It would be an uncharacteristically quiet inauguration; the twentieth fell on a Sunday and law dictated that the president must be sworn in by the twentieth. An official ceremony would be held the following day.
President King took the oath of office in a small ceremony conducted by the Chief Justice attended by his wife and senior staff. His speech, safely tucked in his inside pocket, a month in the making, would have to wait until the public ceremony the following day. It was a speech that would never see the light of day. A speech full of hope and determination to work hard, pay down the debts of a wasteful government and ensure the generations to come wouldn’t have to pay for the generations in the past.
“Mr. President?”
Jack continued his discussion with the Chief Justice. He had a list of deeply unpopular laws passed by the previous incumbent to overturn as a priority and took the opportunity to discuss his plans with the Chief Justice.
“Mr. President?” asked Kenneth Lee, this time more firmly.
Jack turned, expecting to see his predecessor, but Kenneth was staring directly at him.
“Mr. President, we have a meeting scheduled.”
Jack looked over his shoulder before pointing to himself questioningly, much to the amusement of those gathered in the Oval Office.
Kenneth Lee had been Jack’s Chief of Staff from the moment he had entered the race. In fact, Kenneth Lee was the reason Jack King had entered the race at all.
Before Kenneth had approached Jack, he had taken an almost unheard of governor of Wyoming, America’s least populous state and made him the frontrunner for the Republican nomination. Overnight, the photogenic Wyoming governor was the answer to every Republican’s prayers. Swing voters loved him and with a Hispanic grandmother, another huge block of votes was in the bag. In both ability and stature, he soared above his contenders throughout the televised debates. The Republicans were back in a big way. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind that he was their man. By the time November came, the race was down to three.
Jack’s first meeting with Kenneth had been on a cold winter’s evening. A knock at his door at 9:30 p.m. was not unheard of but certainly not common. Kenneth Lee stood before him with a look of desperation on his face. Jack recognized Kenneth instantly. Jack was a staunch Republican supporter and had been a vocal advocate of the Wyoming governor’s plans to rebuild America from the ground up. Inviting him in, Jack was totally unprepared for the conversation that was to ensue.
In short, Kenneth Lee had made it abundantly clear that his country needed him to serve again, only this time in a slightly enhanced role. Two hours earlier, the governor of Wyoming had died of a massive heart attack. The announcement would be made within the next hour and with the pitiful display of the governor’s Republican contenders and the rock bottom approvals for the current Democratic incumbent, it was feared the impact of the news and the lack of hope it offered would send the country spiraling into a major economic depression. A phone call from the chairman of the GOP had sealed the need for Jack to ‘step up and take the reins’. The party was on the brink of meltdown, they needed somebody the country could look up to, a man of stature, a man of leadership, a man the country could respect and follow. General Jack King, former chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was their man.
His country needed him. Jack had never been found wanting when his country called. He stood up and helped the country through the mourning of a president who would never be and gave them the president they all dreamed could save them.
Kenneth Lee had been by his side from that day, an ever constant. He was a political warrior who ensured he was one step ahead and never ambushed. Money had never been an issue. Kenneth Lee had secured the largest war chest ever to be collected to fight a campaign. When more funds were needed, he doubled and trebled whatever the requirement was. Despite the election being almost a certainty from day one of Jack’s nomination as the Republican candidate, Kenneth took no chances. For every dollar the Democratic incumbent spent, Kenneth spent two on Jack.
“We need to go, Mr. President,” prompted Kenneth.
It was the simple act of Kenneth calling him Mr. President rather than Jack that made the realization of what he had achieved really hit home.
Jack realized then just how much his and his wife’s lives were really about to change.
After a small applause from the rest of the room, Kenneth led Jack with purpose towards the Cabinet Room. An elderly gentleman, immaculately presented, awaited their arrival.
“Mr. President, may I introduce you to Mr. Warren Walker. Mr Walker, the President,” said Kenneth.
He stood and bowed his head slightly, shaking hands with President King. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. President and please accept my congratulations on your superb victory.”
“Thank you,” replied Jack looking to Kenneth for some indication as to why they were meeting with Mr. Walker.
“I can see Kenneth has not warned you of our meeting,” said Mr. Walker, correctly reading the situation.
“No he hasn’t,” replied Jack honestly while staring at Kenneth. He turned to face Mr. Walker.
“I asked him not to. All he knows was that it was imperative I met with you on the twentieth of January 2013. ‘You’ being the president of the United States, not necessarily you, Jack King, if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes,” replied Jack. “If I hadn’t won, my opponent would be sitting here meeting with you.”
“Before I begin, I must note that my instructions are to discuss this with the president of the United States only. If you choose to include your Chief of Staff that is your choice.”
Jack looked back at Kenneth, his mind racing. What was the old guy going to hit him with? Was this the Area 51 alien chat or some other secret that you only became aware of when you were president?
“I didn’t catch which arm of the government you represent, Mr. Walker?” asked Jack, prying for some clue.
