by Paul Mathews
‘We’ve got a Code Red crisis meeting in just over an hour, and no crisis plan,’ announced Martha. She looked Howie in the eye. ‘You’ve written crisis plans before. Could you knock one together for me by half seven? Just an outline. You’re so good at this kind of thing.’
The problem with being so dependable, Howie often told himself, is that everyone starts to depend on you. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. Not with luxury furniture at stake.
‘You know exactly what to do in a crisis, Martha. You’re already doing it. I bet you’ve already got the security team combing the place.’
‘Yes, I have. Bogdan and his team are conducting a room-by-room search of the palace. But the problem is there are nearly eight hundred rooms in this place. We have to search every one of them for clues. What if nothing turns up?’
‘Don’t worry. Every room is covered by cameras.’ Howie looked at a small lens in the ceiling above them. Something wasn’t right. ‘Where’s the red light?’
‘The cameras failed at eleven o’clock last night.’
‘What? All of them?’
‘Yes. And the system’s memory has been wiped. I’ve got Ivan Bonn looking into what happened. He’ll give us an update at the meeting.’
‘Okay. So, you’ve got Bogdan and Ivan on the case. That’s your crisis plan.’ He crossed his fingers and imagined a five-egg omelette.
Martha leaned towards him. ‘It would look better if it was all written down, though, don’t you think?’
The prospects of Howie eating breakfast and saving his furniture weren’t looking good. He would have to think fast. ‘Look, crisis plans are more trouble than they’re worth. They’re discussed, drafted, redrafted, finalised, printed off – if the printers are working – and by that time, the crisis has spiralled out of control.’
Martha nodded. Howie was impressed with himself. He hadn’t drunk any coffee and he was still managing to talk sense. He continued. ‘This is a national security matter. You’re in charge here, Martha. This is your chance to do whatever you want. Maybe something different?’ What was the title of that tedious management course he’d been sent on last week? Ah, yes. ‘Extraordinary situations call for radical solutions.’
Martha looked Howie straight in the eyes. He waited for her to thank him politely for his views, tell him she needed a crisis plan on her desk in an hour’s time, and he would be writing it. She stood up. ‘You’re right. A plan will just constrain us. Perhaps a radical solution is what’s needed.’
Howie sank back into the sofa and smiled. Job done.
‘Just one favour to ask,’ added Martha. ‘Could you say something at the crisis meeting about how we present this to the media and the wider world? You know the sort of thing – politely tell them not to open their big mouths and that we’ll handle everything.’
Giving media advice to a room full of vice presidents – most of whom didn’t even read a newspaper – wasn’t his favourite task. But it was a small price to pay for his temporary freedom.
‘No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pop back to my pod.’ He paused to think for a plausible excuse. ‘In the rush, I left my bleeper behind.’
‘Of course. One can’t be without one’s bleeper. Especially when we’re at Code Red.’
Howie’s stomach gurgled in anticipation. He and the cat would be breakfasting together. And his new synth-leather sofa wouldn’t have a claw mark on it.
‘My driver will take you back home. He’ll wait outside and bring you straight back here. You’ll only need to pop in for a few minutes, won’t you?’
‘Erm, yeah. Just a few minutes,’ mumbled Howie, trying not to sound like a man whose breakfast dreams had just been shattered.
‘Good. I’ll walk you to the car. I could do with some fresh air. I’ll need it, if I’m going to be radical.’
Howie got to his feet. At least the cat won’t go hungry, he thought, as they made their way outside.
Chapter 2
Britt twisted her head towards the bedside unit. The rest of her body stayed glued to the mattress. She rubbed her eyes and tried to read the numbers on the e-alarm. It was six fifty-something in the morning. An unfamiliar time for her. Especially on a day off.
Indie-Day meowed from behind the bedroom door. Britt buried her face in the pillow and hauled the duvet over her head. There was no Howie underneath it. She remembered now. The early morning bleep. The scramble for clean underwear. The frantic search for his ‘stupid, bloody bleeper’. It must have been urgent.
