Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1800 - 794: A Bandit Is a Bandit! (Part 3)
Capítulo 1800: Chapter 794: A Bandit Is a Bandit! (Part 3)
“Mr. Prime Minister, have you gotten something wrong? Right now, it’s not us begging you, it’s you begging us. Her Majesty the Queen is scheduled to give a televised speech tomorrow afternoon, right? Guess what would happen if we release another video an hour before her speech, say, a recording of a British officer ordering gunfire in Stone Bridge Town?”
A sound of something being knocked over came from the other end of the line.
“You can’t possibly have something like that…” The Prime Minister’s voice was trembling.
“Wanna try?”
Casare’s voice grew cold, “We have testimonies, soldiers’ diaries from the scene, communication records. We even know the officer’s name: Major James Watkins, affiliated with the Royal Anglian Regiment, ‘seconded’ to MI6’s Special Operations Team last November. Do you need me to continue with his service number?”
A long silence.
Casare could hear the Prime Minister’s heavy breathing.
“What do you want?” The Prime Minister finally asked, his voice completely softened.
“I mentioned it before.” Casare flicked some ash off his cigarette, “A special court under the United Nations, multinational participation, open trial. It’s the only plan that can convince the world.”
“That would destroy the United Kingdom’s international reputation—”
“Do you still have a reputation?”
Casare retorted, “Mr. Prime Minister, wake up. Your reputation was gone the moment you decided to play colonial games in North America. The issue now isn’t about saving face, it’s about saving substance—keeping your shaky system from truly being overrun by the public into Buckingham Palace.”
The Prime Minister was speechless.
Casare continued to up the stakes: “Or, we can opt for a different approach. We won’t demand an international court, we’ll do it ourselves. Mexico will publicly release all the evidence we have, a little each day, for a month. We’ll build files for every victim in Stone Bridge Town, complete with photos and stories. We’ll track down every British officer’s whereabouts, publish their names, photos, and home addresses. We’ll launch a global petition, demanding the British government to accept trial.”
“What do you think will Britain become by then? How long can your Cabinet last? Will the Royal Family still exist?”
These words cut like knives into the Prime Minister’s heart.
He closed his eyes, as if seeing the scene: newspaper headlines featuring new evidence of atrocities every day, protestors surrounding Parliament, European allies drawing lines, Scottish and Northern Irish independence movements gaining unprecedented support…
“We need time.”
The Prime Minister said with difficulty, “The Queen’s speech must proceed tomorrow, we need to first calm domestic emotions.”
“Alright.” Casare responded unexpectedly quickly, “By this time tomorrow, I want to see an official statement from the British government agreeing to participate in negotiating the formation of the United Nations special court.”
He paused: “If it’s not seen, then the morning after tomorrow, the first officer’s files will appear on the front pages of The New York Times and the World Newspaper.”
The Prime Minister wanted to say something, but Casare had already hung up.
Listening to the dial tone from the receiver, the Prime Minister did not put it down for a long time.
The office door opened, Sir Butler walked in, seeing the Prime Minister’s pale face, his heart sank.
“Did he refuse?” Butler asked.
“No.” The Prime Minister put down the receiver, his voice hoarse, “He gave us twenty-four hours, and agreed to the special court.”
Butler gasped: “That’s impossible, Parliament will never pass—”
“Then let Parliament pass!”
The Prime Minister suddenly erupted, smashing his fist on the table, “Or do you want to see Britain becoming an international pariah?! Want to see Scotland independent? See the Royal Family abolished?!”
He panted heavily, hands braced on the table: “Go prepare the statement draft. The wording should be dignified but convey our willingness to participate in ‘international dialogue,’ our willingness to ‘clarify facts in a transparent manner,’ a bit vague but the direction must be clear.”
Butler hesitated: “About the Queen—”
“I’ll talk to the Queen.” The Prime Minister interrupted him, “Now, go to work.”
After Butler left, the Prime Minister slumped into his chair.
Outside the window, it was a gray London morning, and rain started again.
He suddenly recalled a speech he heard thirty years ago when he was a young MP. Back then, the United Kingdom had just joined the European Community, the speaker passionately declared, “We will lead Europe, reshape the world order.”
Thirty years have passed.
Lead Europe?
Reshape world order? We can’t even maintain our own order.
The Prime Minister picked up the frame on the table, inside was a photo of him with Mrs. Thatcher.
During the Iron Maiden era, the United Kingdom could still wage the Falkland Islands War with U.S. support, and hold its head high on the international stage.
What about now?
The United States has collapsed, Europe is falling apart, the backyard is on fire, and a former “Banana Republic” has seized our throat.
History is indeed a sarcastic bitch.
He picked up the red phone, connecting to Buckingham Palace.
“Your Majesty, this is the Prime Minister. Regarding tomorrow’s speech, we need to make some… adjustments.”
Mexico City, dawn.
Casare stood on the balcony of Victor’s office, having reported the conversation with the Prime Minister.
Victor stood in his robe, holding a cup of coffee, listening, occasionally nodding.
“Boss, do you think they’ll agree?” Casare asked.
“They will.”
Victor sipped his coffee, “Because they have no choice, the Prime Minister is a realist, he knows when to bow.”
“But can the special court really be established? The United States, France, Germany… will they participate?”
