We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  ‘We mustn’t jump to any conclusions. But Oskar has always been a very ambitious man. And, if political rumour is to be believed, Jan was never supposed to stand for a third term.’

  Yes. The Pierogi Pact. The one subject the president never discussed with Howie. When the president was re-elected, five years ago, Howie had been told to use the same line with the media: ‘The president’s intentions with regards to a third term will be made clear in the year 2044 on Independence Day. Until then, he will not be commenting on speculation or rumour.’ That line had never changed.

  Martha continued. ‘I haven’t told you about Oskar’s third and final meeting. It was late afternoon in Canary Wharf. Coincidentally, with a woman you met today – Cherry Blush. It was secretive and short. My agent suggested it could be an argument between two lovers.’ She thought for a second. ‘Oskar is married, isn’t he?’

  Howie nodded. ‘But the First Lady seemed pretty sure it was Jan having a relationship with Cherry.’

  ‘We can’t rule that out completely. But the two men are identical twins. The First Lady, or someone she knows, might have seen Oskar and Cherry together, and assumed it was the president.’

  Howie remembered something. ‘That was it. Cherry mentioned Maxim’s name when I went to see her. He owns the chain of gyms she works for – American Fitness. Just before I left, Cherry was ordered up to Maxim’s office to see him. I didn’t think it was strange at the time. But why would Maxim want to see one of his personal trainers face-to-face?’

  ‘It would suggest their professional relationship is a close one.’

  Howie’s overheated brain was having problems processing this information. ‘What does this all mean?’

  ‘I suspect it means Oskar isn’t telling us everything. And Miss Blush hasn’t been telling you everything. They may both have information on the whereabouts of the president. And so might Viktor Maxim. But we don’t have any hard evidence.’

  ‘Can’t you bring Oskar in for questioning?’

  ‘He wasn’t very talkative this morning. He’ll be even less so if we formally question him. No. I’d prefer to keep watching him for the moment. You never know. He could lead us to the president.’

  Howie nodded his agreement. ‘And what about Cherry and Maxim? Are we going to bring them in?’

  ‘I think it’s best to keep our distance for the moment. If we make any kind of intervention they could alert Oskar to our interest.’

  Martha was right. She was always right. They turned off the corridor and began walking down a flight of stairs. Howie felt his bleeper vibrate in his pocket. ‘One second, Martha. It could be important.’ He checked the e-comm. ‘It’s Maurice Skeets. My least-favourite journalist. He’s chasing me for an update on the names he provided. I won’t get back to him.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The three names. I’ve got a bit more information on them.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘The Russian woman, Petra Putinov, works for Mr Maxim’s firm, Maxim International, and reports directly to him. He encourages her to make government contacts at the highest levels. She’s met with heads of state from several countries during her career. So it’s possible Maxim might have sent her to meet with Jan.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘Sky Eastern is a colourful character. American. A little eccentric. Throws her company’s money at a lot of worthy projects around the world. And a lot of her own money. But for all the public relations work, the company is still hungry for old oil. And according to the information I’ve seen, they’re very good at finding it.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and made their way towards the main entrance.

  Howie put his bleeper back in his pocket. ‘Any idea if what Maurice said about Eastern Oil wanting to do some test drilling over here is true?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had it confirmed that they’re awaiting approval from the British Government. There have been official meetings at just about every level you can imagine for over a year. It’s still up in the air. The decision is ultimately for Jan to make.’

  ‘So he might have met with this Sky Eastern for perfectly legitimate reasons?’

  ‘Yes. Unless he was taking a bribe.’

  ‘What?’ The idea seemed ridiculous to Howie.

  ‘Why not? One has to keep an open mind about these things. All energy companies pay bribes. And there’s no reason why they wouldn’t go straight to the top.’

  Howie had never contemplated the president being corrupt before. But he’d learnt that nothing was impossible in government.

