We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  ‘So you admit these meetings with Sky Eastern took place?’

  ‘No. I have no knowledge of any such meetings.’ That was true. It might change later. But for now it was true.

  Maurice was getting agitated. That was a good sign. It meant he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted.

  ‘Let me rephrase that,’ sneered Maurice. ‘In general, does the president have secret meetings?’

  ‘Not secret. Just not public.’

  Maurice rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t half talk bollocks sometimes.’

  Howie smiled. ‘I hope that’s clarified matters.’

  Maurice frowned. ‘No it hasn’t. We’ll leave Eastern Oil for now.’ He took another sip of his water. ‘Second name is Olga Frik. Chief executive of Auto-Tech Industries. They earn billions from contracts with the Republic. They make those annoying Tech robots.’

  Yes, those robots were annoying. And that reminded Howie. One of them was investigating the failure of the Buckingham Palace security cameras. He would need to check up on that when he returned to the palace after lunch. ‘The president meets with representatives of major government contractors from time to time. That’s no secret.’

  Maurice leaned forward. ‘They met up for lunch.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘A very long lunch.’

  ‘That sounds very nice.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve to got to bloody well say?’

  Howie kept a straight face. ‘I can repeat it for you, if you like.’

  ‘You cheeky sod.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘Right. Name number three – Petra Putinov. She works for a big multinational. It’s got interests in everything – food, drink, Tech, sport, leisure. Even engineering. That includes components used in military defence – rockets, missiles, that kind of thing. They supply the Republic with some gear. Nothing major. Just a few things.’ He cocked his head. ‘But maybe that’s gonna change?’

  Petra Putinov’s name was more intriguing. It wouldn’t be so easy to bat away questions about her. Howie thought for a second. ‘But they’ve got a diverse portfolio of businesses?’

  Maurice furrowed his brow. ‘Yeah, but I’m talking about —’

  ‘Well, there you are, Maurice. We’re always looking to source the most competitively priced products for government. You’ll have to come in for a briefing on our new procurement strategy when you have a spare afternoon.’

  ‘I’d rather jump through a glass window,’ growled Maurice.

  Howie half-smiled. ‘Make sure it’s on the ground floor.’

  Maurice rubbed his hands. ‘So, come on. Enough of the bullshit. What’s the story?’

  ‘You tell me, Maurice. You’re the journalist.’

  Maurice paused. Then he sipped his water and lifted his glass. ‘Cheers, my old friend.’ He waited for Howie to do the same. He didn’t. Maurice was trying to get him drunk. Which was a very good sign. He didn’t have enough material to write a story yet. And that was how it was going to stay for the foreseeable future.

  Howie shook his head. ‘I’ll have mine later. Once you’ve gone.’

  Maurice glared at him. ‘You unsociable bastard.’

  Howie leaned back and stretched. ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a story to me, Maurice.’ Then he let out an exaggerated yawn. ‘In fact, it doesn’t sound like a story at all.’

  Maurice finished his water. ‘I’m thinking it’s something to do with oil. Some deal. If it’s not oil, it’s some big business action. Maybe there’s presidential campaign funding involved?’

  Howie didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the habit of helping journalists fill the gaps in their stories. Especially when they seemed to know a lot more than he did. Howie leaned forward. ‘Have you ever thought of writing fiction, Maurice?’

  ‘Ha, bloody ha. At least tell me one useful thing. Where is that big prince you work for this afternoon? I heard he binned a few interviews. Off to another secret meeting, is he?’

  ‘He’s at a location I can’t disclose.’ That was true. Howie couldn’t disclose it because he had no idea what it was.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Doing what presidents do.’

  Maurice stood up. ‘And you’re doing what presidential spokespeople do – talk a load of bullshit and give journalists bugger all.’

  Howie congratulated himself. He had given Maurice nothing of any use. It was the perfect outcome. He reached for his pint of Guinness, closed his eyes and savoured a large, celebratory gulp.

