We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

That was a relief. No. A double relief. The candy was already changing to a slightly less disgusting cherry flavour. ‘Thank you,’ Britt replied.

  The First Lady sat back in her chair. ‘You can ask me about my husband.’

  Britt wanted to ask if the president had disappeared this morning. But even if it was true, the First Lady would never tell her. At least, not directly. Britt would need to try something more subtle. ‘Did you see the president this morning or receive a bleep from him? If so, what did he say?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see or hear from him this morning. It’s a very busy week for both of us.’

  The candy now had a revolting fudge taste. She would just have to ignore it. ‘I don’t suppose you could bleep him now and ask him for a quote about your new book?’

  There was another immediate response. ‘He hasn’t read it, I’m afraid. He’s a busy man.’

  ‘I understand.’ Britt wasn’t going to give up just yet. ‘Maybe you could bleep him and ask for a general quote about your writing?’

  ‘You really need to go through his press office for presidential quotes.’

  Those answers weren’t much help. In fact, they were no help whatsoever. Britt carried on with the questions. ‘Will you see him before Thursday – Independence Day?’

  The First Lady stifled a yawn. ‘I doubt it. Politics always comes first with Jan.’

  ‘So you don’t have any joint engagements planned this week?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ sighed the First Lady, her eyes glazing over with boredom.

  Britt had one more card to play in this game of presidential poker. ‘Your husband cancelled an interview with us this afternoon. It had been in the diary for weeks. We were all very surprised.’

  The First Lady’s face didn’t flicker. ‘Presidential engagements are never set in stone. Jan changes his plans when it suits him. I know that from sixteen years of marriage.’

  Her heart sank. The First Lady had given nothing away. The emerging taste of bitter coconut in Britt’s mouth only added to her misery. A knock on the door interrupted her despair.

  ‘Who is it?’ shouted the First Lady. ‘I’m busy with a journalist.’

  ‘Security,’ replied a familiar voice from behind the door. ‘It’s urgent.’

  The First Lady rolled her eyes. ‘Alright. You may enter,’ she called.

  The same security woman as before opened the door. ‘Sorry. Someone needs a word with you, First Lady.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? I’m being interviewed.’

  ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘What is it that’s so urgent?’

  ‘It’s your publisher. He’s in the hall. He says he’s lined up an interview with the Rise and Shine programme, tomorrow morning. He needs to confirm with them ASAP that you can do it.’

  The First Lady jumped to her feet. ‘Of course I can do it!’ She turned to Britt. ‘My apologies. This won’t take long. We’ll continue our chat when I get back.’ Then she rushed out of the study and the security woman closed the door.

  Britt’s first instinct was to get up and leave. The trail had quickly gone cold here. But she would have to wait in this study. Presidents might be able to disappear. But journalists halfway through an interview with the First Lady couldn’t.

  She sat back and stared at the desk in front of her. The candy was now a delicious apple flavour. Britt felt a small rush of pleasure. Whatever chemicals her brain had released kick-started her thoughts. The desk. It might just contain something of value that she could sneak a look at while the First Lady was in the hallway. She checked the ceiling and walls for cameras. She couldn’t see any. She stood up. Then wandered around the other side of the desk.

  Without even thinking, she pulled at one of the drawers. It was open. But there was nothing inside, except for a collection of old digi-pens and an even bigger collection of dust. She tried a second drawer. It contained more American candies but nothing else. The third drawer she tried was stuck. The fourth one just contained more copies of the First Lady’s new book. Britt returned to the third drawer and pulled hard on its handle. It was still jammed. She tried one more time. After a hefty tug, it gave way and the drawer flew open. Inside was something interesting – a folder with the words ‘Westminster Private Investigation Agency’ on the cover.

  Britt listened for approaching footsteps. There weren’t any. She opened the thick folder. It became clear within seconds what the contents were – a private investigation into the recent movements of someone called Cherry Blush.

