We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  It was the type of greeting James Bond received from super-villains hell-bent on world destruction. The only thing missing was a fluffy white cat. He double-checked that there wasn’t one lurking in the oak bookcases, ready to pounce on him. There didn’t seem to be. ‘Good morning, First Lady. Apologies. I got held up in —’

  ‘Can we get down to business?’ She looked at a clock on the wall. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

  Howie sat down. ‘I’ll come straight to the point then. It’s about your husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘It’s always about my husband.’

  ‘This is serious. He’s missing. No one’s seen him since eleven o’clock last night. They’re searching the palace and the grounds. But he hasn’t turned up yet.’

  The First Lady stared at Howie, unblinking, for several seconds. Then she spoke. ‘And why are you telling me this, Mr Pond, and not the police?’

  ‘The security service are leading on this. The police aren’t aware. And that’s the way we need to keep it, until the picture becomes clearer.’

  The First Lady screwed up her face. ‘Then why isn’t a security person telling me?’

  Howie sat up straight. ‘As of today, I am a security person.’

  ‘You?’ sneered the First Lady. ‘But you’re just Jan’s media mouthpiece.’

  Howie ignored the insult. He’d been called much worse by journalists. And by vice presidents. ‘The head of National Security, Martha Blake, has appointed me as a special investigator.’ He flashed his new security service ID. ‘I’ve been asked to help find your husband.’

  The First Lady frowned. ‘Oh. Well, he’s not here, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything. But seeing as you’ve mentioned it, can I ask if he was here last night?’

  ‘He doesn’t sleep here.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘Kings prefer their palaces.’

  ‘You’ve no idea where he could be?’

  ‘I’m his wife. Not his diary secretary.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Saturday – for lunch.’ Her tone was becoming more irritated by the second.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Yes. The wine was excellent.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Oh, yes. The duck was overcooked.’

  The First Lady was being as cooperative as usual. Howie ploughed on with more questions. ‘It was just small talk then?’

  ‘It was a conversation between a husband and his wife.’

  ‘And what did you discuss?’

  ‘That’s private.’

  ‘Yes. But if he told you anything that might help me —’

  ‘Mr Pond,’ she interrupted. ‘If my husband told me anything that could help you locate him, I would inform you.’ She placed her hands on the desk. ‘But he didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve really no idea where he is?’

  The First Lady’s expression changed from one of irritation to boredom. ‘I have no idea whatsoever.’

  Howie decided to change the subject. ‘Okay. While I’m here, tell me about your new book. I’m still dealing with the media. And you know how much the media love your books.’

  A flicker of a smile swept across the First Lady’s face. ‘It’s called Finding the American in You. It’s published on Friday. And yes – I expect the media and everyone else to love it.’

  Finding the American in You? It sounded a little different from her last two efforts – Finding the Inner Me and Discovering the Outer You. He’d need to find out more. ‘Who’s this book aimed at?’

  The First Lady leaned back. ‘It’s for people over forty who aspire to a better life. But who are stuck on this side of the Atlantic.’

  ‘Like the ones who missed out on Amerigration, you mean?’

  ‘Those people.’ She paused. ‘And others who wanted to apply. But whose circumstances prevented them from doing so.’

  Yes. While anyone with a British passport or permanent residency was eligible to apply, not everyone would have been in a position to drop everything and head across the Atlantic. Politicians wanting to become British president, for example. And their spouses.

  ‘People like you, you mean?’ asked Howie. He didn’t have time to be diplomatic. He needed to know all the angles that the media might seize upon.

  ‘Of course,’ replied the First Lady, matter-of-factly. ‘We had just married. My husband loved this country. He had the charisma, charm and intelligence to become president. He knew it. And all his political peers knew it.’ She gestured towards a book on her desk. ‘I wasn’t a writer, back then. I worked in publishing.’ She stopped for a second and looked thoughtful. ‘We discussed it. We decided to stay here so Jan could pursue his political dreams. It wasn’t a difficult decision.’

  An idea was forming in Howie’s mind – maybe the First Lady hadn’t given up hope of an American exit? While the Amerigration programme was now history, the Americans did still consider applications from ‘exceptional candidates’. The process was much tougher now – character checks, financial requirements and a senior-level American sponsor – but it was a question worth asking. ‘Would you consider relocating to the New States at some point in the future?’

  ‘It’s never been an option, so I haven’t given it any thought.’ She leaned forward and furrowed her brow. ‘But why are you asking me this?’

  ‘The media might ask you when you launch the book, First Lady.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She thought for a second. ‘Well, if they do ask me, I shall tell them to mind their own business.’

  Howie doubted that would be the case. He’d learnt from bitter experience that the First Lady didn’t hold back when it came to media interviews about her books. He took a deep breath. What he was about to say wouldn’t go down well. ‘I’ll need to clear all your media bids for the foreseeable future. And that includes interviews about your new book.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation many times before, Mr Pond. This is not government business. This is my career. I don’t see why —’

  ‘With respect, everything you do is government business. So bleep me with the details when the bids start coming in. We want to keep media to an absolute minimum until we find Jan.’ If looks could kill, Howie would already be dead. ‘Please,’ he urged. ‘It’s in the president’s best interests.’

