We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

‘Then bleep him and ask him to meet you today.’

  Cherry moved closer to Britt. ‘I think I’ve helped you enough for one day, don’t you?’

  ‘Bleep him now and tell him to meet you at one o’clock in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Trafalgar Square? Why do I have to schlepp all the way over there?!’

  ‘It’s closer to the palace. They’ll be lots of crowds. No one will know who you are.’

  ‘But it’ll take half the afternoon to get there and back. I’ve got clients!’

  ‘Cancel the clients.’

  Cherry rolled her eyes. ‘“Cancel the clients,” she says, like I’m a bloody hairdresser having a duvet day. My clients don’t like being messed around. They’re important people.’

  ‘More important than Oskar Polak?’ Britt paused for a few seconds. ‘More important than you?’

  Cherry screwed up her eyes, as if trying to wish herself into a parallel universe where Britt didn’t exist. Then she opened them again. Britt was still here. She could see the disappointment in Cherry’s face.

  Cherry heaved a huge sigh. ‘Okay. But it’ll be a waste of time. He don’t wanna see me again. I’m not even supposed to contact him.’

  ‘Just tell him a journalist has contacted you about your relationship with him. Say you need to speak with him ASAP. Face-to-face. But don’t tell him I’m going to be there.’

  Cherry took out her bleeper. ‘Trafalgar Square, one o’clock, yeah?’

  ‘By the fountain nearest The Mall.’

  Cherry tapped out the message. They stood in silence for a short while. Then Oskar’s reply came.

  ‘He’ll be there,’ confirmed Cherry, with a glum expression.

  ‘Excellent. Now we’ll go back inside. You’ll inform your colleague in reception that you’re cancelling all appointments until further notice. You will say this is for personal reasons. You won’t enter into any further discussion about it. You won’t mention who I really am. You won’t scream or shout or call security.’ She patted her bag. ‘Because I have the photographic evidence. Then we’ll come back outside and grab a taxi. And we’ll meet Oskar, as arranged.’

  Cherry said nothing. She just scowled and headed back inside the building. Britt followed. She was in control now. And she was getting closer and closer to the truth.

  Chapter 31

  Howie and Freddie had discussed a wide range of subjects since they’d arrived at The Savoy’s Premier Diners restaurant. But the missing president hadn’t been mentioned once. It was almost as if they had been transported to a parallel universe – one where Jan Polak had been up since five o’clock, preparing an Independence Day speech in his private office, while Howie and Freddie were enjoying an afternoon in each other’s company. Howie was more relaxed and at ease than he could ever remember. Maybe it was the dodgy tea he’d drunk in the police cell? Or being in Freddie’s company? Maybe a mixture of the two? Whatever it was, it felt good.

  ‘When is this contact of yours joining us?’ asked Howie.

  ‘Should be here any minute,’ replied Freddie, finishing his glass of red wine.

  Howie chewed his last piece of sirloin steak. ‘So is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘More of an acquaintance. A contact I’ve acquired.’

  ‘You told him a special investigator would be here?’

  ‘No. I just invited him for lunch.’

  ‘And he dropped everything?’ Howie chuckled. ‘Did you say you were paying?’

  Freddie smiled. ‘I told him that it was in his best interests to be here. And when the chief of police tells you that it’s in your best interests to be somewhere, it generally means it’s in your best interests to be there.’

  They both laughed. Freddie even made Code Red crises feel like fun.

  Howie loosened the belt on his new suit a notch. ‘You said this guy was the number-one suspect?’

  ‘After what you told me, yes.’

  Howie didn’t want to look like a fool. But he had to ask. ‘Remind me what I told you.’

  Freddie chuckled. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be coy. It was the first thing you said in the police cell. I know you blurted it out in the heat of the moment – and probably weren’t authorised to tell me – but you named a name. And, with my connections, I can bring that name to you.’

  Howie tried to remember whose name he had mentioned. But he couldn’t. Then his stomach grumbled. ‘Do you think we’ll have time for dessert?’

