by Paul Mathews
She waved as she approached. ‘Hi there, officers,’ she shouted, in her best American accent. ‘Can I ask you boys in sky blue a few questions?’
The first officer, taller than his colleague, responded. ‘Is it about those railings, madam? Because you were looking at them for so long, we thought you were going to try and saw them off.’ He chuckled and clapped his hands, applauding himself.
The short officer gave a schoolboy grin. ‘If you are going to steal them, could you wait until we’re on our tea break? Then one of the young ’uns can chase after you!’
Two middle-aged men who thought they were funny. Brilliant. She knew exactly what to do. ‘Your English humour kills me!’ shrieked Britt. ‘They don’t always get it back home in the New States. But I’m crazy about it. You two should be on the digi-screen!’
The tall officer straightened his cap. ‘I’ve often said, when the two of us joined up it was law enforcement’s gain and light entertainment’s loss.’
The short officer patted his colleague’s arm. ‘We’re a double act, me and him. Twenty-odd years we’ve worked together.’
The officers beamed at each other – like two newlyweds at the altar – and spoke as one. ‘Yes. Twenty very odd years!’
Britt grinned. She wasn’t smiling at them. She was smiling at her incredible good fortune. This would be easy. She would win these two officers’ trust just by laughing at their terrible jokes. Not only that, they were experienced enough to know who, and what, came through those gates. Britt threw her hands up in the air. ‘Oh my God, you’re so funny! I can see it’s my lucky day!’
The tall officer pointed at her face. ‘I’m surprised you can see anything in those sunglasses, madam. Why don’t you remove them? You’ll get a better look at the railings then.’
‘And we can check you’re not one of America’s most wanted!’ sniggered his sidekick, before they both collapsed into giggles.
Britt had to keep her sunglasses on. If she didn’t, the officers might realise she was ‘that bloody journalist’. But it was so cloudy, there was no real reason to wear them. She would have to think fast. ‘I have very sensitive retinas. It’s genetic.’
The officers stopped laughing.
She continued. ‘So those questions. First up, is the president home today?’
The tall officer pointed towards the flag fluttering from a pole on the palace roof – the familiar flying duck silhouetted against a sky-blue background. ‘Of course, madam. The duck of freedom always flies when the president is resident.’
‘He’s definitely inside?’
‘Oh yeah, he’s definitely inside,’ confirmed the short officer. ‘And I’ll tell you something else …’
This could be vital security information. She braced herself.
‘We are … definitely outside.’
Both officers roared with laughter. Britt swore under her breath. Then she joined in the laughter. ‘You guys are such kidders!’ She let them catch their breath, before firing off some more questions. ‘So I’m guessing there are police outside, working the usual eight-hour shift pattern? And security inside, working twelve-hour shifts with an early morning handover? It’s just I haven’t seen any security guys coming or going since I been here. It’s so weird.’
The officers looked at each other, wrinkled their noses, and turned back to Britt. They weren’t smiling now. She realised she’d blundered. They weren’t questions any tourist would ask. Even an American tourist. She would have to try and recover the situation. ‘I mean, erm …’ What did she mean? If she messed this up, she could end up in the back of a police van. And this time next week, she’d be writing lifestyle features. Think, Britt. If you’re not a tourist, who are you? Then it came to her. ‘ … I mean, that’s how it works in the New States. I’m in presidential security, back home in Washington. We’re reviewing everything. Gates, security, police. That’s why I’m in London – to see the ambassador.’
She looked at the officers’ faces. Their noses were still wrinkled. Then the tall one spoke. ‘Actually, we do the occasional extra shift outside the American embassy.’
‘Lovely bloke, that ambassador,’ added the short one. ‘Now, what was his name?’
They both glared at Britt, like impatient quiz show hosts. Her mind went blank for a second. She knew the answer. In fact, she’d interviewed the ambassador last year. But under pressure, she just couldn’t remember his name.
‘I just call him Mr Ambassador,’ laughed Britt. She looked at the officers’ faces. For once, they weren’t laughing.
