This idea might work.
He ran into Simons in the corridor. "Gather everyone together again," he said. "I have a plan."
"Hello?"
Even on the amplified speakerphone of the hotline, the queen's voice was distant, muffled.
"Greetings, Your Majesty." Adam made sure his tone was properly subservient.
"Why are you contacting us? If we wish to speak with you, we will initiate the dialogue."
"I'm calling to apologize, Your Majesty. As you may or may not have heard, there's been some miscommunication here at our end. Apparently, some of your subjects seem to believe that I and my people are somehow involved in the disappearance of the head of my domestic staff, Crowther."
"We have heard rumors to that effect."
He attempted to make his voice sound simultaneously obsequious toward her and condescending toward everyone else. "I would like to invite you to the White House so that we might have a face-to-face discussion on some of these matters. I am afraid I am fairly dissatisfied with some of your representatives here, and I believe you would be as well. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your position, and I fear that your underlings here are doing a disservice to both you and Britain."
Silence on the other end.
He held his breath, waiting.
"It has been some time since we have visited the States," the queen allowed. "And your accusations, we must admit, are somewhat alarming. We will come to visit the colonies and judge for ourselves. The proper people will be in touch."
Communication was abruptly cut off, and there was only silence on the hotline's speakerphone. Adam stared at the red phone for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his face.
He turned toward Simons, pumped his fist in the air.
"Yes!"
***
She arrived on the Concorde two days later.
All the arrangements had been made. Outside White House grounds, everything continued on as usual, but within, FBI agents had rounded up and detained all domestic staff members and all known or suspected British agents. Outside contacts and government workers who were suspicious about the sudden lack of communication were placated with the promise that the queen would be arriving to sort everything out—a fact they could double-check with Buckingham Palace.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had assured him that the National Guard was ready for its demonstration and that the other branches of the armed forces were available as backup.
Everything was in place.
The second the limousine carrying the queen passed onto the White House grounds, and the iron gates closed behind it, National Guard troops blocked off the street and surrounded the area. Simultaneously, the White House press secretary put out the news that a bomb threat had been made against the queen and that precautions—including the use of armed guards—were being taken.
Adam waited in the Oval Office, the document he'd had drawn up by the chief justice of the Supreme Court sitting on his desk, a pen next to it. He was nervous, hands sweaty, but he was determined to go through with the plan. He would be assassinated if they failed—he had no doubt about that—but there was a good chance that they would not fail.
He was imagining his place in history when there was a knock on the door. He stood, composed himself, cleared his throat. "Yes?" he enquired.
The door opened and a host of British dignitaries and American cabinet members entered the room, parting to allow the queen to pass by.
The queen.
She looked just like she did on TV and in magazine photographs. Even knowing the extent of her power, even with all the knowledge of her position that he'd gained recently, he could sense no aura of exaggerated importance about her, no intimidating demeanor, none of the dictatorial trappings he would have expected. It was an illusion, though. He knew that. And he bowed extravagantly as she stopped before his desk. "Your Majesty."
She acknowledged his servility with a barely perceptible nod and sat down in the specially provided chair opposite him. "Now," she said, "tell us what you have to say."
"I'd prefer to do this alone," he said, motioning toward the gathered dignitaries.
"Anything you say to us can be said in front of them."
"I'm afraid that they might have a vested interest. May we speak in private?"
She nodded, dismissing the others with a slight wave of her hand. Everyone else, American and British, filed out of the room. The door closed behind them.
Outside the office, Adam knew, FBI agents were disarming and subduing the British, herding them downstairs with their compatriots. A trickle of sweat slid from under his left armpit, down the side of his body, hidden by his suit jacket.
"I want a guarantee that there aren't going to be any repercussions simply because I tell you the truth."
"We give you our word," she told him.
" 'Our' word? What about your word? I don't mean to be disrespectful," he said, "but I'd like some assurances that you, personally, guarantee that your underlings will not seek reprisals."
She looked at him as if he was a bug she had squashed on the floor. "You have my word," she said.
"And that is legally binding?"
"The word of the British sovereign has been legally binding for hundreds of years. It is law."
"Very well." He stood, pushed the document and pen across the desk toward her. "I want you to sign this."
The queen blinked. "What did you say to me?"
"I want you to sign this document."
She regarded him with an expression centered somewhere between horror, disgust, and outrage. "You dare to make demands on us?”
He met her eyes. "Yes."
He saw hesitance, what might be the first faint stirrings of apprehension, and it made him feel good.
"What is this?" she demanded, motioning toward the document.
"A real declaration of independence. A contract ceding the United States of America to its citizens and declaring that you and your nation relinquish all rights—"
"Never!"
"Never say never."
"Pembroke!" she called loudly. "Lewis!"
There was a pause.
Silence.
"They're not coming," Adam said. "We've captured them." He walked slowly around the huge desk. "Now all we need is your signature."
"You're loony!"
"Maybe so, but you're going to sign that contract."
"I most certainly will not!" In one quick movement, she was out of her chair, across the room, and almost to the door. He lunged at her, and she stepped aside, allowing him to shoulder the wall. He felt a sharp pain in his side as she jabbed him with a bony fist.
"Goddamn it!" He reached for her arm, but she was already running away, toward the opposite side of the office, yelling for help.
He tackled the queen, and her purse flew across the Oval Office. She was small but wiry, and she squirmed out of his grasp, kicking him hard in the chest with a high-heeled shoe. She scrambled for her purse and was opening it, pulling something out, when he landed on her. He wrenched her right arm behind her back, causing her to cry out. Still holding her, he struggled to his feet and forced her over to the desk.
He held her around the neck with his left hand, while he loosened his grip on her arm with his right. "Sign it!" he ordered, forcing her hand onto the desk.
"Fuck you!" she screamed. She tried to break away, but he was stronger than she was and she received only a more tightly pinched neck in return.
"Pick up the pen!" he ordered.
"No!"
"I'll break your arm, you shriveled old bitch." He increased the pressure.
Angrily, she picked up the pen.