I’d been at the embassy for two miserly weeks when Ezekiel Bosch shot a portrait of the King. These weeks in the sultry sun had offered little in the way of education, save for how not to run a High Commission. In truth, my romance-imbued visions of the languid and serene had been taken out back and shot the moment I set foot on Fortunia. But, this was my posting, and I figured I’d make do. I look back on those early days now, and realise that almost nothing worthy of recollection had taken place until Ezekiel Bosch shot a portrait of the King. Though, perhaps I might try.

My first objective was to find rooms. In lieu of them, I was immediately situated in the embassy itself. It had, once upon a time and in the age of Empire, carried much more life within its walls than it did now. Suffice it to say that there were once more than three of us. And so, the compound had amenities fit for a bloated and permanent class of administrators. The room I found myself in was host to a single bed, an armchair, and a towering portrait of William the Fourth, who’d won the island from the Spanish, and declared in a feat of victory and mocking, that this island would be named from the Spanish word for luck. The room was once the personal library of the Ambassador. I liked it there, and lost myself in the almanacs and grimoires of a bygone age, allowing myself little flights of fancy, that I were a man of that time. This fleeting comfort, however, would form the basis of my lessons learned on Fortunia; that no good thing can last, and no irritation can end. I was moved along at the end of my fifth day, when Spratt climbed the stairs, noisily and with a profane exterior commentary, that telegraphed her passage through the embassy for all to hear.

“The ambassador says you’re too smooth,” she said, without a flicker of self-awareness.

“I’m too what?”

“Too smooth. He said you’re too smooth. He’s found you rude, he can’t stand you coming here, and you’re going to a cell in the jail-house.”

“Excuse me?”, I asked.

“I don’t know how I could have said that with any more clarity, my dear. Perhaps you should go and speak to the ambassador yourself. He may be able to find you a hearing specialist among the expats, as you seem to be so very hard of hearing.”

“Are you sure he’s said that?”

“Who’s Steve?”, she asked.

“No, he. Are you sure he said that, the Ambassador.”

“Quite positive,” she affirmed. “I’m not one to get this sort of thing wrong.”

“Right. It’s just that you’ve come and told me that the Ambassador thinks I’m smooth and rude, and so has seen fit to imprison me?”

“The ambassador is a funny little man, though he is most certainly very headstrong. Perhaps you should go and see him, to plead your case and all.”

I walked past her and made way down the stairs. On the way, I passed a portrait of every Ambassador to the island. There at the end was John Boffin, grinning in his typically vacuous way. “Hello, Ivan,” he said, looking up from a week-old newspaper from London. “It serves one well to keep up with the Mothership. Looks like the Foreign Sec is in a spot of bother. What can I do you for?”

It was then that there was a crash, and a bang, and a cry from the hall. “What on Earth was that?”, I asked.

“Spratt, I suppose,” said the Ambassador, without much affection. “She has a penchant for falling down the stairs.”

“Should we go and check on her?”

“No, no. She’ll be okay, she only does it for attention. She’s been all sorts of funny since you arrived, dropped boiling water on herself yesterday. Besides, from the sound of it she’s only fallen down the last few this time. I don’t much care for Spratt, but I’m stuck with her. She’s a Civil Servant you see, which makes her untouchable - unsackable, rather. When I was in His Majesty’s Fusiliers, we had a funny little joke, whenever a rifle would stop working, we’d call it a civil servant. Because it doesn’t work, and you can’t fire it. Just a little joke. Were you in the military, Ivan?”

“No. Sir, am I in trouble?”

“Trouble? Whatever for?”

“Well, it’s just that Spratt—“

“Spratt!”, the ambassador cried, interrupting me in the process. The door whimpered open, and Spratt hobbled in, nursing a fledgling bruise on her wrist. “Whatever have you said to Ivan?”, he asked, angrily. “You’ve got him in a most awful state of anxiety.”

“Just what you told me, Mr. Boffin,” began Spratt, before repeating what she had told me.

