by Paul Mathews
‘I won’t be requesting its return. On condition that you don’t mention our little chat to anyone.’
‘No probs. So did I pass?’
‘Pass what?’
‘What do you think? The security check. That’s what you said this was, yeah?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes. You’ve passed.’
‘Super-mega. I’d better shoot upstairs.’
It was also time for Howie to leave. And head for his meeting with Maurice Skeets. He exchanged goodbyes with Cherry, passed through security and headed outside to the car.
Once in the back seat, he instructed the driver. ‘The Two Chairmen in St James’ Park, please.’
As the car pulled away, Howie’s stomach began to rumble and he felt a little light-headed. He had missed breakfast. And he never missed breakfast. His body might shut down if he skipped another meal. There was a simple solution. He would grab an early lunch at the pub. Yes. It’s what James Bond would have done. It didn’t matter if you were 007 or 006-and-a-half, a secret agent needed their lunch. He settled back into the soft, leather seat, shut his eyes and smiled to himself. Good old-fashioned pub food, here we come.
Chapter 10
Britt sat alone at a corner table in the Craven Cottage Café in Fulham, West London. The digital clock on the wall told her it was 11.45am. She gazed out of the window at her place of work – the impressive riverside offices of The Republican. She sighed and sipped her cup of tea. She should be working at those offices today. Instead, she was flying around, leaping on cars and pretending to be an American security officer. And so far, she had barely enough information for a small piece at the bottom of page sixty-eight, never mind a front-page article.
But if she wasn’t at work, this café was the next-best place to be. It had served as her refuge from the office ever since she started working for the paper, seven years before. It was a place where she solved problems away from the distractions of bleepers, e-terminals and her colleagues. Sometimes she would spend a whole afternoon here, analysing facts and replaying conversations in her mind. And today she desperately needed to find some nugget of information among those brief words with Herbert in the pub – something that might give her a clue as to who was missing from Buckingham Palace.
Britt tried to remember every word of that Grafton Arms conversation. Most of it had been spent proving Pellie Cann’s credentials. But Herbert had been about to say something to her, before they were interrupted by Conor O’Brean. What was it? Something very important? No. He was talking about a very important person. A VIP. But he said it wasn’t ‘just a VIP’. What did he mean?
She finished her chocolate muffin and went over the conversation again. What were Herbert’s exact words? He had told her, ‘In this case, the VIP is a very important —’ And that was as far as he got. That missing word – what could it be? It must begin with the letter ‘p’. That was all Britt could salvage. The smallest crumb of a clue. Smaller than the chocolate-muffin crumbs that now sat on the plate in front of her.
Was it a very important police officer? No. That would be a police matter, not a security situation for palace officials. What then? A private secretary? A physician, psychologist, psychiatrist? But would their disappearance really cause such a fuss? She didn’t think so.
Then it came to her. Maybe ‘p’ stood for ‘president’? It seemed a ridiculous idea at first. But, as each second passed, it seemed more believable. It would explain Howie rushing out of their pod in the early hours of the morning in a panic, as well as Herbert’s nervousness. She caught her breath. That would be a story. A massive story. But only a story while the president was still missing. And it would need a lot of evidence before anyone took it seriously.
Britt remembered that one of her news-desk colleagues, Rosie Parker, was scheduled to interview the president this afternoon. Britt had wanted that interview herself. But George had surprised – and annoyed – her and everyone else by handing the assignment to Rosie. It was obvious why he’d chosen her. Rosie was a journalist who rarely troubled high-profile interviewees with difficult questions. But it didn’t matter now. If there was no president, there could be no interview. Howie, or one of his press-office team, would have to cancel it. Maybe they had done it already? There was an easy way to find out. Britt would go to the office and ask Rosie right now.
She got up, left the café and made her way towards the offices of The Republican.
