Fatal Ambition

By Nick De Bois

Success

The Prime Minister is on borrowed time.

Scandal

His successor lies in wait.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 3rd Step Broadcast
• Release date: Sep 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739930813

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

monday 1st september 2025, 9pm

windmill cottage, near lavenham, suffolk

The cottage was picture postcard perfect.

A dream for those escaping life’s daily pressures. A chance, however brief, to reconnect with the countryside and rest – that was what a place like Windmill Cottage could offer.

But not today.

Today, it was the perfect place to die.

Robert gulped the glass of water hungrily, as if afraid he might change his mind. He felt no fear, just disappointment, as the pills made their way into his bloodstream. Whisky wasn’t his poison – he wouldn’t be remembered as a man who’d killed himself on a cocktail of booze and pills, like some dysfunctional B-list celebrity. He gently put the small medicine bottle down on the side table next to him, alongside the neatly addressed envelope containing the two letters he’d so meticulously written and re-written countless times during the course of the last few days.

He slumped back into the armchair. He’d told his wife Elaine he had a pounding headache and would go to bed early. No matter, she was going out to her Zumba class anyway.

As she’d grabbed her car keys, and driven off, he’d stood there at the front door for several minutes.

I do love you so very much, my dear, he said, as he finally closed the door and made his way upstairs to his study.

The house had once been a corn mill, with towers looming high above the rural fields of Suffolk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the full perimeter of the upper level, and looked out over a blanket of colourful farmland – rapeseed, wheat and barley. But now, in early autumn, a bleaker mixture of brown soil and fallow fields of weeds and grass could be seen.

The house was the ideal rural escape from London. At least Robert thought so. Over the years he’d come to resent the numerous trips to the city, especially the time he could have spent at home with his two children when they were back from school for the holidays. His family was the one thing he’d got right – he had been a good father and a good husband. Until now. The shame he would bring on them all, and the change in their lives, was unbearable to contemplate.

Yet he’d never been a good brother, or a good son. Jealousy has consumed him to the point of self-destruction. It had been a cancer on his whole life. His mother had fuelled it.

Her preference, and her greater love for her eldest son James, was always on display. None of this had deterred him from trying to win his mother’s love. As regularly as he failed to impress her, he resolutely tried harder to please, at first not begrudging his brother all the attention, just simply baffled by it.

They say that just before you die, your whole life flashes before you. Why was he not thinking of his lovely wife Elaine, his children, his home?

Even when he’d landed his dream job at De Valk all those years ago, his mother’s only comment was to urge him not to mess this up like he had everything else. There hadn’t even been a hint of recognition that he’d done well to gain the position at the highly respected city investment firm and brokers.

You’ll be dealing with other people’s money now, a responsibility that doesn’t sit well with you, Robert, she added. Don’t disappoint those people as you have a habit of doing. Look how your brother is having a positive impact on other people’s lives. Why can’t you be more like him?

He never fought back.

Now, twenty-five years later, little had changed. His mother had not mellowed with age. If anything, at seventy-nine she discriminated even more, not least because her precious elder son had gone from success to success and now had a seat at the Cabinet table in Downing Street.

But that perverse desire to please had never left Robert. Worse, it extended to his brother, as he sought approval from him.

Which is why he had taken the deal to James. The deal that would set them both up financially, for life.

As deals go, it had been straightforward, as he’d explained to James when they’d met in the House of Commons for lunch, exactly six weeks ago.

So, do I have to put any cash up to buy the shares in the first place? James had asked.

That’s the beauty of it, dear brother. You or your trust would effectively contract to borrow the shares and return them on a certain date. By then, all being well, having sold the shares at present market value, their price will drop, and we buy the shares back that are needed to return to the brokers, pocketing a handsome profit in the meantime. No cash out, only cash coming in.

Robert had revelled in the rare experience of being the expert to his elder brother, the pupil.

Looking back now, he took no comfort from the fact that it was James who’d wanted to put the kitchen sink into the deal. If we do it, we do it big. I’d want to make hundreds of thousands, not tens. Is that agreed?

And of course, he had agreed.

Whatever you decide, I’ll match it. This is life-changing stuff. We won’t regret it.

How bitterly Robert now regretted it. The target company was Astrex Pharmaceuticals. For years they’d been developing a new cancer drug, investing a fortune in it. The company was facing the prospect of many of its original ground-breaking drugs coming off patent, having benefited from twenty years’ exclusivity and generous revenues. Soon competitors would be able to produce generic drugs using the same compounds. They needed approval for the new drug more than even the investor analysts knew.