“Oh, for—that’s not what I said, Spratt. Christ, it’s like a never-ending game of Chinese whispers. That isn’t what I said.”

“Wasn’t it? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! I’m not in the habit of imprisoning my staff, much - in your case, Spratt - to my chagrin. I told her to tell you, Ivan, that you’re to move. We’ve found you some rooms. I can’t stand you slumming here, and I’ll settle you in the ale house. For God’s sake, Spratt. Do tell me you’ve told the Cuban mission that the Duke will be with them first thing in the morning?”

Her eyes widened. “The Duke?”

The Ambassador looked pensive as she scuttled out of the room. “Hm,” he started. “Might be an issue there, but that sounds like a problem for tomorrow. Anyway, have you an issue with being moved?”

“None at all, sir. I’ll fetch my things.”

The ale house, much to my pleasure, was not a pub, rather an hotel on the outskirts of the capital, where the houses seemed to double in size, and the local patois became more scarce. This, as I was told on the way there, was where the British contingent lived. It was owned by an expat couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Mindful. They’d moved to the island after a failed business venture in Bath, and were in the process of enduring another. “We don’t get many in,” Mrs. Mindful began as Mr. Mindful lugged my things up the narrow staircase, quickly finding an impasse. “Are you here on business?”

“No, ma’am, I work at the High Commission.”

“Oh, isn’t that nice. Is Mrs. Spratt still there?”

“She is.”

“Well then, I’ll be sure to have breakfast ready for you each morning. Bright an’ early.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll need all the energy in the world if you’re to be dealing that that deaf old bint day-in-day-out.”

She gave a little smirk and giggle, just as Mr. Mindful descended the stairs. “Did you say you’re working at the embassy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. We need all the numbers we can get, I hear the Germans have set up in town.”

I probably should have done something to dispel the growing fears in the capital that a German contingent was on its way, or was already here. Though I saw fit to keep quiet, as was often my way. My room at the Ale House was pitiful, but enjoyed a glistening view over the ocean, and on a clear day I could see the island that my friend, Villiers, was on. There, where I’d come to form the blissful habit of watching the sun fall with beer and cigarettes, I would hear the King’s English, and feel some semblance of home. Embassy life was drawl and uneventful, and played host to more tea parties and birthday functions than crises. That was, of course, until Ezekiel Bosch shot a portrait of the King.

It had happened over-night, and by morning the video evidence of his indiscretion was the only topic of discussion among the expats. “Oh, I can’t believe it,” said a woebegone Mrs. Mindful as she laid down my breakfast in an empty dining room. “He’ll have our heads on spikes by Friday, littering the coast with our spines and entrails. That madman, that brute. Oh, Lord give us bullets, we haven’t any more to spare!”

“Calm down, would you?”, said an irritant Mr. Mindful, who’d come in just as I tucked into a steak, which had seemingly been tenderised to within an inch of its life. “He’s a nutter, but he’s not daft. You know, he’s taken a shine to the elder’s daughter, that’ll put a stop to things, or make them worse. Oh, Christ, perhaps it is a looming disaster. What’ll the Germans think? D’you reckon they want the island?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said.

“You should. If you’re to be something on this island, laddy, I’d get acquainted with Ezekiel Bosch. See if you can talk some sense into him—if such a thing can be done.”

I’d never talked sense into anyone, and had long ago accepted my role in this world as being that of a wallflower, an observer. Perhaps, in a more whimsical mood, I become a flaneur, but even that entails some isolation, some will to affect no-one but myself . Ezekiel Bosch was the Prime Minister of Fortunia, a post that he’d inherited from his father, and that his father had won in a game of cards, from a man who’d won the job in a duel. That’s just how the rain falls here, is what I was told whenever some facet of island life made little sense. The Ambassador was in a state of unrest when I arrived just after ten. He was cowering, in the office, behind an overturned desk. “Are you here to kill me?”, he whimpered, when I opened the door to his office. “Is Spratt dead?”

“Kill? Spratt? No, she’s fine.”

