by Paul Mathews
‘Howie’s been given three names,’ explained Martha. ‘All you have to do is tell us if you’re aware of the president meeting any of them. Officially or unofficially. Then Howie can formulate a response to the journalist. Understood?’
Kaia-Liisa nodded.
Martha began the questioning. ‘First name – Olga Frik, chief executive of Auto-Tech Industries.’
Kaia-Liisa gave the question considerable thought before replying. ‘I remember the president asked me for Olga Frik’s contact details two or three weeks ago. I obtained them for him. That was the end of my involvement.’
‘And did he meet her?’
‘Not through official channels.’
‘What about unofficial ones?’
‘I only know about official business.’
‘So you only discuss official engagements?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never discuss unofficial engagements? For example, ones that might conflict with official engagements?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. Our next name is Petra Putinov.’
After several more seconds of thinking, Kaia-Liisa shook her head. ‘No.’
‘The name means nothing to you at all?’
‘Nothing.’
Martha frowned. ‘Maybe we’ll have more luck with the last name. Sky Eastern – the chairwoman of Eastern Oil.’
Brian swivelled his head in their direction. ‘Brian can see that you are busy and he is disturbing you. Brian will return when the president’s office is free.’ The auto-tech then glided out of the room.
Howie turned to Martha. ‘I don’t trust that bloody machine.’
Martha sighed. ‘You’re in danger of becoming obsessed, Howie.’ She turned back to Kaia-Liisa. ‘Now, Sky Eastern – did Jan ever meet her?’
Kaia-Liisa responded immediately. ‘Yes. The president met Ms Eastern at a charity fundraising event last summer. It was an official engagement. I remember her office calling to confirm that the president would be attending.’
‘And there was no more official contact after that?’
‘Not through me.’
‘And you’re not aware of any unofficial contact?’
‘It wouldn’t come through me.’
‘So, just to be clear – you’re never aware of any unofficial business whatsoever?’
‘No, Martha.’
‘Because working in this office, you might overhear something. Or see a scribbled note, for example. Something like that.’
‘I can see how someone might think that happens.’ Kaia-Liisa paused. ‘But it doesn’t.’
Martha stared at Kaia-Liisa. The private secretary gazed back at her with the same emotion-free expression she’d maintained throughout the whole conversation. After a few seconds Martha spoke. ‘Thank you, Kaia-Liisa. That’s everything for now.’
Kaia-Liisa got up. ‘I need to get back to a team meeting.’ She turned and walked calmly from the room.
Martha turned to Howie. ‘Well, that went well. It was absolutely no use whatsoever.’
Howie got up. ‘Well, if it’s unofficial, the chances are Kaia-Liisa isn’t going to know about it.’ He walked over to the large digi-screen on the wall and turned it on. ‘The seven o’clock bulletin will be on in a minute. I want to double-check there’s nothing running on the news.’
The digi-screen burst into life. It was perfect timing. A female newsreader announced the main headlines. There was nothing political. Not even a mention of preparations for Independence Day. Howie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about the media today.’
After a couple of minutes, the bulletin ended. Then another presenter came on the screen. ‘Coming up in the next hour on Rise and Shine – have you found the American in you? If not, the new book from the country’s First Lady is going to tell us how. She’ll be here on the sofa at 7.45am.’
‘For king’s sake!’ shouted Howie. ‘What the hell is she doing?! We can’t have her going on live digi-screen when we’re still at Code Red!’
Martha jumped up. ‘You’d better get down to the studios. How far away are they?’
‘Half an hour’s drive, at least.’
‘Take my car. Go on. Go!’
Howie ran from the office. This was really going to bugger up his morning.
Chapter 24
Britt was back in the newsroom at The Republican. The digital clock on the wall told her it was 7.30am. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been here this early. But she wished she’d done it more often. The office was unrecognisable from the four-letter chaos that normally greeted her at half past nine every day. In fact, she hadn’t even heard a three-letter word since she arrived fifteen minutes ago. Just a two-letter one – ‘Hi’. And that had been grunted, not spoken, by two colleagues finishing their night shift.
It was Britt’s idea of paradise. No one was paying her any attention. That meant no one asking awkward questions about why she was in the office again on a day off. No one was boring her about their non-functioning Tech. And no one was engaging her in tedious small talk about the outside world. At the moment, the only world Britt cared about was her world – the world of the missing president.
Britt stared at her e-terminal. She had already sketched out a few bullet points for her story:
• Jan Polak last seen at Buckingham Palace on Monday evening
• Security blunder – private quarters not patrolled
• Security cameras failed
• Code Red crisis launched on Tuesday morning
• Search of palace and grounds found nothing
• Republican presidential nomination due on Thursday
She could feel her heart beating faster. She imagined her colleagues’ reaction when they read the story tomorrow. The speechless mouths. The dropped jaws. The disbelieving stares. Hundreds of millions of people around the world would be reacting in the same way. The global news agenda would be focused on the British Republic and the whereabouts of its lost president. All because of one journalist – Britt Pointer. A journalist whose guts, determination and investigative instincts had unearthed the story of the year. No. It would be the story of the decade. Maybe even the story of the century?