The duvet was providing no protection from the cat’s cries for attention, which were starting to sound more threatening. But she’d only had three hours’ sleep and her energy levels were too low for cat feeding.
She stared up at the ceiling and replayed in her head, one more time, yesterday’s conversation with George, her editor at The Republican newspaper. She could remember it word for word:
‘Sit down, Britt, this won’t take long.’
‘I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. I prefer to stand when I receive bad news.’
‘Why do you assume it’s going to be bad news?’
‘Because you always give me bad news in your office on Monday afternoons. And this is your office. And it’s Monday afternoon. You often call the bad news “good news”. But I’m a journalist. I know the difference.’ She flashed a half-second smile.
George delivered the bad news. ‘Two of the features team were involved in a nasty car crash on Fulham High Street yesterday. Thankfully, they’ll survive. But they’re going to be on long-term sick leave.’ He peered over the top of his glasses. ‘It means we’re seriously short-staffed in that section.’
Britt didn’t like the sound of this.
‘So I’ve made a decision,’ announced George.
She stood motionless – like a condemned criminal waiting for the hangman’s trapdoor to open beneath her feet.
‘I’m taking you off the news desk, Britt, and putting you on features.’
She gave an enormous sigh. Features were her worst nightmare.
‘Lifestyle features,’ added George.
Scrap that last thought. Lifestyle features were her worst nightmare. ‘You mean all that crap that sells advertising and no one reads?’
‘Our sub-editors read it. And that’s good enough for me. You start next Monday. Take the rest of the week off. Call it a reward for all your hard work on news.’
Britt walked to George’s desk and leaned forward. ‘I’d rather you fired me than have to write that crap.’
George jolted back in his seat. With his grey suit and whiskers, he reminded her of a trapped mouse. Howie often complimented Britt on her cats’ eyes, and she fixed them on George – in the same way she’d seen Indie-Day focus on small rodents.
‘You’re a very good journalist,’ croaked George. ‘I have no intention of firing you.’
Britt leaned back from the desk. ‘Then keep me on news – where I belong.’
‘Look, Britt, lifestyle features aren’t so bad. They —’
‘They remind people of the lives they’re not living. This isn’t America, George. Anyone with a lifestyle packed their bags for the New States fifteen years ago.’
‘Not everyone.’ George breathed in noisily through his nose. ‘I stayed.’
Britt checked herself, mid-outrage. Amerigration was still a raw subject for many of the Republic’s citizens. Millions of Britain’s brightest had left for the rebranded United States, just a few months after Britain’s 2029 revolution. Millions more had had their applications rejected. Any insinuation that George hadn’t met the Americans’ criteria could get her fired. And despite her earlier bullishness, she didn’t really want to lose her job. That meant there was only one option. She’d have to strain every fibre in her body and be diplomatic. She took a deep breath.
‘You thought you could make a difference by staying here. Just like I want to make a difference. But I can’t make a difference on features. I just can�
�t. I can only make a difference on news.’
She wasn’t sure where all that ‘make a difference’ rubbish had come from. But it sounded sincere. She attempted a warm smile. But failed. Forget facial expressions. Maybe he would see her point of view? See her well-reasoned argument in all its logical glory. It was clear to her. She was in the right. He was just being a dick.
George got up, keeping his eyes fixed on Britt. They stared at each other, arms by their sides – like two gunslingers in one of those old-world westerns that Howie liked to watch. She felt the muscles in the back of her neck tense, as he opened his mouth.
‘No. I’m sorry. You’ve been on news for some time now and this will be a good development opportunity for you.’
The words were like a shot to her heart. So much for diplomacy. Time to return fire.
‘Don’t talk crap, George.’ Her finger was pointing like a mini Smith & Wesson. ‘We both know why you’ve asked me and not one of the others.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because my stuff is political. You don’t want me digging up anything before the election.’
