We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  As the consequences of this nightmare scenario began to play out in her mind, Britt spotted another man coming towards the square from The Mall. It couldn’t be? Not right this second? But it was. Those features. The coat, hat, scarf and sunglasses. That furious walk. They were unmistakeable. It was Oskar Polak. As soon as Oskar saw Howie, the vice president would turn round and head straight back to the palace. This was a nightmare within a nightmare.

  Britt swore at her luck. It was luck which had served her well for a day and a half, but which was now balancing things out by dropping her in this dire situation. It was time to take emergency action. Or, as Lord Nelson would have said, more desperate measures.

  Britt looked across at Cherry. She wasn’t paying her any attention. She had also seen Oskar in the crowd. Her gaze was fixed on his approaching figure – her body frozen. Howie was walking west. If he carried on for another fifteen seconds, he would walk straight past Cherry. Britt had to act now. She ran towards Howie, so she was between him and Cherry. ‘It’s me!’ she gushed, giving him a hug. ‘What a coincidence!’

  Howie stopped. ‘I’ve just been attacked by a bloody great seagull! It was the size of a small child. The cheeky bugger nearly took my head off – and made me drop my ice cream.’

  Britt put her arm round Howie, changing his direction of travel to the north. ‘I saw it all. That’s how I spotted you. Poor you.’

  Howie looked surprised. Britt didn’t blame him. Sympathy wasn’t an emotion she displayed regularly.

  ‘Are you feeling alright?’ asked Howie.

  ‘Great!’ chirped Britt, glancing over her shoulder. She could see that Oskar was about to use one of the pedestrian crossings that led to the square. She jolted her head back to face Howie, before he started staring in the same direction. ‘I’m just having a wander round. I was bored at home. You heading back to the palace?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t stop. People to see. You know how it is.’

  Britt did know how it was. Howie would probably be rushing back to update Martha Blake. If Britt had had a few spare seconds, she would have asked him where he’d just been. And why he was wearing such an expensive suit. But she had no time. So she kissed him on the cheek and gabbled a goodbye. ‘I’ll see you back at the pod.’ She pointed towards the north end of the square. ‘That way will be quicker. The traffic lights aren’t working on The Mall side.’

  Howie frowned. ‘They look like they’re working to me.’

  Britt adopted the confident tone of a traffic-signal expert. ‘They’re out of sequence.’

  Howie looked towards the crossing where Oskar was waiting. Before he had time to focus on any of the faces, Britt gave him a helping push towards the northern steps. ‘Best not to risk it, if you’re in a hurry.’ They waved to each other and Howie headed off. She waited a moment. He didn’t look back. Britt rushed back to the safety of Nelson’s column and took up her place again. She puffed out her cheeks in relief. That was close.

  A few seconds later, Oskar crossed the road and walked towards Cherry, who was still as stationary as the square’s bronze lions. Oskar stopped a couple of metres from Cherry and turned his back to her. He covered his mouth. He was asking a question – probably ‘Which bloody journalist is poking their nose into our business?’ Cherry didn’t respond. She just turned and looked at Britt, as if paralysed from the neck down. Time for action. Britt strode towards Oskar and stopped just in front of him. ‘Oskar Polak?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ snapped Oskar.

  ‘Britt Pointer from The Republican. I’m the journalist Cherry mentioned in her bleep. The one who’s been asking questions about your relationship.’

  Oskar’s facial muscles contorted. His jaw stiffened. His lips might even have trembled a fraction.

  Britt’s tone was firm and uncompromising. ‘I don’t have much time. And I imagine you don’t either. Shall we get down to business?’

  Oskar glared at Cherry. ‘You’ve the brains of a princess, bringing this woman here.’

  ‘I don’t want to be in the papers,’ croaked Cherry. ‘Just speak to her.’

  Oskar turned back to Britt. ‘Where’s your ID?’

  Britt plucked it from her pocket and held it up to his face.

