by Paul Mathews
Howie smiled. ‘They’re always quite complimentary about Jan.’
‘But not about me, Mr Pond. Now, I‘m late already. And so are my two colleagues, who are attending to the same business as I am.’
Howie would love to know what that business was. But it wasn’t his place to ask.
Oskar nodded the faintest of goodbyes. Then he and his two-man entourage marched out of the room.
Howie sighed. ‘So who’s going to do the Daily Democrat interview? We need someone.’
‘Do we, though?’ asked Daisy. ‘You heard what Oskar said.’
‘Yes, we do. What are the main opposition-supporting newspaper going to say if, two days before the big day, we can’t find one vice president to give them an interview? They’ll say we’re running scared.’ He gestured towards the vice presidents. ‘There are fifty of you. You’ve all been media trained. One of you can do it.’ There was no response from any of them. ‘Oh, come on – one of you!’
An arm shot up in the air. It belonged to Zayn Winner, an actor-turned-politician mainly known for appearing in a series of low-budget science-fiction movies in the 2030s. Alien Invasion, Alien Mutation, Alien Vacation – Howie had seen them all. And they were all bloody awful.
‘I can do it!’ shouted Zayn, with a cheesy grin.
The assembled vice presidents, as one, turned their heads to their silver-suited colleague and raised their eyebrows.
Howie wasn’t sure about this. Zayn was a good guy. A bad actor, but a good guy. He could play a role, learn lines, put on a performance. But he didn’t always stick to the script. In fact, not sticking to scripts was why he no longer made movies. Zayn would need a lot of directing. Howie would rather cast someone else in the role. ‘Any more volunteers?’ he asked. There weren’t. All vice-presidential hands were firmly under the table.
‘Looks like it’s you and me, buddy!’ boomed Zayn, with both thumbs up. ‘The dream team!’
‘Th-th-that’s fantastic, Zayn,’ stuttered Howie, trying to sound pleased, but failing. ‘Grab me for a chat later.’
Martha turned to Howie, an apologetic look in her eyes. ‘You’d better meet up straight after this meeting. Because Howie is going to be doing a little job for me.’
Howie didn’t like the sound of this. In the language of central government, little jobs were always big jobs. And big jobs – well, if you were asked to do a big job, you were in real trouble.
‘Actually,’ added Martha, ‘I’d be lying if I said it was a little job. It’s a big job.’
Howie was in real trouble.
‘This is an extraordinary situation,’ continued Martha. ‘And extraordinary situations call for radical solutions.’
A radical solution? This was getting worse. When Howie had suggested a radical solution to Martha, he hadn’t actually expected her to come up with one. Or to be part of that radical solution. Howie didn’t do radical. He did same-old, tried and tested. Martha knew that.
She fixed her gaze on Howie, like a hawk who’d just spotted a field mouse. ‘Under emergency powers granted to me in such Code Red situations, I’m creating a new special investigator role in my organisation. They will deal only with Code Red crises such as this.’ Martha took a deep breath. ‘And Howie will be filling that role.’
Howie didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His tongue was paralysed. And by the looks on the faces of the vice presidents, so were theirs.
‘Howie’s investigation will complement, and be independent of, security operations, Tech investigations and normal intelligence channels. Howie has worked side by side with the president for the last ten years and developed a unique relationship with him. I believe he can provide the insight we need to solve this crisis and get Jan back here before Thursday morning.’
‘Can you do that?’ asked Daisy. ‘I mean, don’t we all have to vote on it?’
Howie felt a rush of relief. The vice presidents could never agree on anything. That’s why Jan took all the key decisions. Their indecision could be his salvation.
Martha’s reply was firm. ‘No. This is an operational matter. It’s not for politicians to decide.’
Relief was replaced by realisation. And then resignation.
‘So what exactly will Howie be doing?’ enquired Daisy. It was the question Howie would have asked, had his tongue been working properly.
‘He’ll be gathering intelligence from the president’s closest contacts. And be reporting directly to me.’