“Oh, Ivan, it’s you, thank God! Are you sure Spratt isn’t dead?”

“I’m quite sure, she’s just outside. What on Earth is happening in here?”

“Haven’t you seen?”, he asked, nervously putting his head above the desk. “It’s horrible, it’s all so horrible. I can’t stand Bosch anymore. I so much preferred his father.”

“I know he’s done something, though what thing, no one has said.”

“Turn on the television, Ivan, there’s a good lad.”

And so I did. There was an American baseball game on the first channel. I glanced back at the ambassador. “News,” he said, sheepishly.

I did as he said, and was met with grainy, yet discernible, footage of Bosch, wearing an oversized military jacket with dozens upon dozens of military medals adorning either breast. “This is a message to the fuckin’ English! And to your fuckin’ King!”

He was waving a gun around carelessly, and the sniggers and giggles from behind the camera indicated that he was in the company of friends, and that they had gotten good and merry. Behind him on the wall, as was customary in all official buildings on Fortunia, was a painting of the King. Regal and whimsical, the King stood upon the wall, suspended in time, and so unfazed by what was to occur. Bosch spoke again: “Down wit’ the King!”

He turned and fired, but his balance was skewed by hours of consumption, and he spun, violently, to the ground, as a shot went off, missing the portrait and striking a bystander off-screen. The broadcast retuned to a flustered anchor. “Prime MInister Bosch was unharmed in the incident, thought by party insiders to have been the work of British or German agents operating on the island.”

“Word spread quick about the Germans,” I muttered.

“I don’t know how, nor when, but one day I will be rid of Spratt. One way or another. There’s more.”

He gestured at the television, where Bosch had returned. He was flanked on either side by generals, one had a bandaged arm. “The attempt on my general’s life will not go unpunished. The British and the Germans, who’ve recently arrived on my island, will be made to leave. Fortunia will know freedom again.”

He turned to face the perfectly intact portrait. “I missed once. I never miss twice.”

And then he shot a portrait of the King. I glanced, uneasily, at the Ambassador as the shots fired out. He winced with each pop. “Too horrible,” he whispered. The door opened, and Spratt poked her head in.

“Four calls from the village.”

“I was praying the expats would’ve caught wind after I’d had my breakfast.”

“What does this mean?”, I asked.

“What do you think?”, the Ambassador snapped. “Revolution, insubordination, chaos.”

“Six calls,” called Spratt through the door.

“Surely not,” I protested. “Surely things will calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down! I’ve been on this island for twenty years, my boy. Things don’t calm down here. They never calm down here.”

“Eight calls,” came another dispatch from the hallway.

“Calm down,” the Ambassador muttered through his oversized teeth. “This is a diplomatic disaster. I’d heard you were a hot-shot, Ivan, but you may be out of your depth here.”

“Ten calls.”

“Ten. Rats! That’s ten, it’s all of them. They’ve met for tea.”

“Who has?”

“The expats. Ten of them is a consensus. Help me get this desk up, Ivan. They’ll be here on the hour.”

“What’ll they do?”, I asked, nervously.

The Ambassador straightened and gulped. “They’ll come for tea.”

We spent some time plotting, less so how to deal with Bosch but rather the Elders, the impending arrival of whom had sent the Ambassador into a nervous spiral. He’d pace up and down the room, and into the hall, finding some reason to give Spratt an earful. They arrived early by the Ambassador’s estimation, and stood in an impatient silence as Spratt ferried tea into the room. They were all north of fifty, and had come to view themselves as the true British presence on the island. To them, the Embassy was merely a polite, political function, there to do their bidding. So similar were they all in appearance - five men and five women - so identical was their incandescent rage, that they seemed to me, on that day, to blur into one apoplectic entity.

“This cannot stand, Boffin,” said one, who’d later be known to me as a Mr. Lance, the de facto leader. “This simply won’t do. I thought you were cosy with the Bosch’s?”

“I was,” said the Ambassador. “I used to drink with the his father, before the—accident.”

