by Paul Mathews
Britt looked behind her. No one was chasing her. No humans. No dogs. No cars. She was on the home straight. The palace’s ornate black and gold iron gates were coming into focus now. But there were three of them – a main central gate and two smaller ones either side of it. She hadn’t had time to do any research. Which one should she head towards?
She could see a large number of sky-blue uniforms standing by the central gate. Loitering around there would soon get her noticed. And she had only ever seen the president’s car come through that gate, so it was unlikely staff would use it. No. They would use one of the side gates. The left one was nearest, with no police guarding it. She headed there.
Britt didn’t want to attract any police attention. So as she arrived at the large roundabout outside the palace, she eased up her pace. Her body began to protest. She could hardly breathe. Her lungs were on fire. Her legs were like jelly. It was cardiovascular payback time.
She stumbled towards the railings and collapsed onto them. She was gasping like a freshly caught fish. Wet with sweat. Aching everywhere. But she was here.
After a minute of recovery, Britt composed herself and put on her sunglasses. The lenses were huge. They had to be – they were part of her disguise. She checked her bleeper. It was 8.07am. The night shift should be leaving any time now. If they hadn’t already.
She wasn’t alone. There were a few dozen tourists wandering around. But she didn’t look out of place. Still short of breath, she took a small guidebook from her pocket and pretended to be taking in her surroundings. Half an eye on the gates and half an eye on the police. Nothing much was happening.
Something better happen soon. Or this time next week, she could be writing a lifestyle feature on ten great things to do in London. Britt shuddered. It wasn’t something she even wanted to think about.
Chapter 5
Howie was back in the White Drawing Room, waiting for Martha to arrive with some official documents. The crisis meeting was over. Howie’s acceptance of the role of special investigator had left the room stunned. Even more stunned, it seemed, than the news of the president’s disappearance. Without the usual barrage of dumb questions from the vice presidents, the meeting had finished in record time. That suited Howie. He was going to need as much time as possible to help solve this missing-president mystery.
He finished his second cup of espresso. But his later-than-normal caffeine injection wasn’t settling him as much as it should. His mouth still felt dry and he had butterflies in his stomach. It was clearly an attack of nerves. And he knew why. It was because he was about to sign up for the National Security and Intelligence Service – the organisation whose job it was to protect the president, the Republic and all its citizens from domestic and foreign aggression.
But, he had to admit, he was also quite excited.
Howie loved watching those old-world films with that stylish secret agent. What was his name? Ah, yes. How could he forget the trademark introduction? ‘The name’s Bond. James Bond.’ Howie often fantasised about being a secret agent in particularly dull meetings – during which, in his fantasy world, he’d dealt with dozens of awkward civil servants with a well-aimed tranquiliser dart to the neck. Or, in the worst cases, by pushing a button to release an imaginary trapdoor from underneath their uncooperative arses.
His mind wandered even further. Several actors had played the part of 007. Thankfully Zayn Winner hadn’t been one of them. Howie would make a better job of it. Then a thought struck him. Maybe he could play the role? But for real, not in a movie. His nerves faded as he imagined himself in a dinner jacket, playing roulette in a foreign casino surrounded by mysterious strangers with exotic names and heavily accented English.
He stood up and turned to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. He straightened his crooked tie. Adopted an enigmatic smile. Sucked in his belly. Pushed out his pectorals. And stared at his reflection. He couldn’t resist it. ‘The name’s Pond. Howie Pond.’
‘Glad you can remember your name, Howie,’ interrupted Martha as she entered the room clutching a file. ‘Because I shall need your signature on these pieces of paper.’
Howie spun round. ‘I was, erm, just practising my introduction.’
‘I know what you were doing. And sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not going to be calling you 007, 008 or 00 anything.’
Howie tried to stop himself frowning. But he failed. ‘Oh, right.’