Howie tried to move his tongue. But only succeeded in looking like he was blowing a raspberry at the entire room.
‘I thought stunned silence might be your reaction to my announcement, Howie. But you know Jan better than anyone. Maybe better than Oskar. Certainly better than my intelligence team – they’ll be working in the background, but you’ll be on the front line.’
Howie retracted his tongue. That was all he could manage for the moment.
‘Oh. And you’ll still be head of comms, by the way. At least, if it’s anything to do with the president. Your deputies can deal with the rest.’
Howie’s tongue was finally working again. ‘I’m … I’m not sure I can be a special investigator and head of comms.’
Martha’s face was filled with a confidence that Howie didn’t have right now. ‘You can do it, Howie. It’s essential you do it. I know you can do it.’
He looked at the vice presidents. Their faces spoke as one – ‘He can’t do it.’
Howie took a deep breath and responded. ‘I’ll do it.’
Chapter 4
Britt ran up the concrete steps that led from Charing Cross Station Metro to the centre of Trafalgar Square. She might make it to the palace for eight o’clock, if she hurried.
Then she saw it. Several megatons of traffic. All nose-to-tail, thanks to the miracle of anti-bump Tech. Hundreds of cars, taxis, vans, lorries and buses – nosing forward, millimetre by millimetre, like a rush-hour glacier.
Britt dashed to the nearest pedestrian crossing. It was completely impassable. So were all the others she could see. Crowds had formed around each one. There were tourists taking photos with their sunglass-cams, frustrated workers sending bleeps, and gleeful schoolkids playing games. What was going on? She looked around for someone in authority. There was no one. They were probably stuck in traffic.
‘Lights screwed up, half hour ago. They’re stuck on red,’ explained a large American man next to her. He chuckled. ‘Would never happen in the New States, that’s for sure!’ He was right. Even if it did, it would be fixed in minutes.
Britt considered her options. There was no point trying a different station exit. Whichever one she took, she needed to cross a road. And another Metro trip wasn’t a good idea. It would waste time and probably end in similar chaos. No. She’d have to wait for a fault line to appear in the solid block of vehicles and escape through the crack. But the way things looked, the next ice age might come sooner.
‘Where you headed, ma’am?’ asked the American.
‘Nowhere at the moment,’ replied Britt. She was undercover. Complete strangers didn’t need to know her business.
‘I’m sightseeing. Though if this traffic don’t budge, I’m gonna have to make do with old Nelson on his column!’
Britt looked up at the statue of Lord Nelson, far above her.
The American chuckled. ‘Guess his navy got in similar tight spots. Surrounded by the enemy. But old Nelson could always see a way out. Even with one eye!’
Lord Nelson was the only authority figure currently in Trafalgar Square. So Britt followed his eye line. He was looking straight down The Mall, where she was heading. The traffic in that direction was a solid mass. It didn’t even seem to be moving any more.
Then three Italian supercars caught her eye. Side by side. Red, white and blue. They were the new flatcars she’d heard about. Low-level, squarish and almost completely horizontal, they were only half a metre high. They were probably headed for a motor show. Or a celebrity’s driveway. But the
y were going nowhere at the moment.
Britt turned to the American. ‘You know much about cars?’
‘Sure do. We got the best in the world back home.’
She pointed at the nearest flatcar. ‘What would happen if I jumped on one of those?’
He burst out laughing. ‘I’d say the driver would kick your ass!’
Only if they could get out of the vehicle fast enough, thought Britt. She was quick on her feet. After years of undercover reporting, she’d learnt to be. She could be halfway up The Mall by the time the drivers had squeezed out of their low-level driving seats.
‘Could it take a person’s weight?’ asked Britt.
‘A person like me? No way, José! But a person like you, ma’am? Well, I’d say so.’ The American smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’d be crazy to do it. But to quote Lord Nelson, desperate affairs require desperate measures!’
The American was right. Lord Nelson was right. She’d already taken desperate measures once today by dressing up as a tourist in search of a story. It was time to take some more. Time to show the traffic who was boss. Time for a pedestrian fightback. Time to try and jump across three Italian flatcars without causing major injury, death or, even worse, getting arrested.
