by Paul Mathews
The short officer took a step forward. ‘We work at the embassy sometimes. What she said about the ambassador was spot on, Mr Pond. She weren’t no journalist.’
Howie sighed. ‘Very briefly, what did she look like?’
‘Difficult to say,’ replied the tall officer. ‘She was wearing dark sunglasses.’
‘In this weather?’ asked Howie.
The short officer nodded. ‘She told us she had very sensitive retinas. It’s a genetic thing, apparently.’
This definitely sounded like a journalist. ‘What was her name?’
The tall officer wrinkled his brow and looked at his colleague. ‘I don’t think we got that, did we?’
His colleague shrugged. ‘Never came up in conversation.’
Howie bit his lip. ‘I don’t have a lot of time. Just tell me – did you give her any sensitive information?’
The two officers looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Then they looked at Howie, eyebrows lowered. And they spoke as one. ‘No, no, no.’
Howie didn’t believe them for one minute. But a negative answer was the one he wanted. He couldn’t waste any more time. He walked up to the gate. ‘Well, that’s fine, then. Open the gates, please.’
The tall officer pressed the button in silence. Howie rushed through the gates and headed towards the palace entrance. He checked the time on his bleeper. It was 4.16pm. Zayn’s interview had been running for more than half an hour. Howie hoped he wasn’t too late.
Chapter 14
Britt had been loitering outside American Fitness in Canary Wharf for almost twenty minutes now. A steady stream of well-toned bodies had walked, jogged and sprinted through its doors during that time. But none of their faces belonged to the person Britt was hunting.
She peered through the glass front of the building to see if Cherry was in reception. There was no sign of her. But she was definitely still in there. Another personal trainer, on his way out of the building, had confirmed it fifteen minutes ago, before zooming off at ridiculous speed. Britt had thought about marching into reception and demanding to see her. Maybe she could adopt another fake identity? But her gut feeling was that this young woman would be more streetwise than Pellie Cann’s victims. A lot more streetwise. It would be better to hang back and track her from a distance.
Two women in American Fitness uniforms suddenly shot out of the building. Britt quickly took out the photo of Cherry she’d obtained from the First Lady’s office and checked it. Neither of them looked like the woman in the photo. As quickly as they had appeared, the pair sped off into the crowds. Britt hoped Cherry wouldn’t be as fast on her feet.
All this standing around was making her legs ache. She still hadn’t recovered from this morning’s sprint down The Mall. There was no way she could manage another mad dash through the streets of London. Even a brisk stroll would be hard work.
Britt looked at her bleeper. It was 4.22pm. The clock was ticking. She needed to get back to the office and write her feature on the First Lady’s new book by seven. Then she had to get to the Grafton Arms for the gig at eight, so she could probe Herbert the security guy some more.
Cherry, George, Herbert – there wouldn’t be much time for anyone else today. But she made a mental note to chat to Howie about his day when he came back from work – assuming he came home at all. If he did, he might be tired and frustrated enough to let something else slip. Howie’s traditional post-work rant was a long way off, though. There was plenty more digging to be done before then.
A man in a dark coat, scarf, woolly hat and sunglasses emerged from behind a crowd of suited city workers walking in her direction. At first, he looked like any other middle-aged man heading for an urgent appointment. Then Britt noticed he was looking nervously around him, keeping his head down and glancing towards the gym. His scarf was obscuring his face below the eyes, so he could have been anybody. But there was no sign of Cherry at the moment, so she kept watching him.
The man stopped and muttered to himself. He pulled at his scarf and started to loosen it. As he did so, Britt caught sight of his features for a few seconds. She took a sharp breath. Was that the president? The kinked nose, the full lips and the square jaw – they were unmistakeable, even at a distance of thirty metres or so. She looked to see if anyone else had reached the same conclusion. But everyone else was travelling at a hundred kilometres per hour. To them, he was just another pedestrian getting in their way.