A few minutes later, Britt was back in the newsroom. Her colleagues were all too busy staring at e-terminals and tapping on keyboards to notice her unexpected arrival. All apart from Rosie, who was sitting at Britt’s desk, flicking through a lifestyle magazine. Britt greeted her with as much enthusiasm as she could manage. ‘Hi, Rosie.’
Rosie looked up, startled. ‘Britt. I thought you were off until Monday.’
‘I am.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie looked concerned. ‘Everything alright?’
‘Yes. Well, apart from the fact I’m on features from Monday.’
‘I heard about that,’ replied Rosie, with a false air of sympathy. ‘You must be gutted.’
‘Just a bit.’
Rosie’s face lit up. ‘On the plus side, George let me have your desk.’ She pointed towards the far corner of the room. ‘You’ll be over there with the creatures from features.’
Britt gazed over at the features desk. It was only fifty metres away. And yet it was a whole different world. The lighting was dimmer. The desks smaller. The chairs bulkier. The faces … well, she couldn’t make out the faces. Just dark ovals bobbing behind e-terminals. Britt was lost for words.
As she often did, Rosie broke the silence. ‘You’re not here to hand in your resignation, are you?’
‘No. I just popped in to say hello.’
Rosie looked disappointed. ‘Oh, right.’
‘You busy today?’
‘I was. But not any more.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘My interview with the president was binned.’
Britt smiled. Then she realised it was more appropriate to frown. ‘No way. Did they say why?’
‘No. I just got an e-comm from his media monkey.’
That must be Howie. ‘What did it say?’
‘Some rubbish about the president attending to important matters of state and that he’d get back to me when there was another window in the diary. But he couldn’t say when that would be. Typical!’
That explanation was vague enough to back up Britt’s theory.
Rosie continued. ‘What’s more important than getting your face on the front page of The Republican, the day before Independence Day, eh? He’s supposed to be media-savvy.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘You know, I‘m not her biggest fan, but I bet that wife of his won’t be cancelling her interviews tomorrow.’
‘What interviews?’
‘Publicity for her new book.’
Britt was a writer, not a reader, but everyone knew about the First Lady’s books. They were always controversial. Howie hated them. If he ever saw them on display in bookshops, he’d turn them round so the customers couldn’t see the front cover. Then an idea came to her. ‘Where’s George? I need to speak to him.’
‘In his office. He’s doing the quarterly returns. I wouldn’t disturb him.’
Britt didn’t reply. She didn’t want to waste another second while the idea was fresh in her mind. She walked up to George’s office and opened the door.
George was sitting at his desk, grimacing at some papers. He looked up as Britt closed the door behind her. ‘Do you want to try that again – but this time knock on my door and wait for me to say “Come in”?’
Britt didn’t have time for George’s attempts at humour. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’
George sat back in his chair. ‘I told you. You’re on leave. And when you come back you’re on features. Not news.’
‘Fine. Then let me start on features today.’
George gave Britt a concerned look. ‘Have
you been taking illegal substances?’
‘Rosie just told me today’s interview with the president has been cancelled. We’ve got space to fill in tomorrow’s paper.’
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘The First Lady has a new book coming out. She’s doing media tomorrow. Let’s get in first with an interview this afternoon. I’ll write it up when I get back. You can run it tomorrow.’
George thought for a second. ‘Sounds like a good idea. But it’s no job for a newbie. One of the regular feature writers can do it.’
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Britt needed that interview. She needed to come face-to-face with the First Lady today and ask her some searching questions. Questions that might give her a clue as to whether Jan Polak was a missing president or not. Britt stood tall. It was time to reveal to George that she was onto something. ‘I won’t just get you a feature. I’ll get you a news story.’
His ears pricked up. ‘A news story?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Yes, I do have something in mind.’
‘Run it past me.’
Britt wasn’t going to give George the details at this early stage. He would just laugh and tell her not be so ridiculous. ‘I’ll tell you, once I’ve confirmed a few things.’