Britt glanced down at her shoes. They were walking boots. They should give her enough grip. Jumping in them wouldn’t wreck her feet. But they might not be so kind to the Italian flatcars. She didn’t care. Her career was on the line.
In the distance, she heard Big Ben start to chime the tuneless melody that preceded its hourly bongs. That meant it was almost eight. She was running late.
Britt took a deep breath. Could she do it? Could she make it to the other side of Trafalgar Square in one piece? It would be dangerous. It was certainly stupid. But she had no other option. She had to do it.
The American grinned. ‘If you’re gonna do it, then go and do it!’
Britt had made up her mind. She was going to do it.
She checked her run-up. The distance looked about right for a quick burst of speed and a one-footed take-off. She checked the traffic hadn’t started moving. It hadn’t. She checked there were no tourists, commuters or schoolkids in her way. There weren’t. She checked there was no chewing gum or dog mess on the pavement. There was. But not in her path.
Britt took another deep breath. She glanced at the American. He grinned and mouthed ‘Go!’ Then she pushed off and ran at the nearest flatcar. As she took the first step, Big Ben chimed the first of its eight bongs. She took another four steps and jumped a metre into the air – her arms thrust above her head like a rush-hour long-jumper.
She landed with a thud on the first flatcar, right on the second bong. The sound of metal straining under the impact was louder than she expected. Tourists’ heads turned. She heard the flatcar’s male driver scream at her in Italian. She didn’t speak Italian. Even if she could, she wouldn’t have apologised. Drive a normal car – then you wouldn’t have this problem. She took a step forward. The car’s blue surface was shiny but firm. Her boots were doing the job. She could do this.
On the third bong, she looked back to see if she had caused any damage. There were two boot-sized dents where she had landed. Shallow but noticeable. Criminal damage or accidental damage? Who cares? It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t catch her.
On the fourth bong, she started running at the second flatcar. Its female driver was already screaming and waving her hands, in anticipation of her arrival. More people were starting to notice what was happening. But who cared? Her adrenaline was pumping. She was starting to have fun. And it wasn’t Britt Pointer doing this. It was a tourist. One who, if apprehended, would explain that people did this all the time in her country.
She jumped and landed on the fifth bong. She could feel the car’s white metal skin give way, as her boots smacked into it. She didn’t bother to check the damage. Instead, she looked back at the American. He whooped and punched the air. But it wasn’t over yet.
On the sixth bong, she started to run at the third and final flatcar. Its male driver was shouting louder than the other two drivers put together. More trapped pedestrians stopped to watch, as well as other stranded motorists.
Britt jumped on the seventh bong. Fuelled by adrenaline, she rose higher than before. A tourist’s sunglass-cam flashed. The bright light distracted her. She took her eyes off the landing zone. Before she could refocus her attention, her boots had hit the flatcar’s red bonnet. It wasn’t a clean landing. Her left foot slipped. She tried to keep her balance for a couple of seconds. But there was only ever going to be one winner – gravity.
She smacked sideways onto the windscreen. Big Ben struck its eighth and final bong at the moment of impact. Her left shoulder hit the glass with her full weight. The windscreen cracked. But it didn’t shatter. There were gasps from the spectators. Screams from the driver. Groans from Britt. That hurt.
She stumbled to her feet and leapt off the car. Her boots hit the solid concrete and her knees gave way. She put out her hands to break her fall. Her palms slapped the pavement. More pain. But it was forgotten a second later, when she stood up. And she realised. She’d done it.
Britt half-expected an extra bong from Big Ben to mark her achievement. Instead, the crowds of stranded pedestrians started to applaud. The screams of the three Italian drivers were now drowned out by cheers and whistles from the crowd. Britt glanced up at Lord Nelson. He seemed to be waving at her. Oh, great. Now she was seeing things. Maybe she’d banged her head? She felt her skull. No lumps or bumps. She checked her hand. No blood. She looked again at the statue. She saw now. It was a pigeon on Nelson’s hand, stretching its wings. The stretch turned into a rapid flutter. Lord Nelson was no longer waving. He was shooing her away.