“It most certainly was an accident,” called a voice from the back, later identifiable as coming from Mr. Grace. “Who’s supposed to know that the recoil on a Winchester can send a man over a cliff-edge? No-one! That’s who.”

“Well, yes,” the Ambassador continued. “His accident. We were chummy before the accident. But the younger Bosch hasn’t met with me in years.”

“Do you think he knows?”, Mr. Grace called back, nervously.

“I’d dare say not,” said Mr. Lance. “People are always dying on this island, in the funniest of ways. Premier and pauper alike, no one is safe. And we shan’t be safe until Bosch sees some sense. I mean, what’ll the Germans think?”

“Indeed, what will the Germans think?”, echoed a third voice - a Mrs. Pickles - her words wavering slightly as she looked around the room, holding gaze on the Ambassador, and then on me. “Bosch’s antics may mean one thing to us, but to the German delegation, it may well seem like—provocation.”

“Provocation?,” snapped Spratt, who had quietly entered the room to deliver the last of the tea. “It’s nothing short of an invitation. Bosch is teetering on madness—teetering, mind you, not yet fully over the edge. And he’s gone and fired at our King, twice! The Germans will smell blood in the water, and if it’s not theirs, it’ll certainly be ours.”

There was a murmur of uneasy agreement among the assembled elders. Each was, in his or her own way, certifiably English. They held within them, as a unifying factor, a veneer of English stoicism, but I could see it, clear as day and painted upon their faces, that Bosch had set a cat among the pigeons.

The Ambassador, still standing rather weakly behind his desk, shuffled awkwardly. “I’ll go and see him,” he declared at last, though without much enthusiasm. “Perhaps I can—reason with him. Surely Bosch must realise that antagonising us will do no good.”

“Reason with him?”, Mr. Lance scoffed. “Are you daft, Boffin? The man is beyond reasoning. He’s ruled by whimsy and surrounded by yes-men. I mean, for God’s sake, he shot one of them, and still has their loyalty. For all we know, he’s convinced himself that the Germans want to make him their puppet-king, and King outranks Prime Minister. And with his family’s peculiar history of stumbling into power, I wouldn’t put it past him to try. No, we must have a plan of action. Get on the phone to London, Boffin. Call in the Army, the Navy, the Special Air Service, and for God’s sake Spratt! I said sweetener, not sugar. Are you double agent or something?”

Spratt rolled her eyes and took her leave from the room. Mr. Lance took a moment to straighten his suit before speaking again. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh. But Boffin can’t go. Bosch will hang him on the ten o’clock news. Though we do need to send someone. Someone with diplomatic experience, the consent of Parliament, and most importantly—someone expendable.”

The group fell silent, their eyes falling into an unsettling, collective gaze of agreement, on me. “Oh no,” I stammered. “I’ve only just got here. I’m hardly acquainted with him!”

“That may be your best asset, son,” said Mr. Lance, approaching me with a disconcerting smirk, until he was right before me, and placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re an unknown quantity, not yet weighed down by local history.” He gave a meaningful glance toward Mr. Grace, who shifted uncomfortably.

“I hardly think he’d listen to me,” I protested. “I’m sure he sees me as just another embassy jockey, a figment of the Crown, which he despises by the way. Enough to shoot at.”

“But you don’t work for the Embassy, strictly speaking,” said the Ambassador, regaining a touch of his composure. “Bosch might see you as a fresh perspective. He’s tired of us all, and it seems he’s particularly bored of me. A new face could just intrigue him long enough to help him see sense. And if that fails you can always bribe him. He does like money.”

“That’s not how Bosch works,” muttered Spratt, who had returned to the room with a fresh pot of tea and a long-suffering expression. “I knew his father, long before your day Boffin, and trust me, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The only thing that catches a Bosch’s eye is something he can exploit.”