  Freddie looked across the restaurant. ‘Alas, no. Here he is now.’

  Howie looked up. A tall man with a crooked nose and high cheekbones was marching towards them in a perfectly tailored white suit that probably cost more than Howie’s entire wardrobe. The man didn’t look pleased. When he reached their table, the man stopped. He looked at Howie with suspicion and growled at him. ‘I see you have already eaten.’ He turned to Freddie. ‘So why have you dragged me here, Mr English?’

  ‘This is special investigator Howie Pond from the National Security and Intelligence Service,’ explained Freddie, gesturing towards Howie. ‘He needs to ask you some questions in relation to a matter of national security.’

  The man’s prickly response was instant. ‘Perhaps you have confused me with someone else, Mr Pond? Because I am not the right person to be discussing British national security.’

  Howie wasn’t sure if this man was the right person. He still had no memory of giving a name to Freddie. But here was the alleged number-one suspect in the president’s disappearance presenting himself to Howie for questioning. And the only question that popped into Howie’s mind was ‘Who the hell are you?’ Howie wasn’t going to make the mistake of actually asking that question. That could ruin his chances of getting any valuable information from this suspect. And, more importantly, it could make him look like a complete idiot. No. Howie would act tough. Just like 007 when he needed to extract information from the bad guys. And despite currently knowing nothing about the man standing in front of him, years of watching Bond films told Howie that this was, most definitely, a bad guy.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Howie. ‘I don’t have much time.’

  The man stood motionless.

  ‘I said sit down,’ barked Howie. ‘Unless you want the chief of police to give you a guided tour of the Westminster police cells.’

  The man stared wide-eyed at Freddie. ‘I see. Mr English is your back-up.’ He took a step towards Freddie and breathed in through his nose. ‘I know him well. And he is a wise choice as a friend, Mr Pond.’

  Freddie flashed a worried look at Howie. ‘I think I’ll let you take it from here, old chap.’ He jumped up, banged his leg against the table and winced with pain. ‘I’ve done my bit. It’s your jurisdiction now.’

  Before Howie could respond, Freddie was hobbling across the floor to the safety of a table on the other side of the restaurant. It was a little unexpected. But Freddie was right. It was Howie’s jurisdiction. Freddie had given him enough help.

  The man sat down. ‘So, Mr Pond, what is this matter of national security that has interrupted my day? Is your king flying back from Florida with his ladies-in-waiting?’ He laughed a hollow laugh.

  Howie didn’t acknowledge the attempt at humour. Instead, he picked up the wine bottle from the table, poured the remainder of its contents into his own glass and took a sip.

  ‘I see you’re drinking the house red,’ sneered the man.

  ‘Yes. I find too much Château Mouton Rothschild dulls the palate.’ The man was visibly taken aback at this observation. It was actually a line from the last Bond movie ever made – The Spy Who Wined and Dined Me – but, fortunately, the man didn’t realise this. Howie now had his full attention. ‘To go back to your question, as it’s a matter of national security, the details are classified.’

  The man muttered something in a foreign language. Howie ignored it and continued. ‘All you need to know is that I am a special investigator.’

  ‘So you’re a secret agent?’

  Howie puffed
out his chest. ‘Some people might call me that.’

  The man sat back and crossed his arms. ‘And other people might call you something else.’

  ‘And what do I call you?’ asked Howie, in a flash. This could be it. He would get the man’s name.

  The man leaned forward. ‘You can call me what you like, Mr Pond. Just get on with it.’

  Howie took another sip of house red, to mask his disappointment at not getting a name. Then he washed the wine around his mouth for a few seconds, to make the point that he was the one in charge of timings. The pause was also long enough for Howie to realise that questioning someone whose identity he still didn’t know would be difficult. Very difficult. ‘Can I ask if you’ve ever met the British president?’

  The man thought about his answer before replying. ‘Not Jan Polak. But I met his predecessor – Michael Short.’

  This sounded interesting. ‘In what circumstances?’

  ‘A Democratic Party fundraiser for the 2029 election. A long, long time ago.’

