Prime Minister Francis Urquhart and 9/11
- Thread starter MarkWhittington
- Start date
Sir Francis Urquhart, Prime Minister of Great Britain, watched from a high tower of Castle Urquhart as the helicopter landed in the courtyard. The chilly highland air was blowing from across the glen. The two figures that emerged from the helicopter were bundled up against the cold and hurried to the main entrance to the keep.
Urquhart turned away from the window and descended down the stairs to the Great Hall where he would meet his guests. It was charming, in a way, how confident they were in their position that they agreed to meet him here instead of some more public place, like Chequers. But he had convinced them that the exchange should take place in conditions of absolute secrecy.
There was another factor. Urquhart didn’t think that Mrs. Peel was going to be very pleased with what she was about to receive. He entered the Great Hall. The fire place was crackling, sending dancing shadows across the walls covered with tapestries and weapons displays. A tea cart had already been set up, the kettle filling the air with the heady aroma. Urquhart considered for a moment ordering something stronger brought in.
But then Mrs. Peel and that odious Shore person entered the Great Hall. The door closed shut behind them.
Mrs. Peel confronted him. “Well, here we are.”
“Here we are indeed, Madam,” Urquhart replied.
There was an awkward, pregnant silence.
“Where is he?” she asked, finally.
“I’m afraid that I have some rather bad news,” Urquhart said. He noticed that Alan Shore gave an intake of breath, as if he were expecting some kind of betrayal. The irony was that there was none such this time. “Two days ago, John Steed succumbed to a coronary. I am truly sorry.”
Mrs. Peel betrayed no emotion. “Where is he?” she repeated in a voice like winter.
“In the castle chapel. I will take you there myself.”
Mrs. Peel moved through the Great Hall, getting a little closer to Urquhart. He knew that even at her age she had certain lethal skills. He wondered if he should have packed a fire arm. “How did it happen?” she asked.
“Peacefully, I’m told. He was, after all, a man in his eighties. I can assure you that the government will support any funeral arrangements you might want to make.”
“The funeral will be private.”
“Of course. But I am also asked to inform you that His Majesty the King intends to award Mr. Steed a KCB, posthumously.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Shall we go down to the chapel?”
“I should like some tea first.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Peel moved to the tea tray. “Alan, would you like some?” she asked.
“Ah, no thank you.”
“Prime Minister?”
“Two lumps, no cream please.”
Mrs. Peel poured two cups of tea and handed one to Urquhart. She sipped hers. Urquhart sipped his. She watched him with a curious look on her face. “That was very ill done, Prime Minister, what was done to Steed.”
“I can assure you—“ He suddenly felt a sharp pang in his chest. “I can assure—“ His knees started to give way. He dropped the tea cup, which spilled its contents on the carpet.
“Feeling unwell, Prime Minister?” Mrs. Peel asked.
“What—“ He suddenly found it difficult to breath.
“What you’re feeling, Prime Minister, is a coronary, induced by a drug developed for the service that employed me. In a minute or two you will be dead.”
Urquhart fell to his knees. “Why—“
“It was very ill done what was done to Steed.”
“You…won’t…get away…with—“
“Oh, but I shall. I have. Not tox screen in the world will detect the poison. You will have died in the winter of your life of a heart attack. One thing. You don’t have to worry about all of that damaging material. It will be destroyed. The bitter irony is, Prime Minister, is that I admire what you’ve done for our country. However I cannot approve of your methods. In any case, you legacy will be quite safe. You will be quite safe.”
Urquhart made some inarticulate sounds. Then he fell down and gave out one last breath.
“My God, what have you done?” asked Alan Shore.
“Justice,” replied Mrs. Peel. She paused for a second. “You better run and get someone. The longest serving Prime Minister in British history seems to have died.”
Alan Shore gave one last appalled look then he fled from the room,.
Urquhart turned away from the window and descended down the stairs to the Great Hall where he would meet his guests. It was charming, in a way, how confident they were in their position that they agreed to meet him here instead of some more public place, like Chequers. But he had convinced them that the exchange should take place in conditions of absolute secrecy.
There was another factor. Urquhart didn’t think that Mrs. Peel was going to be very pleased with what she was about to receive. He entered the Great Hall. The fire place was crackling, sending dancing shadows across the walls covered with tapestries and weapons displays. A tea cart had already been set up, the kettle filling the air with the heady aroma. Urquhart considered for a moment ordering something stronger brought in.
But then Mrs. Peel and that odious Shore person entered the Great Hall. The door closed shut behind them.
Mrs. Peel confronted him. “Well, here we are.”
“Here we are indeed, Madam,” Urquhart replied.
There was an awkward, pregnant silence.
“Where is he?” she asked, finally.
“I’m afraid that I have some rather bad news,” Urquhart said. He noticed that Alan Shore gave an intake of breath, as if he were expecting some kind of betrayal. The irony was that there was none such this time. “Two days ago, John Steed succumbed to a coronary. I am truly sorry.”