  They walked along in silence for a few seconds. Then Martha spoke. ‘There was a third name Maurice gave you – Olga Frik. She works for Auto-Tech Industries. She’s the least troublesome of the three names. But she’s under pressure to secure a new Tech-support contract with the Government. It accounts for almost half their turnover.’

  Something occurred to Howie. ‘You don’t think someone at Auto-Tech Industries could have sabotaged the auto-techs, do you? Maybe reprogrammed Brian?’

  ‘Why would they do that? It’s their Tech. It wouldn’t look very good with a contract to be renewed.’

  ‘I know. But they could come in. Fix it all. Tell us that, after five years of using the old models, we need to upgrade to the new ones. That’s how Tech works, isn’t it? They design everything to bugger up after five years.’

  ‘Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Martha smiled. ‘You’re getting rather good at these special investigations. But let’s focus our attentions on Oskar, Cherry and Mr Maxim for the moment.’

  They had reached the main entrance. A car was waiting.

  Martha gestured towards the vehicle. ‘And now, The Savoy.’

  As Howie got into the car, his stomach grumbled. It must be seven hours since his lunch. He hoped this trip to a top restaurant would involve dinner. Maybe even a pudding. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Chapter 18

  Britt pushed open the door of the Grafton Arms and looked around. The lights were dimmed in anticipation of the evening’s musical entertainment. It was difficult to see much through her dark sunglasses. But she was Pellie Cann this evening. So she had to wear shades. Even if it was a mid-April evening in a badly lit London pub.

  It was just before eight. The band who were playing this evening, Super-Mega Electro Thrash, were still setting up on a small stage at the front of the pub. Two towering loudspeakers, with the words ‘Warning: Keep Clear’ written on them in white capital letters, stood either side of the stage. This was going to be a noisy evening. Still, at least Herbert the security guy would feel confident enough to discuss a Code Red crisis without fear of being overheard. Assuming he showed up, of course.

  Britt looked around to see if he was already there, lurking in one of the pub’s hidden corners. There was a group of four young people in one of the snugs. But they were all speaking Polish, so weren’t of any interest to her. Then she peered over the top of her sunglasses at two twenty-something guys with London accents at the back of the pub. No. Neither of them were Herbert.

  She bought herself a tube of cola at the bar and sat down at a table by the wall, close to the stage. From here, she could see who was coming in the front door, but stay in the shadows. And no one was paying her any attention. That was just how Pellie Cann liked it.

  A few minutes passed. Half a dozen short-haired men and women in their twenties wearing ‘I’m a Super-Mega Electro Thrasher’ T-shirts drifted in and headed for the bar. But Herbert wasn’t one of them. Then a blonde woman arrived, wearing sunglasses even bigger than Britt’s, and a large hat. She didn’t look like a Super-Mega Electro Thrasher. So, out of curiosity, Britt followed her movements.

  The new arrival bought a tube of mineral water and sat down at the table next to Britt’s. As the woman settled into her seat, she pulled her hat down as far as it would go and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her nose. Then she held her bleeper up to her face and checked the ti
me. Tonight must be the night for secret meetings, thought Britt.

  Super-Mega Electro Thrash’s shaven-headed lead singer stepped up to the microphone. He mumbled an introduction and the rest of the band burst into deafening life. His bandmates were certainly thrashing at their electronic instruments. But it didn’t sound super-mega. Nowhere near. But Britt would have to sit here and endure it. Just like the blonde woman next to her, who was already grimacing and covering her ears with her hands.

  Britt was grateful when the sound-spheres and screeching electro-bars came to an abrupt halt at the end of the first song. As the whoops and cheers echoed around the pub, a man Britt recognised walked through the door. It wasn’t Herbert or one of Howie’s colleagues. It was a journalist. One that Britt had worked with at The Republican a few years ago, before he’d gone freelance and on to greater things. His name was Maurice Skeets.