Not to get this approval would see the company’s shares fall severely, possibly by as much as thirty percent. The prospect of going ‘short’ on Astrex promised healthy profits should FDA approval be denied. And that’s precisely what Robert had counted on. His source was impeccable. And they wanted to help him and James. For Robert, this was a no-brainer, and, in his opinion, risk-free of prosecution for insider trading.

At 7.30am New York time, 12.30pm GMT on Tuesday 19 August, Reuters flashed up the news of FDA approval for Xenotronyx. With almost certain world-wide approval to manufacture and license the drug to follow, the share price shot up by over twenty-seven percent and stayed there.

Rather than collecting some half a million each, Robert and James instead owed £1.2 million each to honour their contract with the brokers. They had fifteen days to come up with the settlement figure, a sum neither of them had. Even worse, the loss was all in James’s blind trust and therefore the money had to be to be paid back into that same trust. The trust would have to account for the funds in its declarations, its tax affairs. It was all going to come out.

What should have been Robert’s crowning moment of success in the family was in fact his biggest disaster ever. Compounding his humiliation was the fact that it was James who’d somehow found the solution of how to plug a financial black hole of £2.4 million. Was it James though? Or was it in fact the same highly influential person who’d started this whole mess in the first place who then mysteriously arranges for a transfer of £2.4 million to pay for the price of failure? His failure.

Robert was so confused.

Worn down by the whole horrible affair he’d agreed to manipulate the compliance. But it would come out. For sure it would come out. And when it did, he couldn’t bear to be there.

The disgrace, the shame.

His mother was right. He’d not only failed but laid the foundations for the ruin of the son she actually loved.

As the pills worked their last, lethal effect on him, he smiled. At least he’d finally have pleased his mother now. He’d proved her right about him.

1

One month later

tuesday 7th october 2025, 9.53am

10 downing street, london sw1

That the Prime Minister had called an unscheduled Cabinet meeting was enough to fuel fevered speculation amongst the political pundits as to what was so urgent. It was quickly labelled a crisis meeting, even when it was strikingly obvious to most observers that not a single journalist knew what was on the agenda, or what the crisis was.

Many of the select group of ‘lobby journalists’ who enjoyed special access to those in power, were presently corralled behind a series of unstable temporary barriers on the opposite side of the road to the famous black door of No 10 Downing Street. Their camera crews jostled with the photographers as they sought to get the best angle, always looking for the most impactful image of the day.

Amazingly, the meeting scheduled for 10am had stayed a secret until it was announced that morning at 7am to the press lobby. For journalists, this was a nightmare. Nothing was leaking. They had nothing to say.

One of those journalists was Beth Anderson, furiously tapping away on her phone.

Her producer’s voice came through her earpiece. What have you got Beth? Any clue what’s going on?

I’m engaged in the time-honoured practice of trying to answer my producer’s useless questions while simultaneously sending messages to all my contacts!

Darren’s going apeshit this end I should warn you, he’s desperate to break the news about this meeting.

I hear you, Simon. Now tell my pig of a boss I’m on it.

Luckily for you, he can’t hear that unflattering description. Seven minutes ’til we go live.

Beth took a moment to read one or two of the responses coming into her phone, but nothing helped shed any light on what this emergency meeting was all about.

"Sorry Beth, an update for you. Darren thinks PM is going to quit. He reckons the silence from usual sources is telling. Let’s face it, the PM is tanking faster than the Titanic ever did. Anyway, talk to the man himself –"

Beth, what the fuck is going on? Is he resigning?

Darren’s voice boomed through her earpiece, catching her momentarily off guard. She hesitated before replying, leaving him room to pounce again.

Christ’s sake, you’re meant to be a news broadcaster. What the fuck have you been doing all morning?

He wasn’t joking; this was Darren all over, blunt, foul mouthed and all yobbish testosterone. Perfect for an archaic news editor.

Look, Darren, nothing’s leaking. I’m just going to fill in with background.

You know we’re facing a reorganisation here, Beth? Our masters at Media Capital will think better of us if we could actually break some bloody news for a change. We need some serious brownie points as you should bloody well know!

So that’s what’s made him even more unbearable than usual.

I’m calling in every favour. None of the SpAds are taking my calls.

For fuck’s sake, these people are supposed to know everything. Cabinet ministers don’t take a crap without telling them. How about your pals, the MP who works for James Cleaver? Or that SpAd you’re so friendly with?

I haven’t got time for this. Let me get on.

Get me something newsworthy or you might have more time on your hands than you bloody think!

Her producer came down the line after Darren had left.

You alright, Beth? Three minutes ’till we’re live.

She was angry, but asking her friends to leak was a nonstarter. Many a night the three of them had traded dark secrets and juicy gossip over several bottles of wine, but despite her journalistic instincts it was an unwritten rule that what was said at home stayed at home. Their friendships had miraculously survived the natural tension between politicians and journalists because they’d all stuck by this.