Mrs. Peel betrayed no emotion. “Where is he?” she repeated in a voice like winter.
“In the castle chapel. I will take you there myself.”
Mrs. Peel moved through the Great Hall, getting a little closer to Urquhart. He knew that even at her age she had certain lethal skills. He wondered if he should have packed a fire arm. “How did it happen?” she asked.
“Peacefully, I’m told. He was, after all, a man in his eighties. I can assure you that the government will support any funeral arrangements you might want to make.”
“The funeral will be private.”
“Of course. But I am also asked to inform you that His Majesty the King intends to award Mr. Steed a KCB, posthumously.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Shall we go down to the chapel?”
“I should like some tea first.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Peel moved to the tea tray. “Alan, would you like some?” she asked.
“Ah, no thank you.”
“Prime Minister?”
“Two lumps, no cream please.”
Mrs. Peel poured two cups of tea and handed one to Urquhart. She sipped hers. Urquhart sipped his. She watched him with a curious look on her face. “That was very ill done, Prime Minister, what was done to Steed.”
“I can assure you—“ He suddenly felt a sharp pang in his chest. “I can assure—“ His knees started to give way. He dropped the tea cup, which spilled its contents on the carpet.
“Feeling unwell, Prime Minister?” Mrs. Peel asked.
“What—“ He suddenly found it difficult to breath.
“What you’re feeling, Prime Minister, is a coronary, induced by a drug developed for the service that employed me. In a minute or two you will be dead.”
Urquhart fell to his knees. “Why—“
“It was very ill done what was done to Steed.”
“You…won’t…get away…with—“
“Oh, but I shall. I have. Not tox screen in the world will detect the poison. You will have died in the winter of your life of a heart attack. One thing. You don’t have to worry about all of that damaging material. It will be destroyed. The bitter irony is, Prime Minister, is that I admire what you’ve done for our country. However I cannot approve of your methods. In any case, you legacy will be quite safe. You will be quite safe.”
Urquhart made some inarticulate sounds. Then he fell down and gave out one last breath.
“My God, what have you done?” asked Alan Shore.
“Justice,” replied Mrs. Peel. She paused for a second. “You better run and get someone. The longest serving Prime Minister in British history seems to have died.”
Alan Shore gave one last appalled look then he fled from the room,.
Mark, were you tired of the storyline?
What a quick and cruel end. I hope he DOES have a clone. BTW, I never liked Emma Peel....
Tom
What a quick and cruel end. I hope he DOES have a clone. BTW, I never liked Emma Peel....
Tom
Nothing lasts forever. Even the longest, the most glittering reign must come to an end someday.
But who will follow? Who indeed?
But who will follow? Who indeed?
Sir Francis Urquhart, the longest serving British Prime Minister in history, lay in state at Westminster Abbey for three days. It was estimated that a million people filed past the casket, guarded by representatives from each of the British armed services.
After the lying in state, the casket was transported on a gun carriage drawn by a single black horse, led by an officer from Urquhart’s old regiment. The funeral procession to St. Paul’s included soldiers from many of the old regiments that Urquhart had revived during his program on military expansion. It also included heads of state from over a hundred and fifty countries, including the American President. The streets were lined with millions of people, silent, still, paying their last respects. A nineteen gun salute was fired. An over flight of RAF planes swoop overhead in a missing man formation.
After the funeral service, the casket was taken to Waterloo Station and was loaded onto a special train. The train would take a week to take Urquhart to his final resting place at Castle Urquhart, in a tomb that had been prepared for him in the Castle chapel. It would slow as it passed through several British towns as people lined the tracks to pay their respects.
In later years, Castle Urquhart would be the headquarters of the Urquhart Institute of Diplomacy and Peace. A few who had known the Prime Minister intimately appreciated the irony.
After burying her lifelong friend in a simple grave in Shropshire, Emma Peel returned to a cottage and took out a stack of folders . The fireplace crackled hungrily.
“Are you sure about this?” the man who was with her asked.
“I made a promise. And I keep them, even when made to monsters.” With that she threw the stack in the fire. In short order the fire consumed the last record of Francis Urquhart’s misdeeds. His legacy would be safe.
Francis Urquhart, the historians agreed eventually, was not a good man. But he was indisputably a great man. He would have laughed and said, "No, a sound man." Reagrdless he had made Great Britain into a major power again, whose influence was felt across the world. Sooner than anyone thought, that influence would be felt beyond the world. The first man on Mars would be the commander of a Commonwealth expedition and would arrive a full year before the American expedition.
But the end of the twenty first century, Britain had an Empire again upon which the sun never set. And it was not because the Empire was spread across the Earth. It was spread beyond a single globe and many thought it would eventually reach the stars.
Rule Britannia.
After the lying in state, the casket was transported on a gun carriage drawn by a single black horse, led by an officer from Urquhart’s old regiment. The funeral procession to St. Paul’s included soldiers from many of the old regiments that Urquhart had revived during his program on military expansion. It also included heads of state from over a hundred and fifty countries, including the American President. The streets were lined with millions of people, silent, still, paying their last respects. A nineteen gun salute was fired. An over flight of RAF planes swoop overhead in a missing man formation.