‘You won’t have a licence to kill or an Aston Martin. If you’re lucky, you may get the opportunity to order a Martini that’s shaken not stirred, but please, stay sober unless alcohol consumption is entirely necessary. Now sit down and listen.’
Howie did as he was told. Martha sat down opposite him, took five documents from her file and handed them to him. ‘Right. Sign that to confirm your new special investigator role. Sign this pledge to defend the Republic’s national security at all costs, while keeping expenses to a minimum.’ She handed him a bundle of cash. ‘Two thousand pounds. Cash always comes in handy in our line of work. You’ll need to sign for that, too. And sign this for your credit card. It’s limit-free. But go easy.’
‘Am I getting any electronic gadgets?’
‘No, no, no. We have a very tight budget. Miniature cameras, briefcase transmitters, exploding watches – all things of the past.’
Howie couldn’t imagine James Bond putting up with this kind of austerity. He would probably defect to the Russians. ‘What’s the last piece of paper I’ve got to sign?’
‘Oh, that. Nothing important. Just some additional terms and conditions of employment.’
Martha hadn’t mentioned these before. ‘What additional conditions?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s mainly to do with what happens if you die on the job. How we dispose of your body, possessions, et cetera.’
Howie look horrified. ‘What about my cat? Is she going to be disposed of?’
‘If she’s working for the Russians, yes. Otherwise, no.’
‘What about my girlfriend?’
‘The same applies.’
‘No. I meant what will you tell her if I, you know …’
‘Die?’
‘Yes.’ Howie never liked acknowledging his own mortality. Especially not on his birthday.
Martha sighed. ‘I’ll tell her she’s got to look after your cat. Is that enough for you?’
Yes, that probably was enough.
‘Look, Howie, don’t worry. The additional conditions are for the James Bonds of this world. Not the Howie Ponds. But Human Resources insist you sign all of them. You know what they’re like. I’m sure even James Bond had to deal with HR. They just didn’t show it in the films.’
Howie wasn’t going to let HR get in the way of things, so he signed the forms. Martha handed him a card.
‘Here’s the credit card. It’s in your name. That’s because you’re not undercover. Remember, you’re information-gathering. Putting together the pieces of a jigsaw. You’re not saving the world from an evil genius with a nuclear warhead.’ She paused. ‘Well, at least we don’t think that’s the case – at the moment.’
That was reassuring. Howie had been hoping the situation would have become clearer in the last hour or so. ‘There’s still no intelligence about what happened?’ he asked.
‘Zero. But you’re going to change that.’ Martha handed Howie a second card. ‘Now, this is your security service ID card, should you need it. Don’t go flashing it around. It’s not for getting to the front of the queue in supermarkets. It’s for emergencies. For example, if the police start bothering you.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘You’ll find people summon the police for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes very senior people. That’s when you use the ID card. Just remember, the police know nothing about the president’s disappearance. And that’s how it should stay.’
‘Okay. Where do you want me to start?’
‘The First Lady. As you know, she and the president live separat
e lives. She has a townhouse in Blackfriars. They meet at weekends. So she won’t know about this yet.’ Martha paused. ‘Or at least, she shouldn’t.’
Howie was taken aback. ‘You think she could have something to do with this?’
‘At this stage, I don’t think we can rule out anyone who’s close to Jan.’
That wasn’t many people. ‘What about Oskar? He didn’t seem too worried about his brother’s disappearance.’
‘No, he didn't. But you leave Oskar to me. You concentrate on the First Lady.’
‘So we’re focusing on friends and family?’
‘Yes. They’re the first place to look for answers when somebody disappears.’
‘What about his enemies?’
Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘Enemies? Name me some names.’
Howie tried to think of one. He couldn’t.
‘You see? You can’t. He’s one of the most popular politicians ever to have walked the earth. Two landslide victories. A third awaiting him in the summer, if he reappears in time.’
Howie nodded. ‘Okay, not enemies. How about people who might just be resentful or jealous?’
