We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  Rosie stood up, so she could see the top of Britt’s head. ‘Hey, Britt! I hear you interviewed the First Lady today.’

  Britt didn’t make eye contact. ‘You heard right.’

  Rosie walked across the room and stood by Britt’s desk. ‘What’s her new book about then? The usual self-help crap, is it?’

  Britt looked hopefully towards George’s office again, but the door was firmly shut. She turned back and reluctantly glanced up at Rosie. ‘It’s about finding the American in you. Enjoying life here, like you’re living it over there.’

  Rosie pulled up a nearby chair and sat down. ‘The New States is over-hyped, if you ask me. Internet, social media, mobile phones, instantaneous personal communication connecting people all over the country in a microsecond – all massively over-rated. I prefer a good old face-to-face chat. Don’t you?’

  Britt stayed silent in the hope that Rosie’s good old face-to-face chat would terminate. It didn’t.

  ‘You want my opinion, Britt? If the First Lady loves it so much on the other side of the Atlantic, why doesn’t she just bugger off there for good?’

  ‘Because she’s married to the president of the British Republic.’

  ‘Oh … yeah.’ Rosie laughed. ‘I see what you mean. But here’s a question – why is he still married to her? When she’s out and about with him, she’s got a face like a pickled herring. I feel like saying “Cheer up, love. You’ve got your hands on Britain’s most wanted man.”’ She winked at Britt. ‘I’d love to get my hands on him.’

  So would a lot of people right now.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from George. ‘Britt, can we have a word?’

  The emperor was calling. It was time to go and find out which direction his thumb was pointing. Britt got up, walked to the office and pushed the half-open door.

  George was sitting behind his desk. She closed the door and took a couple of steps forward but didn’t sit down. It was a repeat of what had happened yesterday afternoon. The memory sent a tiny shiver through her body.

  George gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘Are you going to sit down?’

  ‘No. I want a quick getaway, if it’s bad news.’

  ‘As you wish.’ George took a deep breath, slumped back in his chair and fixed his eyes on her. ‘This feature, Britt …’ He allowed the words to hang in the air, as if undecided about its merits.

  ‘Just tell me straight.’

  ‘I’d like to know – what’s your opinion on it?’

  ‘It’s what we agreed, by the deadline.’

  ‘I have to say, it’s not what I expected.’

  ‘Just tell me what you think – preferably in fewer than fifty words.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you in a rush to get away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something to do with that news story of yours, is it? The one that involves the First Lady and others.’

  George could read her mind sometimes. So it was best to tell the truth. ‘Yes, it is to do with the news story.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Here’s what I think of your feature.’ He leaned forward. ‘It was interesting. I loved the side story about the novel-writing security woman. But a couple of things let it down. First of all, your insistence on American spellings. This is Britain. Not America. And the one thing that we British still have over the Americans is our ability to use the English language correctly.’

  ‘That’s a fair point.’

  George looked slightly shocked by her reasonableness, but carried on. ‘And secondly, you were overly descriptive in places. I don’t need to know that the sunlight was cascading through her study window and bathing her books in a golden glow.’

  Britt held up her hands. ‘You’re right. Take it all out.’

  George looked even more shocked than before. ‘Are you sure you haven’t you been taking illegal substances today?’

  ‘Quite sure. Is it in or not?’

  George paused to think. Britt hoped she hadn’t overdone the American spellings and flowery language. She couldn’t be sure until she had received George’s final verdict.

  He screwed up his mouth. Then cracked his knuckles. Then extended his thumb. It hovered, parallel to the desk. Then he moved it, so it was pointing upwards. ‘It’s in.’

  A wave of relief swept through her body. But there was no time to dwell on her triumph. ‘Now, one more thing about my news story.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m hoping I might have it for you tomorrow. For a story on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday is Independence Day. We’ve got a lot lined up already. Friday would be better.’