She dredged her memory banks. What headline had she used for the article? Something about him shaking British society. Shaking. Shaker. Stackshaker. That was it.
‘Clinton Stackshaker!’ she shouted in relief, as the details of the interview came flooding back to her. ‘Such a great guy. Six kids! His nanny, Ella, should get a congressional medal of honour.’ She looked in her bag. ‘Now. Where’s my ID?’ She rummaged for a few seconds. ‘Oh, fudge. I think I left it at the hotel.’
The officers looked at each other, stony-faced. The tall one nodded to the short one. The short one nodded to the tall one. Then they turned to Britt. This was it. They were delivering their verdict.
The officers beamed smiles of relief.
‘Thank goodness you said that, madam. For a moment, you sounded like one of those journalists who pretend they’re someone they’re not and then pump us for top-secret information.’
‘Three of our mates lost their jobs because of a bloody journalist. But me and him aren’t stupid. We know a reporter when we see one.’
Now she had avoided a trip in a police van, Britt knew what to do. ‘Don’t worry, guys. I can find out this stuff from Clinton Stackshaker. It’s no big deal. I’ll just tell him you two boys in light blue couldn’t help me. It’ll mean more work for him. But I’m sure he’ll under—’
‘Hang on,’ interrupted the short officer. ‘We don’t wanna put Mr Stackshaker to any inconvenience.’ He looked at his colleague. ‘I reckon we can run through one or two details, don’t you?’
The tall officer nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. As long as they don’t end up on the front page of a newspaper!’
The officers slapped each other on the back and snorted with laughter.
‘You boys are hilarious!’ squealed Britt, while making a note of the officers’ ID numbers.
‘It’s like you said,’ confirmed the tall officer. ‘We police the streets, while security look after everything inside the palace. This main gate is for VIPs.’ He then gestured towards where Britt had been standing. ‘That side gate is for security staff. The other one is for deliveries.’
The short officer scratched his head. ‘But you’re right. Night shift are usually well gone by now.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Here, you don’t think anything’s happened, do you?’
The tall officer shook his head. ‘Impossible. We’d have been told about it.’
It was obvious the pair were clueless about the missing person. And probably most other things. But there could be a nugget of information here, if she dug a bit further. ‘Actually, it’s security we’re focusing on in our review. You guys know anything else about that?’
The short officer looked over Britt’s shoulder. ‘Hang on. There’s Herbert Bogdanowic – the security guy. He’s your expert.’
Britt turned around. A young blonde man wearing headphones was leaving the palace grounds via the left-hand gate.
The tall officer drew close to Britt and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘And don’t say I told you this, but that young man’s uncle is the head of Palace security – Bogdan Bogdanowic.’
‘Oi, Herbert!’ yelled the short officer. Herbert carried on walking, so he yelled even louder. ‘Hey, Herbie!’ Still no response. ‘He couldn’t hear a bomb go off with those things in his ears. I’ll go and get him for you.’ Just as he was about to make his way over, a bleeper buzzed in his pocket. ‘Excuse me for a second. Duty calls.’ He t
ook the bleeper out, pressed a button and read a message.
Britt wanted to leave the two officers and intercept Herbert herself, but maybe the message was about whoever was missing? It was worth sticking around to find out.
‘Anything I should know about?’ asked the tall officer.
The short officer showed him the bleeper. They both furrowed their brows, looked at Britt, read the message again and stared at her.
After a few seconds, the tall officer spoke. ‘You weren’t in the vicinity of Trafalgar Square this morning, by any chance, madam? Around eight o’clock? Only a female matching your description used some Italian supercars as a pedestrian crossing.’
Britt swore silently. This was all she needed. She was meant to be the hunter. Not the hunted. More quick thinking was required. She put on her best innocent face. ‘Me? No. I came through St James’ Park.’
The officers carried on staring. Britt needed a detail. She thought back to her sprint past the park this morning. ‘To see the pelicans,’ she blurted. ‘And don’t they screech! You guys could probably hear them.’