“Thank you, Spratt, that’s quite enough,” said the Ambassador, waving her off. But her point had slipped into the collective strategy of the room. I felt a chill at the notion of being pulled into the Bosch family’s orbit, especially when that orbit seemed to be circling closer to chaos with each day, hour, minute. After some hasty discussion, it was decided that I would visit Bosch’s villa, supposedly under the guise of conveying the embassy’s regards. In reality, I had been made a spy, and the goal was to gauge his intentions and—if possible—see if there was a way to salvage relations between him and the British government. I tried to steel myself as I was handed my marching orders, but it wasn’t easy. I’d been sent to Fortunia with dreams of quiet, sunlit days of mild intrigue—not diplomatic wrangling with a lunatic - an armed lunatic no less.

Mr. Lance stopped me as I readied myself to leave. “You shouldn’t go empty-handed,” he said, handing me a bottle of a nondescript brown spirit. “Here, I swiped it from Boffin’s desk. You’re our best shot, Ian.”

“If you’re going to send me to my death,” I muttered after he’d left. “At least get my fucking name right.”

The trip to Bosch’s residence was uncomfortable from the start. I was crammed into an ancient jeep that lurched up the island’s potholed roads as if built, by design, to test my loyalty to the Foreign Office. As we climbed into the hills where the patois returned, the trees grew thicker, and the villas were grand but strangely lifeless, like colonial relics that had fallen out of use decades ago. And then I was dumped by the side of the road, for the expat driving me hadn’t the bottle to drive into Bosch’s lair. I walked up a stony hill, and came to a gated mansion perched on the cliffside. Just to the left of the driveway was a shrine for the elder Bosch. Below that, was a horde of sharpened rocks, lapped by ferocious ocean water.

The gates swung open with a creak, and I was escorted inside. A few aides, mostly surly-looking men in ill-fitting military uniforms, kept a watchful eye on me as I was led through hallways hung with garish tapestries and dusty portraits of Bosch’s ancestors, ranging from indentured farm-hands to proud Generals, and at last to the seat of power, where Bosch sat.

“I will be taking that,” said one of the aides, snatching the bottle of liquor out of my hand.

I was then deposited in what could only be described as a makeshift throne room, where Bosch lounged on a garish chair, a half-finished glass of some viscous liquor, the same one I had been given, in one hand, a gun in the other, a wicked smile on his face. “Ah, the Englishman,” he said with a laugh that echoed around the room, provoking his entourage to laugh in the same manner. “Have you come to grovel on behalf of your King?”

He clicked his fingers, and the portrait was tossed at my feet. There were four bullet holes in its forehead and face.

“Not exactly, Prime Minister,” I replied, swallowing my nerves. “I’m here to better understand your—recent statements. To clarify your position.”

“Clarify?”, Bosch barked, diverting his gaze to the portrait at my feet. “What’s not clear about it? I’m tired of the old world pushing us around, telling us who we are. I’m here to tell you—and your King—that this island answers to no one but me. I am this island. It is also worth noting, that I no longer go by Prime Minister. I am The Gaffer.”

There was a deadly seriousness in his voice, even through his drunken bravado. I hesitated, glancing around at the empty room, realising this may be my one shot to broker some semblance of peace—or at least avoid outright chaos. “Gaffer,” I began, which earned sniggers from the men dotted about the room. “Fortunia is a special place. I haven’t been here long, but I’ve never known a place quite like it. The rain just falls differently here. Britain has no desire to stifle that. We only wish to see Fortunia remain—stable.”

“Stable?”, Bosch snapped, leaning forward. “Am I a horse? Do I have four legs and a massive cock? I have two legs. Two! And what is stable about bending the knee to the old world powers? What’s stable about bowing to the Germans and the British alike? You care not for my people, you don’t even speak our tongue.”

He gestured again to the portrait of the King, that still lay at my feet. His eyes narrowed as he regarded it, a hint of genuine anger slipping past his otherwise mocking expression. “That man, and all he stands for, is part of a world that’s crumbling. I’d rather this island go up in flames than see it slip into the sands of time.”

“You’ve a way with words, Gaffer.”

“I was educated in England,” he boasted.

“Where?”

“Royal Northern,” he proclaimed, almost beating his own chest with his words.