Simon, let them know I’ll probably just stick to speculation –

Her iPhone vibrated.

She looked frantically at her screen. It was Tom.

Not now, she thought. He probably did know what was happening, but he wouldn’t be telling her.

Beth – it’s Europe, it’s huge, and it’s bad

Now that was unusual, he was trying to tell her something without breaking their ground rules.

She furiously tapped a reply.

Need more. Appreciate the heads-up, but not a lot of help. Can anyone else help me?

She quickly pressed Send before realising he’d sent a follow-up message without waiting for her reply.

I’ve seen the papers. Cleaver of all people behind it, Scott messaging you now with details!

Behind what?? she tapped back furiously.

If the two of them were about to leak her a story they must be bloody furious about something.

Her phone vibrated again. Scott. She had less than a minute before she went on air.

It’s Europe. PM and Cleaver in a stitch-up. Beth took in the remaining details quickly, then re-read them, desperate not to make a mistake. This was big.

Five seconds, came down her earpiece.

Her sources couldn’t be better, but had she got this completely right? If she hadn’t, she’d be top of the list for redundancy. Darren would make sure of that. That was the only thing she was certain about.

She turned to the camera.

Today’s surprise Cabinet meeting has been shrouded in secrecy, with speculation mounting that there will be a major shift in government policy on the question of our future relationship with Europe, three and a half years after we formally left the European Union.

She paused momentarily to heighten the sense of expectation. That’s the easy bit, she thought.

"This Morning can exclusively report that sources close to the Cabinet have said today’s emergency meeting will ratify a decision for the UK to apply for membership of the European Free Trade Association, as a first step towards eventually renewing its relationship with the EU, and opening the door to a possible return to the Single Market and freedom of movement. Sources close to the Cabinet have made clear that the Prime Minister has the full support of arch–Brexiter and Eurosceptic Cabinet colleague James Cleaver, which would represent one of this country’s greatest ever political U-turns. Those same sources also stress that this is a stepping stone towards much closer, deeper integration with the European Union, something that will be seen by millions of voters as a betrayal of the country’s Brexit vote back in 2016 and completely against the agenda promised to voters by the Conservative Party ever since."

There was a gasp in her ear from her producer.

Fuck me, where did that come from?

Simon was right. What had been going on behind that famous front door? A weak PM changing Europe policy was one thing but with the support of the most ardent Brexiteer of all, James Cleaver? Christ, she thought, I’d better have this right. She grabbed her phone and dialled Scott.

2

tuesday 7th october, 10am

9 downing street, london sw1

Tom Woods put his phone down. He and Scott had given Beth exactly what she needed, and in doing so he knew he’d not only scuppered the news grid for the day – something always so carefully plotted by No 10 – but his job as Parliamentary Aide to James Cleaver as well.

So be it.

Ten years’ work down the drain because his boss had put personal ambition ahead of the mission. The mission they’d both believed in and worked so hard for – to take the country out of the European Union.

Tom was still in shock, he supposed. It was just twenty-four hours since he’d confronted his boss, here in James’s office, about his suspicions. That confrontation, and its aftermath, had shattered his world, and his faith in the man he’d worked tirelessly with for over a decade. After days of James avoiding meeting him, Tom had surprised him, cornering him as his driver deposited him outside the entrance to his office in Downing Street. James’s private secretary had tried to stop Tom from confronting his Secretary of State but that’s where his lanky, six foot five frame had come in handy, intimidating even the most determined of civil servants.

Tom, what can I do for you, this must be urgent since you are doorstepping me before I can even get out of the car?

Explain why you’ve been ignoring me all day and frankly cutting me out of recent Europe meetings? That wasn’t our deal, and you know it.

Tom could see James do his best to control himself. No one ever spoke to him like this, he wasn’t used to it.

I’m a busy man, as you know, sometimes even you may have to wait to see me. Let’s go into my office shall we, rather than remonstrate here?

"That’s rubbish and you know it. We go way back. We campaigned together over a decade ago to get Brexit, we plotted together. I’ve been your assistant and your biggest cheerleader in the Commons. What the hell is going on? Tell me straight, are the rumours true? Are you about to sell us out and go begging for EFTA membership and then what, re-join the single market like other EFTA members? You always said this would never happen!

No.

No what?

James said nothing as he marched swiftly down the corridor to his office and quietly shut the door behind the two of them.

"No Tom. This is ludicrous, you are peddling in rumours and innuendo, how on earth have you the nerve to even think such a thing. Yes we are looking at the merits of EFTA, and the PM is keen on it, but you work it out. If you really think I’d ever attempt to take this country back into the EU, then clearly I’ve overestimated your friendship, your trust and, above all, your brains. Enough of this, I have to get to the Chief Whips’ office. We can talk later, and for God’s sake, get a grip.