Britt waited for a few seconds. Then the tall officer put his hand on his chest. ‘Forgive us, madam. It was stupid to even consider that a person with your responsibilities would abuse Italian supercars in such a reckless manner.’
‘I knew it weren’t you,’ added the short officer. ‘How many criminals wanna chit-chat with the boys in sky blue, eh?’ He turned to his colleague. ‘We don’t go to their dinner parties, do we?’
‘Not without a search warrant.’
The pair chuckled. Britt turned round. Herbert was striding towards St James’ Park. She didn’t want him to get too far ahead of her. She might lose him in the crowds.
‘It’s been great talking with you guys,’ gushed Britt. ‘Now, I don’t want to put you to any more trouble. So I’m just gonna go introduce myself to Herbert over there, before he disappears.’ Britt waved her goodbyes before they had a chance to protest. Then she ran towards Herbert, as fast as her aching legs could carry her.
As she ran, she wondered what role she should play with Herbert to maximise her chances of extracting information from him. Should she try being a tourist again? Or a new Palace co-worker, who’d just clocked off the night shift, like him? Or one of the girls in sky blue? That could land her in jail. She didn’t have much time to make up her mind.
Then an idea came to her. If Herbert thought she already knew something, she could just ask him to confirm the details. The American security persona she’d just used would work perfectly for that – a stranger from the New States. Someone who knew something, but not everything. Someone who was operating off-grid. Someone who was offering help to a man in trouble. It was perfect.
Britt realised she’d lost sight of her prey behind a small crowd of tourists. For a few seconds he was gone. But then his distinctive mop of blonde hair and bright red headphones popped into view again. She locked on to her target, zeroed in and was soon walking right behind him. Britt tapped him on the shoulder and he spun round.
‘Excuse me,’ asked Britt in her American accent. ‘Are you Herbert Bogdanowic?’
Herbert looked surprised. Then confused. Then worried. He took off his headphones. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘Could we talk? Privately?’ She lowered her voice. ‘About security matters.’
‘What do you mean?’
She whispered in his ear. ‘I mean in Buckingham Palace.’
Herbert’s face turned pale. ‘Are you secret service or something?’
‘Not over here. But I work security for the president of the New States. And I’m here to help you.’
‘Help me?’
She looked around to check no one was within earshot. ‘With your Code Red situation.’
Herbert didn’t look convinced that he should be talking to her. Britt continued. ‘It’s a situation I’m sure your uncle Bogdan, head of Palace security, is aware of.’
His mouth dropped.
‘I don’t want to say any more in the open,’ she whispered. ‘We’re not even supposed to know anything yet. The Americans, I mean.’
Herbert seemed dazed. After a few seconds he mumbled a question. ‘Who are you?’
Britt didn’t want to use her own name. But she hadn’t come ready with an alternative one. How dumb of her. Even more quick thinking was required. Nothing sensible came to mind. Then a pelican screeched. And something not very sensible came to mind. ‘I’m Pellie Cann.’
‘Pellie … Cann?’ asked Herbert, as if he’d misheard.
‘Yeah. Just like the bird.’
Herbert nodded unsurely. ‘Pellie Cann. Right.’ He looked as if he needed more convincing.
Britt launched into a gabbled explanation. ‘My parents were nuts about pelicans. My mom ate nothing but mackerel for her entire pregnancy. I think she was hoping I’d be a pelican! But they got me instead. And they gave me this dumb name. And now, every time I introduce myself, I have to tell them about my crazy folks.’ She paused and then pretended to be on the verge of tears. ‘But they’re no longer with us.’
Herbert bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. They were probably reincarnated as pelicans.’ She pointed towards the lake. ‘That was probably mom screeching at me just now. Because I left my ID in the hotel. It’s an hour away from here. You want me to go back and get it?’
‘No, no. I can’t hang around.’
‘So let’s grab some breakfast, Herbert. Then I can explain everything.’