  The First Lady sighed. ‘Yes. My husband’s best interests always take priority over mine.’

  Howie glanced at the clock. It hadn’t yet hit ten. There was time for a couple more questions. But what was he going to ask? Something that would give him a lead in his search for the president. Something that could be of real value. Then it came to him – something that Zayn had suggested. Was there another woman in the president’s life? If so, the First Lady might know about it. Howie would ask. But he would have to be subtle. ‘To go back to your husband, I was wondering if you knew of any close friendships that he might have formed recently. They could be male friendships … or female friendships.’

  She shot straight back. ‘You mean, is my husband is having an affair?’

  Howie could feel himself blushing. ‘Yes. That question.’

  The First Lady narrowed her eyes. ‘There is someone. I don’t know for sure if it’s an affair. But I’m fairly certain.’

  Howie ignored his burning cheeks and carried on with the questions. ‘And who’s that?’

  She picked up a stress ball on her desk and started to squeeze it. ‘If I tell you, will I be informed if that person has proved to be a useful line of enquiry?’

  Howie had no idea. He hadn’t read all the terms and conditions of his new role. But he needed this information, so he would have to sound helpful. ‘If I can do that, I will.’

  She stared at him until the final second of his ten minutes had ticked away. Then she gave her answer. ‘Alright. It’s his personal trainer, Cherry Blush. She visits the palace twice a week.’

  Howie knew the
president had a personal trainer. But that was as far as his knowledge stretched. ‘Do you know anything else about her?’

  ‘She’s twenty-seven and from London. She’s based at the American Fitness gym in Canary Wharf.’

  That was useful. In fact, it was a lot more information than he was expecting. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s been doing a bit of detective work, Mr Pond.’ She stood up. ‘Message understood?’

  Howie rose from his chair. ‘Message understood.’

  Chapter 8

  Britt was in the Grafton Arms, waiting for Herbert the security guy to return from the bar. She had chosen a large table by the window, where they wouldn’t be disturbed or overheard. It was a little too near the entrance for her liking, but it was only a small pub. And this shouldn’t take long. She just needed to find out who had gone missing and when.

  She checked her bleeper. It told her the time was just after ten. The short walk had turned into a half-hour trek as Herbert stopped to respond to urgent bleeps. He’d been so busy they had hardly spoken a word on their way here. But it hadn’t been a problem. It reassured Britt that this young man knew exactly what was going on. And even if he didn’t, his uncle definitely would.

  She took in her surroundings. The pub’s secret corners and snugs gave it a certain old-world charm. But it had one big disadvantage. It was a stone’s throw from the Two Chairmen – Howie’s favourite pub. Some of the regulars there might also be regulars here. And the last thing she needed was one of them popping in for breakfast and recognising her. She would have to be on her guard.

  Britt slipped the sunglasses off her nose and scanned the dozen or so faces dotted around the pub. None of them were familiar. That was reassuring. She pushed the sunglasses back into place.

  Herbert arrived carrying two tubes of orange juice. He handed one to Britt. ‘Here you are, erm, Miss …’

  ‘Cann,’ she replied, in her undercover American accent. ‘Pellie Cann.’ It was the dumbest cover name she’d ever heard. But at least it was easy for her to remember.

  Herbert sat down. ‘Sorry I forgot your name. My brain is fried.’

  ‘No problem. It must have been a real tough night for you.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘But I’m here to help you now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Herbert looked thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘So how did you find me so quickly? I’d only just finished my shift.’

  After the initial adrenaline rush of her unexpected offer for help, it was natural that he might have a few questions. There was no need to panic. In fact, the answer to this first question was easy. She would just tell the truth. ‘Two police officers outside the palace gate identified you. I didn’t catch their names. Officers 271 and 272. One tall, one short.’

  Herbert nodded knowingly. ‘Oh, those two? Yeah. That makes sense.’ He sipped his juice. ‘So you work in security in the New States?’

  ‘Yeah. I work for the president in Washington.’ Britt had never been to America. She was hoping Herbert hadn’t either.

  ‘I love the New States. But I’ve only been there once.’

  She stayed calm. The chances were he went somewhere touristy. New York, Chicago or San Francisco. But not Washington. Please, not Washington. If he started asking her directions to the nearest McDonalds from the White House, she was screwed.

  ‘My uncle got me a seven-day tourist visa. I stayed in Philadelphia all week. Loved it.’

  Britt nodded. Thank goodness for that. It wasn’t Washington. It was Philadelphia. Panic over. But hang on. Where was Philadelphia? What kind of city was it? Pellie Cann should know these things. But she had no idea. ‘Oh, Philadelphia? That’s fantastic! Heard so much about it. Never been there.’

  Herbert raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Not even for work?’

  Britt sensed that, for whatever reason, a presidential security guru ought to have been to Philadelphia. But it was too late to change her story now. ‘No, really. It’s crazy. I’ve never been.’

  ‘Such a historic city. The Declaration of Independence and constitution were signed there. For the Old States, I mean. But still, I would have thought you’d have been there on a presidential visit? It’s only a couple of hundred kilometres away.’