I gave a soft chuckle. “Me too.”

“Ah,” he said, affording me what seemed like a genuine smile of camaraderie. “You may continue now.”

“Mr. Bosch,” I began.

“Gaffer,” he countered.

“Yes—gaffer. You have the power to shape Fortunia’s future. Fortunia could be rich. In fact, just before I left London I was speaking to a wealthy Duke, and when I told him that I was coming here he said to me that he and the family had always wanted to holiday here. Do you see the opportunity presented to you, Gaffer? You could draw the rich and famous to your plush and luscious beaches. You could be the playground of the world, it’d make Fortunia rich, it’d make you rich. You can do this with our support, you might be able to without it. Do you see the difference, Gaffer?”

Bosch paused, studying me with a look that was surprisingly thoughtful. Then, with a sigh, he drained his glass and set it down heavily. “You want to make my island a tourist trap?”

“We want to give you an economy.”

“And do we not already have one?”

“Do you have oil?”

“No.”

“Do you have financial services? A stock exchange?”

“No.”

“Factories?”

“No.”

“Beaches?”

“Yes.”

“Warm water? Beautiful women?”

“Yes, and yes,” he said with a smirk.

“Then I should hope that you are beginning to see what we are offering you. We will rebuild the Royal Hotel. I have that on good authority from the Ambassador himself. We’ll build three more more hotels, at no expense to yourself. Casinos too.”

“We do have those.”

“And I should like to see them one day. But London has casinos, Paris and New York too. What we don’t have is your climate. Our weather is bad, and the women are tepid.”

“And this will put food in the mouths of my people?”

“Food? This’ll put caviar in their mouths.”

“I want ten hotels and four casinos,” he said after a moment’s thought.

“How about five and three.”

“Six and four.”

“Five and four.”

“Deal,” he said. “But I’ve heard promises before. Words alone won’t change the world.”

I sensed an opportunity, and though my heart pounded, I ventured in. “Then perhaps we could find a way to work together—to give Fortunia the autonomy it seeks, without burning bridges. We can craft something lasting here. The playground of the world.”

For a tense moment, Bosch was silent, his gaze fixed on the portrait of the King. Finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Playground of the world,” he pondered with amusement. “Very well, Englishman. I’ll hear your terms. But make no mistake—one misstep, and this island will be free, no matter the cost. Pino!,” he called, towards the crowd of aides that he moved to a corner of the room. The aide who answered to Pino emerged, coincidentally it was he who had stolen my bottle of liquor, and still held it in his hand. “May I present you with a gift, dear Gaffer.”

Bosch gestured for him to leave it on the floor. “Take the Englishman to my office, he has a phone call to make.”

“Do I?”, I asked.

“You are not the ambassador. Speak to Boffin, and tell him what I desire.”

“Well?”, said Boffin when he came to the phone.

“What’s our budget?”, I asked.

“I don’t think we have one.”

“Well, find one. Bosch wants us to build hotels. Hotels and casinos.”

“Why?”

“Those are his terms. Look, I negotiated, and I think he’s climbed down, I managed to sell him on some vague image of Monte Carlo on the Caribbean. He’s taken it, and I think it might actually work.”

“How many casinos and how many hotels?”, Boffin asked.

“Five hotels and four casinos.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ivan! Haven’t you seen how long it takes us to build anything these days, that’ll take years.”

“Then years is what you’ll have.”

“Oh,” the Ambassador said, with an upwards inflection. “That is very impressive. Come back and I’ll debrief you, the Elders will want to know as well.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When I returned to the throne room, the bottle that I had brought was already half-empty. Bosch swayed with a solemn pleasure, and rose to his feet at the sight of me. “Now, let us dispense with the diplomacy.”