A voice rang out from the crowd. It was the American. ‘If you’re gonna get going, get going!’
The American was right. Lord Nelson was right. The driver of the red flatcar was trying to extract himself from his vehicle. A police foot patrol could appear at any moment. Once they’d been alerted, they could send up one of their helicopters. Then there would be no escape. She couldn’t stay here a second longer.
Britt sprinted towards Admiralty Arch, which straddled the entrance to The Mall. Once she had passed through it, the Italians and everyone else in Trafalgar Square would lose sight of her.
Half a minute later, Britt was through the arches and onto The Mall. A sign announced the road was closed to traffic from today, in preparation for Thursday’s Independence Day celebrations. That was good news. But the pavements on both sides of the road were clogged with people. That was bad news.
Britt didn’t have time to stop. A quick decision was needed. Run along St James’ Park on the left? Or alongside the procession of stone buildings on the right? They both looked as busy as each other. Hold on. Maybe there was a third option? There were piles of barriers dumped by the roadside. But no workmen. They were probably having breakfast. And no police patrols either. They were probably having breakfast, too. It meant she could run straight down The Mall without fear of workmen, police or Italian flatcars chasing her.
She manoeuvred round a line of ineffective traffic cones and entered The Mall. The reddish tint of the road surface reminded her of an athletics track. She’d been a good four-hundred-metre runner at school. But the palace was at least twice that distance away. And her walking boots were great for jumping on flatcars, but weren’t so great for sprinting.
Britt looked along the length of The Mall. A short distance ahead, a stream of tourists, workers, dogs and their owners were crossing the road. More obstacles in her path. This was no longer a sprint. More like a steeplechase.
She didn’t slow down. Why should she? The traffic lights were on green. Okay, the road was closed and she wasn’t a motor vehicle. But she was moving faster than most London traffic ever managed. Yes. That was it. The roles had reversed. She was now traffic. And she wasn’t going to stop for any pedestrians.
‘Out of my way!’ she honked, as she approached them.
The people in her path scattered and shouted warnings to each other. A Yorkshire terrier panicked and ran in front of her. She leapt over it and carried on running. Nothing was going to stop her today. Nothing with two legs, four legs or four wheels.
The trees, plants and wildlife of the park on her left-hand side flew past in a blur. The St James’ Park pelicans screeched wildly, as if urging her to the finishing line. She lifted her head and ran on.
Britt was soon halfway up The Mall. But her adrenaline levels were dropping and she was starting to feel her injuries. Her left shoulder throbbed. Her legs ached. Her hands stung. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t afford to. She had security staff to intercept.
A minute later, Britt was racing towards a second line of pedestrians.
‘Move, move, move!’ she hooted. But the family of German tourists she was heading towards were busy studying a map. She tried to squeeze past sideways, but her right shoulder slammed into the father and she bounced off his solid frame. Then she collided with a skinny youth in a white overall, carrying a tray of doughnuts which spilled onto the road. The dogs barked as they lurched towards the unexpected treats. Their owners barked at the dogs not to eat them. Then the owners barked at Britt. But she didn’t bark back. She was already gone.
Not far now until the big roundabout at the end of The Mall and the finish line of Buckingham Palace. But then yet more pedestrians appeared ahead of her. Six women with identical dogs – clones, probably. The animals were very large, very noisy and very interested in the sweaty, panting human who was sprinting towards them.
She decided to shout ‘Coming through!’ and hope the humans could keep their canines under control. Five did. One didn’t. The angry animal lunged at her. Britt twisted herself sideways in mid-stride. But the dog was already airborne and had her left leg in its sights. She waited for the crunch of teeth on bone. But it didn’t come. The owner yanked the lead just in time, and the dog flew back with a yelp. The other dogs snarled at her. Britt snarled back. They backed off. They knew a pack leader when they saw one.