  No. This story couldn’t wait until Friday. That was because Thursday had two possible outcomes. Number one was the president appearing on the palace balcony at eleven o’clock and declaring his intentions. George wouldn’t want to run a story about a missing president if he was no longer missing. So that would kill a Friday story. Outcome number two was one of the vice presidents announcing they would be standing as the Republican candidate. In that case, the world’s media would be asking a million and one questions about the president’s decision not to run for office again. They would want interviews, quotes and statements from him. The pressure would be so great that, within a few hours, the Government would have to admit the truth about the president’s disappearance. Her Friday exclusive would be dead by Thursday teatime. No. She had to break the story in Thursday’s edition. She took a step forward. ‘It’s Thursday or nothing.’

  George contemplated her demand for a few seconds. ‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

  ‘It’s a fast-moving story. We need to break it soon. Before somebody else does.’

  George picked up a digi-pen on his desk and starting chewing the end of it. ‘Is it political?’

  Britt didn’t flinch. ‘Everything is political, George. That’s what you’re always telling us.’

  ‘Yes, I am. But I hope it’s not too political for The Republican at such a sensitive time.’

  ‘It’s a story that has to be told. If we don’t tell it, someone else will.’

  George chewed his digi-pen a bit more. ‘Just answer me one question. Is it about the Pierogi Pact?’

  Ah, yes – the Pierogi Pact. The deal the Polak brothers were supposed to have made in a pierogi bar, fifteen years ago. Jan would stand for two terms and then step aside for Oskar. No one knew if it ever happened. The brothers had always denied it. But the rumours had never gone away.

  Britt shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with mythical deals in pierogi bars.’

  ‘That’s reassuring.’ He was now jabbing his digi-pen towards her. ‘If it’s political, and it’s running on Thursday, I’ll need it verified by two independent sources. No. Make that three. And they all have to be working for different organisations.’

  This was bullshit. ‘Oh, play fair, George —’

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t afford a lawsuit. Or the embarrassment of running a political story on Independence Day that turns out to be anything less than one hundred per cent factually correct.’

  Britt knew she should try and stay calm. But it was impossible. ‘Three independent sources? Are you crazy?! I’ve got twenty-four hours to nail this.’

  ‘You set the deadline. Not me.’

  ‘If you’re going to mess me around, I’ll give the story to someone else.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re contractually obliged to write stories only for The Republican. Check your terms and conditions. Give it to someone else, I fire you. And the paper will sue you.’

  Britt scowled. He had her in a corner. And he knew it.

  ‘So … do we have an agreement?’ asked George.

  ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘We do.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, is there anything else?’

  Through her anger, Britt realised there was something else. If her feature was going in tomorrow’s edition, Howie would probably read it. And if he saw that she had written it, he would wonder why h
is journalist girlfriend, who was supposed to be on leave for the rest of this week, had interviewed the president’s wife just hours after her husband had gone missing. Howie wasn’t stupid. He would know Britt was on to something. Then he would contact George to demand that her investigation be terminated immediately. And knowing George, without an actual story in front of him, without the facts, he would agree. She couldn’t risk that happening.

  ‘Just one thing, George. Don’t put the feature in my name.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘I’m your editor. I give instructions. I don’t take them.’

  ‘Look, it could ruin my big story if certain people know I spoke with the First Lady. That’s all you need to know.’

  George thought about her proposal. ‘Very well. We’ll call you a feature writer.’

  Britt hoped it would be the first, and last time, anyone called her that.

  Chapter 17

  After three hours in the Central Automated Monitoring System’s control room, the heat and malfunctioning machinery were starting to overwhelm Howie. But he had to stay. He needed to figure out what exactly had gone wrong with it. Was it sabotage? Had someone wanted to extract the president from the palace – possibly against his will? That was what Howie suspected. Or had it just been a random failure of the cameras that had given the president the opportunity to escape – unmonitored and undetected – to spend some time on his own somewhere?

