Watchers

by S. T. Boston

  “Very well. We have other lines of enquiry to follow up, ones that will hopefully prove fruitful. It's a loose end my superiors would like to tie up.” Finch waved the gun nonchalantly in the air, hiding the frustration caused by Peterson's accurate analysis of the situation. Even if he extracted a location from him, it would no doubt prove to be a lie. Besides, his orders were to make sure none of them were left alive by the end of the night. Peterson would be dead before they could figure out whether he'd sent them on a wild goose chase. With the Tabut dormant for thousands of years and no Key Tablet to activate it, it provided no risk as far as he was concerned. Trying to find it was a waste of resources.

  “Well, Euri, we'd hoped that you might have seen sense, might have wanted to live and help us shape our new future, the one you and your people robbed us of. But as I suspected, it was a waste of time.” Finch raised the gun and levelled it squarely at Peterson's head. “One good head shot for an instant death,” he announced, as though considering his options, “or destroy your heart and let you slip away slowly over the next hour?” He waved the gun between Peterson's head and his heart and back again in a taunting fashion. “Even I'm not devoid of mercy, despite what your kind has put my people through.” He swung the gun back to Peterson's head and Peterson closed his eyes. He would never open them again.

  Finch fired a single shot, and the bullet passed cleanly through Peterson's skull, lodging itself securely into the plastered wall behind him, splattering the tiles with blood and tissue. The force of the blast knocked his chair over, and his limp body fell backwards. Peterson's shattered skull hit the tiled floor with a soggy thwaaaack. Blood poured from the wound and trickled along the grouting in small, geometric rivers of red.

  Finch retrieved his jacket and brushed a few specks of dust from the sleeve, concealing the pistol at the same time. As he left the room, he removed a small radio from his trouser pocket. “It's Finch. Can you get a clean-up crew to room four? Needless to say, he never took the deal!” He didn't wait for a reply before placing the small handset back in his pocket.

  Time was short and he had an appointment with the President.

  Chapter 2

  President John Remy began to feel the stress of the day slowly ebbing from his tired, aching body. Unscrewing the cap from a shot-sized bottle of bourbon, he poured the contents into an ornately decorated crystal glass. As he shook the last drops out, the ice cracked in protest as the warmer liquid swirled around it. Placing the empty bottle to one side, he added a measure of tonic water and gave the drink a gentle swirl before taking a sip. The taste of the warm, sour mixture against his tongue instantly relieved a little more stress from his tense muscles. Drink in hand, he padded across the presidential suite of the JW Marriott and eased himself onto the plush sofa before taking another generous mouthful. Savouring the icy burn, he turned on the television and put his feet up on the coffee table. Scouting through the vast array of programs available, he selected BBC News 24 and was met with a potted review of the last day of the World Summit. A middle-aged female reporter, who in Remy's opinion had more of a face for radio, was in the middle of a live broadcast covering the day's events. A brief montage of the speech given by Euri Peterson cut in and out of her report as she highlighted the important parts.

  “Euri Peterson claims that by using the technologies developed by his company, we can expect to see the production of oil-fuelled combustion engines cease inside the next ten years,” she began. “He followed this up with the bold claim that we can expect to see the world free of fossil fuel dependency by 2080. His claims were met by a wave of applause, but I'm sure there are those in the oil industry who won't be so pleased by these developments, despite the ever dwindling oil supplies. As you know if there were ever any future issues between Russia and the west, they could literally put a stranglehold on the world. A situation that everyone is keen to avoid” The reporter's face on the screen was replaced by the studio anchor.

  Remy was certain there was a significant amount of grief heading his and Euri's way from the oil firms – not to mention the loss in tax revenue worldwide. The American oil fields had all but run dry, and despite repeated surveys in the North Sea, the same could be said for Europe. The Siberian fields, now under Russian control, were the main ones left and it was down to them to see the world through to a time when hydro power could take over. You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, he thought to himself, remembering the old cliché. Governments would have to adapt. The bigger picture was what mattered here, not bottom line profits, and the price of oil per barrel was creeping ever upward.

  “And what of the keynote speech by President Remy?” asked the anchor in his pristine British accent.