  She flicked through dozens of pages of records and photos. There were several snaps of a young woman outside a glass-fronted building. According to the photos’ captions, they were pictures of Cherry Blush outside the American Fitness gym in Canary Wharf. There were more photos of the same woman entering the gates of Buckingham Palace.

  Britt listened again. There were still no sounds outside. She focused again on the folder. Within a few seconds, she had found another bundle of photos of Cherry outside a townhouse. There were no captions. But it was clearly a Westminster street. Cherry was wearing dark sunglasses and a hat in all of them. In one of those photos, a man was greeting her at the door. It looked like the president. And you could see Cherry’s face clearly. Britt shoved it in her bag and continued sifting through the documents.

  Her rummaging was interrupted by distant footsteps. She realised she probably had less than half a minute before the First Lady would be back.

  She spread out the wodge of papers, desperately searching for anything else of interest. Some written records caught her eye – regular dates and times of meetings between this woman and the president. They referred to Cherry Blush as the president’s personal trainer. Maybe she was more than that? Britt would have to find out.

  Britt could hear raised voices outside the door. The voices were growing louder by the second. Britt shoved the papers and photos back in the file and returned it to the drawer. The door began to open. She ran out from behind the desk and threw herself into the chair where she’d been sitting. It rocked back as her weight hit it. But she just managed to keep it under control.

  ‘Forgive me for the interruption,’ declared the First Lady, as she entered the room and closed the door. ‘Now, where were we?’

  Britt needed to cut the interview short. ‘Is your publisher still out there?’

  ‘Yes. He’s bleeping the Rise and Shine people.’

  Britt had an idea. ‘I’ve got lots of great quotes from you. I’ve got the book. And I can get your biography from your publisher. That’s all I need for a great feature.’

  The First Lady smiled. ‘Well, you are the expert, Ms Pointer.’

  That was right. Britt was an expert. An expert at uncovering the truth. And she had a feeling she was getting closer to it as every hour passed. The triumphant taste of champagne hit her throat, as the remains of the candy dissolved in her mouth. ‘It’s been a pleasure, First Lady. I’m sure the book will be a best-seller.’

  The First Lady beamed. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘And send my best wishes to the president, when you see him.’

  ‘Of course I will … when I see him.’

  Chapter 13

  Howie opened his eyes. He felt warm, contented and drowsy. For a minute, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he saw the roaring fireplace and the almost empty pint of Guinness on the table in front of him. And he realised. He was in the upstairs room of the Two Chairmen.

  He remembered now. He had popped up here to finish his third pint. It was a cosy little room, unstaffed at lunchtimes. He’d been the only person up here when he arrived. He was the only person up here now. It was perfect peace. So perfect, he must have dozed off for fifteen minutes. It was no disgrace, he told himself. Even James Bond needed the occasional catnap. Admittedly, Bond usually did it after killing bad guys, crashing airplanes and making love to beautiful women. But rushing round London, asking people lots of questions, was still pretty tiring work.
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br />   Howie sat up and stretched. What was the time? He took out his bleeper and glanced at the screen. It looked like it was showing 15:49. That couldn’t be right. The ‘5’ must be a ‘2’. He rubbed his eyes and checked again. The bleeper still showed the same time. It must have malfunctioned.

  Howie considered tossing the bleeper on the open fire, but resisted the temptation. Instead, he scanned his latest e-comms. There were several marked ‘Urgent – CAMS’, all from Martha Blake. He read the latest one:

  Howie, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last two hours. It’s almost 3.30pm now. I can only assume you’re busy investigating – rather than enjoying a long lunch while the rest of us run around with empty stomachs. I want to give you a face-to-face briefing on the Central Automated Monitoring System. No other news to report. Martha.