  This was bad news. If Maurice saw through Pellie Cann’s disguise and started referring to her as ‘Britt’, it could ruin everything. Herbert would fly away as soon as he sensed any kind of deception. She turned away and put her hand to her face.

  As she held her breath, she could hear footsteps walking towards her. They must be Maurice’s. She swore before she could stop herself. He must have recognised her.

  Britt’s body tensed and she waited for Maurice to say her name. But he didn’t. He said someone else’s name.

  ‘Kaia-Liisa?’ he asked, sounding unsure.

  Britt snatched a glance at him. He was talking to the blonde woman, who responded with a nod.

  Maurice sat down. ‘Nice to put a face to a name, at last. So where are we with everything?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to see you in person,’ replied the woman. ‘Something’s happened. Something that makes things difficult.’

  The band erupted into deafening life again and Britt turned to face the stage. This time, the song was even worse. Someone was playing a digi-trumpet – possibly for the first time. Hopefully the last.

  At the end of the song, there was still no sign of Herbert. Britt was starting to worry that he wasn’t going to show up. He’d been desperate for help when they’d met earlier today. Surely he was going to accept Pellie Cann’s offer of assistance? He would be a fool to refuse it.

  But then Britt thought again. Was it possible that someone else had offered him help? Maybe his uncle Bogdan had sorted everything out? Or maybe Herbert had decided to tell his girlfriend about their planned rendezvous and she’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to meet a strange American woman in a pub? Or maybe he was still asleep at home, after his nightmare shift? There was no point guessing. Either Herbert was going to show up or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, there was nothing she could do about it.

  As Super-Mega Electro Thrash got ready to blast out their next song, Britt could just about make out the whispered conversation next to her. She was bored. So she listened.

  ‘You can’t get me any more info?’ asked Maurice.

  ‘No,’ replied the woman, as if repeating herself for the tenth time.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  ‘I told you. Something happened at work.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘A work thing. And now I’ve got someone sat in my office watching my every move.’

  ‘Who’s that then?’

  ‘A pair of eyes that sees everything. That’s all you need to know.’ She sighed wearily. ‘If I try and get more information right now, I’ll get caught. I’ll lose my job.’

  Maurice’s tone was tetchy. ‘You want this bloody oil company exposed or don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. British citizens have a right to know that the Government might allow drilling again. Eastern Oil’s new Tech is an environmental disaster waiting to happen. This could have consequences for us and for future —’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Maurice. ‘Spare me the sermon. When can you get me more info on the Sky Eastern meetings? And the others?’

  ‘A couple of weeks maybe.’

  ‘A fortnight? Is that the best you can bloody well do?!’

  The woman’s voice was firm. ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Then that’ll have to do, I suppose,’ grumbled Maurice.

  The opening bars of the third song blasted from the huge speakers and the last few seconds of the couple’s exchange were drowned out. Their conversation had sounded interesting. Maurice had a reputation for big stories that exposed corruption at the highest level. And the woman was obviously one of his well-placed contacts. But Britt had a big story of her own to worry about. She just hoped that her own well-placed contact would be walking through that door any second now.

  Maurice got up, grunted a goodbye and left. Two minutes later, at the end of the third song, the woman followed him out of the door.

  Britt stayed for the terrible fourth song. And the slightly less terrible fifth song. And the dismal sixth song. By this time, she was thinking of getting up and leaving. It was self-imposed electro-thrash torture.

  To Britt’s relief, the band’s lead singer announced that they were going to take a break. The lights went up. As they did, a familiar face appeared at the door. It was Herbert the security guy.

  Britt felt like a dog owner arriving home after a long overseas trip. She waved frantically at Herbert and called his name. He waved back with equal enthusiasm and bounded over – her little Labrador puppy. So full of excitement to see her.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Pellie,’ he panted.

  ‘No problem, Herbie,’ replied Britt in an American drawl. ‘Great to see you.’ She resisted the urge to pat him on the head and tickle his tummy, and let him settle into his chair.