  Britt sipped her juice. It gave her a few seconds to think. ‘I operate from the White House. I don’t do visits. I have people do that for me.’

  Herbert twisted his lip. He was deep in thought again. Britt knew what he was thinking – ‘Is this woman really an American intelligence officer?’ Her answers to his questions had been pretty convincing. But there was the unlikely name, the lack of ID and her unorthodox approach in a public park. She could see why he was suspicious. He worked in security. He was probably used to people trying to bluff their way past him into restricted areas. Herbert would know a big hitter from a bullshitter. She mustn’t underestimate him. No. She must keep answering his questions. Until he was convinced that Pellie Cann was telling the truth.

  Herbert rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘So, why are you in London and not Washington?’

  It was a good question. She wasn’t Superwoman. She couldn’t just fly across the Atlantic when a European leader didn’t turn up for work. But she had an answer. ‘I’m advising on security at the American Embassy in London. Americans like to bring in their own people. You know how it is.’

  Herbert nodded. ‘It’s an interesting building, wouldn’t you say?’

  She sensed this was a final test. If someone claimed they were advising on security at an embassy, it was reasonable to expect them to know what the embassy looked like. He was pretty smart, this young man. But Britt had this covered. She’d conducted her interview with the ambassador at the embassy. It had come to her rescue again.

  ‘That big white cube must be twenty-five years old now and it’s showing its age,’ she replied, with a breezy air of confidence. ‘The ambassador’s got the best deal on the top floor. But the rest of it needs a major refurb. And it might be riverside, but Nine Elms isn’t exactly Mayfair. Well, what is, south of the river?’

  Herbert smiled and held up his hands. ‘Listen. I’m sorry about all the questions, Miss Cann. I had to be sure, you know.’

  Britt screamed in triumph inside her head. She felt like a quiz show contestant who’d struggled in the first round, but just answered the £10,000,000 question. ‘Hey, no problem. I’d do exactly the same in your shoes. Oh, and please, call me Pellie.’

  Herbert smiled. ‘You can call me Herbie. All my friends do.’

  Britt smiled back. ‘Sure thing, Herbie.’

  ‘And sorry for taking all those bleeps on the way. But I had to. It was work.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I can see Herbie is a man in demand.’

  He sat back and made himself comfortable. ‘Why don’t you take your sunglasses off? This place is dark enough.’

  There was no chance of that happening. Someone could walk in that door any minute who knew her. ‘I have very sensitive retinas. It’s genetic.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, the sunglasses really suit you … Pellie.’

  Britt beamed. ‘Thank you! I love British guys. You’re such gentlemen!’ She grabbed her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He leaned over and whispered. ‘This gentleman knows the lady behind the bar. I got the drinks for free.’

  ‘You naughty boy!’ laughed Britt, patting his arm.

  There was nothing wrong with a bit of light flirting. It was justified if it helped her achieve her goal. Anyway, Herbert was quite cute. His blonde hair and big brown eyes reminded her of the Labrador puppy she’d always wanted as a kid. But she was done with telling him what a good boy he was. Now it was time to start pulling on his lead.

  Britt looked around to make sure no one could hear. ‘Now, you got a situation at Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘That’s one way of describing it.’


  ‘I know it’s a Code Red.’ She leaned in to him. ‘That means we’re not talking about the president’s cat going missing.’

  ‘No. We’re not.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Tell me more.’

  ‘He hasn’t got a cat. He’s allergic to them. He’s got a dog, though – a Labrador puppy.’

  Me too, thought Britt. And her puppy wasn’t playing ball. But she mustn’t lose her patience.

  ‘The dog is fine,’ continued Herbert. ‘We checked on him, this morning.’

  Time to tug on Herbert’s lead a bit harder. ‘The president’s pooch is safe and well. That’s terrific news. But someone with two legs went walkies last night, huh?’

  Herbert nodded. ‘You know who, don’t you?’

  This was a tricky one. Should Britt say she knew? If she did, Herbert might ask her to confirm it. If she didn’t, he might clam up. She would toss him a ball and see if he brought it back. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out that we’re talking about a serious VIP here.’

  ‘Yeah, we are. Only it’s not just a very important person.’

  He had picked up the ball. Finally. Now he just needed a bit of encouragement to bring it back to her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Britt. ‘Not just a VIP?’

  ‘In this case,’ whispered Herbert, ‘the VIP is a very important …’

  Just as her puppy was about to drop the ball at her feet, she heard the door behind her crash open and a deep Irish voice shouting, ‘Good morning, Grafton Arms!’

  The voice was familiar. Britt turned round to see who it was. His face was even more familiar.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ laughed Herbert. ‘It’s only Conor O’Brean. He’s harmless.’

  Britt knew exactly who Conor was. And Conor knew exactly who Britt was. Not only was he a regular at the Two Chairmen, he was also one of Howie’s press officers – one who knew her well. She spun back round and ducked down. But Conor was already bounding over.

  ‘Don’t believe a word this young fella tells you, madam! He’s happily married with sixteen children and three ex-wives.’ He giggled and ruffled Herbert’s hair.