  A flush of realisation hit his cheeks. It wasn’t his bleeper malfunctioning. It was him. He should never have had that third pint of Guinness. Or the second one. And probably not the first one. Normally, he could handle half a dozen pints and still return to the office and be as productive as usual – sometimes more productive – but this wasn’t a normal day. He’d had hardly any sleep. It had been continual stress since his bleeper woke him up at five o’clock. And he’d had a boozy lunch. It was a fatal combination that had led his brain to shut down his system and only reboot it three and a half hours later.

  Howie frantically checked what other messages had come in while he’d been dozing. There was one from Maurice Skeets marked ‘Super-Urgent’. It begged Howie for more information on the president’s secret meetings. Maurice could wait. He didn’t have enough material to write a story. Howie knew that. Maurice knew that. Maurice had played this game a thousand times before. He wouldn’t expect a response. And no response was exactly what he was going to get.

  The next one that caught his eye was from Vice President Zayn Winner:

  Hey, Howie. You saved the world yet? Ha, ha! Listen up, buddy. That Daily Democrat journalist, Mina Pritti, bleeped my office. She wants to bring forward the interview with me to 3.45pm. She said it’ll give her more time to write it for tomorrow’s edition. It totally works for me. If it doesn’t work for you, give me a bleep, big guy. Otherwise, the action starts at 3.45pm. See you then! Zayn.

  This was a disaster. Assuming the journalist turned up on time, the interview would have started already. Real panic hit him. If Mina Pritti mentioned the president, there would be no one there to jump in and stop Zayn saying something he shouldn’t. Maybe Howie could bleep him and tell him to stop the interview until he got there? No. That wouldn’t work. Zayn never answered his bleeper. There was only one course of action for Howie to take. He would have to get back to the palace as quickly as he could.

  Howie jumped to his feet and flew out of the door. He hurtled down the narrow, twisting, metal staircase two steps at a time. He didn’t want to waste a second.

  Just before he reached the bottom, he misjudged one of the steps. His right foot slipped and he crashed down onto the floor, hitting it with a thump. It was a heavy impact that took his breath away.

  As he lay there, sprawled in a crumpled heap in the tiny entrance hall, a couple on their way out of the downstairs bar stopped. Howie looked up at them. They looked down at him. Howie offered an apologetic smile. They offered contemptuous stares. He tried to summon the breath to ask them to help him up. They shook their heads and tutted before he could say anything. Then they carried on down Dartmouth Street. They think I’m a drunk, thought Howie. He was going to have to help himself.

  He struggled to his feet. He took a few moments to catch his breath, ignoring more stares and tutting from customers. Then he took a step forward. And pain shot through his right ankle. He had twisted it. Just what he didn’t need.

  At least the palace wasn’t far away. It was a ten-minute walk. But a fifteen-minute hobble. There would be no point getting a taxi or bleeping for a government car. It would take even longer to get there in the mid-afternoon traffic.

  Howie stumbled out of the pub and turned right, towards the Cockpit Steps that led to St James’ Park. He had to get to the palace before Zayn finished his interview, so he could try and repair any damage. He would just have to ignore the burning pain in his ankle and press on.

  As he limped down the steps, he wondered how he was going to explain all this to Martha Blake. It didn’t take him long to realise the answer – he couldn’t. He would just have to tell her the truth and face the consequences.

  Howie crossed Birdcage Walk into St James’ Park. He could hear the pelicans squawking in the distance. They didn’t sound happy. It was as if they were yelling at him for falling asleep on the job. And Martha wouldn’t be happy either. She would be angrier than all of those pelicans put together.

  He staggered on through the park. Halfway through, a large dog ran across his path in a frenzy of excitement. It zig-zagged back and forth, following the scent of some long-gone animal. The creature was probably now asleep in its burrow or den, while the dog ran itself into the ground in pointless pursuit. ‘That dog is me,’ he thought.

  After struggling along its concrete paths, Howie left the park and turned left into The Mall. He could now see Buckingham Palace up ahead. It was a view he had always enjoyed – the spot was far enough away for him to see the building in all its grandeur. But it wasn’t a view he was enjoying today. Because it meant he still had a few minutes of ankle-pounding pain to endure.