Britt took a few steps closer. The man was tall enough to be the president. He had that distinctive upright stance. He was wearing those trademark shoes. And this was the building where his personal trainer worked – a woman the First Lady suspected was getting a bit more personal than she should be. It must be him.
Questions started racing through Britt’s mind. Did the two of them have plans to escape somewhere? It wasn’t impossible. She could feel her heart racing and she suddenly felt self-conscious – standing alone outside this gym for no obvious reason. But she needed to stay calm, assess the situation and find out what was going on.
The president started walking again. Britt made a decision. She would follow him into the building at a discreet distance. She edged towards the main doors, keeping one eye on the entrance and one eye on him. But he wasn’t going inside. Instead, he stopped at the edge of the concrete plaza.
Of course, thought Britt. The British president isn’t going to risk being recognised in a reception area. And someone refusing to remove their hat, scarf and sunglasses would draw attention to themselves. The president was a man of phenomenal intelligence, according to Howie. A man who didn’t make mistakes – because he never allowed himself to get into situations where mistakes could be made.
But Britt couldn’t just stand around staring at him. She turned around, took a mirror from her bag and pretended she was checking her make-up. She could see his reflection in the glass. For the next few minutes, he paced up and down and looked at his watch – checking all the time to see who was around him.
Britt decided to put the mirror back in her bag and face the entrance to the building again, being careful not to look in the president’s direction. If he realised he was being watched, he might cancel his rendezvous. And that would be a disaster.
Two more women wearing American Fitness uniforms left the building. They didn’t look like the woman in the photo and the president didn’t make a move. They obviously weren’t Cherry.
Another few minutes passed. And then Britt saw her. The woman from the photo. Yes. It was definitely Cherry Blush. Her face was unmistakeable. The president was already striding towards her.
Cherry acknowledged the president with a wave. Without slowing down, he took Cherry’s arm and they began walking in Britt’s direction. The president was already talking animatedly. Britt turned her back and listened to their approaching conversation.
‘Let’s make this quick, Cherry.’
‘I thought we were going out?’
‘No. We won’t be going out again.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Keep your voice down! Let’s go somewhere less crowded. And don’t say anything until we get there.’
‘Alright, alright. There’s no need to be so mega-miserable.’
The couple hurried past Britt in silence. She allowed them to get a good fifty metres ahead before following them. If they weren’t talking, she wouldn’t be missing anything.
As Britt followed, she wondered why the president would risk everything for a fling with his personal trainer. He was popular. Probably the most popular leader the country had ever had. Both pre- and post-revolution. But if news of his extra-marital affair emerged before the election, who knows what might happen? British citizens expected their presidents to spend their time running the country. Not running after their personal trainers. Public opinion could turn. It could hand the Democrats victory. And even if he was popular enough to survive, Jan Polak’s reputation would never be the same again.
The couple
turned right and entered a small park. Britt stopped to watch what they were doing. The pair sat down on a bench and started talking. Britt’s instinct was to hold back for now and wait for things to develop. They did. The discussion soon evolved into a heated exchange. So heated, it looked like it might break up at any moment. She decided her best chance was to walk past and try and pick up a snippet of the argument.
As Britt approached, the couple stood up. Cherry was shouting something in her thick London accent – two words. What were they? ‘Ask her!’ She shouted it again, louder this time. Then she sprinted off in the other direction, even faster than her colleagues had done earlier, leaving the president to shout after her. ‘Cherry! Come back!’
It must have been a lovers’ argument. Britt’s guess was Cherry wanted the president to ask the First Lady for a divorce. But maybe he didn’t want to ask that question?
The president sat down on the bench again and started composing a message on his bleeper. Britt seized her opportunity. She walked up to him. Then tried to engage him in conversation. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
The president didn’t reply and kept his head down. Britt sat on the bench anyway. She tried to read the message he was typing, but couldn’t make out anything on the bleeper’s screen. ‘I’ve had rather a busy day,’ she announced, trying to sound cheerful. ‘What about you?’