  ‘So you made political donations?’

  ‘I did that year.’

  ‘What about President Short’s re-election campaign in 2034?’

  The man forced a smile. ‘I never bet on a loser, Mr Pond.’

  ‘So you backed a winner – Jan Polak?’

  ‘No, I made no contributions to his campaigns.’

  ‘But did you offer to make a donation?’

  The man narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s so long ago, I really can’t remember.’

  This man reminded Howie of himself at press briefings – confidently batting away tricky questions with carefully worded answers. Howie pressed on. ‘What’s your opinion of Jan Polak’s ten years in power?’

  ‘I’m not a political commentator, Mr Pond.’

  ‘Let me put it another way – would you like to see him stand for a third term? Or would you like to see someone else leading this country?’

  The man sighed and stared at the ceiling. ‘I do not have a strong opinion either way.’

  What next? Howie didn’t want to spend too much time talking about the president. The man might get suspicious. He would move on to someone else. The president’s brother was the first person who came to mind. ‘Do you know Oskar Polak?’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘Are you going to run through every member of the president’s family? Because I am a very busy man.’

  Howie sensed he was on to something. So he narrowed his eyes in the way James Bond often did when interrogating bad guys. ‘Do you know him or not?’

  The man took a long, slow breath through his nose. Then he shook his head, as if this was a ridiculous waste of his time.

  ‘Tell me if you know Oskar Polak,’ growled Howie. ‘This is a matter of national security. Failure to answer my question truthfully will be interpreted as you failing to cooperate.’ He leaned in towards the man and another line from The Spy Who Wined and Dined Me flashed into his mind. ‘And that option simply isn’t on tonight’s menu.’

  ‘Yes, alright. I know him,’ gabbled the man.

  ‘How well?’

  ‘Quite well.’

  ‘Do you meet with him regularly?’

  ‘We meet for lunch or dinner, from time to time.’

  ‘And what do you discuss?’

  ‘Things,’ sighed the man.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘All kinds of things.’

  ‘Government things?’

  The man’s frustration spilled over into his voice. ‘I work across many industries, Mr Pond. Oskar Polak has responsibility for government policy in many areas relevant to those industries. And so there is a legitimate, mutually beneficial, flow of information between us.’ The man took a deep breath. ‘That is all.’

  Finally Howie was getting somewhere. This man was some kind of big businessman. And, in Howie’s experience, big businessmen usually met senior politicians when profits were involved. His firm must be doing some kind of business with the Government. He would try and confirm it. ‘Are you a supplier to the Government?’

  ‘Only on a small scale.’

  ‘But you’re looking to expand your market share over here?’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘That is the general idea of business, Mr Pond.’

  Howie had an idea. ‘And what’s the name of your business?’ If he knew that, he could probably figure out who this guy was.

  The man shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s the international business that bears my name, of course.’

  So much for that bright idea. Howie could see his interviewee was getting tetchy and itching to leave. He looked across the restaurant. Freddie was paying no attention to what was happening at Howie’s table. Instead he had pulled up his trouser leg and was inspecting a bruise on his right shin. If the man wanted to leave, Freddie wasn’t going to be in a position to stop him. Howie needed to ask some killer questions. But he was feeling less relaxed now. Whatever magic was in that tea was wearing off. And there was no Freddie nearby to make him feel at ease. He was on his own now.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ asked Howie. It was a stupid question. But he couldn’t think of anything else.

  ‘Yes. But I’m struggling to understand what that has to do with British national security.’

  So was Howie. His mind was a bit of a mess at the moment.

  ‘You can ask one more question,’ sneered the man. ‘Then I have to leave.’

  The only one that came to mind was an even more stupid question about the quality of the sirloin steaks. But before Howie could think of anything else, a waiter interrupted them.

  ‘Can I get you anything to eat or drink, Mr Maxim?’

  ‘Not now,’ snapped the man. ‘I’m busy.’

  Howie almost hit the ceiling. This was Viktor Maxim. A man with suspected criminal connections. A man who had lunch with Oskar Polak yesterday in this very restaurant. He knew what question to ask. ‘When did you last meet with Oskar Polak?’