  Howie was doing his best to find some answers. However, so far, he’d only managed to establish that the system’s two-thousand-page instruction book had lots of pictures, but very few actual instructions.

  Ivan had at least worked out how to switch the system on again – helped by the presence of a large red button with the words ‘SWITCH SYSTEM ON’ written on it. But every time the digi-screens flickered into life, they displayed a helpful message announcing the system was shutting down again. Ivan had been studying the instructions for what seemed like an eternity but was probably ten minutes. Eventually, he pointed a finger at the large red button. ‘Okay. Turn on again.’

  ‘We’ve done that seven times already,’ grumbled Howie, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  Ivan paused. ‘Once more?’

  Howie blew some air over his face. ‘Got any other ideas?’

  ‘No. Don’t do actual Tech.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘Your idea to bring me.’

  ‘Just turn it on,’ sighed Howie.

  ‘It’s hot. Give it five minutes. To cool down.’

  Howie was the one who needed to cool down. He took a deep breath. The large intake of hot air hit his lungs and made him cough. Sweat trickled down his back. Down his arms. Down his legs. It was like being in Tech hell.

  ‘Give me those instructions again,’ ordered Howie. Ivan tossed them towards him. As Howie went to grab them, they slipped through his sweaty palms and hit the floor. Howie swore and stooped down. As he was about to pick up the book, he noticed that it had fallen open at a page entitled ‘Manual shutdown’. Below the heading were some diagrams. They showed a panel that contained single digit numbers from zero to nine and the first six letters of the alphabet. ‘Ivan, come here. I want you to look at something.’

  Ivan wandered over. He examined the page. ‘Manual shutdown. Ah, yes.’

  ‘You actually know about this?’ asked Howie, sounding sceptical.

  ‘Standard protocol. Across all systems.’

  ‘You can just shut the system down?’

  ‘With a code. Eight digits.’

  Howie pointed at the instruction book. ‘Where’s that keypad located?’

  ‘Behind you.’

  Howie turned around. And there it was – a metre off the ground. Easy to miss. But not hard to find. ‘And why are there letters and numbers on it?’

  ‘Hexadecimal. Number system. Base sixteen.’

  ‘What does that mean in English?’

  ‘Sixteen character choices. Not ten. More combinations.’

  ‘Right. So who knows these codes?’

  ‘We got eight auto-techs. In the palace. Each knows one digit. And its position. Code changes. Every twenty-four hours.’

  The world of Tech never was straightforward. ‘Let’s say I wanted to try and crack the code, could I do it?’

  ‘Human couldn’t. Four billion-plus combinations. Take centuries.’

  ‘What about an auto-tech?’

  ‘Still take years.’

  Despite this news, Howie still had a gut feeling that a machine was behind all this mayhem. ‘What about if the auto-techs worked together?’

  Ivan looked puzzled. ‘They work for us. Not each other.’

  ‘But if one of them wanted to get the other seven digits from the others, could they?’

  ‘Not programmed to.’

  This was proving to be hard work. Anything involving Tech always was. ‘Could one of them be reprogrammed to do it?’

  Ivan looked uneasy. ‘In theory. Yes.’

  ‘And could that be why we’ve got seven non-functioning auto-techs?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Ivan after a pause. ‘Code extraction invasive. Damages systems.’

  Howie felt like running outside, punching the air and screaming ‘Eureka!’ But there was still more Tech detective work to be done. ‘My guess is that your friend Brian – as the only functioning auto-tech – got the codes from his mates and shut down this system manually, buggering up his pals in the process.’

  ‘Difficult to prove. System memory wiped. No logs. No camera records.’

  ‘Why did the memory wipe? It’s just a shutdown. My e-terminal doesn’t wipe when it shuts down.’

  ‘There’s an option. Memory wipe.’ Ivan paused again. ‘You need a code.’

  ‘Eight digits? Same protocol?’

  Ivan’s face, despite the heat, was starting to lose its colour. ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘If I’m an evil genius and I get the shutdown code, I can probably get the memory wipe code, too?’