The president completely ignored her. He was completely focused on his bleeper.
Britt wanted to ask so many questions. What’s happening with you and Cherry Blush? Did she just ask you to get a divorce? Why did you disappear? When will you reappear? All those and dozens more. Questions whose answers would guarantee her the front-page story she desperately needed. But she knew that was a strategy doomed to failure. He would just run.
Maybe the bleeper was the key to finding out some more information? It must contain a lot of interesting messages between the president and Cherry Blush – and many other people. Britt could grab it and run. Actually, no she couldn’t. Her aching legs would give up after ten seconds. She would be caught, arrested and flung into a police cell. Bad idea.
She would have to try and sneak a look at the message he was typing. She stood up. The president was paying her no attention. She leaned over to inspect the bleeper. ‘I haven’t seen that model before. Is it a Tech-42?’ As she did so, all she could make out was the name of the recipient – Maxim. It meant nothing to her.
‘Do you mind!’ shouted the president, snatching away his bleeper.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just I have an old Tech-39 and —’
‘I don’t care,’ he snarled, jumping to his feet.
Before Britt could respond, he was gone – heading in the same direction he’d come from. There was no point trying to follow him. He was too fast. But it didn’t really matter. She had to get back to the office and write that feature. Britt looked at her own bleeper. It was 4.32pm. She should be able to get to Fulham in forty-five minutes. That would give her an hour and a half to write the article. It would be tight. But she could do it.
She allowed herself a congratulatory smile. In less than a day, she’d gathered some solid evidence for her suspicion that the president was missing. She’d also tracked down the woman with whom the president was having an affair. She had even managed to exchange a few words with the great man himself. And she had done all this while Howie and his cronies ran around like headless royals.
Britt got up and started to make her way to the Metro station. As she walked along, she imagined what the headline of her big story might be. It came to her in a flash. ‘We Have Lost The President’. It was simple, memorable and it summed up the situation perfectly. Keys, bleepers, important documents – they were lost. But presidents didn’t just slip down the backs of sofas, get left on trains or end up tossed in the rubbish by accident. Countries didn’t wake up, bleary-eyed, and forget where they’d left them. Presidents were unlosable. Even when they got assassinated people knew where the body was. But for the first time ever, it had happened – the British Republic had lost its president.
She took a deep breath. She had single-handedly managed to track down Jan Polak. But she wouldn’t be informing the police, or anyone else. He would stay missing for now. She needed him to stay missing – for her big story.
Chapter 15
Howie burst through the door of Zayn Winner’s office, gasping an apology for his late arrival. But no one accepted it. Because the room was empty.
He stepped outside the door and checked the corridor. There was no sign of Zayn or the Daily Democrat journalist. Where were they? Maybe the interview had finished before Howie could get there? Zayn had probably already said something he shouldn’t. Mina Pritti might already be planning a story about a missing president. Howie felt nauseous. He sat down at Zayn’s desk and composed himself. You could spend whole days roaming the corridors of Buckingham Palace trying to find someone. He only had a few minutes.
Then Howie noticed something – a scribbled note. He read it:
Howie, we’re in the State Dining Room, buddy. I thought a red carpet would be appropriate for a Hollywood legend like me. Ha, ha, ha! See you there. Zayn.
It took a few seconds for the full horror to sink in. The State Dining Room? It was where Zayn and his vice-presidential colleagues had been informed of the president’s disappearance. It might still show signs of that morning’s Code Red crisis meeting – vice-presidential digi-pens or muddy footprints on the carpet. It was common knowledge that it was reserved for the most high-level government meetings. A sharp journalistic mind like Mina’s could pick up on any signs of recent activity there. Added to the fact that the president wasn’t available for interviews today, it might lead to awkward questions. Questions that a motor-mouth like Zayn was ill-equipped to handle.
