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bottle to the table. “What did I say?”
    Then, growing closer, he heard the bass thrum of enemy aircraft engines. An airman burst into the tent, half into his flight jacket.
    “Ninjas! A whole squadron of them!”
    Chairs scraped on the wooden floor. Their faces expressing both relief and excitement, the crowd rushed for the door, pulling on gloves and flight helmets as they went.
    Left at his table, Ack-Ack Macaque took a final swill from the bottle. The rum was as sweet and dark as coffee. Rivulets ran into the fur beneath his chin. He clamped a fresh cigar in place and gathered his holsters from the table. Through the open door, he could see the boomerang silhouettes of German flying wings lumbering across the airfield, spilling black-clad paratroopers. Chutes blossomed at the far end of the aerodrome, as a squad of ninjas tried to attack the tower, brandishing swords and submachine guns. A second wave fell towards the aeroplane hangars, armed with flame throwers and throwing stars.
    Mindy was waiting for him at the door.
    “Come on, Morris,” he said around the cigar. “It’s that time again.”
    “And what time would that be, skipper?”
    Ack-Ack Macaque drew his guns: two silver Colts big enough to shoot holes in the moon. Holding them, he felt his energy returning. A grin peeled his lips from his clenched yellow teeth.
    “Time to blow shit up.”

 
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
    BATSHIT CHATROOMS OF DOGGERLAND
     
    11.30 PM IN P ARIS. On the steps of the Turkish Embassy, His Royal Highness Prince Merovech, the Prince of Wales, shook hands with the Turkish Ambassador and thanked him for a wonderful evening. Then, after dutifully waving for the paparazzi, he slid into the comfort of a waiting limousine.
    As the car pulled away from the kerb, he let his shoulders sag, and his smile sank back beneath the aching muscles of his face. With one hand, he undid his bow tie, and the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. With the other, he took a bottle of cold imported lager from the mini fridge behind the driver’s seat and popped the cap. Then, cradling the bottle in his lap, he let his head rest against the cool black of the tinted window. Beyond the bulletproof, rain-streaked glass, trees lined the side of the road, and reflected streetlamps glimmered off the waters of the Seine. On the opposite bank, the Eiffel Tower reared above the trees, lit by spotlights, with both the Union Flag and the French Tricolour hanging sodden from its mast.
    The flags reminded Merovech of a line from his great-grandmother’s famous Unification speech, where she’d spoken about the way Dover and Calais had once been joined by a chalk ridge called Doggerland; and how the Seine, the Thames and the Rhine had all been tributaries flowing into a mighty river delta, the remains of which now lay submerged beneath the English Channel.
    “Our two great countries have always been linked beneath the surface,” she’d said, before going on to announce plans for the construction of a tunnel to reunite the two countries — a project which wouldn’t be completed until nearly fifteen years later, in 1971.
    She had made that speech almost one hundred years ago, and yet every school child knew it by heart. The political merger of Britain and France had been a key turning point in European history: a cause for optimism and hope on a continent still nursing the hangover from two devastating World Wars.
    Merovech took a sip from the beer bottle. Good news for Europe, yes; but not so good for him. With the hundredth anniversary of Anglo-French unification only days away, his life had become a stultifying round of yawn-worthy cocktail parties, receptions and ceremonies. He ate, slept and moved to a strict itinerary, with hardly a moment for himself. At heart, he’d always been grateful for the privileges which came with his royal title, but recently, he’d found it hard not to resent the accompanying responsibilities: the boredom and wasted