Mr. Walker smiled warmly. “Oh, I am not from any part of the government, Mr. President.”
Jack looked again at Kenneth for some clue about what was happening. Kenneth shrugged his shoulders, in an ‘I don’t know, your call’ fashion.
“We’re in this together, it’s his fault I’m here!” said Jack jokingly. However, his mind continued to race, and one question was stuck in his mind.
“Actually, would you mind excusing us for a moment, Mr. Walker?”
“Not at all, Mr. President,” he answered, not moving.
After an awkward second, Jack got up and motioned for Kenneth to follow him. They exited the room into Jack’s PA’s office.
Before Jack could ask, Kenneth was on the defensive. “No idea, I was just informed that the meeting was scheduled.”
“By whom?”
“Your PA informed me it was in the diary when we came into office.”
“What, we’re taking meetings arranged by the previous government?!” he asked, incredulous. “How many more have they left?”
“None, this was it. We tried to clear it but it wouldn’t delete. It was like it was hard wired into the system. I was sure it was a glitch until half an hour ago when I got the heads-up that your 1:00 p.m. had arrived!”
“Well I’m not going back into a meeting arranged by my predecessor,” concluded Jack.
“But that’s the strange thing, according to the system, it wasn’t the previous government that arranged the meeting.”
Jack waited for Kenneth to reveal who had, but he remained silent; it was obviously too big a deal to just tell him outright.
“So who did then?” Jack played along halfheartedly, much to Kenneth’s disappointment.
“William Howard Taft. As in President Taft!” revealed Kenneth.
Jack could barely hide his incredulity that a president had allegedly arranged a meeting 100 years in the future.
“Are you mad?” he asked.
“That’s not the best part, the meeting was at the request of JP Morgan, who died l
ess than a month later.”
“Bullshit! Why on earth would a meeting arranged a hundred years ago be in a modern computerized diary system?”
“I thought the same. I can only assume the meeting was noted in each of the presidents’ subsequent diaries and passed onto each subsequent PA until it was computerized. Thereafter, it must have just been coded in and the code has been there ever since,” Kenneth surmised, facing the door to the Cabinet office that held the answer.
“How on earth did they know it would be a Mr. Walker?” asked Jack, facing the same door, finding the weak link in Kenneth’s summation.
“There’s no name listed, it just states ‘a representative of America’s Trust’.”
They looked at each other and it was clear both were desperate for more information.
Jack walked towards the door and opened it. Kenneth remained standing. He, as Mr Walker had pointed out, was not invited.
“You don’t mind if Kenneth joins us do you, Mr. Walker?”
“Not at all, Mr. President, that is your choice.”
As they sat down, Mr. Walker cleared his throat. Both the president and his Chief of Staff were on the edge of their seats.
“Gentlemen, how much do you know about compound interest?” began Mr. Walker. It was only thanks to their exceptional poker faces that Mr. Walker failed to notice just how underwhelmed his audience was by his question.
Chapter 6
Present day
Wednesday 1st July 2015
Butler pulled himself gingerly out of the Audi. The relief at reaching the diner in one piece was slowly sinking in. He felt as though he should bend down and kiss the sidewalk but felt the gesture, although warranted, a little melodramatic.
“You know there is a brake on the car, right?” he offered helpfully, with a soft dose of sarcasm.
Swanson didn’t even justify his criticism with a response. She merely smiled politely and led the way into the diner.
“Clever name!” added Butler with yet more sarcasm. Swanson shook her head.
“You know it’s a diner, so what better name than ‘The Diner’?” explained Butler to the uninterested Swanson.
Swanson dismissed Butler by simply pointing towards a booth while she caught the waitress’ eye. A simple two fingers raised by Swanson received a nod of understanding from the waitress, along with a warm, welcoming smile.
Obviously a regular, thought Butler as he took his seat. The subsequent look of disapproval from the waitress to Swanson when the waitress eyed Butler, did not go unnoticed by him.
Swanson pulled herself into the booth. “Calmed down yet?” she asked sternly.
Butler caught himself. She was right, he did have to calm down. How many people, however, had met their executioner, stared down the barrel of the gun about to kill them, only to be saved at the last second? The vision of Smith beginning to pull the trigger with a smile on his face was not one Butler would forget, nor did he ever wish to remember. He realized Swanson was staring at him, reading his every thought. She was an FBI agent trained in the art of reading every nuance, every movement and action of their suspects. He had to change the subject.
“Not a fan?” he asked, motioning towards the waitress.
Swanson looked bewildered for a second. “No, no, she’s been trying to set me up for some time and you’re the first guy I’ve ever brought here. She put two and two together and came up with about eighty seven,” she laughed. A little too much Butler thought. Although who was he kidding? He was old enough to be her father. At least it had lightened the mood. She was studying him again.
“Do they have a menu?” he asked, keen to have something to do other than be under her gaze.
“Already ordered. Now are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on or not?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly.
