dead when he left. The Attorney General was in the building and instructed us to bring you here to swear you in.”
“Is Director Johnson still in the building?”
“I believe so, Sir. I believe he and the National Security Adviser were here when he died.”
“I’d like to speak to him, please.”
Two minutes later, Director Johnson was closing the door of the Oval Office behind him.
“Mr President,” smiled the Director.
“What the hell just happened, Allan?”
“Let’s just say, I’m very pleased you never touched those photos,” winked the Director.
Russell thought back at the photos of Murphy and Clark that had been laid before the President. “But
“Very carefully and because I was wearing these.” The Director pulled off what looked like a layer of skin from his thumb and forefinger.
“Where are the photos now?” panicked Russell. The National Security Adviser was as straight as they came and was not one of his men.
“The NSA told me to ‘get them out of here’ before we called anyone in. He didn’t want scandalous photos linked to the President. They’ve already been incinerated.”
“And before you ask, the toxin is untraceable. It’s a naturally occurring toxin. The autopsy will show nothing but a massive heart attack, Mr President.”
“But how did you know he needed to go?”
“Too many questions we couldn’t answer were being asked and they were questions that could only be asked if they knew what was going on. They were onto us.”
“Who?”
“That, Mr President, is not your concern. I have a feeling that those who were asking will either be silent or will be silenced.”
“Thank-you, Allan.”
“Not at all, Mr President. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Russell thought back at the bench in the White House Garden.
“Please.”
“Yes, Mr President?”
“Make sure that Baker dies soon.”
Chapter 50
Sam checked his disguise. The grey highlights were perfect and added at least five years to his age. The cheek and jaw implants were less noticeable but certainly altered his features and as Rebecca had promised, they ensured that any facial recognition software would not go ping when he walked past. The temporary implants, thanks to Rebecca’s little make up bag of tricks, were uncomfortable but after a couple of hours, Sam could almost speak without sounding like he was, as Clark had put it so elegantly, a retard. Sam had a couple of identities in his hold-all that he had not used previously and fortunately one was a grey haired option. The implants, more to fool the cameras and computer software, did change his features but not so much that his photo wouldn’t work with the less technically gifted humans who manned the departure gates.
After a thumbs up from the four they were leaving behind, Sam and Rebecca climbed into the car and headed for the local airport, Glacier Park International. Having looked at the destinations available, Rebecca had asked for clarification from her American counterparts as to why an airport with no international departures or arrivals warranted the International moniker. With no more than a shrug in response, she had booked two flights for her and Sam to New York LaGuardia leaving at 2.15pm flying via Minneapolis. Once there, they would go their separate ways. Sam would travel back to Washington by train. They had agreed Washington airports would be too risky. Meantime, Rebecca would go back to her day job and track down the bomb.
On check-in, Rebecca flashed her FBI badge and ensured she remained armed. Sam had no such trick and was feeling somewhat underdressed for whatever lay ahead. As they arrived in Minneapolis, Rebecca made a beeline for the first electronics store she could find and purchased a prepaid cell phone. She placed the new phone in its own little locker as she turbo-charged the battery for $1.00. The machine promised a full charge in 30 minutes. She gave it ten before she pulled it out and dialed Ben for any updates.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I told you where I was. Now I’m in Minneapolis.”
“I need you in France!”
“France, what the hell can I do in France?”
“I just got a call, we may have found Deif.”
Rebecca’s heart beat trebled as she heard the name. She was going to get another chance to avenge Joshua. She had had to let Deif go once and it wasn’t going to happen again.
“I’m on my way. Where?”
“Get to Nice. I’ll have somebody meet you there. Oh the Secretary, is he safe?”
“Very.”
As Rebecca digested the news and looked for a sales desk to change her ticket, Sam was staring at a television screen as the news came through. The President was dead and President Russell was about to address the nation.
Now they were really screwed thought Sam, adding the former president to the list of casualties. The coincidence was just too much to take in. The stakes had just increased ten-fold. A dirty Vice President was very much easier to deal with than a dirty President.
Sam watched as the sound-bites came through, one of which was from James Lawson, industrialist and friend. He was interviewed as he entered the airport at Washington.
“Sorry, it really is terrible news. He was a wonderful man and an outstanding President. I’m sorry but I really have to catch my flight, the French President is expecting me this evening. Thank you.”
Rebecca appeared with her new tickets to bid Sam farewell. Up until that very moment, she really didn’t think it would be hard.
“I’m sorry, change of plans, I need to get to France,” said Sam. Rebecca’s mood instantly improved. The thought of a flight to Paris with nothing more than her hatred for Deif to keep her company had not been a pleasant prospect.
“I’d better go and make it two changes then. It seems we’ll be accompanying each other a little further,” she smiled.
Chapter 51
President Andrew Russell made the speech of his life. He thanked his predecessor for all of his hard work and devotion to the United States and lightened the mood with some personal and witty insights into the man who had been their President for seven years. He talked of his promise to continue on with the great programme of bills and reforms that his predecessor had started and most importantly assured the country that the government was as strong as it had ever been.
He walked back from the briefing room refusing to take any questions from the press. His speech had contained everything he wanted to say at this very sad time. As he closed the door on the Oval Office, alone for the first time for many hours, he sat in the President’s chair. His chair. Behind the iconic Resolute Desk, a gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes. And finally, he smiled. It was his. After decades of kissing ass and sucking up, he had made it. The highest office in the land.
A catalogue of calls he had received and was required to return was basically a list of every President and