‘But it involves the First Lady?’
Britt needed to be as vague as possible. ‘It has some connection to her. But she’s not the focus.’
‘Who is then?’
Britt sometimes had to lie to her editor to get what she wanted. And this was one of those occasions. ‘It’s not focused on one person. There are lots of strands.’
‘I see. Sounds complicated.’
‘It is.’
George sat up in his chair. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll fix that interview for this afternoon. I have a good relationship with the First Lady’s publisher. It shouldn’t be a problem – us getting an interview before everyone else does.’
Britt felt her stomach do a somersault of delight.
‘We’ll run it tomorrow as an exclusive,’ continued George. ‘So it needs to be good. And it needs to be friendly. Nothing negative about the book, the First Lady, the president, the Government or even the Democrats.’
Britt’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the president. But she remained outwardly calm. ‘No problem.’
‘I want the feature on my desk by seven o’clock tonight. And let’s be clear. This is a features assignment I’m sending you on. If you mess it up, you can forget the news story.’
It was a hard bargain. But Britt was confident she could keep her side of it. ‘It’s a deal. I’m going home to do some preparation.’ She also needed to grab a water-spray and have a lie down. Her body was aching all over.
‘I’ll bleep you the details of when and where it will be. Now get out of my office. And don’t miss that deadline.’
Britt wasn’t in the habit of missing deadlines. And this was one she definitely couldn’t afford to miss.
Chapter 11
Howie’s car pulled up outside the familiar black exterior of the Two Chairmen. This tiny side-street pub, hidden away from busy main roads and tourist attractions, was his usual place of sanctuary after a bad day at work. It was also the perfect spot to celebrate a good day in the office. And a place to unwind after a not-so-bad, not-so-good day. But occasionally, like today, it was a place of work.
With nowhere to park, and the palace not far away, the car moved off. The bongs of Big Ben told Howie it was midday. That meant he was on time for his meeting with Maurice Skeets. Howie walked into the pub and looked around. There was no sign of Maurice or anyone else.
‘Hello, Howie,’ beamed the barman. ‘The usual, is it?’
Howie’s usual was a pint of Guinness. Well, half a litre. Pints, gallons and all other imperial measurements had been banned after the revolution. Britain was metric now. But they still called half a litre ‘a pint’ in here. That was why he loved this old-world-style pub so much. But a pint, half litre or any other measure of alcoholic beverage probably wouldn’t be a good idea right now. He was about to meet one of the country’s top journalists. Not just that. After only four hours sleep, Howie’s energy levels were already running low and alcohol wouldn’t help. He also had to be on top of his game for the Zayn Winner interview with the Daily Democrat at five o’clock. And Martha Blake would want to see him for an update at some point. No. A pint of Guinness was out of the question.
‘Just half a pint, please.’ It was a fair compromise. No one ever got drunk on half a pint. And it was his birthday.
The barman looked puzzled. ‘Did you say a half?’
‘Yeah. And a steak-and-ale pie. With mashed potato and mushy peas.’
The barman grinned. ‘Is that half a pie or a whole one? Because half pints don’t really go with whole pies, do they?’
He was right. Those pies required a lot of fluid to wash them down. And Howie couldn’t remember James Bond ever asking for half a glass of Château Mouton Rothschild with his whole lobster.
Howie smiled. ‘Better make it a pint.’
‘Sit yourself down, my old friend. I shall bring it over.’
Howie thanked the barman and sat down at a corner table at the back of the bar. The initial thrill of being in a pub during working hours had already worn off and he was beginning to feel nervous. He always did before meetings with Maurice. He was the type of journalist you didn’t want sniffing round during a major crisis. Maurice could smell trouble a mile away. And he could smell bullshit from even further.
Howie took out his bleeper and read through all the messages from Maurice. Every one mentioned ‘secret meetings’ between the president and ‘high-profile figures’. Maurice’s information was usually accurate. Howie would have to listen to what he had to say. Then try and stall him. He couldn’t afford to let any major stories about the president run while he was still missing.