Howie dashed along the corridor, as fast as his twisted ankle could carry him. A few minutes later, he was outside the State Dining Room. He was too tired to burst through another set of doors, so he pushed them open. As he entered, he could see Zayn reclining in a chair at the far end of the room, while Mina Pritti peered at him through the lens of a large camera. They were so engrossed in their photoshoot, they didn’t notice his arrival.
Photos were always taken at the end of interviews. Howie cursed silently and quickly scanned the table. There were no forgotten digi-pens. Then he looked down at the carpet. No muddy footprints. Martha Blake must have taken care of everything. Of course she had. She always did.
Howie decided to stay where he was. He would try and establish the journalist’s mood, before she spotted him in the room. That would give him some clue as to how the interview had gone. If he saw a happy, bubbly journalist that would be bad news. A rude and irritated journalist would be better. That would mean Zayn had – against all odds – stuck to the script. Howie crossed his fingers and listened.
‘You’re the director here, Mina. How do you want me?’
Mina’s face bobbed out from behind the camera. ‘I want to try and capture that fun dimension you mentioned earlier.’
‘Yeah, the fifth dimension!’ laughed Zayn. ‘Beyond space, time and Buckingham Palace.’
Howie rolled his eyes. For king’s sake, don’t mention aliens.
‘Do you want my “I’ve just seen an alien” face? Or my “I’ve just voted Democrat” face? The second one is scarier.’
Mina giggled. Then her camera flashed. ‘That face you pulled right then was perfect.’
‘Mega!’ roared Zayn, getting to his feet. ‘I never like to disappoint an audience.’
Mina nodded in appreciation. ‘Thank you so much, Vice President Winner. It’s been a total blast.’
‘Boom!’ yelled Zayn. ‘Shake the room!’ And he gyrated his hips in the most hideously embarrassing way that Howie had ever seen.
Mina pretended the floor was shaking. ‘Easy, vice president. I can feel the earth moving!’
Zayn winked cheekily. ‘I bet you say that to all the vice presidents.’
And then they giggled like schoolchildren who’d just been told how babies are made.
Howie sighed. This journalist wasn’t just happy. She was positively delirious. It was time for him to step in. ‘Sorry, I’m late,’ he shouted, as he approached them. ‘But then this interview was supposed to take place at five, wasn’t it, Mina?’
Mina looked up. Her expression changed to one of polite apology. ‘Yes, it was – originally.’
Howie wagged a finger. ‘And you shouldn’t have rescheduled it without my —’
‘Hey, don’t go hard on her, buddy,’ interrupted Zayn. ‘Blame me. I agreed to move it.’
Mina’s expression was now one of quiet victory.
Howie strode up to Zayn and glared at him. ‘But I didn’t agree to it.’
Zayn put his arm round Howie’s shoulder. ‘I bleeped you, buddy. You didn’t bleep back. Then when Mina arrived, we did wait – for a bit. Then we got chatting. And, you know, we got into an interview groove real quick. So we decided to go with the flow.’
Howie shrugged off Zayn’s arm. ‘You should have gone with the original flow.’
‘Maybe I should. But Mina was supposed to be interviewing the president today.’ Zayn raised his eyebrows and nudged Howie with his elbow, in the most unsubtle way possible. ‘But Jan couldn’t make it, could he?’
Howie flicked a glance at Mina. Luckily, she was packing her camera into its case and wasn’t watching. But Howie didn’t want Zayn mentioning the president again or making any more unsubtle eyebrow or elbow movements. So he changed the subject. ‘Did you get what you wanted, Mina?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her expression gave nothing away. But if Zayn had been behaving like this for the whole interview, she would have enough material for a year’s worth of stories.
Mina turned to look at Zayn. ‘Can I just double-check those film titles again?’
Zayn beamed with pride. ‘Sure you can. There was Alien Invasion. And Alien Mutation. And my personal favourite, Alien Vacation – where everyone dies except me.’