  The camera switched back to the reporter. “More landmark moments, Mike. President Remy is claiming that all peacekeeping activities and the military presence throughout the Middle East will cease in the next six months. We've seen an unprecedented period of peace in the region, seven months have passed since the last suicide bombing, which claimed the lives of fifteen civilians in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. I'm sure the American people must be wondering who is going to fill such big shoes, when President Remy's second term in office comes to an end next year.”

  The footage cut back to the summit and Remy watched a similar montage of himself, which covered the juicier parts of his speech. Even after all these years in the public eye, he still found it uncomfortable to watch himself. Reaching for the remote, he switched the set off and drained the last of the bourbon and tonic from the glass, before placing it on the perfectly polished table. Standing up, he made his way through to the bathroom to prepare for bed. It was set to be another long day tomorrow, with an early departure on Air Force One, followed by more meetings and conference calls on the flight back to Washington.

  Remy brushed his teeth before making his way back to the lounge to tidy a few things away. He definitely needed sleep, but with so much to do tomorrow, he doubted it would come easily. As he shut and latched his briefcase, a knock came from the door.

  “Come in,” he called, placing the briefcase on a luxurious oriental-styled chair. The head of his Secret Service task force made his way into the room, clutching a chilled bottle of mineral water. “Ah, Agent Finch,” Remy exclaimed.

  “Mr. President,” Special Agent Robert Finch replied with a nod. “As requested, sir, one mineral water. I'll make sure room service is informed that the mini bar wasn't stocked.”

  “I wouldn't worry too much,” Remy replied, “just set it down on the table.”

  Finch made his way across the room and placed the bottle on an ornate metal coaster. “Good speech today, sir,” he commented. “I think your hard work has finally paid off.”

  “Well, I've never been one to count my chickens, as you know,” he replied, “but I think we might finally be seeing an end to the years of war and unrest in the region.” Remy walked over and took the bottle of water. “Are you the late shift tonight?” he asked, cracking the screw cap and tipping the contents of the bottle into a fresh glass. Finch eyed him as he gulped half the chilled liquid in one long swallow, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Yes sir, on the red eye shift tonight. I'm on post right outside your door.” Finch edged a step or two back, waiting to be dismissed.

  “Excellent, I'll sleep soundly tonight then,” Remy commented, still holding the half-full glass.

  Special Agent Robert Finch had joined his security detail in the week Remy took office. He'd been one of the youngest Secret Service Agents ever tasked with Presidential protection, taking up the role at the age of twenty-two, after graduating from West Point at the top of his class, with a bachelor's degree in Military Sciences. Over the past nine years, he'd worked his way through the ranks. Now, as Remy's second and final term in office was reaching its conclusion, Finch was head of the Presidential security detail, at the tender age of thirty-one. Remy hoped Finch would choose to stay on for the ten years of Secret
Service protection afforded to former Presidents', but he suspected such a young high flyer would be tasked back to Washington, to rise further through the ranks.

  “I've prepared the security detail for the morning, Mr. President,” he stated. “The car will be picking you up at eight am sharp, the local police and our agents will have the route secured, and we should be wheels up and heading home by nine thirty.”

  “Thank you, Robert,” Remy replied, opting to use the agent's first name, as he often did when they were alone. After all, he'd known the man for nine years and in that time, he'd come to like him. He respected both his drive and his ambition. “That will be all for now. I'd better try and get some sleep,” he concluded, turning and carrying his glass through to the bedroom.

  “Very good, Mr. President. Sleep well,” Finch replied, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

  Remy changed into his pyjamas. The sight of the Presidential Seal on the breast of the shirt always made him smile. Almost everything was personalised and offered a constant reminder of his position – as if he could ever forget. The freshly laundered linen was cool and crisp against his skin, a stark contrast to the humid and draining weather outside; even at night the heat seemed relentless. Draining the last of his water, he touched the base of the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The thick, tailor-made blackout curtains ensured none of the bright city lights filtered into the lavish suite.

