by Paul Mathews
As the water jets sprayed around his body, he remembered the conversation with Britt, before they’d gone to sleep. It seemed a strange coincidence that she had seen Oskar Polak yesterday. For a few seconds, he wondered if it was too much of a coincidence. Britt was a journalist after all. Could she have been on an assignment to follow the president? Maybe she was working with Maurice Skeets to try and find out more about the secret meetings. No. Skeets worked alone now. He always wanted all the glory for himself. And if Britt had been in Canary Wharf as part of some journalistic investigation, why would she tell Howie what she’d found out? Anyway, she was on leave for the rest of the week. As he stepped out of the water-spray and the air jets in the wall blew over his body, he had reached his conclusion. It was just one of those weird coincidences. There was no point wasting any more time thinking about it.
He got dressed, went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He was just about to stuff a cream cake into his mouth, when his regular quarter-past-six special deliveries dropped through the letter box – copies of every national daily newspaper. But he was only really interested in one of them. And that was the Daily Democrat. He needed to see how much damage Zayn Winner had inflicted on the Government the day before the Republican Party presidential nomination.
Howie scanned the front page. The main headline was about the Democrats’ nomination which would be announced in a few weeks’ time. He checked the date. It was definitely today’s paper. So where was the story? He examined the front page again. This time he spotted a small column of text in the bottom right corner, headlined ‘Winner backs a winner’. The opening paragraph read:
Vice President Zayn Winner is calling for another encore by Jan Polak, ahead of this Thursday’s Republican Party presidential nomination. Winner expects the ‘superstar’ president to confirm he wants to continue playing the role for another five years. Speaking exclusively to the Daily Democrat, the thirty-nine-year-old movie legend expressed his admiration for the president’s performance as the country’s leading man.
There were only two factual inaccuracies in that opening paragraph. Firstly, Zayn wasn’t a movie legend. Secondly, he wasn’t thirty-nine years old. More like forty-nine years old. But there was nothing wrong with the rest of the introduction. In fact, if Howie was honest with himself, it was pretty positive. But that might just be the first paragraph. He flicked to page two, where the article continued. After being momentarily startled by a huge photo of a grinning Zayn, Howie continued reading:
With the president attending to important matters of state on Tuesday, Vice President Winner – who played the American president in the classic Alien Invasion series of films – was effusive in his praise for his leader. ‘The man is a superstar,’ he claimed. ‘He could be a Hollywood actor. He’s got the charisma, the talent, the X-factor. He could do anything he wants. But all he wants to do at the moment is win another election and lead this country. The British Republic is his Hollywood. Jan Polak is our superstar.’ And even the harshest critic would find it difficult to argue with that.
Howie scanned the rest of the article. It was all positive. Zayn’s new, fun fifth dimension of politics was mentioned. But in a positive way. What else? Zayn was a man of the people. A politician with charisma. A breath of fresh air. Then there was some nonsense about Zayn feeding the ducks in St James’ Park every Wednesday morning. That would go down well with the citizens – the duck being the symbol of the revolution. And what was today? Of course. It was a Wednesday. Howie sighed. He would speak to Conor O’Brean in his press office about handling that. But he doubted any journalists would turn up to see Zayn tossing bread to the ducks. No. It wouldn’t be a problem. It was a great article.
He read it one more time. Just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. But he hadn’t. There was no hint of criticism or sarcasm anywhere. It was incredible. Zayn had performed a minor media miracle. No. A major media miracle. Howie did something he generally didn’t manage before consuming breakfast. He smiled. Then it turned into a grin – one even bigger than Zayn Winner’s on page two of the Daily Democrat. What a fantastic start to the day.
He checked that there were no front-page stories about missing presidents in the other papers. There weren’t. So he ate his cream cake and then fed the cat. But he didn’t have time for a chat with his feline friend. He put on his coat and headed outside. It was time to find the president.