  Oskar lowered his voice and leaned in to Britt. ‘I am the person you think I am. But there appears to have been a … misunderstanding.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Miss Blush and I are just good friends. We share interests. Film, the theatre, keeping fit. That type of thing.’

  Britt responded with a burst of rapid-fire statements. ‘You met Miss Blush yesterday afternoon outside American Fitness in Canary Wharf at around 4.20pm. You were wearing the same clothes and sunglasses as you are now. You went to a park bench nearby, where you broke off the affair. Miss Blush screamed your name and ran off. I came and sat next to you. I commented on your bleeper. You were sending a message. You didn’t want to be interrupted. You jumped up and disappeared into the crowds.’

  Oskar stared at her. ‘Quite the detective, aren’t we, Miss Pointer? But tell me one thing. Does your editor know you’ve been stalking a government vice president?’

  ‘I’m an investigative reporter. It’s what I do.’

  A smug look crept across Oskar’s face. ‘But your investigations yesterday revealed what? That two good friends met up and had an argument? That’s hardly the concrete evidence national newspaper editors require.’

  Britt reached into her bag and pulled out the photo of Cherry Blush outside a Westminster townhouse, with Oskar standing at the door. ‘I forgot to mention this.’

  Oskar studied the photo and took a sharp intake of breath. Then he breathed out and responded. ‘One photo proves nothing. Miss Blush sometimes pops round to my Westminster residence for coffee and a chat. There’s no crime in that.’

  ‘That’s just one of a hundred photos. Taken in various locations. At various times.’

  ‘Who took these?’ demanded Oskar.

  ‘A private detective agency. They’ve been tracking you for weeks.’

  ‘I told you some weirdo was following me,’ moaned Cherry. ‘But you told me not to be so bloody stupid.’

  Oskar sat down on the edge of the fountain and looked up at Britt. ‘What do you want from me?’

  Britt sat down next to him. ‘Your relationship with Miss Blush isn’t what I’m really interested in. I’m working on a much bigger story. One that you can help me with, vice president.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Oskar, sounding unenthusiastic.

  ‘It’s government-related. For your ears only. I just need you to answer a few questions.’

  ‘And if I don’t cooperate?’

  Britt inspected the photo and then slipped it back in her bag. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

  Oskar rubbed his chin and thought for a few seconds.

  ‘What’s there to think about?’ urged Cherry. ‘I don’t want my love life splashed all over the front pages. My granny will have a bloody heart attack!’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me, Miss Pointer,’ growled Oskar. ‘And I don’t like being blackmailed.’

  Britt thought the b-word might come up. But she was prepared. ‘Not at all. I have a factually accurate story that I can run with. But I would rather spend my time and energy on something much bigger. Help me with that, and the other story will disappear. I promise you.’

  ‘And how do I know you’re not just going to publish both stories?’

  ‘If I screwed people over all the time, I wouldn’t be where I am today.’

  Oskar didn’t look completely convinced. Possibly because he’d got where he was today by screwing people over all the time.

  Britt continued. ‘If you’ve read my articles you’ll know I’ve never written a trashy, tabloid story in my life. And I don’t really want to start this week.’ She took a step closer to him. ‘So help me.’ She glanced over at Cherry. ‘Help all of us.’

  Cherry looked hopeful
ly at Oskar. ‘You gonna help her then?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Oskar. ‘I don’t really have any choice.’

  Cherry stood up. ‘I can go then?’

  Britt nodded. ‘Yes. I don’t need you any more.’

  ‘You and him both,’ spluttered Cherry, before turning and striding away towards the Metro station.

  Oskar watched Cherry disappear down the Metro steps. Then he turned to Britt. ‘Let’s make it quick.’

  Britt was happy to oblige. ‘Where’s the president?’

  Oskar’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Just answer the question.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not my brother’s keeper.’

  ‘That’s because no one knows. He’s gone missing.’

  Oskar snorted. ‘Missing? Don’t be so ridiculous.’

  ‘The palace security cameras failed at eleven o’clock on Monday evening. He hasn’t been seen since. A Code Red crisis has been declared.’