  Lying in the dark, Remy closed his eyes and tried hard not to think of the conference call meetings he would need to make on Air Force One in the morning; however, the more he tried to avoid thinking about it, the more it crept into his mind. Sleep or not, it would be nice to be back in the cooler, crisper air of DC tomorrow. The humidity and heat of Kuala Lumpur were draining. Even though he spent so much of the time in air-conditioned buildings, it was like opening an oven door every time he stepped outside. The pungent heat helped retain the fumes and pollution from the countless motor vehicles that seemed to clog the streets, twenty-four hours a day. The smog hung constantly in the air, fouling every breath. He wondered how long it would take the air quality to improve in these Asian cities. once the world's dependence on fossil fuels was finally at an end. Thankfully, such a day would soon be a reality.

  As the random thoughts filled his brain, the first waves of sleep crept up on him. Not something he was used to, sleep had never come easily, even before he'd held the most powerful job on the planet. The drowsiness increased, but with it, Remy started to experience a deep burning sensation in his chest. Something's wrong, he thought, a slight vein of panic running through his body. Propping himself up in bed, he tried to force back the sleep that was suddenly so desperate to claim him. The burning in his chest grew, spreading to his throat and mouth. His hands were shaking; something was definitely wrong, very wrong! He reached out with a clammy hand and located the lamp. Just brushing its cool metallic base brought the light back to life cast the darkness back to the very edges of the large bedroom. forced himself to sit up, swinging his legs out of the bed. He struggled to fill his lungs with air; sharp pains stabbed through his chest like a hundred daggers. His mind raced, trying to figure out what was happening. The room around him began to multiply. First, he could see two doors and then three, before they started to spin. He closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping to cast the sensation off. For a few short seconds, it helped to steady his sight and he searched the bedside unit to locate the Presidential Panic Button. Reaching for it, he froze as realization hit. Someone had gotten to him; he was in no doubt that a deadly poison was coursing through his veins – but how? Surely no normal poisons could touch him, they would just flush straight through his system without leaving him with so much as a headache. The gravity of what this meant was more than he could comprehend in his worsening state. He needed to get to his briefcase, and fast. Straining to stand and force his legs to take his weight, he placed a steadying hand on the bedside table. His hand slipped, knocking the empty glass to the floor. His legs gave out beneath him and he went down hard. Face down on the carpet, he caught sight of the glass, laying on its side. The water, he thought, Finch brought me the water, it's the last thing I drank. His brain refused to accept that Finch had any part in this, but reason told him otherwise. Earlier in the day, Finch had commented on the fact there was still no still mineral water in the fridge. He'd personally gone to get a bottle, knowing his Commander in Chief took a glass before bed every night, without fail.

  More pain thrashed through his chest, snapping him out of his delirium. The briefcase! he thought again, I need to get to the briefcase. Summoning all his strength, he crawled across the thick, carpet, digging his fingers into its ample pile. It was a mere six feet to the chair where he'd left his briefcase, but it seemed like six miles. Blindly he reached up, fumbling, before he managed to knock it from the chair. If they got to me, he thought, they must have gotten to the others. The latches sprang open at his light touch. He blindly spilled the paperwork onto the floor; his heart beating so fast he thought it was trying to break right out of his body. Trying to focus through watering eyes, Remy tore the bottom lining of the briefcase free and reached desperately beneath it. Finding the flat, piano-black disc, he rolled onto his back and let out a shaky sigh of relief before pushing his thumb against the surface. Instantly the disc sprang to life, scanning his print and biometric signature. When the process ended, the surface transformed from black to bright green, releasing the disc into his fingers. “Yes, yes,” the President gasped. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Remy clawed his way across the floor to the ensuite bathroom, each movement harder to manage than the last. The bathroom tiles were icy against his skin, sending a wave of uncontrolled shivers through his sweat-drenched body. In a final, desperate movement he threw the disc into the toilet and pulled the chain, activating the flush. Clinging onto the white porcelain rim like a drunken teenager at a keg party, Remy watched the disc spin around the bowl twice before disappearing. Pain exploded through his chest, stronger, more intense, and he released his grip on the toilet and fell to the cold tiles. Lying there in the dimly lit bathroom, Remy's vision blurred and darkened. Pain racked his dying body, and he closed his eyes and watched bright white sparks of light dance in front of his eyelids. With his last coherent thoughts, Remy prayed his message had been received, because if the other three had been compromised, there was only one hope left.