Chapter 22
The sound of the pod door sliding shut woke Britt for the third time in twenty minutes. But this time she was fully awake. She rolled over and groaned. Her body was telling her she needed more rest. Lots more rest. It had taken her more than two hours to get to sleep after last night’s chat with Howie about the president. Or rather, their chat about the president’s brother. When she finally did get to sleep, the songs of Super-Mega Electro Thrash haunted her dreams. Not only that, but Britain’s Finest had given her chronic indigestion all night. Right now, she felt more exhausted than when she went to bed.
She glanced over at the e-alarm. Its display was blank. Howie must have yanked its plug from the wall again. That meant it wouldn’t go off at half past seven as planned. She would have to get up now. Or risk oversleeping and wasting valuable investigation time.
Britt dragged herself across the bed, got to her feet and switched on the bedroom light beam. As she went to press the switch to open the door, she heard a noise. It sounded like an object vibrating. She looked around. It was coming from the pair of trousers that Howie had kicked across the room last night. She wandered over and searched through his trouser pockets. The buzzing got louder and more insistent. And there it was. His work bleeper. She checked the screen:
E-COMM ALERT – CLASSIFIED message from MARTHA BLAKE. Enter your six-digit PIN to view. Have a wonderful Wednesday!
Britt couldn’t believe her luck. Her Wednesday could well turn out to be wonderful. She knew this woman, Martha Blake. She had been the head of the security service for the last ten years. And there was something else Britt knew. Howie always used the cat’s birthday for PIN numbers.
She typed in the code. The bleeper bleeped. The display reset. Britt held her breath. Then the first part of the e-comm popped up on its screen:
Hello, Howie. Before you make any Wednesday plans, be aware that a nomination meeting has been pencilled in for later today – assuming our missing president hasn’t shown up by then. Timing and venue TBC. I’ll be chairing. And I want you there for support.
Any feelings of fatigue were already gone from Britt’s system. She gave a whoop of delight. This was her second source. She just needed one more. Britt flicked a button to see the second part of the message:
Don’t forget your security service ID card. It’s your insurance policy. You need to travel with it everywhere. Think of it like 007’s licence to kill. Except you don’t have a licence to kill anyone – just to interrogate them. We’ll catch up when you arrive at the palace.
This was unbelievable. Howie was working for the security service now? No. She must have misunderstood. She read the message again and came to the same incredible conclusion – her boyfriend was now operating on a whole new level. She took a moment to digest this news. Then she realised that she’d better be careful. Britt didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the security service. She scrolled to the third and final part of the message:
Delete this e-comm now. Classified e-comms are not PIN-protected once they’ve been read. Bloody useless things, these bleepers. See you soon. Martha.
This was a problem. Howie would know that someone had read his top-secret e-comm, now it wasn’t PIN-protected. And that someone could only be Britt. Any decent bleeper would have had the highest levels of security. But this wasn’t a decent bleeper. It was a government bleeper.
Britt accessed the message options. She surveyed the menu. There was an option to convert ‘read e-comms’ back into ‘unread e-comms’, if you knew the PIN. Then she heard the front door of the pod slide open again.
Howie was back. He must have realised he’d left his bleeper behind.
Britt felt a flush of panic. If Howie caught her reading his e-comms, he would go through the pod roof – probably all the way up to forty-ninth floor. Howie wasn’t stupid. He would guess that she was working on a story. And probably guess which story. He would shout and scream at her. Then go straight to the offices of The Republican – possibly with Martha Blake alongside him – and have a chat with George. The kind of chat that leads to stories being killed. And journalists being banished to lifestyle features for the rest of their careers. Assuming they still had a career.
The cat meowed from the kitchen. Britt heard Howie greet her. He would be in the bedroom in less than thirty seconds. She felt like shoving the bleeper under the duvet. But as soon as it buzzed again he would be able to find it and then work out she’d accessed it. No. She had to convert the message back to an unread e-comm.