After the funeral service, the casket was taken to Waterloo Station and was loaded onto a special train. The train would take a week to take Urquhart to his final resting place at Castle Urquhart, in a tomb that had been prepared for him in the Castle chapel. It would slow as it passed through several British towns as people lined the tracks to pay their respects.
In later years, Castle Urquhart would be the headquarters of the Urquhart Institute of Diplomacy and Peace. A few who had known the Prime Minister intimately appreciated the irony.
After burying her lifelong friend in a simple grave in Shropshire, Emma Peel returned to a cottage and took out a stack of folders . The fireplace crackled hungrily.
“Are you sure about this?” the man who was with her asked.
“I made a promise. And I keep them, even when made to monsters.” With that she threw the stack in the fire. In short order the fire consumed the last record of Francis Urquhart’s misdeeds. His legacy would be safe.
Francis Urquhart, the historians agreed eventually, was not a good man. But he was indisputably a great man. He would have laughed and said, "No, a sound man." Reagrdless he had made Great Britain into a major power again, whose influence was felt across the world. Sooner than anyone thought, that influence would be felt beyond the world. The first man on Mars would be the commander of a Commonwealth expedition and would arrive a full year before the American expedition.
But the end of the twenty first century, Britain had an Empire again upon which the sun never set. And it was not because the Empire was spread across the Earth. It was spread beyond a single globe and many thought it would eventually reach the stars.
Rule Britannia.
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I have a very hard time believing someone like F.U. would fall for such an obvious thing as that.....just doesn't seem plausible. Letting someone who's rather angry with you pour tea for you. I mean someone that daft pretty much deserves it.
Still, at least Hong Kong is effectively back. That's something. Next thing is to end the Republic and have a Governor again, with a First/Prime Minister.
Sargon
Still, at least Hong Kong is effectively back. That's something. Next thing is to end the Republic and have a Governor again, with a First/Prime Minister.
Sargon
You have to remember that in the other timeline, FU allowed himself to be shot to death at the arrangement of his own wife.
Yep, but that was pretty much out of his control. Here he could at least be suspicious enough to think, "Hmm, someone could slip something into my drink if I piss them off enough, even if we usually get on well enough, better not take any chances.",
Or maybe that's just me being the paranoid type. Anyway, it's what I would be thinking about. I'm often like that day to day, having suspicious thoughts about people....I'm pretty similar to the Rhinotmetos in that regard....hmmm, maybe that's why I like him somewhat.....
Still don't take it as a big complaint, it's not and I've thoroughly enjoyed this, and as you say nothing lasts forever and quite right too.
So, are ye going to follow it up with something else?
Sargon
Yep, but that was pretty much out of his control. Here he could at least be suspicious enough to think, "Hmm, someone could slip something into my drink if I piss them off enough, even if we usually get on well enough, better not take any chances.",
Or maybe that's just me being the paranoid type. Anyway, it's what I would be thinking about. I'm often like that day to day, having suspicious thoughts about people....I'm pretty similar to the Rhinotmetos in that regard....hmmm, maybe that's why I like him somewhat.....
Still don't take it as a big complaint, it's not and I've thoroughly enjoyed this, and as you say nothing lasts forever and quite right too.
So, are ye going to follow it up with something else?
Sargon
I'm thinking of some sort of homage to Flashman. Still working on it, though.
Keep in mind, he was quite old at the time. Everybody makes mistakes, and he just so happened to make a terrible one.
Okay, here's a thought. What if in some weird sort of way FU actually wanted (even if only subconciously) things to end this way? It would certainly explain the recklessness Sargon is unhappy about. After all, as has already been pointed out he must be very old by now (in his 80's?) and is probably aware of his waning powers and must be feeling increasingly tired and frail. I suspect too that he is aware of Enoch Powell's dictum (the one about all political careers ending in failure) and has quite sufficient ego to want to be seen to beat it, after all having achieved so much everything can only be downhill from here. So he arranges a meeting with someone who has the skills to do him harm, but the discretion and general "soundness" to ensure it's all done quietly and deniably and who will protect his legacy afterwards. And then at the meeting he gives her the motivation to put those skills into effect. Even his own death is then used to entrench his legacy and confirm his legend.
Is all this even remotely plausible or just a bit too far out?...
You know what I'm tempted to say...
You do have an interesting theory. I've read of just the same one surrounding the death of Julius Caesar. Certain Urquhart is just the sort who would think of that kind of exit.
It's a possibility, and the story is yours, but I would personally think it much more likely that he was just so accustomed to succeeding in his many plots that an idea like failure had not occurred to him at all. Purely arrogance. It has done in more than one man.
Much as I like some of the things he did, his methods were too extreme even for my tastes...though not by very much.
Much as I like some of the things he did, his methods were too extreme even for my tastes...though not by very much.
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