  As he approached the roundabout, Howie gazed up at the palace balcony. He imagined the scene on Thursday morning. Citizens would be gathered in their thousands. The nation would be watching on their digi-screens. All eyes would be on that balcony. But who would be walking out onto it?

  The Republican Party, as the party of government, would have to make their presidential nomination by eleven o’clock on Independence Day. Wherever the president was – assuming he was alive – he would have to get back here by then. Otherwise, those third and fourth terms he’d talked about in private with Howie and the vice presidents would never become a reality. His legacy wouldn’t be twenty years of stable government. It would be ten years of stable government followed by panic and a million questions. Questions about why Jan Polak wasn’t standing again, what was he going to do now and, hey … where the hell is he, by the way? Howie would be the person answering those questions. Or trying to answer them. Or completely failing to answer them because he had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on either.

  He swallowed hard. Today was a bad day. But if the president didn’t appear on that balcony on Thursday morning, it would be a hundred times worse – for the Government, for the citizens and, most importantly, for Howie. It mustn’t happen.

  Howie could feel adrenaline start to pump through his veins. As it mixed with the alcohol in his system, a mild euphoria overtook him. Everything became clear. It wasn’t a case of if he found the president. It was a case of when he found the president. He started jogging towards the left-hand gate. He felt no pain now. Two police officers were guarding the gate – one short, one tall. As he got closer, he recognised them. He didn’t know them by name, but he knew they would chat all day if he gave them enough encouragement. And Howie had zero time for small talk.

  The short officer nodded towards him. ‘Afternoon, Mr Pond. How’s the boss? Getting ready for the big day, is he?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ replied Howie, with the bare minimum of politeness. ‘Can I get through, gents? I’m in a hurry.’

  The tall officer moved to open the gate. ‘Certainly, Mr Pond.’ As he was about to press a button to open it, he stopped and turned to face Howie. ‘But just one question, before I do.’

  This pair were as bad as journalists with their ‘just one question’. It was usually followed by a dozen follow-up questions. ‘Okay. If it’s a quick one.’

  ‘Will the American ambassador will be popping round for tea and biscuits any time soon?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ And it was true
. The president’s monthly one-to-ones with the American ambassador were private, non-media events. Howie never got involved.

  The short officer lowered his voice. ‘It’s just, Mr Stackshaker promised us a couple of boxes of American jelly queens when he dropped by last week.’

  The tall officer tapped his nose and winked knowingly. ‘Diplomatic channels.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know.’ Howie pointed at the gates. ‘Can I get through?’

  The tall officer moved towards the gate again. Then he stopped and turned again. ‘One more quick question.’

  Howie considered punching the pair on their noses and opening the gate himself. But he restrained himself. ‘The final one. I answer it. You open the gate.’

  The tall officer nodded. ‘We just wondered if you could mention to the president how helpful we’d been to a White House security person. And then he could pass that information on to Mr Stackshaker.’

  The short officer grinned. ‘Then we might get an extra couple of boxes of jelly queens.’

  This sounded worrying. ‘What White House security person?’

  ‘American lady,’ continued the short officer. ‘She was hanging round here this morning. She’s doing some security review for their president or something. She had a few questions about our security arrangements.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘She liked us, didn’t she?’

  ‘Reckoned we should be on the digi-screen.’

  Howie felt uneasy. Flattery was the weapon of choice for undercover journalists. ‘She was definitely an American security person?’

  The pair nodded confidently.

  Howie wasn’t convinced. ‘You saw her ID?’

  The two officers looked at each other. Then they looked at Howie.

  ‘Well, did you or didn’t you?’

  The short officer bowed his head. ‘She’d, erm … left it at her hotel.’

  ‘That old excuse?’ growled Howie. ‘Sounds like an undercover journalist to me.’

  The tall officer shook a finger. ‘I have to disagree. This woman knew intimate details about Mr Stackshaker’s home life.’