“In favour of what?”, I asked. Bosch’s eyes lit up at my innocence, and he gestured for one of his men to prepare a convoy of vehicles. And with that, the Fortunian diplomacy had begun. We were driven into the capital, where lights awaited us. Drinks were served and brought to the table as if the waiter’s lives depended on it, which was likely the case. Bosch wasted no time in plying me with his fiery local spirits, and we moved from bar to bar, gaining energy with each change of scenery. By the fourth, Bosch was holding court, his voice booming across the room as he spun outlandish stories of his supposed military escapades. His men guffawed and elbowed each other, each story more impossible than the last. Occasionally, Bosch would turn to me and demand an English story, and I’d offer up the driest anecdotes I could muster about my college years or embassy life, which somehow only added to his delight.

“We will make a degenerate of you, Ivan. Tonight!”

From the bar we moved to a rowdy dance hall, where Bosch introduced me to the relative of a relative, a woman who insisted I call her ‘Princess’, and nearly pulled my arm from its socket when I offered to lead a dance. She laughed raucously as we stumbled through a few missteps, and by the end of the tune, Bosch was slapping me on the back and howling that I had ‘passed the Fortunian test.’

When we finally staggered out, Bosch’s arm slung heavily around my shoulder, the night was still far from over. He motioned toward a grand, if somewhat dilapidated, building lit up down the street. “Time to win some of that embassy coin back, eh?”, he said, flashing me a grin that, even in my haze, struck me as sharp as broken glass. “Three more of these, and you’ve got a deal, Englishman!”

Inside the casino, Bosch led me straight to a private poker table where his men were already seated, grinning and shuffling a deck with eager anticipation. It then seemed as if the entire night, ostensibly one of impromptu escapade, had been planned meticulously. We all took our places, and the game began, stakes rising as each hand was dealt. Bosch played with casual ruthlessness, discarding hands with a wave and grumbling when a lucky streak didn’t go his way, though he still seemed to be winning more than he was losing; but the drinks kept coming, and his skill began to slip. By midnight, it was just Bosch and I left in the game, his men watching eagerly as the final hands were dealt, with tremendous winnings up for grabs. Bosch narrowed his eyes, studying me across the table. I held my cards steady, trying to keep my face neutral. I watched his gaze flit down to his cards, his brows drawing together as he calculated. Was he bluffing? Finally, with a sudden flourish, he called the bet and slapped his hand down. “Royal flush,” he sneered, giving me a triumphant look.

But I laid out my own cards—five of a kind. Bosch’s smile faded, and for a brief moment, an icy silence fell over the table, in which a pin-drop would have deafened us all. He clapped me on the back, forcing a tight-lipped grin as he congratulated me, his men giving nervous chuckles. But his eyes flashed with a darkness that left no question in my mind: he wasn’t taking this loss well. I bid the men goodnight, and left the table with my spoils, only to be seized by Bosch’s men the moment I stepped out of the casino. They shoved me into a waiting car, and before I could protest, we were speeding through the labyrinthine streets and alleys of the capital, through the villages, and down a narrow road that led to the cliffs. I tried to reason with them, but my captors only laughed, muttering that Bosch didn’t like losing to foreigners, least of all in his own domain.

After a short drive and a mild beating, we arrived at the cliffs, where the men dragged me to the edge, looming ominously over the dark, crashing waves below. “Shouldn’t’ve beaten him at his own game, Englishman,” sneered one of the brutes. He lifted a heavy fist to strike me with, when suddenly a sharp voice cut through the night.

“Hands off, boys.”

His voice was accompanied by a blinding light, and caused the men to cover their eyes, affording me just enough time to scurry away and towards the light, for I knew the voice. He was backlit, and formed only a silhouette, but it was a voice I knew, it was the first I’d heard in Fortunian waters. I had nearly forgotten about Crispy Mulligan, and the small fortune I owed him for my passage to the island; but there he was, striding up with a revolver in his hand, pointing down at the dirt track. Bosch’s soldiers reluctantly released me, looking between each other with uncertainty as Crispy strode forward, a glint in his eye as he stepped out of the light and into view.

“Five men and zero guns,” he began. “One man and one gun. You lads are outnumbered. This boy here’s got debts, debts that don’t involve Ezekiel Bosch. Hand him over, or we’ve got ourselves a diplomatic crisis. One in which you’ll all serve Bosch well, but you’ll serve him posthumously.”

