Chapter 1995: Chapter 830: Land of Poisonous Insects (Part 5)
"Europe’s drug crisis is our ticket into the Mediterranean security architecture." Victor said, "Congo’s Eastern European network is a time bomb for the future; we need to lay the wiring in advance. Scotland, we free-range for now. Wait until he figures it out himself."
He turned and walked toward the main entrance of the lab building.
He walked a few steps, then stopped.
"Tell Gals," Victor said without looking back, "that ’Black Sea Wolf’ Hendrick—try to take him alive. He’s seen a lot of people he shouldn’t have seen, and what he’s carrying in his head is worth more than Congo’s cobalt mines."
October 1997, Edinburgh, Holyrood Palace.
The whisky was a 25-year Glenfiddich, amber, like melted honey under the lights.
Sarah Kent took a sip.
She wasn’t a whisky person. The glass in her hand was more for warmth—Edinburgh’s night wind was even colder than Liverpool’s, slipping through the gaps in stone walls built centuries ago and seeping into this side reception room.
McTavish sat opposite her. He wasn’t drinking, just turning the glass in his hand.
Allen sat by the door, empty-handed. His eyes swept over every corner of the room, not out of nerves, but out of habit.
"The Liverpool election," McTavish spoke first, "congratulations."
"Five seats." Sarah put down her glass. "London panicked and sent down an inspection team to investigate the ’Congress’s’ foreign funding sources."
"Did they find anything?"
"They can’t. The money came in through seven layers of transfers, originating from a ’Democratic Promotion Foundation’ in Switzerland. They swear it’s private donations, the books are clean."
McTavish didn’t press. He knew where the money came from; Sarah knew he knew. This was their first meeting; no one was going to pierce that thin layer of glass.
"Scotland’s Parliament election is next spring." McTavish said, "Our goal is an absolute majority."
"Can you get it?"
"We can. But after we get it?" He paused. "International recognition, monetary sovereignty, entry into the United Nations—every step is a battlefield. The Mexicans have given us guns and money; the price is a listening post in the Shetland Islands and forty percent of the North Sea field revenues. I don’t know if that’s a good deal."
Sarah fell silent for a few seconds.
"England doesn’t have Mexico," she said. "Our external support is a few second-hand laptops and a couple dozen NGO consultants. London hasn’t collapsed yet, but ordinary people no longer believe in Westminster. Do you know what we were doing the night of the Liverpool Dock Area explosion?"
McTavish shook his head.
"We were organizing a community meeting, discussing how to apply to the city government for more police patrols. The meeting ran for three hours, and we settled on seven specific demands. The next day we submitted them; City Hall said they’d ’look into it,’ and then it just disappeared."
Her voice held no anger, only the flatness of stating facts.
"Later I figured it out. What they want isn’t the demands we make; what they want is for us to stay forever in the position of ’making demands,’ forever knocking on the door from outside. The world inside the door doesn’t belong to us."
McTavish looked at the amber liquid in his glass.
"You’re still outside the door."
"Yes." Sarah said, "But there are more and more people knocking now."
She put the glass down, stood up, and walked to the window.
Outside, Edinburgh Castle was outlined in light, like some great beast crouched in the night.
"Angus," she called him by his first name for the first time, "if I gave you a chance to make England and Scotland not ’neighbors’ but ’teammates,’ would you take it?"
McTavish didn’t answer.
"Not a merger, not a federation—strategic coordination." Sarah turned back. "If the English Congress enters Westminster—even if we only get a third of the seats—we’ll push a bill: to recognize Scotland’s monetary sovereignty, open up cross-border trade, and establish an inter-parliamentary coordination mechanism. We don’t need London’s approval; that’s within the Commons’ own legislative power."
"You won’t get a third." McTavish said.
"Not this year. What about three years from now? Five years from now?" For the first time, Sarah’s voice had some rise and fall. "London’s credibility is depreciating every single day. They can’t control drugs; they can’t control the streets; even when Prince Charles goes to Mexico to sign agreements he doesn’t dare lift his head in front of the cameras. A system like that won’t last five years."
Allen shifted slightly by the door. McTavish noticed his fingers tapping out a pattern on his knee—
Three short, three long, three short.
Morse code, SOS.
But Allen’s expression was calm, as if nothing at all had happened.
McTavish looked away.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"A person." Sarah said. "Not money, not weapons. A person—someone who understands finance, knows the details of the Bank of England’s balance sheet, preferably has worked in the London Financial City. We need to draw up our own currency backstop plan; we can’t wait until the British Pounds crash and then scramble."
McTavish was silent for a long time.
"I have someone in mind." he said at last. "Former deputy director of the Market Operations Department at the Bank of England, Scottish, resigned after the Independence referendum and moved back to Edinburgh. He hates London—hates it enough to work for free."
"Send him to me."
"He’ll come. But not yet." McTavish paused. "I need to confirm one thing first."
"What?"
"Your Mexican source, the gentleman by the door—" he looked straight at Allen for the first time, "besides you, who is his real employer?"
The room was quiet for three seconds.
Allen neither denied nor argued. He simply stood up from his seat by the door and walked into the light.
"My employer," he said, "is whoever wants the English Congress to succeed. As for whatever other identity he has—that doesn’t matter. What matters is, I can provide Sarah with intelligence, money, and strategy, and she can turn those into votes, bills, and power."