  Oskar laughed it off. ‘Who told you that pile of old nonsense?’

  ‘A protected source that works at the palace.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. But you’ve been misinformed.’

  ‘I’ve also seen a classified bleep from Head of National Security and Intelligence Martha Blake confirming your brother’s disappearance.’

  ‘Well, whatever you saw – and misunderstood – it wasn’t sent to me.’

  ‘Why don’t you bleep Jan? We’ll see if he responds.’

  ‘He’s a very busy man. Presidents normally are. It could take hours for him to respond.’ He clasped his hands. ‘Now, I’ve answered your questions. I suggest we bring this discussion to a close. So everyone can … move on from all this.’

  Oskar’s defensive manoeuvres were even more impressive than she’d feared. Britt clearly wasn’t going to get confirmation of the president’s disappearance during this little chat. But she wasn’t finished yet. ‘Okay. But for your information, I have confirmed sources; there’s nothing to stop me writing my missing-president story.’ Nothing except George’s insistence on a third source. But Oskar didn’t know that. ‘It will speculate about who might succeed your brother if he isn’t around for the Republican nomination tomorrow.’

  Britt hoped Oskar would probe further. And he did. ‘Will it mention me in that context?’

  ‘No.’

  Oskar’s eyebrows nearly took off. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Haven’t you read this morning’s Daily Democrat? There’s an interview with Zayn Winner. Lover of life. Man of the people. Feeder of ducks. He’s the obvious successor.’

  Oskar exploded into a hushed rage. ‘Zayn Winner?! There are members of the Royal Family with more brain cells than him. You’re not seriously going to propose the best vice president for the job is a washed-up Hollywood halfwit? That’s just absurd!’

  ‘Who then?’ asked Britt, with fake uncertainty.

  Oskar attempted a warm smile. He failed miserably. ‘If what you say about my brother disappearing is true – and I’m not saying it is – then I would be the obvious choice to succeed him. I have the skills, personality and experience for the job.’ He waited for Britt to acknowledge this fact. She didn’t. He continued anyway. ‘Others may have more … popular appeal, but it could be dangerous to set the citizens’ thoughts running in that direction. It might gain a momentum that could damage the real candidate’s chances. So, if you’re going to write this piece tomorrow – despite everything I’ve told you about it not being true – I would suggest you name me as the best choice to replace Jan. Do you understand my meaning?’

  Britt understood his meaning all right. Oskar was planning to run for president. And he wanted the media on his side from the start. If her missing-president story suggested a charismatic former film star would be the Republic’s next leader, it could create expectations in the twelve hours between the first edition of Thursday’s Republican hitting the news stands at eleven o’clock tonight and the big announcement tomorrow. She could visualise the Independence Day crowds outside the palace on Thursday morning. Traditionally, they chanted the president’s name as they waited. But, as the news spread of Britt’s story, they would stop chanting Jan Polak’s name. They would start chanting Zayn’s name. Then Oskar would appear on the balcony. It would be like turning up at the West End premiere, only to see the understudy in the leading role. It would be the worst possible start to Oskar’s presidential campaign. And they both knew it. Which meant she could use it to get some more information out of Oskar.

  ‘I could change my viewpoint on a possible successor,’ suggested Britt. ‘I would just need to know one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If the president wasn’t going to stand again, for whatever reason, when and where would the vice presidents select the Republican Party’s candidate?’

  His reply was instant. ‘On the record, I couldn’t possibly say. Off the record, four o’clock this afternoon in the State Dining Room.’

  Britt nodded. Martha Blake’s classified e-comm to Howie had mentioned a nomination meeting some time today. So it looked like Oskar was telling the truth for once. ‘Would there be any way I could find out the result of such a meeting before eleven tomorrow morning?’

  Oskar shook his head. ‘No. The need for secrecy is written into the constitution. Revealing the name beforehand to anyone outside of the meeting would be a breach of a vice president’s constitutional duties. And that kind of breach wouldn’t look good on anyone’s CV. Especially someone who was running for president.’