  ‘I thought you weren’t drinking in my presence, Pond?’

  Howie opened his eyes. ‘Oh, sorry, Maurice. Are you still here? I thought you’d gone.’

  Maurice’s lip curled. ‘I’m gonna do some more digging on those meetings. I’m not giving up on this. There’s something dodgy going on. And Maurice Skeets is on the case. So be warned.’

  The barman arrived with Howie’s food. ‘One steak-and-ale pie with mash and mushy peas. Can I get you another drink to go with that?’

  Howie looked at his glass. He’d managed to drink half a pint already. ‘Yeah. Why not?’ He was eating. The food would soak up the alcohol.

  Maurice got up and walked to the door. Just before he left, he turned and shouted. ‘Enjoy your pie, you unhelpful bastard.’

  Howie smiled to himself. Not only had he been no help at all to Maurice, he’d gained the names of some serious big hitters that the president had apparently met with recently. They were all names he could give to Martha Blake for her team to do the relevant checks.

  He began attacking his pie. As he chewed the first mouthful, he looked up at the pub’s 1970s clock. It was just after quarter past twelve.

  He downed what remained of his Guinness. That felt good. And another would be along in a minute. He could savour that one. He could go and sit by the fire in the little room upstairs after his lunch. It would be his birthday present to himself. He might even have time for a third pint of Guinness. He’d be back in the office by about one. Maybe one-thirty. With any luck, Martha’s team would have found the president by then.

  He smiled to himself. Yes. That sounded like a plan.

  Chapter 12

  Britt ran up the steps to the First Lady’s residence, pressed the intercom button and announced herself. She looked at her bleeper. It was just after three. She was almost on time.

  A bored-looking security woman answered the door. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hello, I’m, erm …’ She had to think for a second who she was. Was she Pellie Cann? No. She was definitely herself. ‘I’m Britt Pointer – a journalist.’

  The security woman eyed her suspiciously. ‘We are expecting a journalist of that name. But you didn’t seem one hundred per cent sure about it. Can I see some ID, please?’

  It seemed Pellie could get away with having no ID, but Britt couldn’t. She dug in her handbag for her ID. It wasn’t in the side pocket where she normally kept it. ‘One second. It’s in here somewhere.’

  The security guard sighed. ‘No ID, no interview. Simple as that.’

  Where was it? She always kept it in this bag. And now, today, when she needed it most, it had gone missing. She searched again. Still no joy.

  ‘I’ll bleep my editor. He can confirm who I am.’

  ‘Bleep who you like. But if you don’t have ID, you’re not coming in.’

  Britt wanted to give the security woman a hefty kick in the shins, push her to the floor and barge past her into the house. But she needed to avoid a police cell if she was to get her story. Instead, she made one final check in her bag.

  Halfway through her search, she remembered. After yesterday’s argument with George, in a moment of madness, she’d taken her ID card out of her bag and contemplated tossing it down a drain. Fortunately, she had come to her senses. But she hadn’t put the card back in the bag. She’d put it in her jacket pocket. And that particular jacket was now hanging in her wardrobe. She cursed and felt a flush of panic. ‘I left it at home.’

  ‘No
interview then.’

  Britt couldn’t afford to let the trail go cold here. She had to get past this woman somehow. ‘I’m writing a feature for The Republican. You know – the newspaper?’

  The security woman nodded. ‘Yes. I read it every day. On my break.’

  This sounded promising.

  ‘It’s a quality broadsheet,’ continued the woman. ‘Full of thought-provoking news, comment and features. It leans comfortably towards the current administration, but not in a sycophantic way. It’s like a critical friend of the people.’

  That was the kind of bollocks that George came out with. Britt felt herself grimace. She tried to reshape it into a warm smile. It didn’t come off. She carried on. ‘Then you’ll have read articles by Britt Pointer.’

  ‘Of course. And she doesn’t mess around. She always goes straight for the jugular.’