  He widened his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘I got called back to work.’

  Britt’s sixth sense told her this wasn’t going to be good news. She stifled a frown. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘I think everything’s been sorted. Well … from my point of view, at least.’

  A hundred different swear words ran through Britt’s mind. But none of them seemed to do justice to the news she’d just received.

  ‘Good old Uncle Bogdan,’ beamed Herbert. ‘He’s come to the rescue.’

  Just as Britt had suspected. Good old Uncle Bogdan. Pellie Cann wouldn’t be needed now.

  ‘You want another drink?’ asked Herbert, buzzing with positive energy.

  ‘No, I’m good,’ muttered Britt, oozing negative energy.

  ‘Come on, it’s a celebration! I’ll get you something British. Something alcoholic.’

  Before Britt could protest, Herbert had jumped up and was heading towards the bar. She sighed dejectedly. She didn’t feel like consuming alcohol. She had won a lot of victories today. But she felt defeated right now. Defeated and exhausted.

  Britt checked her bleeper. It was coming up to half past eight. She thought about getting up and leaving. But she didn’t. If she could summon up enough energy to play with Herbert for a short while, perhaps he would give her something. A small scrap of information that could help her. It was worth a try. She wouldn’t abandon this puppy just yet.

  Herbert returned with two tubes of flat, green, cloudy liquid. ‘It’s a beer called Britain’s Finest.’

  Britt knew what it was called. Howie drank it sometimes. It was Britain’s worst.

  Herbert held up his tube. ‘I love the stuff. Go on. See what you think.’

  Britt needed to play ball, so she sipped her murky drink. It was even more revolting than she’d remembered. She tried not to grimace. ‘It’s … different.’ She forced a laugh. ‘But you gotta try everything once!’

  Herbert smiled knowingly. ‘Yeah, you have.’ He moved his chair a little closer to Britt. ‘Why don’t you take those sunglasses off?’ He paused. ‘Then I can see your face properly.’

  She tilted her head and smiled. ‘I have very sensitive retinas, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ He thought for a second. ‘Then maybe we could go somewhere … darker? My pod’s not far away. It�
�s only twenty-five square metres but you can squeeze two people in it. If they don’t mind, you know …’ Herbert swallowed hard. ‘… being quite close to each other.’

  Britt raised her eyebrows. ‘It sounds very cosy.’

  ‘It is. And I’ve got a six-pack of Britain’s Finest in the cooler that we could crack open.’

  Britt looked Herbert in the eyes. This puppy really wanted to play. ‘What about your girlfriend, Herbie?’ she asked, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘I mean, won’t she mind if I come back to your pod and … you know …’ – she leaned in to him slightly – ‘… crack open Britain’s Finest?’

  Herbert’s face was starting to flush. The puppy was getting over-excited. ‘She’s, erm … not really my girlfriend. It’s a casual thing. We don’t live together.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ drawled Britt.

  ‘Anyway, I prefer older women.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Foreign older women. So shall we drink up and go back to my pod?’

  This puppy was turning into a wolf. A very unsubtle and impatient wolf. It was a complete transformation of the sad little creature who had sat here this morning, with its tail between its legs. But Britt could work this to her advantage. It was time to throw him a ball. ‘First I need you to tell me if your crisis situation is still Code Red.’

  Herbert thought for a few seconds and then nodded.

  That was reassuring news. Now it was time to toss the ball a little further. She whispered in his ear. ‘We’re talking about the main man, yes?’

  Herbert looked nervous. ‘I don’t want to say his name in public. I could say it in private. My pod would be a good place to —’

  ‘Just tell me, Herbie. And then we can, you know …’ She breathed heavily in his ear.

  Herbie almost dropped his drink. ‘Yeah. It’s the main man. The big cheese.’

  ‘The big Polish cheese, right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Herbert was sounding more impatient by the second.

  ‘And he’s still missing?’