulder to open the fire door at the back of the embassy in search of some fresh air. He had started smoking again, a habit he had fought on and off for years. He remembered turning down a smoke from his father-in-law the day they met to finalise plans for his wedding to Mena and momentarily regretted sliding back into the habit. But not for too long. He was used to doing his own thing his own way. "Let us just deal with the statement...I don't trust your people. I don't have to tell you why. Yes Shap, I am better than them, much better, and no, there is no need to fly off the fucking deep end...just stick to the fucking story if they stick a microphone up your nose. No of course you don't know what the story is yet, because I haven't fucking written it yet...give me five minutes and I will get something over to you. It is that simple Shap, you release the statement and you stick to the script. Have you actually looked at that DVD of Charles Buckingham I sent over to you? Well you really fucking should...you need to learn Shap...you need to learn fast. Fucking moron..." Forbes said the last words only just after disconnecting the angry call, but he had shown little respect for the American, because he had none. The man was not fit to lace Charles Buckingham's boots but that had never stopped George W Bush becoming President, Forbes reminded himself as he sucked down some smoke.

American politics was a dirty business. Dirtier than its British equivalent had ever been, so Forbes was in his element and enjoying his power over his candidate. The electorate were not particularly engaged with anyone, or particularly bright either, so manipulating them was relatively simple, even selling a ticket like Shap Nixon, who would have made Nigel Farage look quite reasonable. The problems arose around the diversity of the country. Something that resonated in the Bible belt turned off people on the west coast and vice versa. And the whole campaign seemed endless. It started years before a candidate's name ever appeared on a ballot paper. Forbes knew that he was going to spend a lot of time with Shap Nixon and it was unlikely to be an enlightening experience. And in the short term he had some covering up to do, with the help of his dear wife, of course. He stubbed out his cigarette and went inside to work on her script.

۩

"Can you please confirm that Miss Madison Nixon is in London?" One of the journalists demanded before Mena had even reached the lectern holding the microphone. It was not the bear pit it would have been had the official spokesman been a man, Mena thought, smiling behind her mantle. Alistair was right, as always. But this was a big story and the media pack were champing at the bit, so she needed to be on top of her game. She was the only one in the spotlight, on her own in front of the microphone. She paused, taking a moment to compose herself and got her head in the game. She understood her role. She knew what was expected of her and how she would be punished if she did not perform, or even if she did perform, but she could not help enjoying the process.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as I understand it Miss Madison Nixon travelled to London on a scheduled flight just over a week ago and does not appear on any flight manifests leaving the country...so we must assume that she is still in Great Britain...but I do not know that for sure as yet. Our government does not track any tourists, despite what you might think of us, so I cannot tell you exactly where she might or might not be...at this present moment in time. I would imagine she is seeing the sights, so she could be anywhere?"

"According to the website banthemuzzle.com Madison was taken out of this country under duress?" Someone else shouted out, as the embassy spokesperson used her gloved hand to smooth her cloak in front of her body. She was wearing a mantle and veils so they could not see her face, but gloves were considered less provocative than mittens. She looked like all the Reformist women they saw on the news or in the papers, to any informed eye at any rate, and she stood at the lectern, taking questions, putting the dogs of the media off the scent. She deflated them just by being there and she tried to fill her voice with confidence. Alistair expected a performance.