  Ivan’s face was a sickly beige now. ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘And can you mess about with this system’s restart function or whatever it’s called?’

  Ivan was whiter than the blank screens above his head. ‘Yes, you can.’ He gulped hard. ‘No code needed. Just Tech know-how.’

  ‘You mean it’s something the auto-techs could do?’

  ‘Affirmative, Howard,’ croaked Ivan.

  The pieces of this Tech puzzle were starting to fall into place. Just then, the door to the control room opened. It was Martha Blake.

  ‘My goodness, it’s horrid in here.’ Martha left the door open and walked over. ‘Tell me quickly before I pass out, have you two had any joy?’

  Howie nodded. ‘I’ve got a theory.’

  Martha puffed out her cheeks. ‘Enlighten me.’

  Howie pointed at the keypad. ‘I reckon it was manually shutdown from here.’

  ‘You have evidence for that?’ asked Martha.

  Ivan shook his head. ‘No. Just a theory.’ He glanced at Howie. His expression was a mix of defiance and desperation. It was one Howie knew well. Vice presidents adopted it whenever they thought blame was coming their way.

  Howie wasn’t going to let Ivan squash his theory. ‘Someone could have programmed an auto-tech to get the codes it needs to shut down the system and wipe the memory, and then disable the restart function. It could do it all from here in one visit.’

  Martha wiped her brow. ‘That would be worrying, if true.’

  Ivan scowled. ‘It’s guesswork.’

  Howie scowled back. ‘Highly educated guesswork. And the prime suspect is Brian.’

  ‘Where’s the proof?’ asked Ivan, sounding personally offended. ‘He’s top Tech. A great machine. You don’t —’

  ‘Thank you, Ivan. You can go home now,’ interrupted Martha, with a polite smile. ‘Just get back to us if you find out any more.’

  Ivan sou
nded surprised. ‘Oh. Right. Don’t need me?’

  ‘No. Just Howie.’

  ‘I’ll go then.’

  Martha held her smile. ‘Yes. And keep an eye on Brian. I think Howie could be right about that machine.’

  Ivan nodded weakly and left the room without another word.

  Martha grabbed Howie by the arm. ‘We’re leaving, too. We need to be at The Savoy in half an hour. I’ll explain why when we get there. First of all, I need to brief you on a few developments.’

  This sounded promising.

  Martha pulled Howie towards the door. She checked that Ivan had gone. Then they began the short march up the corridor. ‘We’ve identified a person of interest.’ She checked they were completely alone. ‘I had Oskar Polak followed after this morning’s Code Red crisis meeting.’

  ‘You can have vice presidents followed?’

  ‘I can have presidents followed, if it involves the security of the British Republic.’

  ‘Oskar did seem to be a man in a hurry this morning.’

  ‘Yes. He certainly was. That was what aroused my suspicions.’ Martha lowered her voice. ‘Oskar had three meetings today. The first was with those two other vice presidents that shadow him everywhere. That meeting was over so quickly, we didn’t have the chance to find out what it was about. But no matter – the second meeting was much more intriguing. It was a lunchtime rendezvous with a Russian businessman named Viktor Maxim.’

  ‘Maxim – I’ve heard that name before.’

  ‘You may well have. He’s well-connected and ruthless in business. And according to our files, he has suspected criminal connections. Anyway, Oskar and Maxim had lunch at The Savoy. Some “business” was discussed.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘They didn’t go into details. I assumed it was commercial, so I checked the register of vice presidents’ interests. But Oskar is one of the few VPs with no entries. If you believe the register, he has no business interests at all.’

  Something occurred to Howie. ‘You don’t think by “business” he might have meant … something more sinister?’

  ‘That did cross my mind.’

  Howie’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘Would Oskar really have his brother kidnapped? Or, you know …’ Howie didn’t want to say the word. He didn’t have to. Martha understood.