Third World War by Unknown Read Free Book Online

Minister.
    'I've heard of him,' said Charles Colchester, a long-time friend and chairman of Britain's Joint Intelligence Committee. 'But I can't say he's on the top of anyone's in-tray.'
    Colchester was dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit and business tie, the uniform of senior officials around the corridors of Whitehall.
    He handed Nolan a sheet of paper. 'This is a list of places where rioting has broken out in South-East Asia. Our stations believe there was a measure of coordination. The real problem is Brunei. There's been a coup d'etat organized by a pro-Islamic colonel in the army. As far as we can tell, it's been successful. They now control Bandar Seri Begawan.'
    Nolan quickly read the list, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He had forfeited his morning swim for the meeting with Colchester. He was keen to wrap things up and get some exercise, but already he sensed this was the sort of day when that would not happen. 'Bandar Seri Begawan might be the administrative capital,' said Nolan testily, 'but the oil's at Seria. Whoever holds Seria holds Brunei.'
    'They don't hold Seria yet,' said Colchester.
    'Nor will they, if I have anything to do with it. I trained in Brunei. I love its impenetrable humidity, its jellyfish and its billionaire Sultan. And I'll be damned--' Nolan waved his hand to shut himself up. At sixty-nine, Nolan was one of the oldest occupants Downing Street had ever had. Prostate cancer had been detected. Radiotherapy had worked, he was told. His long-suffering wife, Jean, had instructed him to seek out a less busy life, although Nolan wondered if tranquillity might end up leading him to an even earlier death. His curiosity about far-flung and difficult places often rested uneasily with his own nation's lack-lustre interest in events beyond its shores. Years into the War against Terror, enthusiasm for conflict had waned. Long gone was the unquestioning patriotism in sending troops to remote corners of the world, particularly since it meant less money to spend on the issues British people now held dearest, their schools, transport and health. Nolan was also waiting to hear whether the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh was going to vote for a referendum on independence for Scotland, called for so suddenly after the Scottish National Party gained control of the governing coalition. He wondered disdainfully whether his footnote in history would be his attempts to focus British minds on Muslim riots in Asia while the United Kingdom itself was breaking up.
    'If Brunei totters, just about anywhere can,' said Colchester, glancing at his watch. His meeting slot with the Prime Minister had been set from 06.45 to 07.00. 'If you've got an extra five minutes, I would like you to meet Lazaro Campbell. He's from Washington, on secondment to us. He knows his stuff. He's waiting outside.'
    The Prime Minister nodded, knowing that Colchester would not have imposed Campbell on him so early in the morning for nothing. Campbell came in and shook Nolan's hand, without explanation or apology that he had arrived for the meeting in a tracksuit and running shoes, with a line of sweat just on the hairline of his forehead.
    'At least someone's clever enough to find time to exercise around here,' muttered Nolan. 'Lazaro Campbell? Where do you get a name like that?'
    'From a Cuban mother and a Scottish father, Prime Minister,' said Campbell, pulling out a hand towel from his tracksuit and wiping his face dry. 'My mother was fleeing Castro's Cuba. My father was with the British embassy and literally lifted her from the boat at Key West. So I'm the product of Caribbean sun, fun and revolution.'
    Nolan laughed. Campbell was a robust man with Hispanic features and dark tousled hair. He was in his early forties, but a pair of sharp blue eyes, an unshaven face and an expression that often looked a moment away from laughter made him seem a lot younger. Colchester opened his briefcase and slipped documents and photographs out of a large