‘Yes. And that brings us back to friends and family.’
Howie understood. And a terrible realisation engulfed him. They only had two days to resolve this. The Democrats still had several weeks to nominate their candidate for the 2044 presidential race. But presidents, and their vice presidents, were required to know their minds on Independence Day. Then Howie had an idea. ‘Is there anything in the constitution that allows Thursday’s announcement to be postponed? We could say … I don’t know … Jan is ill or something.’
‘I already made a quick check. Whoever drafted the constitution didn’t have a government lawyer with them. I couldn’t find any escape clauses.’
Howie remembered telling the media, at one of his first ever briefings, that the country’s finest minds had crafted the constitution. He also remembered the Republic’s first president telling him it had been cobbled together in a Westminster bar the night after he came to power. There had been a lawyer there. But he’d mixed champagne and vodka. Then collapsed unconscious in the ladies’ toilets.
Martha continued. ‘Let’s not leave this to lawyers. Practical action is what’s needed. You inform the First Lady of what’s happened. See how she reacts. See what she says. See where that takes you.’
‘And I’ll find out about her book, while I’m there.’
‘If you have the time, yes. You and I will keep in touch via our bleepers.’
Howie went to get up.
Martha waved her finger. ‘Not so fast. First, have that quick chat with Zayn about the Daily Democrat interview.’
Howie sighed. Chats with Zayn were never quick.
Martha got up and began walking to the door. ‘He’s waiting in the corridor. I’ll send him in.’
‘He never listens to me. Maybe you could stay and drill some sense into him?’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I have my regular monthly meeting with the American ambassador, this morning. Most unfortunate timing.’
‘Can’t you cancel it?’
Martha stopped by the door. ‘And risk the Americans getting suspicious? No. If they find out, it’ll make things more complicated. They’ll want to get involved. We don’t want that.’ She took a breath. ‘Best of luck, Howie. Have a good day. And stay in touch.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Howie, feeling like he was saying goodbye to his Mum before his first day at school. ‘I will.’
Howie watched as Martha left the room. Zayn burst through the door a few seconds later. ‘Here he is, the new James Bond!’ Zayn dived into the sofa opposite and landed with a thump. ‘Does that make me Miss Moneypenny?’
‘Come on, Zayn, be serious for once in your life.’
‘I caught it all, buddy. I heard you. “The name’s Pond. Howie Pond.” Priceless. I nearly wet myself.’ Zayn didn’t stop for breath. ‘Hey, where do you think Jan the man is, huh? Overslept at a lady friend’s place, maybe? Let’s face it, the ladies love that man – even more than me!’
‘Come on. We both know Jan is a man dedicated to his work. And he’s a married man. He’s far too smart to have an affair. Especially with an election on the horizon.’
‘Maybe so.’ Zayn winked. ‘Or maybe not. Anyway, 006-and-a-half are you going to brief me on my mission or what?’
‘Yes. The Daily Democrat journalist is a woman called —’
‘Oh, sorry,’ interrupted Zayn. ‘Before we do boring detail, I’ve had an idea.’
Countless movie directors must have heard those words on the first day of filming. Howie would do what they’d probably done – listen to Zayn for thirty seconds and then politely tell him to shut up and follow directions.
‘I played the American president in Alien Invasion, Alien Mutation and Alien Vacation. You’ve seen them, right?’ Zayn slapped Howie’s knee. ‘Sure you seen them! I thought I could use that energy. You know, ride that vibe, in the interview.’
Howie didn’t want to ask. But he had to. ‘What do you mean, ride that vibe?’
‘We talk about the election like we’re talking about the aliens. It’s us versus them. Republicans versus Democrats. Matter versus anti-matter. A war of the worlds.’
‘No, Zayn, I don’t want you to —’
‘I throw in a few one-liners to lighten it up a bit. A few jokes about the First Lady coming from Mars.’
Howie’s tone was more serious now. ‘No, you don’t do that. You never do that.’