  * * *

  Finch checked his watch; ten minutes had passed since he'd left the suite. Fishing in his pocket, he removed the Presidential Panic Alarm and eyed it uneasily, expecting it to activate at any second and send a team of his best agents rushing to help the Commander in Chief. As the eleventh minute ticked by he relaxed a little. Surely by now, Remy was dead. Finch checked his watch again. Though only thirty seconds had passed, to him it seemed to have ticked away as slowly as an hour. Even though he'd clocked three deaths in a single night, this one had his nerves on edge. This was the final stage; his last nine years of service had all been leading to this one moment. The rewards for the completion of his mission would be great. He was to be given The Gift; it would push him through the ranks to the same social status as the few Elders who remained. He wondered what his new orders would be, no doubt something grand for the next stage of the plan. Once he possessed The Gift, no one could deny him a role in shaping the great future that was to come. Gazing down the hall he eyed Tom Richards, the agent in his line of sight. Richards was just another sheep, like the billions of others crawling all over the planet, ignorant to what was happening right under their noses.

  Twenty minutes. Finch allowed himself to relax fully. He'd seen Remy drink half the water; just a sip was enough to kill him. By the time they found the President's body, there would be no trace of the poison left in his system. Even if they tested any water left in the glass, no trace of the substance would be found. No, it would appear to all that the great Jonathan Remy had died tragically of a heart attack during the
night.

  The nation would mourn his loss. No other president had been loved the way the American people loved Remy. In his nine years of office, he'd managed to repair the struggling Obama Care health scheme left by the previous administration. Now, thanks to Remy, good, fair healthcare was accessible no matter what the patient's social status. His peace-keeping work had seen the end of all conflict in the Middle East and doors had been opened for negotiations with countries such as North Korea. There had even been talk of changing the constitution to allow him to run for a third term. Remy had put a stop to it, claiming the constitution was sacred and should be adhered to. In truth, he'd been ready to take a step back. But the president had not been truthful to his people, they didn't know who he really was. Finch did. Finch had always known. After nine years of working next to his enemy, it was a relief to have finished the job.

  Twenty-five minutes. Finch slipped the Presidential Alarm Fob back into his pocket. It wouldn't sound now. “Richards!” he called.

  “Yes, sir?” The agent turned to face him from the other end of the hall.

  “I'm needed down in ops, something about changes to the security detail for the morning. I'll send Agent Blake up to cover my post.”

  Richards nodded, he was a typical ex jar-head. Stern features and a square jaw was complimented by a buzz cut, so short it made it hard to tell if his hair was truly brown or a little mousier. “Sure, no problem, sir. I can cover the hallway. Nothing would get past the elevator anyway,” he said confidently, adjusting his post so he could see both the door to the President's suite and the agent standing by the elevator.

  Leaving his post, Finch made his way past Richards, patting him on the shoulder in appreciation. The agent by the elevator had the door open, the lift waiting and ready. Stepping in, Finch was whisked swiftly to the ground floor; a tinny, panpipe version of 'Greensleeves' keeping him entertained for the short ride before the doors slid open, depositing him into the lobby. Despite it being two am, the hotel was still a hive of activity. Many of the delegates from the summit were staying at The Marriott, and piano music and laughter emanated from one of the high-class lounge bars. It was obvious many of the visiting dignitaries were making the most of the free drinks on this last night. Finch flashed his all areas access pass at the armed police guard at the door and exited into the rear courtyard of the hotel. A wall of humid night air hit him, along with the noise of the city that filled the background. A siren was sounding somewhere in the distance, accompanied by the various beeps and blasts of car horns. Like all big cities, Kuala Lumpur never really slept. There was always someone going somewhere, no matter what the hour. Cutting across the courtyard, Finch entered the temporary ops centre. Usually housing the hotel's staff, the inside of this room was far less grand than the rooms provided to paying customers. The live-in employees had been shipped out for the full seven days of the summit and moved to less desirable hotels in the vicinity, all at the expense of the visiting countries. Various security teams had been assigned parts of the staff building; the lion's share, though, belonged to his Secret Service Team.