‘Okay. There’s a pub about ten minutes’ walk from here. They do a good breakfast. It’s called the Grafton Arms.’
Britt smiled. ‘Then let’s go get some breakfast.’
Chapter 7
Howie glanced at the government car’s e-speedo. It briefly flirted with the five-kilometres-per-hour marker. Then it fell back to zero as the driver braked. Welcome to central-London gridlock.
It was his own fault. He should have left the palace earlier. Instead, he’d spent an hour trying to access the president’s electronic diary with Kaia-Liisa. But the same network problems that had plagued Martha that morning had prevented them from viewing it.
As a result, he was already running late for his nine-thirty appointment with the First Lady. To make matters worse, the traffic signals in Trafalgar Square weren’t working and three sports cars were causing a blockage. Every now and then, a pedestrian would attempt to jump on the cars and cross the road. At which point, three annoyed-looking Italians on the pavement would scream and chase after them. It was truly bizarre.
Why were all these strange things happening today? Then he remembered. It was a Tuesday. And it was his birthday. And there was more of this to come.
Howie’s backside was starting to get numb, so he shifted his position in the passenger seat. As he did so, his bleeper fell out of his trouser pocket. He picked it up and looked at its screen. It was completely blank. ‘Useless bloody machine,’ he muttered to himself, resisting the temptation to throw it out of the car window. And then he remembered. He’d switched it off in Martha’s office and forgotten to turn it on again. He reluctantly pressed its start button. After playing its annoying welcome jingle, a message appeared:
Hello, Howard! It is 09:45 on Tuesday 12 April 2044.
The First Lady’s security team had made clear she was leaving the house at ten o’clock. And she wasn’t the kind of person who changed her plans for other people. He’d have less than fifteen minutes to tell her about her husband’s disappearance. And find out about her new book – a task which normally took weeks. Even James Bond would struggle with that mission.
He clicked the bleeper’s status button. Another message:
You are currently AVAILABLE. You have 399 UNREAD e-comms. Don’t let them pile up now!
Howie told the bleeper where it could stick its advice and scanned his unread messages. Among the usual mass of admin, HR and ‘copying you in for information’ rubbish, something grabbed his
attention. There were half a dozen e-comms from Maurice Skeets – the best-connected freelance journalist in London. They were all entitled ‘Urgent – Story’. He read the most recent message:
Howie, this is big. No bullshit. It’s about the president. Secret meetings. High-profile people. We need to talk. I’ll be in the Two Chairmen at midday. Be there. Maurice.
This wasn’t good news. In fact, whenever Maurice Skeets was onto a story, it always meant bad news. Very bad news. The last thing Howie needed was a big front-page story tomorrow, followed by dozens of media bids for a president who wasn’t here. Even issuing a presidential statement would be impossible without Jan around to agree it.
Howie sighed. Why did it have to be this particular journalist? Anyone else, he could have batted off and dealt with another day. But he’d have to meet Maurice. His sources were always reliable.
The car started moving at a steady fifteen-kilometres-per-hour. The traffic was clearing at last. They would be there in a few minutes. After several unsuccessful attempts, Howie managed to type ‘OK. Two Chairmen. Midday.’ on the bleeper’s tiny keypad and send the message to Maurice. Then he looked up. They were outside the First Lady’s smart Blackfriars townhouse.
Howie told the driver to wait and jumped out of the car. He ran up the steps, pressed the intercom button and announced himself.
A glum-faced security woman answered the door. ‘Morning, Mr Pond. The First Lady’s in her study. Turn right at the end of the hall, second on the left.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She’s not a happy bunny.’
That was no surprise. The First Lady was never a happy bunny when Howie was around.
He thanked the security officer, found the study and knocked on its door. A well-spoken voice shouted ‘Enter!’ and he pushed the door open. The First Lady was sitting behind an antique desk, dressed in a battleship-grey suit. The sun caught her gold jewellery as she swivelled her chair to face him. ‘Ah, Mr Pond,’ she drawled in her perfect English accent. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’