Who said anything about taking the UK back into the EU? I never even asked you about that. What the hell are you up to James?

Tom had spent the rest of the day furiously confirming what he suspected through his network of contacts, as well as enlisting the help of his close friend Scott Williamson. Between them they knew the corridors of power like few others, they had the knowledge, the access and knew where to look to find out what was really going on.

It all started innocently enough you know fellas. We all thought this was a sensible idea, to sign a trade deal with the EFTA block of countries, Norway, Iceland, Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Piddley little players in the scheme of things but it looked good so we pressed ahead, and at the time if you remember the government were desperate for trade deals.

They were huddled up in the Blue Boar pub in Tothill Street, one of the regular Westminster bolt holes for MPs and their advisors, one of which they were talking to now, Doug Seaman. At least, he had been a special advisor, until he was sacked by his Secretary of State. That was meant to be it, he continued. A sensible trade deal with a small group of European countries with no loss of sovereign powers to Brussels or anyone else for that matter. It went through without a hitch.

So when did things change? asked Tom, not really wishing to halt the flow of information. A disgruntled ex-special advisor needs little encouragement to trash his former pay masters.

"After Boris Johnson quit, the economy continued tanking as the reality of covid kicked in. So much for the bounce back which was nothing more than a fucking mirage. Anyway, suddenly we were getting requests for submissions, briefing papers and so on to assess whether it would be in Britian’s interests to actually join the EFTA club. Again, nothing wrong with that if that’s all it was going to be. I put the finished paper together for my minister and he went scampering off to the PM. Next thing I knew, I was taken off the project, told it was going nowhere and three weeks later there I was, out on my ear. That creep claimed it was ‘time for a fucking change’. He took another slug of his beer before disappearing to the gents.

Why all the secrecy? Scott asked.

Precisely, and why kick out Doug, unless they worried he would leak information.

You are answering your own question, but the real ask is, what are they up to now and how far have they got with their planning?

Plus why the fuck is Cleaver having anything to do with this?

I think it’s time to crack on. Let’s see if I can get anything out of Karen Dawson’s assistant at No 10, we’re mates and she might help. If anyone knows anything it will be her boss the Chief of Staff!

Tom and Scott took the opportunity to make their excuses, Doug had nothing more to offer so they had set off to plug the gaps. It was not long before the full extent of what No 10 were planning became clearer. Doug was right, joining EFTA was seemingly harmless enough but it was also a big stepping stone for easy accession to the European Economic Area, which to all intents and purposes meant the EU single market and ultimately some would say the EU. The hard-fought referendum result and everything achieved since was now at risk from a panicked government led by a weak Prime Minister, with the support, shockingly, of leading Brexiteer James Cleaver. There was only one explanation they could both think of. The PM could only get this deal through Parliament and his own Party if Cleaver backed it, and knowing James as they did, he would have extracted a heavy price for doing this, which could only mean one thing. The PM would secure the deal and then resign, leaving James with a clear run at the leadership. It was by any description one of the shabbiest deals in politics ever.

Tom’s phone buzzed in his trouser pocket, distracting his thoughts momentarily. Scott.

Tom, I just had Beth on the phone freaking out, worried she went too far with her story. She’s a bit pissed I didn’t give her more warning.

Tom laughed, both at the thought of Beth being freaked out, something he just didn’t see her ever being, and the image of her chewing Scott out for not giving her a few more minutes’ warning about what was happening in the Cabinet meeting.

I love the idea of her being freaked out, we’ve just gifted her the scoop of the year so far, but thanks for the heads-up. I’ll just say you screwed up and called her too late.

Good job she nicknamed us ‘Troika’ and not the ‘Three Musketeers’ then, because the musketeers looked out for each other, you sod.

Beth had christened the three of them ‘Troika’, after the much maligned and anti-democratic EU Troika that took over the governing of Greece until the Greek deficit was under relative control. Troika, she said, wielded power, the musketeers just swords. Troika it was. Theirs was a special bond, which in Beth’s case had puzzled some of Tom’s girlfriends, who didn’t get it and saw her as a threat until they got to know her better. His partners, all short lived, would come and go; Beth, like Scott, was permanent.

Scott continued, I’ve drafted your resignation letter and will email it over to you. Chances are they’ll fire you quickly so best get it out sooner rather than later, even if you don’t capture all the main news cycles. I’ll make my own departure tomorrow. I need to clear out some stuff from my office first.

"We’re both totally screwing our careers here, I mean spectacularly so. Are you sure you want to do this? I’ll have my MP’s salary even if