  The man leaned forward and put his hands on the table. His eyes seemed to flash a warning to Howie – don’t pursue this line of enquiry or you might end up falling through a trapdoor into a shark-infested pool below. ‘I can’t remember.’

  He was lying. ‘You’re sure you didn’t meet him this week?’ asked Howie.

  Maxim stood up. ‘Positive. Now, I abandoned an all-day meeting to be here and I need to get back.’ He cocked his head and looked puzzled. ‘I have no idea what relevance your questions had to British national security, but I trust you’ll conclude that I have no part to play in whatever it is that’s concerning you. Goodbye.’ He stormed off towards the exit and passed Freddie, who was completely oblivious to everything except the bruise on his leg.

  Howie looked at the clock. It was almost one. The Republican Party nomination meeting was only three hours away. He sighed. There would be no time for dessert. He’d have to grab an ice cream on the way back to the office.

  Chapter 32

  Britt was back in Trafalgar Square, standing in the shadow of Nelson’s column. Her eyes were fixed on Cherry Blush, who was perched on the edge of the fountain nearest The Mall, a few metres away. They were both scanning the crowds for Vice President Oskar Polak. But Big Ben had chimed its one o’clock bong almost ten minutes ago. Oskar was late.

  Britt kept her cool and carried on searching. She knew Oskar would come. He had to come. He couldn’t afford to risk having the details of his affair with his brother’s personal trainer splashed across the front pages on Independence Day – a day when he could be announcing himself as the Republican Party’s presidential candidate.

  But she had a nagging worry. Oskar might just play dumb. She couldn’t assume he would reveal his political ambitions or confirm his brother’s disappearance. He was a skilled political operator. A man used to dealing with difficult questions under pressure.

  Her confidence wobbled. If she couldn’t get the evidence she needed for her story – what then? Another story? Maybe she would wr
ite something about Oskar’s affair and offer that to her editor? It would interest some people, for sure. But it wouldn’t interest George. There was no public-interest angle. Cherry Blush wasn’t a senior civil servant, top politician or anyone else that might make the affair an error of judgement. It was just an affair. And it had ended – privately and discretely. Anyway, Cherry had told her about Oskar and Maxim’s regular meetings. That made her a secondary source for the purposes of Britt’s big story and meant she had a duty to keep Cherry out of it. No. Britt’s salvation could only be an article headlined ‘We Have Lost The President’.

  Britt pushed the doubts to the back of her mind and looked across at Cherry. They hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived twenty minutes ago. But that was deliberate. Britt wanted to keep her distance for the moment. Oskar mustn’t suspect that Cherry was with someone. He might get spooked and run. Britt had to play it carefully. She had to be patient. She had to let the rat come to the trap.

  She looked around, just in case the American tourist from yesterday had returned to Trafalgar Square. There was no sign of him. Britt felt a pang of disappointment. She could have used some back-up. Still, at least Lord Nelson was here. It was a silly thought but it made her smile. She looked up at him. There he was. Still looking in the direction of The Mall. Oskar would probably be walking down it right now.

  A second later, a seagull that had been perching on Nelson’s head took off. It soared into the air, in the direction of The Mall, then did a one hundred and eighty degree turn towards The Strand. It proceeded to dive bomb a man in a smart suit who was holding an ice cream and walking straight towards her. As the man battled with the bird, she realised his face was familiar. But it wasn’t Oskar Polak.

  The man dropped the ice cream in the middle of a pedestrian crossing and ran to the sanctuary of the main square. She could see his face clearly now. No. It couldn’t be? It was. Oh, no. It was Howie. He mustn’t see her with Cherry. He’d know who Cherry was. He was a secret agent now. He’d get suspicious. Britt would have to disappear for a short while. But hang on. Even if he just saw Cherry it would be bad news. He would engage her in conversation. Ask why she was here. Probably even bore her with his story of a near-death experience with a seagull. And that, too, would scare Oskar away.