‘You’re right. Not Mars. Somewhere colder. Neptune maybe.’
‘No!’ shouted Howie. ‘You stick to the government script: lots done, lots still to do; democracy works, Democrats don’t; Jan’s the man, he’s got a plan. And no jokes.’
‘Ah, come on, Howie! There’s not enough laughter in politics. I can bring a whole new dimension to it. A fun, fifth dimension. That’ll work with the alien theme.’
Howie scowled and crossed his arms. At least Zayn couldn’t interrupt body language. But it seemed even non-verbal communication was lost on him.
Zayn became more animated. ‘Believe me, comedy is my thing. I’ve got a natural talent for it. Did you see me in I Married a Robot?’
Howie thought for a second. ‘That was a comedy?’
‘I was nominated for an award for that performance!’
‘You probably nominated yourself.’
‘Okay. I did nominate myself. But it still counts.’ Zayn attempted a serious face but succeeded only in looking like he had trapped wind. ‘Listen, Howie. Trust me. Let me do the interview my way. I’ll be funny. And the journalist is going to love it.’
For all the wrong reasons. ‘Sorry. We’re doing it my way.’
‘But Howie —’
‘I want to be falling asleep in that interview, you’re so dull.’
‘Okay,’ sighed Zayn. ‘We’ll do it your way.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The boring way.’
‘Good. The journalist is Mina Pritti. You know her?’
‘Never heard of her,’ muttered Zayn, with a sulky shake of the head.
‘She’s sharp. So watch what you say.’
‘I have done interviews before.’
‘Not when the president’s just gone missing, you haven’t. Just be natural. Don’t talk about Jan, unless you absolutely have to.’
Zayn slouched on the sofa. ‘So what can I talk about? The weather? Or is that too controversial?’
‘You talk about the government’s ten-year record. And its future plans. Spend today learning that government script. That’s all I want to hear.’
‘Jeez. By the sound of it, we’re all going to be asleep in this interview.’
‘That’s the best-case scenario. But I’ve got a feeling Mina is going to be wide awake. And you need to be, too. I’ll be sitting in, so you’re not on your own.’
‘You don’t have to babysit me.’
‘Yes, I do. That’s my job.’
‘Just listen. The interview is at five. I’ll bleep Mina and tell her the president is tied up on official business and you’re standing in. You and I will meet here fifteen minutes before. Understood?’
Zayn pulled a face, like a teenager who’d just been told to tidy his room.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”.’
‘Can I go now?’ mumbled Zayn.
‘Yes, you can. See you at a quarter to five in your office.’
Zayn got up and skulked out of the room, without saying goodbye.
Despite his clear instructions, Howie had a feeling the Daily Democrat interview wasn’t going to go smoothly. But he couldn’t waste time worrying about it. He had a lost president to find.
Chapter 6
Britt lifted the giant sunglasses from her nose and checked the time on her bleeper. It was 9.15am. This wasn’t going to plan. She’d been loitering outside Buckingham Palace for over an hour now. But there was still no sign of anyone, or anything, leaving through the gates.
The lack of movement was strange. Especially at this time of the morning. Perhaps the palace was in security lockdown? If so, she could have a long wait. And the longer she stuck around, the more likely she was to draw attention to herself. There were only so many times she could study her guidebook and admire the railings, before a police officer made their way over and started asking awkward questions.
Britt decided the best form of defence was attack. She would approach the police before they came to her. Charm them, disarm them and then farm them for info. To achieve this, she would pretend she was an American. Police officers loved to show off to American tourists. Everyone knew that.
She looked over at the main gate, where a dozen police officers were standing in pairs. The nearest couple were two middle-aged men sharing a joke. Maybe they were laughing at her – the dumb tourist looking for the history of the Buckingham Palace railings in her guidebook? So what if they were? It could work to her advantage. Britt pushed her sunglasses back into place and marched towards the gate.