  That’s exactly what Britt felt like doing with this woman. But she restrained herself.

  ‘I’m on features now,’ explained Britt, the words almost sticking in her throat. ‘The one I’m working on is about the First Lady’s new book.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Self-help books. Don’t read them myself. I’m more into the old-world classics – Harry Potter, Fifty Shades of Grey, that sort of thing.’

  Britt had an idea. ‘I could mention you in the feature.’

  The woman looked confused. Then interested. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I can paint a picture. I can say the First Lady surrounds herself with intelligent, well-read members of staff.’

  The woman thought about her proposal. ‘I’ve actually just finished writing my first novel. Maybe you could mention that?’

  ‘Sure. What’s it called?’

  ‘Revenge of the Royals.’

  ‘What’s it about – very quickly?’

  The security woman was more animated now. ‘The Royal Family return from exile in Florida. They gather a people’s army and storm the palace, capture the president and send him to the Tower of London. They restore a constitutional monarchy, exile the vice presidents to the Isle of Wight and bring back the internet, landlines and mobile phones.’

  It wasn’t a bad idea for a novel. It wasn’t a bad idea, full stop. ‘And you’re publishing it yourself?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’ve got a publisher lined up. A three-book deal. I’m quitting this job after the election. So I can focus on my writing.’

  Britt realised that, if she played her cards right, this revelation could get her inside without her ID. ‘Okay. Here’s the deal. I ask you a few questions now. You give me a few answers. I’ll give your book a mention in the feature.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘It’s a great angle. You’re a fantastic personality.’ A little exaggeration never hurt anyone.

  The woman smiled. ‘You’re definitely a journalist.’

  Britt felt the relief surge through her. ‘And you’re definitely a novelist.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ chuckled the woman. ‘Come in, Ms Pointer.’

  Britt stepped inside and the security woman closed the door behind her. After asking a few quick questions, Britt had all the information she needed. Then the woman directed Britt to the First Lady’s study and they exchanged goodbyes. It was another victory rescued from the jaws of defeat.

  As Britt stood outside the study door, about to knock, she realised how unprepared she was for this interview. Her preparations, back at the pod, had consisted of a double water-spray and a power nap that had lasted longer than planned. A lot longer. That had been followed by a frantic rush to get here on the Metro. Britt hadn’t read any of the First Lady’s books. And she had no idea what the new one was about. All she knew was the title, which George had given her. There was only one thing she could do – something she had perfected after a decade in frontline investigative journalism. She would have to make it up as she went along.

  Britt knocked on the door. A regal voice from behind it beckoned her in and she entered. The First Lady was standing behind her desk, stacking several dozen books into adjacent piles. Britt introduced herself. ‘Good afternoon, First Lady. I’m Britt Pointer from The Republican.’

  The First Lady didn’t look up. ‘Please, sit down. I shall be with you in a moment.’

  Britt sat down. After a few minutes, the First Lady had built a mini wall of books on one side of her desk. She turned and faced Britt. ‘There – the perfect background for your photograph.’

  The photo. Yes. Every feature journalist carried a camera. Correction. Every feature journalist except Britt. Some quick thinking was required. ‘I was, erm … going to use a photo from our archives. You and the president. It will attract readers to the feature.’

  The First Lady frowned. ‘I would prefer a photo of myself and my books.’

  It was time to launch into bullshit mode. ‘The lighting’s not right.’

  ‘It seems perfectly adequate to me.’

  ‘No, it’s too dingy.’

  ‘Look around you, Ms Pointer. The sunlight is cascading through the window and bathing my books in a golden glow.’

  ‘Your eyes have adapted to it, First Lady. It’s gloomy.’

  ‘I have to disagree.’

  ‘It’ll look like you’re standing in front of a wall.’

  ‘That’s correct. A wall of my books.’

  ‘Trust me. I’m an expert on these things.’ She wasn’t. But the First Lady didn’t know that.