She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. She must stay calm. She still needed that third source to confirm the story – someone who wasn’t from palace security or the security service. It was far from clear who that was going to be. Not everyone was as dumb as Herbert the security guy. And she wouldn’t know the PIN for anyone else’s bleeper. That meant it would probably have to be someone in the president’s inner circle.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shrieking voice from behind her. ‘Hello, stranger! What are you doing here again on your day off? Boyfriend kicked you out, has he?!’
Britt didn’t have to turn around to see who was cackling at her own joke. She could identify that voice from ten kilometres away. It was Rosie Parker.
Britt hunched closer to her e-terminal to obscure the words on the screen. ‘I’m working on something for next week.’
‘Anything interesting?’ asked Rosie, coming alongside Britt to take a closer look.
‘Not really.’
‘Don’t be shy.’
‘I told you, it’s not interesting,’ growled Britt, saving the e-file and closing it down.
Rosie raised her eyebrows theatrically. ‘No? I thought I saw the name “Jan Polak” on your screen’. And the words “Buckingham Palace”. That sounds interesting to me.’
Britt had to think quickly. Luckily, she’d already drunk a cup of coffee. The neurons fired in her brain and delivered a lightning-fast excuse. ‘It was a list of questions from yesterday’s interview with the First Lady. I loaded it by mistake.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Rosie. ‘Is that all?’ She sat down at Britt’s old desk and switched on the e-terminal. ‘By the way, your feature on the First Lady is in today’s paper. They didn’t put your name on it, though.’
> George had kept his word. Britt nodded an acknowledgement to Rosie, in the hope that she would stop talking. She didn’t.
‘I know why you wanted to stay anonymous, Britt.’
She jolted her head sideways, so she could see Rosie’s expression. Did she somehow know about Britt’s investigation? Had George let something slip? She swallowed hard. Then she spoke in a deadpan voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Britt. You know what I mean.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t.’
‘Do I have to spell it out to you?’
‘Yes.’
Rosie sighed. ‘Dear, oh dear!’
If Rosie didn’t answer Britt’s question in the next ten seconds, there was a good chance blood was going to be spilled. Britt counted the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six. Rosie opened her mouth as she reached seven. Britt clenched her fist as she counted eight. Rosie responded on the count of nine.
‘You don’t want people reading it and knowing it’s you,’ announced Rosie.
Britt kept her fist clenched. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
Rosie half-smiled, half-sneered. ‘How can I phrase this?’
‘Just say what you’ve got to say.’
Rosie turned away. ‘It was a terrible feature. One of the worst I’ve ever read. I’m sorry, Britt. That’s just my opinion. But I am an expert on these things; I’ve worked on features before, so my opinion counts.’ She gave an insincere smile. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’
Britt bit her lip.
Rosie picked up a copy of the Daily Democrat on her desk. ‘There’s a much better feature by Mina Pritti in here. Well, it’s news and a feature all rolled into one. It’s about that vice president who used to be an actor – Zayn Winner. You should read it. You could pick up a few tips from her.’
Britt bit her lip even harder – so hard, she could taste blood in her mouth.
‘Then again, he is a great interviewee,’ continued Rosie. ‘So open. A people person – like me. If I wasn’t stuck in here, I’d be off to St James’ Park to help him with those ducks.’
‘What ducks?’
Rosie tossed the newspaper over to Britt. ‘You’ve got eyes. Read it yourself. I’m busy with news stuff now.’ She bashed her fist on her keyboard. ‘Bloody hell, this machine never seems to get going before half nine. It’s probably spent too much time working with you, eh, Britt?’ Rosie’s cackle echoed around the walls – until the other two people on the news desk told her, in words of more than three letters, to keep the noise down.
But Britt didn’t hear her colleagues’ requests. She was too busy scanning Mina Pritti’s article. Rosie was right. Zayn Winner was talkative. He wasn’t an ordinary politician. He actually answered journalists’ questions.
Britt reached the last few paragraphs. Here was what Rosie had been rambling about – Zayn Winner’s Wednesday morning routine of feeding the ducks on the bridge in St James’ Park at nine o’clock. Where, according to the article, he would ‘gladly pose for photos and sign autographs for his legions of fans’.
An idea entered Britt’s head. Maybe Pellie Cann could make another appearance in the park and intercept the Government’s most vocal vice president? Why not? It sounded like Zayn Winner would love to meet an American fan.
Rosie got up and walked over to Britt. ‘What do you think? Great article, yeah? I might see if I can get a one-to-one with him myself.’
Not before me, you won’t, thought Britt.
Rosie picked up the copy of the Daily Democrat and walked back to her seat. ‘There’s a funny story on page five. It’s about this woman. She was a tourist, they reckon. There was this traffic jam in Trafalgar Square yesterday and she couldn’t cross the road. So she jumped on these three racing cars and caused hundreds of thousands of pounds of damage. Then she ran off towards The Mall. Sounds like your kind of story.’ Rosie crinkled her nose in a show of fake sympathy. ‘Shame you’re not on news any more.’
Britt didn’t respond. She had heard the words. But her brain hadn’t processed them. Instead, she had been working out if she had time to go back to her pod, get into her Pellie Cann disguise, and get to St James’ Park for nine. She did – but only just.