George crossed his arms. ‘We are The Republican newspaper. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, a Republican government has been in power for the last ten years.’
‘Yes. But we’re editorial. Not advertising.’
It was George’s turn to draw his finger and point it at her. ‘Just listen to me, for once. Our readers do not want to hear about the Republicans’ failings in the run-up to a presidential election. After the election, we’ll take a more critical view. But not until then.’
Britt snorted her contempt.
‘I’m sorry, Britt. But that’s life. That’s politics.’
‘That’s bollocks,’ snapped Britt. It was her parting shot. George might have won this shoot-out. But he wasn’t going to win the war.
Her thoughts returned to the here and now. The cat was still meowing. But the sound was different. It was softer and more welcoming. That could only mean one thing. Howie was back.
She heard the front door slide shut. Their 2030s prototype pod was so small, and the walls so thin, you could hear conversations in another room if you listened carefully. And with nothing else to do, she listened.
‘Hello, pussycat. You must be starving.’
The cat knew the routine. It gave its standard response – a short, instructive meow.
‘Come on, girl. I’ll fix you some breakfast. But don’t mention my birthday, okay?’
Howie’s birthday. Yes. They had never celebrated birthdays before. But Britt would be thirty next week. And she had decided things were going to change. She’d seen an all-weather leather handbag in Oxford Street – an American import – and she’d decided she was going to hit her thirties in style. But Howie had probably found her birthday card by now and he’d be seriously pissed off. For now, it would be safer for her to stay in the sanctuary of the bedroom.
Britt settled herself under the duvet, with one ear on what was going on in the kitchen. Howie often confided in the cat. By listening in, she might discover how bad his mood was.
She heard Howie’s voice. ‘I bet you’re wondering why I had to leave so early, eh, girl? Well, we’ve got a Code Red crisis on at the palace.’
This sounded interesting. Britt lifted herself on one elbow and turned her ear to the door.
Howie sighed. ‘Let’s just say, I’m not the only one who’s done a disappearing act this morning.’
This was more than interesting. This could be a potential news story. Britt sprang from the bed, rushed to the door and pressed her ear to it, so she wouldn’t miss anything. Then she remembered. She didn’t write news stories any more. But wait. What was to stop her investigating it? George had given her the rest of the week off. This could be the story that saved her from features. A shiver of hope shot up her spine.
Then Howie spoke again. ‘Hang on, where’s your bowl? And your dry food? They’re usually in here. Someone’s moved them.’
Britt swore under her breath. She’d reorganised the kitchen units last night. And Howie had got back so late, she didn’t have time to give him the guided tour.
‘Where are they? I’m not going to have time to feed myself at this rate!’
Howie had to find them quickly, she thought, or he’d lose his conversational thread with the cat.
‘For king’s sake!’ he cursed. ‘Everything’s going missing this morning.’
Britt wanted to burst out of the bedroom and shout: ‘Dry food – here! Bowl – there! Now keep talking!’ But that wasn’t going to work.
‘They’ve got security searching the palace,’ continued Howie. ‘Though that lot couldn’t find a fart in a vacuum.’
Cupboards clattered. Bowls banged. Cutlery clanged.
‘Ah, there they are!’ roared Howie. ‘Hallelujah!’
Make that two hallelujahs. Now feed the cat and finish your story.
Indie-Day meowed her impatience.
‘Alright. It’s coming, girl!’
Britt hoped what was coming was the name. She needed a name. Say the name, Howie.
‘There you go. Make that disappear. Now I’ve got to try and find —’
Time froze. Britt’s whole body tensed in expectation. It was coming. The name was coming. Time thawed. And then it happened – a car horn blared from the street below.
‘Bloody hell,’ groaned Howie. ‘It’s me that’s got to disappear now.’
Britt felt like she’d been zapped with 50,000 volts. Her muscles paralysed. Her mind scrambled. Her hopes frazzled.