“Okay, let’s do it the hard way,” said Swanson, noting Butler moved back slightly in his seat. “Full name?”
“Remember I’ve been released.”
“On you go,” said Swanson. She had seen the fear in Butler’s eyes. She knew he was going nowhere.
“I think we both know I’m not going anywhere, although do you mind if I just nip to the restroom before we get started?” he pleaded, a little too pathetically.
Swanson wasn’t quite buying Butler, something was amiss. He came across meek and mild, but his eyes told her something different.
“Fine, but don’t do anything silly.”
Butler got up and found the restroom. The pay phone sat next to the entrance of the restrooms just as he had hoped. He dialed the number and was pleased to hear the voice on the other end. “Six?”
“Negatori,” was the slightly panicked response.
“Scatter!” he said quickly and hung up, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He made his way back to the booth and pulled himself in.
“Thomas Franklin Butler,” he said.
Swanson noticed his change in demeanor.
“Occupation?”
“Retired.”
Swanson smiled without any warmth. Butler understood.
“Retired analyst,” he added with a hint of a grin.
Swanson remained silent.
“Honestly, I was an analyst!” he replied indignantly.
“Retired?” she questioned, unconvinced. She knew Butler was fifty-four from the APB that had been circulated for his arrest. Other than his name and age, the APB had been bereft of any other information. Fifty-four was not an age you retired willingly unless monies allowed, and from what she could see, certainly from his clothing and wristwatch, money was not overtly displayed.
“Downsized,” admitted Butler reluctantly.
“From where?”
“My firm on Wall Street,” replied Butler.
“So you were a financial analyst?”
“Yes,” lied Butler.
Swanson did not miss the lie, the telltale movement of his eyes giving him away. Before she could challenge him, the waitress arrived with their two coffees and two of the largest mounds of pancakes Butler had ever seen. He stared at them in disbelief.
“Seriously, half that would still be far too much!” protested Butler, looking around his mound to the lithe and athletic figure of Swanson.
Swanson missed little. “I’ve got an extremely fast metabolism,” she said in response to his quizzical look.
“I’ll gain three pounds just looking at this,” murmured Butler as Swanson tucked in.
She washed down her first mouthful and picked up where she had left off. “So, what was the name of your firm?”
Butler took a mouthful just as she began to speak. He took his time masticating the melt-in-your-mouth pancake, not an easy task as he desperately tried to stall long enough to work out exactly what he was going to tell Agent Swanson.
“Well?” she prompted.
“I worked for…” the sight of the Chrysler pulling to a stop at the curb stopped him in his tracks. Swanson followed his gaze out of the diner’s window and calmly reached for her cell phone.
Butler’s reprieve had been short lived. They knew he was with a senior FBI Agent. Whoever was pulling the strings had obviously decided this was no longer an issue and Butler’s removal was worth that level of fallout. He knew Swanson was a dead woman, her intervention had sealed that. He thought he’d have time to work out a way to save her. The arrival of Chan and Smith so publicly was an extremely worrying turn of events. Such an overt display would suggest the timescales were even less than Butler had feared.
“Don’t!” warned Butler. Despite the early hour, the diner had a number of patrons taking advantage of their 24/7 operation.
“Don’t what?” replied Swanson angrily lifting the cell to her ear.
“Call for backup. They’ve already decided we’re collateral, no point adding others.”
Smith and Chan exited the Chrysler and took up station at the curbside. The Band-Aid on Smith’s nose proudly displayed
Swanson’s earlier intervention.
“What in the fuck are you talking about?” Swanson was beginning to get seriously pissed off with his cryptic approach to whatever was going on. She began to move from the booth but was stopped by Butler, his hand snapping across and firmly pinning hers to the table.
“I said don’t!”
“Take your hand the fuck off mine,” she hissed angrily. Her body continued to move despite her hand being left behind, leaving her in the bizarre situation of leaning towards Butler while trying to get away from him. “I’m going to speak with those two assholes and find out what they want.”
“Fine,” Butler released his grip and let her walk two paces away before adding, “but they’re going to kill you.”
Swanson laughed but saw nothing in Butler’s face to suggest that he was being anything but sincere. She looked outside. Her smile dropped slightly and she noticed that her movement had resulted in a readying of Chan and Smith. Their jackets had been opened and their handguns visible. The FBI standard issue weapon was a Glock. Years earlier it had been possible to use a personal weapon but those times had long since gone. Every FBI Agent who wished to remain one carried a Glock. From what Swanson could make out at the distance between herself and Smith and Chan, neither carried a Glock. Not good.
Noticing her hesitation, Butler went on. “They won’t come in here, too many cameras. One above the till, one in the corner on the way through to the restroom and if I’m not mistaken, that smoke detector is a fish eye camera,” he said without looking at any of them. “It’s a twenty-four seven joint, lots of drunks and brawls. They’ll have a direct alarm to the police and the cameras will be linked to the web. They can’t simply steal the tapes. We’re safe for now.”
America's Trust Page 3