  The First Lady stared at Britt for a few seconds, her face expressionless. Then she spoke, her voice deeper than before. ‘You think you know better than I do?’

  Britt wasn’t sure whether she was expected to reply. But the First Lady’s silence made it clear that she was. ‘When it comes to writing brilliant books, I don’t know better. But when it comes to photos in newspapers, I do know better.’ That hadn’t come out quite how she’d wanted. Diplomacy never had been her strong point.

  The First Lady narrowed her eyes and breathed loudly through her nostrils. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t even look unhappy. She looked much further along the anger spectrum – beyond furious and possibly heading towards volcanic rage. Britt braced herself for an eruption. And possibly an assault with a self-help book.

  ‘I’m not used to people being quite so direct with me, Ms Pointer.’ Her expression softened. ‘But I admire a person who stands up for themselves.’ She pointed at Britt. ‘So, I will listen to you when it comes to photos.’ She gestured towards the books. ‘And you will listen to me when it comes to self-help guides. Understood?’

  ‘That’s a deal.’ Britt breathed a mental sigh of relief. ‘Shall we get started?’ She dug out her digi-pen and pad from her bag and switched them on.

  ‘Of course.’ The First Lady settled herself in her chair.

  ‘So, your new book, Finding the American in You – give me a short, simple explanation of what it’s about.’

  A contented smile rippled across the First Lady’s face. ‘To understand my book, you must first understand that we are all American at heart. All of us. You, me, the ordinary man and woman on the street. Everyone.’

  This explanation didn’t sound like it was going to be short. Or simple. Or even much of an explanation. Then Britt realised she was frowning. Maybe even sneering. She quickly transformed her expression into one of curiosity. ‘That’s intensely interesting.’

  ‘It is. You see, Americans have a culture of self-improvement and advancement. They’re goal driven. They aspire to better lives than those they have now.’ She swivelled her chair so she was gazing at the wall. ‘More fulfilling lives – both emotionally and physically. And my new book encourages people to find that drive and desire within themselves.’ She swivelled her chair back to face Britt. ‘And act on it.’

  The British constitution sounded a more stimulating read. But Britt needed to keep the First Lady onside. She forced a smile. ‘How fiercely fascinating.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ The First Lady reached for a basket on her desk. ‘Would you care
for a candy?’

  Britt wasn’t a candy person. But sucking something would at least make it easier to hide her facial expressions. She took one and studied the brightly coloured wrapper. ‘Thank you. What are they?’

  ‘American rainbow candies. Seven different flavours. They hit your taste buds one by one, at various speeds.’

  Britt rarely saw American candies in Britain. The Americans liked to keep them all for themselves. ‘Where did you get these, if you don’t mind me asking?’ enquired Britt, popping the candy in her mouth.

  The First Lady smiled. ‘I have an unofficial supplier.’

  Someone in high places, thought Britt. The first flavour hit her taste buds. It was sickly honey. She almost gagged.

  The First Lady took a candy and then reached for a copy of her book on the desk. ‘While we’re handing out free gifts, take this.’

  Britt took the book and put it in her bag. ‘Thank you. I look forward to finding my inner American.’

  ‘When you do, it will open up a whole new world for you.’

  Britt doubted that. Anyway, she was stuck in this world for the moment and she needed to raise the subject of the president. ‘Can we talk about your husband?’

  The First Lady twitched her nose, as if a bad smell had just wafted across her desk. ‘Must we?’

  ‘It would look odd if we didn’t mention him.’

  The First Lady pushed the candy around her mouth for a few seconds. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Pointer – I’m not a big fan of journalists.’

  Britt didn’t like the sound of this. Had she been too blunt? Too direct? Her thoughts were interrupted as the second flavour hit her. It was lemon. And she hated lemons.

  ‘I find journalists rude and intrusive.’

  ‘Really?’ mumbled Britt, fighting the urge to spit her candy on the floor.

  ‘But you’re changing my opinion.’