The room erupted completely!

"You're trying to dismember the United Kingdom!!" Portillo slammed the table, his face turning liver-colored with anger.

"The United Kingdom is already dead!"

The Prime Minister roared back fiercely, his voice tearing through, eyes finally bursting with the savage light of a dying beast, "Dead in the cow dung heaps of Delhi! Dead in the hands of guerrillas in the Scottish Highlands! Dead on the protest placards in the streets of London! What we need to do now is not to dress up the corpse, but to see if we can carve out some pieces of useful meat from it before they all rot away together!"

He gasped for air, chest heaving violently, looking at the stunned crowd:

"Either we proactively reform, perhaps preserving some dignity, preserving the Royal Family, preserving some functions of the London Financial City, even playing a somewhat significant role in a new, loose national alliance in the future. Or, we wait for MacTavish to slam the Golden Document on the UN table, wait for Sarah Kent to lead millions into Whitehall, wait for the British Pounds to turn into waste paper, wait for every county on this island to declare autonomy! You choose!"

No one could answer. Only the sound of heavy breathing and despair filled the room.

"Get on with it."

The Prime Minister slumped back into his chair, waving his hand as if to shoo away a fly, "Do everything. As fast as possible. I've already asked the secretary to draft a letter of resignation. Until the new 'structure' is clarified, I'll stay in position... to complete these final... formalities."

He looked out the window, although there were no windows in the underground briefing room. But he seemed to see the pitch-black night sky of London, and from the direction of Hyde Park, the faint, symbolic glow of bonfires.

"Three hundred years..." he murmured, "and it all comes down to a negotiation about cow dung and theft. What a... splendid joke."

August 1, 1997, Edinburgh, Scotland, Holyrood Palace

The atmosphere was completely different.

It was no longer a makeshift interim government office, but had begun to carry the aura of a true power center. Staff moved quickly, phones rang continuously, but order was maintained. On the walls, the St. Andrew's Flag and the new "Scottish Kingdom" emblem had been hung, replacing all Royal Family insignia.

MacTavish sat behind a large desk, listening to Calum McDonald's report, his face expressionless, but his fingers lightly tapping on the desk, revealing a certain inner agitation.

"...London officially submitted the final revised version of the Scotland Autonomous Kingdom Bill, almost entirely accepting our terms. Including full sovereignty and revenue rights over North Sea oil and gas resources, including the payment schedule for the thirty billion in compensation—the first installment of five billion to be paid within a month. Also, the nominal attribution of defense and foreign affairs rights is heavily tilted toward Edinburgh." Calum's voice carried an excitement he couldn't contain.

"The power of the Golden Document." MacTavish said calmly, "They are afraid. Afraid we will package it with the Delhi massacre into a 'complete corruption and collapse of the Old Empire' meal and feed it to the world."

"Shall we make it public?" Calum asked.

"No rush." MacTavish shook his head, "The fuse is in our hands, when to light it depends on our mood. Igniting it now would make London explode entirely, creating chaos, which is of no benefit to us. What we need is a London that can fulfill agreements, hand over money and power, even if it's a kneeling London. Once we have established our footing, once our military, fiscal, judicial systems operate independently... then we can consider whether to blow up the rest to smithereens."

He paused: "When is the advisory group from Mexico arriving?"

"Next week. Officially, they are a 'city planning and sustainable development exchange group,' but leading them is a former senior official from the Mexican Treasury, along with experts in energy and infrastructure. They've agreed to help us design an 'independent financial and currency transition plan,' as well as a long-term investment management model for North Sea oil and gas revenues." Calum adjusted his glasses, "The conditions are also clear: in the future, Scotland will give priority to Mexican enterprises in energy exports and financial market access; support their initiatives in the International Energy Organization and Financial Stability Forum; and... allow them to participate in the construction and management of a 'new energy technology experimental zone' near the Shetland Islands."

"Give it to them." MacTavish said decisively, "As long as the core technology is in our hands, as long as management rights are in our hands, letting them make money and help us build is a good thing. We need to make Scotland's per capita GDP surpass England's within five years, make Glasgow and Edinburgh look more modern than London. That is the best Declaration of Independence."

At this moment, former SAS member John McLean knocked and entered, still wearing that ill-fitting suit, but his eyes sharper than ever.

"Angus, there's a small move from London." McLean's voice was low, "They are attempting to reach out privately to some of the mid-level military officers we recently incorporated, promising... 'generous rewards for returning to the Royal Family.' Mainly targeting those whose ancestors were Royalists, or whose familial interests are deeply tied with England."

MacTavish's eyes turned cold: "A list?"

McLean handed over a piece of paper with several names and brief backgrounds.

MacTavish glanced at it, fingers tapping on one of the names: "This one, Duncan McKay from Aberdeen County, his uncle is the largest fishery owner there, and his business relies entirely on exports to England. Handle it. No need to arrest him, assign him to guard the future 'new energy technology experimental zone' in the Shetland Islands, promote him, raise his salary, but get him off the mainland. Let him and his uncle ponder it themselves."