Her fingers felt like sausages as she tried to enter the six digits again. Six digits that had been so easy to remember just a minute ago. And now she wasn’t so sure. It felt like she was picking lottery numbers. She entered her first attempt at the code. The bleeper bleeped. The display reset. It wasn’t the right one. She had two more chances. And then it would lock. Or possibly self-destruct. But she could hear Howie’s footsteps in the kitchen. She would only have one more chance.
Britt entered a six-digit code. The bleeper bleeped. The display reset. This time, the code was accepted and the original e-comm alert appeared on its screen, requesting Howie’s PIN. The relief almost knocked her from her feet. Then the bedroom door slid open. Britt turned and held out the bleeper in her hand. ‘Is this yours?’
Howie walked towards her. ‘Ah, my bleeper. Thanks. That’s what I came back for.’
She handed Howie his bleeper and glared at him. ‘It was buzzing in your trousers like a psychotic bumble bee. It woke me up. Thanks very much.’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘It won’t happen again.’
He looked genuinely remorseful. Britt’s fake indignation seemed to have worked. Then Howie looked at his bleeper and frowned. ‘What’s the cat’s birthday again?’
This could be a cunning test to see if she knew his bleeper PIN. She would play dumb. ‘I can’t remember my own birthday at the moment.’
Howie stared at her without blinking, in the same way the cat did when it wanted something. ‘Come on. Help me out.’
Britt shook her head and leapt back into bed. ‘My brain doesn’t work before nine. Sorry.’
Howie gave a deep sigh. ‘How can I forget the cat’s birthday?’
Britt raised her voice. ‘You forget everybody else’s birthday. You forget mine. Your mother’s. You even forget your own. Now buzz off with that bumble bleeper and leave me in peace to sleep.’
Howie did as he was told. A few seconds later, he was gone. For good, this time.
Britt looked up at the ceiling and mouthed the words ‘thank you’. The journalistic gods had been on her side this morning. She needed things to stay that way.
Chapter 23
Howie was sitting in the president’s private office, staring at his bleeper. He had tried twice to enter his PIN and access Martha’s e-comm. But neither attempt had been successful. He only had one more try before it locked him out. And every time he tried to access his other messages, it sent him back to the log-in page. It was infuriating. Martha would be here in a minute. He would look a fool if he hadn’t been able to access his own e-comms. If only he could remember the number. It was his cat’s birthday. What the hell was it?
The door opened. But it wasn’t Martha. It was Brian the bloody auto-tech. Its head swivelled in Howie’s direction and fired a laser into his eye, momentarily dazzling him.
‘Greetings, Howard Pond,’ it announced in its metallic monotone.
‘What do you want? I don’t need an auto-tech.’
‘Brian is not here to serve you, Howard. Brian is here to conduct some checks.’
Howie didn’t trust this robot one bit. ‘What kind of checks?’
‘Diagnostic checks. Brian has restored the Tech network. Brian has been working all night to do so. While you and everyone else was sleeping, I was working, Howard.’
If this machine was looking for sympathy, it had picked the wrong human. ‘Working all night were you?’ grumbled Howie. ‘Like on Monday, eh? When the CAMS system went down.’
The auto-tech’s head swivelled back and forth and it made a bleeping noise. ‘Brian is not sure what you are insinuating.’
‘I’m suggesting you bloody well sabotaged it,’ snapped Howie. He wasn’t sure if using an indignant tone had any effect on these machines, but he was adopting one any way. ‘I went to the CAMS command centre. Someone – or rather, something – shut the cameras down manually.’
Brian’s eye pulsed. ‘That someone would need an eight-digit code to perform a manual shutdown, Howard.’
‘Yeah. And the code’s digits are held by you and all your other metal pals. Go on, admit it – you did it.’