‘So who do you think she was, Britt? Must have been a desperate woman to —’
‘Not now, Rosie. I’ve got to go.’
Rosie frowned. ‘Oh. Something I said, was it?’
‘Yes. It was, actually.’ And Britt turned and left for home.
Chapter 25
Howie’s government car had been cruising round the Media World industrial estate for the last ten minutes. The Rise and Shine studios were here somewhere. But where? It sounded a straightforward question. But it wasn’t. Every tall grey building looked like the one before it. Road junctions were identical. Trees were equally spaced. And the storm raging outside wasn’t helping the search.
Howie slumped back in the passenger seat and gazed out the window at the charcoal clouds. They were dumping gallons of water in every direction, and showing no signs of stopping. As the drumbeat of water on the car’s roof intensified, the driver started up a conversation.
‘Interesting feature in The Republican today, sir, about the First Lady. Did you read it?’
‘In today’s paper?’
‘Yes, sir. About her new book.’
This was all Howie needed. ‘Who was it by?’
‘Didn’t say.’
Did it mention the president?’
‘Once or twice.’
Howie would have to phrase his next question carefully. ‘Anything … newsworthy?’
‘Not that I remember, sir.’
That was a relief. But not unexpected. The First Lady tended to reserve her sensible interviews for newspapers. Her less reserved performances were always on digi-screen. More specifically, live digi-screen – a performance that couldn’t be edited. Once it was out there, it was out there.
They passed a sign for the studios. But the driver carried on.
‘Didn’t we just go past the turning?’ asked Howie, looking through the rain-soaked rear windscreen.
‘The Navi-Tech says it’s straight on.’
‘But I’m sure there was a sign back there for the studios.’
‘Difficult to see in this deluge, sir. The Tech is telling me it’s up here on the right. It’s one of the new models. It’s not often wrong.’
Howie’s eyes were old models. But they weren’t often wrong either. ‘The sign for the studios definitely pointed left.’
‘If I ignore the Tech, sir, and you’re late because of me, I’ll be in hot water. So let’s just have a quick look up here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Alright,’ sighed Howie. He checked his bleeper. The stupid thing was still asking him for his six-digit PIN, which he still couldn’t remember. It wouldn’t even give him the time of day. The digital clock on the driver’s dashboard suggested it was 7.38am.
‘Is your clock correct?’ asked Howie.
‘Yes, sir. Give or take a couple of minutes.’
‘Fast or slow?’
‘Slow, I think.’
That meant it was probably 7.40am. The First Lady would be live on air in five minutes. And here was Howie – once again – at the mercy of a machine.
‘No, you were right, sir,’ announced the driver, thirty seconds later. ‘The Navi-Tech has changed its mind. I should have turned left, where you said. I’m stuck in this one-way loop now. And there’s someone behind me. We’ll have to go round again.’
That would take another five minutes. Time that Howie didn’t have. ‘Stop the car,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll go on foot from here.’
‘On foot, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll get soaked.’
Judging by the intensity of the storm, that was a best-case scenario. ‘I know. Just let me out.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
The driver brought the car to a halt. Howie flung open the passenger door, jumpe
d out and ran in the direction of the studio, across a muddy patch of grass. As he ran, he remembered the First Lady’s previous appearances on the Rise and Shine sofa. Each time, she had disclosed sensitive information about the president for cheap publicity and bigger book sales. And the presenters knew exactly how to extract the maximum amount of information from her. The editorial team had probably come in early this morning, to draw up a list of killer questions. Has the president found the American inside him? Are the Royal Family better off staying in Florida? Did the First Lady or president ever date an American? He felt his stomach rumble. It had nothing to do with hunger. It was stress gripping his digestive system.
Howie kept running for what seemed like half an hour, but was actually three minutes. Each step felt heavier as more mud clung to his leather shoes. Each breath became harder as his airways contracted. Each heartbeat thundered louder as his body demanded more oxygen.
A thought sprang into his mind. He was forty-two years old. He shouldn’t be doing this. Even James Bond would object to sprinting across muddy grass in his best shoes in a tropical rainstorm. While contemplating this, Howie failed to spot a puddle ahead of him. His left foot landed on it and skidded forward on the saturated ground. The rest of his body could only watch in horror as he lost all control and gravity pulled him downwards. Two seconds later he was flat on his back, gazing up at the clouds as they dumped even more water on him. He could feel mud on his neck, hands and ankles. He didn’t have time to fill the air with four-letter words. He peeled himself off the ground and got up. He took a step forward. Then his standing foot gave way. And he fell face first onto the ground.
The mud was everywhere now. In his hair. Up his nose. In his mouth. He pushed his hands into the sodden turf and rocked back on his knees. He looked up at the heavens. The gods were up there somewhere. Having a good laugh at his expense. But he wouldn’t let them beat him. His name was Pond. Howie Pond. He was a man on a mission. A very muddy man, but he couldn’t let that get in the way of things. He mustn’t let the First Lady reach that bright yellow sofa. He leapt to his feet and continued running to the studio entrance, which was now in sight.