Bosch’s men backed off, leaving me to Crispy’s dubious mercy. He grinned as he watched them retreat into their cars and drive into the night. “Looks like you’ve had a lively night, Ivan,” he said, patting me down and swiftly locating the winnings from the casino. “I’d say you owe me a fair bit of this, eh? One stack for delivery, another for deliverance.”

He pocketed most of the cash and motioned for me to follow him back to his car. As the clouds dissipated, and the moon gave us our sight back, I glanced at Crispy. “So what now?”

“Now?”, he scoffed. “Now we party for real.”

Just as he said that, the passenger-side door of the car opened, and Bosch stepped out, laughing manically. “You’re fucking crazy, Mulligan. Is the boy scared?”

“Aye. His trousers have changed colour.”

“Ha!”, Bosch exclaimed. “Let that be a lesson to you, Ivan. Now, what are we waiting for? Let’s party like the Irish!”

I wish that I could recount the rest of that evening, which I’ve been told has since gone down in the annals of diplomatic history, and has been claimed by many men to be their own story. Alas, I cannot recall a thing that happened after I left with Ezekiel Bosch and Crispy Mulligan, just that I awoke the next day, laying next to Princess in a coastal villa. “Good morning, Englishman,” she murmured, with a semi-conscious joy. I stumbled out of the villa, my clothes dusted and worn, to realise that I was only a short walk from the embassy. The Ambassador, seemingly having spotted me trudging down the road, leapt out of the embassy with fire in his eyes.

“Just where the hell have you been, Ivan? You go to parley with the psychopathic Prime Minister and vanish for twenty hours! We all thought you were dead! And why on Earth is Crispy Mulligan here?”

“Fortunian Diplomacy,” were the only words that I could muster, as I walked past him into the embassy, and collapsed into an armchair in the Ambassador’s office. I had intended to sleep, but rest would not find me just yet, as there was a horde of screeches and car-horns outside. The Ambassador ran in, with Mulligan in tow. “They’re here,” he whimpered. “They’re here to kill us all! Spratt! Spratt, the Fortunians are here to kill us all, make yourself useful and be the first to die! Oh, Ivan, I knew you’d balls it up.”

Before any more words could be shared, or any plan of action mustered, the door was forced open, sending Spratt tumbling into a decorative fainting couch, and Bosch’s men stormed in. After surveying the ground floor, the word was given, and Bosch entered.

“Ambassador John Boffin,” said Bosch, to the Ambassador who once more cowered behind his desk.

“Ye—yes, Mr. Bosch.”

“I always said to myself that if me and my men ever stormed this embassy, I’d kill you. I’d kill you, and skin you, and wear you. But that was another day, and this is a new day. Ivan has made me see sense.”

The Ambassador peered nervously at me from the safety of the reinforced oak. I gave him a confused look in return. Bosch resumed. “I will apologise to the King, and to any Britons I may have offended.”

“Oh—you will?”, the Ambassador asked.

“Thank Ivan for it. He has taught me that the English have guile, and that my ambitions for Fortunia may be better met in a partnership than through revolution. I trust that he has informed you of our—entente. I will not accept any less, if Fortunia is to remain a partner of the British crown, than the honouring of our agreement. Hotels, casinos, and the use of British media tools to promote Fortunia as a luxury tourist destination.”

“I shall,” said the Ambassador, climbing to his feet. “Thank you, Ezekiel.”

“I’m not done,” said Bosch, clicking his fingers, which caused his men to scatter, and leave the embassy. “There will be a referendum, for the question of Fortunia’s future, I will let my people decide. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” said Boffin.

Bosch looked at me. “Yes,” I said.

He then looked at Mulligan. “Don’t look at me,” Mulligan scoffed. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Very well,” said Bosch, drawing a line under the confrontation. “Now, Ambassador, I believe you and my father used to have a little tradition of your own. What do you have in?”

The Ambassador smiled. “Spratt!”