‘Brian had to erase all logs for the CAMS data download. So Brian can neither confirm nor deny such an allegation.’ Its voice jumped an octave. ‘However, in the low-probability, hypothetical world where an auto-tech did shut down CAMS, it could only be done with the correct human inputs.’ Its voice returned to normal. ‘Brian respectfully suggests you keep this in mind when criticising his operations in future.’
Howie wondered if he might be replaced by a machine one day. They were so good at avoiding questions, it was only a matter of time.
Martha Blake rushed through the door. ‘There you are. You got my e-comm?’
Howie could feel himself blushing. ‘I, erm … couldn’t read it. Bleeper problems.’
‘Brian is happy to assist with bleeper problems.’
Howie might be having Tech troubles, but he didn’t want this auto-tech going anywhere near his bleeper. It would probably take revenge and send rude e-comms to his entire contacts list. ‘No, thanks. I’ll sort it out myself.’
‘Brian wishes you all the luck in the world with that, Howard.’ It moved towards the president’s e-terminal. ‘Please ignore Brian while he undertakes diagnostic tests.’
Howie did exactly that. He turned to Martha. ‘So what did your message say?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She thought for a second. ‘The main point was that there’ll be a nomination meeting today. In fact, I’ve just had it confirmed. It’s at four o’clock in the State Dining Room – assuming Jan doesn’t surface between now and then. You and I are going to be there. Me chairing. You supporting.’
‘Any updates on Jan?’
‘Only that we’ve had no contact from the Americans or anyone else asking where he is. Which is a blessing. What about you? Did the chief of police say anything else, after I left?’
‘Not really.’ Howie wouldn’t mention that he now had Freddie’s personal bleeper number. It might start an argument. ‘He got a bleep and had to leave.’
Martha sat down. ‘I don’t trust that man.’
‘He seemed like a nice guy. He liked me.’
‘That’s because you’re the president’s official spokesperson, Howie. You’re exactly the kind of person that Frederick English likes to acquire as a friend. You and vice presidents like Daisy Gray. And he’ll go out of his way to do so.’ She tutted loudly. ‘Talking of vice presidents, what about the Zayn Winner article?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’
‘And there’s nothing else to worry about in this morning’s newspapers?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. No leaks to Maurice Skeets or anyone else.’
‘What about broadcast media?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know.’
‘Oh, there was one other thing. The palace e-terminals are all working now. Ivan confirmed in an e-comm that it was unrelated to the CAMS problems. He also informed me that all the other auto-techs are now functioning.’ She looked towards Brian. ‘Apparentl
y, our little friend over there fixed everything.’
Howie glared at the auto-tech. ‘It still won’t answer any questions about what it was up to on Monday night.’
‘It’s a machine, Howie. It’s human beings we need to focus on. Which brings me onto some good news. We can now access Jan’s official diary. Kaia-Liisa set that up for me, this morning. I trawled through the last six months of appointments.’
‘Any interesting names jump out at you?’
‘No. There was no mention of the three individuals Maurice Skeets gave you. It doesn’t look like Jan met with any of them officially. At least, not recently.’
Ah, yes. The three names. A thought occurred to Howie. Maybe those secret meetings held the key to this mystery? He had an idea. ‘Can’t we find out if Jan had any unofficial meetings with them? We could ask the security guys. They must track his movements.’
‘Good thinking. But the president only has security at the palace. And for official engagements and travel. At other times, it’s at his discretion.’
‘Oh, well,’ sighed Howie. ‘We might as well forget about them for now.’
‘Don’t give up hope just yet. There is someone who might know about Jan’s unofficial world.’
The door opened. It was the president’s chief private secretary. ‘You wanted a word, Martha?’
‘Yes, Kaia-Liisa. Howie has had some questions from a journalist about presidential meetings. The president is far too busy at the moment for us to trouble him with a media enquiry. As you oversee his diary, I suggested we ask you.’
Kaia-Liisa didn’t say anything. She just shut the door and sat down next to them. Howie would leave this interrogation to Martha. She clearly knew what she was doing.