Howie sighed. ‘Looks like no breakfast for me. I don’t know what time I’ll be back this evening, Indie-Day. Sleeping Beauty in there will have to feed you, if it’s late.’
A few seconds later, Britt heard the front door slide shut. The noise jump-started her body. She could feel the stress hormones surging through her veins and her heart thumping in her ears. She needed to lie down.
Britt collapsed on the bed and stared at the grey walls for inspiration. She couldn’t find any. She didn’t have the name. And the headline ‘Someone has gone missing, but we’ve no idea who it is’ wasn’t going to excite George or any other editor.
She imagined writing a lifestyle feature on interior decorating. She got two sentences in and started to feel nauseous.
Britt sat on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t just give up. She had to think. Who might have gone missing? Howie worked with hundreds of people. Who did he rant about the most? That was easy. The vice presidents. One of them had probably blundered, on a bigger scale than usual, and gone into hiding. Yes. It must be one of them. But she’d have to find out which one.
She cleared her head. She needed an information source. She guessed Howie wouldn’t be returning to the pod again, so she’d have to find someone else. No one came to mind. None of her normal contacts were that well-connected. She would have to find a new one.
Who would be close to all this? Who would know what was going on? And who would be stupid enough to tell a complete stranger?
Forget the police. Yes, they were dumb. But her contacts there had stopped returning her bleeps since her December front-page story on cop corruption. A civil servant, maybe? Someone in the private or press offices? Not a bad idea. Though they’d be at work until the end of the day.
So who?
Then she remembered something Howie had mentioned, minutes before. The Buckingham Palace security team. They were clueless, according to him. If she could track one of them down, maybe she could get some more information? But how would she do that?
She tried to remember if she’d written anything about palace security. She hadn’t. But a colleague had, a couple of weeks ago. A security guy had been on his way out of the palace after his night shift when a tourist’s bag was snatched. He’d chased and caught the thief. That was around eight o’clock. If Britt hung around Buckingham Palace at that time, she might be able to intercept one of the night-shift security team as t
hey were leaving.
Britt jumped from her bed. A quick water-spray and she could be there in half an hour. She opened her wardrobe and grabbed the first dress she saw. Then she stopped. And realised. She could be recognised.
For a start, there was Howie. He worked at the palace. It wasn’t impossible his eagle eyes might spot her loitering outside. Then there were the police officers outside the gates. Always bored and looking for someone to harass, they might recognise ‘that bloody journalist’ and throw her in a police van for the day. And there were all those colleagues of Howie’s she’d met, socially and professionally. They knew who she was and what she did for a living.
She would have to disguise herself. Nothing too extravagant. She wasn’t going to turn up dressed as the Queen, demanding the reinstatement of the monarchy. No. She would pretend she was a tourist and dress appropriately. Raincoat, scarf, sunglasses, guidebook – that should be enough.
Britt opened the wardrobe and began preparing her costume. This is going to be fun, she thought. A fancy dress party for one. With a prize at the end of it – her old job on the news desk.
Chapter 3
Howie sat back and admired the grandeur of Buckingham Palace’s State Dining Room. The fireplace, chandeliers, curtains and portraits were exactly the same as when the Royal Family were here. And whatever you thought about the royals, they really knew a thing or two about interior decoration. The lavish surroundings somehow made meetings here more bearable. But the room’s majestic magic wasn’t going to work this morning. There was one simple reason – it was full of vice presidents. Every one of them was either slouched or slumped on the oak dining table that stretched out before him. A few were fiddling with their personalised digi-pens while staring blankly at digi-pads. Most looked more ready for a long nap than a crisis meeting. For many of them, their main contribution would be the muddy footprints they’d just planted on the red carpet. Howie scanned the faces. None of them belonged to the president’s twin brother, Vice President for Defence Oskar Polak. That was strange. He was never late for anything.