Then something struck him. With Maurice’s network of contacts, it was entirely possible that he might already know about the president’s disappearance. The secret meetings story could be a fabrication – an excuse to get Howie alone and see his reaction to questions about the president’s current whereabouts. Howie would have to be careful.
After a few minutes, the barman brought his pint of Guinness. Howie stared at the glass’s inviting contents. The malted aroma hit his nose. He desperately wanted to take a mouthful. But a nagging voice in his head was telling him: ‘It’s Maurice Skeets. Don’t take any chances.’ So he didn’t.
A moment later, Howie heard Maurice ordering a mineral water at the bar. He called to him. ‘I’m over here.’
Maurice collected his drink, walked over and sat down opposite Howie. ‘You drinking already, you bloody alcoholic? Bet you’ve ordered one of those dodgy pies as well, you greedy bastard.’
Howie maintained a dignified silence.
‘That’s a “No comment” is it? Course it is. It’s Howie Pond I’m talking to.’ Maurice cackled. ‘Right, that’s the chit-chat out of the way. Let’s get down to business.’
Howie tried not to look worried. ‘What’s the story then, Maurice?’
‘I got information – very reliable information – about meetings between his Royal Highness Jan Polak and three big players.’
‘You won’t be surprised to know that most of the people the president meets are big players.’
‘I know that, you big prince. But these were all under the radar.’
‘Talking generally, different situations and people require different degrees of discretion,’ explained Howie, as he instinctively clicked into presidential spokesperson mode. ‘But it would be inappropriate to discuss the details of those arrangements.’
‘Maybe if I give you the names, you’ll cut the bullshit and give me some proper answers, eh?’
‘I can’t promise anything.’ Howie never did to journalists.
Maurice leaned forward and lowered hi
s voice. ‘Okay. First name is Sky Eastern. Chairwoman of Eastern Oil – an American multinational. They made bucketloads of cash from deep-sea drilling in the 2030s, while their competition went tits up.’
Howie nodded. He knew the company.
‘Eastern Oil say they’re all about clean energy now. You know, all that expensive synth-oil. But that’s just corporate bullshit. They still got a big appetite for the black stuff.’ Maurice glanced at Howie’s pint of Guinness. ‘Even bigger than your appetite for that black stuff.’ He cackled again, louder this time. ‘Eastern Oil want to do some tests in Republic waters – some drilling. I know that because I’ve seen a letter that’s been circulating among their senior execs.’ He sipped his water. ‘They reckon there might be a big pocket of black stuff somewhere in British waters that they could exploit with their new Tech. If it’s there, both the oil company and the Treasury would come out winners. But those tests need to be signed off at the highest level. We’re talking Jan the man’s approval.’
‘A lot of things need presidential approval. So what?’
‘You know how it is. The citizens want the new fuels. They don’t like the old oil. They don’t care about the economics of it. They care about the history. All those wars and stuff.’
‘The public’s views are always taken into consideration when major government decisions are made, Maurice.’
‘Yeah. Then ignored. It’s all about money. You know that. I know that.’
Maurice had only been here a minute or so, but Howie was already beginning to feel weary of his company. ‘Get to the point.’
‘Alright. Here’s a scenario. Let’s say the president has signed this all off. Officially or unofficially, it doesn’t matter. My point is, if the media get hold of the story before an election, that’s bad news for Jan the man. So he keeps it all hush-hush. Then he announces the test drilling after he’s won a third term.’
Howie stared into his Guinness for inspiration. It had settled now. And so had his thoughts. It was clear what he had to do – bullshit for Britain. ‘Decisions such as this require an awful lot of consideration. The president and vice presidents must be given the space to debate the issues freely, away from the public eye. Those meetings may take a variety of forms. But we would never discuss the details.’
