Conspiracies are born not in storms, but in whispers in quiet rooms.
For the next week, Simon Blackwood and I met secretly every night. Not in my grand office, where any conversation could potentially be overheard, but in a secure MI5 flat in Pimlico overlooking the Thames. It was a sterile, anonymous place, devoid of personality, perfect for plotting the death of British democracy.
"The attack must look authentic," Blackwood said one evening, his dark eyes reflecting the city lights on the water.
"Every trail must lead where we want it to. There can be no mistakes."
"There won't be," I replied. I had spent sleepless nights mapping out every variable. "MI5 has a watchlist a mile long. It's filled with useful idiots—angry, frustrated, second-generation Islamic extremists who are easy to manipulate. They already want to be martyrs. We'll simply help them achieve their goal."
Blackwood raised an eyebrow. "We'll use our assets inside those communities to 'encourage' an existing cell? To give them a little push in the right direction?"
"Exactly," I said. "An informant who whispers about a 'soft' target. A little cash funneled through untraceable channels to buy materials. Just enough to get them moving, but not enough to leave a trail back to us. After the attack, we will 'discover' the evidence—the computers, the phones—that links them to a notorious radical mosque in Luton. The same mosque that has been publicly condemning Operation Sword of Sovereignty."
It was a viciously perfect plan. We wouldn't plant the bomb ourselves. We would water the existing seeds of hatred and then act surprised when the poisonous tree finally bore fruit.
"The target?" Blackwood asked.
This was the hardest part. It had to be significant enough to shock the nation, but not so vital that it crippled the country. Personal enough to evoke outrage, but random enough to spread fear everywhere.
"A tube station," I said after a long pause. "During the morning rush hour. Green Park. It's symbolic. It's near Buckingham Palace, the heart of the old order. It serves city workers and tourists. It will kill ordinary British people—the very people we're supposed to be protecting. The irony will make the outrage burn hotter."
Blackwood nodded slowly, his face impassive as he processed the mass murder we had just engineered.
"It will work," he said in a tone of cool professionalism.
"And while the country is grieving and furious, you will step up to the podium and offer them the solution: the National Recovery Act. They'll accept it without question."
"They'll demand it," I corrected him.
As Blackwood left to begin turning the dark wheels of our conspiracy, I was left alone with my thoughts. For the first time, a cold sliver of doubt crept into my heart. This was no longer about deporting criminals or winning parliamentary debates. This was calculated mass murder. Innocent British citizens would die. Their blood would be on my hands.
I walked to the window, staring down at the dark water of the river. Is there another way?
The System's voice whispered in my mind, as cold and logical as ever.
Scenario Analysis:
- Current Path (Status Quo): Probability of long-term agenda success < 15%. Institutional resistance will erode your authority. Political stalemate or vote of no confidence highly likely within 18 months.
- Proposed Path (False Flag Operation): Probability of passing the National Recovery Act> 90%. Will permanently consolidate power. Risk of discovery: 5%.
The numbers were cruel. The numbers did not lie. Democracy was slow, inefficient, and designed for compromise. I did not have time for compromise. The nation did not have time.
I crushed the doubt. History is not made by the hesitant. It is written in blood. Churchill allowed Coventry to be bombed to protect the Enigma secret. Roosevelt may have known about Pearl Harbor in advance. Great leaders make monstrous choices. This was mine.
The nameless faces of the future victims flashed through my mind. I pushed them away. They would not be victims. They would be martyrs. Martyrs for the rebirth of Britain.
…
While the seeds of treason were being planted in the intelligence underworld, on the public stage, I played my part to perfection. I became the face of calm and strength. I toured the northern industrial towns that had voted for me, shaking hands, visiting factories, and promising a return of jobs and pride.
My youth was my greatest asset. I spoke of "the future," of "new energy," of "breaking with the failures of the older generation." I framed my radical policies as fresh, new thinking. To the adoring crowds, I was a visionary, a dynamic young savior.
In Westminster, I began a different dance. I called wavering Conservative MPs into my office, one by one. To some, I offered promises—a committee chairmanship, support for a project in their constituency. To others, I used the information Blackwood had provided.
"I understand you're concerned about the civil liberties implications of this bill, John," I'd say to one influential senior backbencher, casually reviewing a file.
"But I'm more concerned about the implications a report in The Sun about your trip to Bangkok last year might have on your family."
I'd watch the blood drain from his face. He wouldn't say a word. He didn't have to. He would vote my way.
I also made the most important visit of all. A visit to Buckingham Palace.
I met King Charles in a private room overlooking the gardens. He was a man weighed down by history, his sad eyes having seen too much.
"Prime Minister," he said, his voice quiet, "what you are asking… it goes against every tradition of our constitutional monarchy. To give royal assent to a law that effectively sidelines Parliament…"
"Your Majesty," I replied respectfully, bowing my head slightly. "Tradition is a beautiful thing. But tradition will not stop a bomb from going off. Tradition will not protect your people from those who wish to destroy us."
I looked him in the eye. "I am not asking you to destroy tradition. I am asking you to help me preserve it. To face an unprecedented threat, we need an unprecedented response. Give me the tools to protect this kingdom, and I swear I will use them to ensure your grandson has a kingdom to inherit."
He gave no answer. But as I left, I knew I had planted the seed of doubt in him. He was a man torn between his duty to the constitution and his duty to the nation's survival. When the crisis came, I knew which side he would choose.
All the pieces were in place. All that was left was to wait for the board to be set on fire. And I… I was the one holding the match.