  Britt thought about mentioning Maxim. But then she thought again. Maxim wasn’t central to her story. And Oskar might alert Maxim to Britt’s interest if she did. The last thing she needed on the most important day of her journalistic career was an angry Russian on her case. No. Her story would focus on the president’s disappearance and his possible successor.

  Oskar stood up. He smiled like a fox who’d just been invited inside by a family of overweight chickens. ‘I believe we have an understanding.’

  ‘Yes. We do.’

  ‘Then I shall get back to my business. And you can get back to yours. Then tomorrow … well, who knows what tomorrow will bring.’

  A front page, thought Britt. About you and your brother.

  Chapter 33

  Howie was just a couple of minutes away from the gates of Buckingham Palace. With any luck, that annoying pair of police officers wouldn’t be on duty. After his close encounter with a seagull and the pointless detour Britt had sent him on, he didn’t need any more hold ups. At least he was now on The Mall, looking towards the palace and the balcony that would be the focus of the nation’s attention tomorrow morning. As he gazed up at it, he felt his bleeper vibrate in his trouser pocket. He pulled it out. The name on the e-comm wasn’t one that filled him with joy. It was Maurice Skeets. Again. Another unwanted distraction. He read his message:

  Howie, you’ve gone quiet. Anything else you want to tell me about those meetings? I’ve heard there’s someone in the president’s office this week. A pair of eyes that sees everything. Someone checking up on King Jan, are they? Making sure he doesn’t sneak off for any more secret meetings, eh? Why don’t you let me know? Put your side of the story, before it leaks out and this whole thing blows up. Bleep me. Maurice.

  Howie stopped. A pair of eyes who sees everything? He must mean Martha. But Maurice didn’t give her name. And Howie knew Maurice well. If he had known the name, he would have been upfront about it. That could only mean one thing. Maurice had been talking to someone inside the palace. A source who didn’t want to give Martha’s name for some reason.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a man overtook him on the pavement. A man who looked just like the president from behind. He put away his bleeper and rubbed his eyes. Could that really be him? Could Jan Polak have returned from wherever he’d been for the last day and a half and be returning to Buckingham Palace, as if he’d just popped ou
t for a sandwich? He called out. ‘Hey, Jan! Is that you? It’s me, Howie.’

  The man stopped and turned. ‘No, it’s not Jan. It’s Oskar. And I’m in a hurry.’

  Howie couldn’t turn down this opportunity to speak to Oskar face-to-face. ‘Wait a second,’ he shouted and hurried the twenty metres to where Oskar was standing. ‘I’ve got something to ask you.’

  Oskar curled his lip. ‘If it’s a media enquiry, I’m not interested.’

  ‘No. It’s a Howie Pond enquiry.’

  ‘Then be quick.’

  ‘The nomination meeting at four – I just wondered if you’ll be putting your name forward if Jan doesn’t show up.’

  Oskar pouted his annoyance. ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘I’ll have to deal with the media fallout tomorrow,’ explained Howie. ‘If Jan’s not around, I’ll have to work with that individual on statements, press briefings, that kind of thing. And if that person eventually becomes president, we’ll probably be working together.’ Probably, in that Howie had more experience and talent for the job than anyone else in the civil service. But that didn’t always count for much when it came to the vice presidents’ way of thinking.

  Oskar clasped his hands. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Howie. Whichever vice president is chosen – whether that’s myself or someone else – I doubt very much they will want you as their media mouthpiece.’

  ‘With respect, I’m not a mouthpiece. I’m a comms professional with fifteen years’ experience as a presidential spokesperson and head of comms. And after ten years in power, the majority of media are still very supportive of your brother. That doesn’t happen by accident.’

  ‘Yes. But you’re very much Jan’s man. The rest of us have our own ideas about media and communications. New ideas.’

  Uninformed ideas. Simplistic ideas. Dangerous ideas. He’d heard them all hundreds of times before. Howie puffed out his chest. ‘I’ll be presidential spokesperson and head of comms until someone in authority tells me otherwise.’