America's Trust

• Title Page
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Chapter 47
  
• Chapter 48
  
• Chapter 49
  
• Chapter 50
  
• Chapter 51
  
• Chapter 52
  
• Chapter 53
  
• Chapter 54
  
• Chapter 55
  
• Chapter 56
  
• Chapter 57
  
• Chapter 58
  
• Chapter 59
  
• Chapter 60
  
• Chapter 61
  
• Chapter 62
  
• Chapter 63
  
• Chapter 64
  
• Chapter 65
  
• Chapter 66
  
• Chapter 67
  
• Chapter 68
  
• Chapter 69
  
• Chapter 70
  
• Chapter 71
  
• Chapter 72
  
• Chapter 73
  
• Chapter 74
  
• Chapter 75
  
• Chapter 76
  
• Chapter 77
  
• Chapter 78
  
• Chapter 79
  
• Chapter 80
  
• Chapter 81
  
• Chapter 82
  
• Chapter 83
  
• Epilogue
  

America’s Trust

Murray McDonald

Published by Murray McDonald

Copyright 2013 Murray McDonald

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The right of Murray McDonald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Present day

Tuesday 30th June 2015

Washington D.C.

It had been over three years since Jack had been able to walk down the street and open a bar door. The Raven Bar & Grill was just the type of place he needed: quiet, dark and grimy. The shabby exterior gave way to an even shabbier interior. This wasn’t a place that was trying to look like something it wasn’t. Its seventies décor was exactly that and not some hip designer’s cool idea of what the seventies should have been. A line of booths filled one half of the establishment while the other was filled with a long wooden bar. Jack pulled up a stool and ordered a beer with a Scotch chaser. The barman looked at him like he knew him but poured the drinks without a word. Jack sipped the beer, his first real drink in a very long time.

In the three years since Jack’s life had been no longer his own, he had lost both his wife and his purpose. Constantly under surveillance, he never had a minute to himself. Even at his wife’s funeral, the shackles had not been loosened. What should have been a private occasion had been a very public event. Armed guards watched over his every move, cameras monitored his every step. He had wanted to jump in with her, go with her. He didn’t want to go back. As the funeral ended, he had no choice. He had four years to serve, whether he liked it or not. That was his term. No time off for good behavior, that had been clear from the start. The federal government was a relentless beast and if it had you for four years, you gave it four years, no matter what.

Jack savored another sip. His wife had hated his penchant for dive bars but he loved the anonymity. Nobody knew him, nobody judged him. He missed her. He regretted every minute of the last few years when he had not been there for her. Her final breaths had been taken while he was hundreds of miles away. It was all his fault. Four years earlier, his actions had torn them apart. She didn’t want him to do it but he had explained to her that he had to. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She had begged him not to. It wasn’t like they needed the money. For Jack, it wasn’t about the money, it was the thrill. Despite his actions, she had stood by him as a loyal wife and as the outcome was read out, she cried with him. Four years. It could have been worse. Some had served double that, but he had promised he wouldn’t do it again. They had been the worst and last years of their marriage and he would never forgive himself.

He reached for his Scotch and downed it in one swift motion. It felt good. The heat of the alcohol burned the back of his throat and instantly cleared his thoughts. The TV was showing a round-up of the football and had the other six customers transfixed. Jack nodded at the barman and was rewarded with a refill. He allowed himself to relax, and began to appreciate his newfound freedom. He had walked along the street; he had entered a bar; he had ordered a drink. He was sitting enjoying the football with a bunch of guys who didn’t care who he was or what he had done - all things that, for the last four years, had seemed a world away. For the first time in six months and probably in four years, he smiled, not a fake smile, not a smile for the cameras, but a genuine warm smile.

Jack was happy.

“Good whisky?” asked the drinker to his right.

“Great whisky,” said Jack, raising the glass and looking at it before taking another drink. “Join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” accepted the drinker. “The name’s Don.”

“Jake,” replied Jack. It was what his mother had called him, never wanting to name him after his father’s father. He had been, she told everyone who would listen, the most unlikeable man one could ever have the displeasure of meeting. Jack’s father had never once contested his mother’s claim.

Jack nodded at the barman again and indicated for each of the other drinkers to be offered a Scotch. They all nodded and mumbled their appreciation and, almost as one, returned to the highlights.

“So what brings you to the Raven?” asked Don, nudging his stool nearer to Jack’s.

Jack lifted his drink in answer. Don nodded acceptance and lifted his own, joining Jack in his drink.

After an hour and many Scotches too many, Jack stood up and wished his new friends goodnight. Those capable of responding mumbled a vague goodbye while Don also stood up.

“I have to head home too and face the music!” he said conspiratorially, dipping his head to the barman.

“Face the music?” asked Jack.

“Got laid off today,” replied Don.

Jack had reckoned Don was mid to late fifties, around five to ten years older than himself, middle-management with a salary that allowed him few luxuries and a tough life. Jack had always been very good at reading people.

“God, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jack through the haze of alcohol. “What did you do?”

“Purchasing Manager for a government contractor, two hundred and fifty of us got canned today.”

“Insignia DC?” asked Jack.

“How the hell did you know that?” asked Don, looking at Jack with some suspicion.

“It was on the news earlier, I recognized the number two hundred and fifty,” said Jack, quickly covering his mistake.

Don continued to study Jack, unsure of him now. “You remind me of somebody.” Don waved his drunken finger. “I just can’t think who.”

Jack shrugged and immediately got a response from Don. “The president! If it wasn’t for your hair being thinner and wearing glasses, you could be his double!”

Jack laughed. If it weren’t for the wig and the contacts he had to wear, he would have been a much more comfortable president.

“Sorry,” said Don, gently punching Jack’s shoulder. “You’re much too nice a guy to be confused with that scumbag president.”

Jack managed to hold his laughter as the words hit home. “He’s not
that
bad!”

“Son of a bitch cost me my job!” snapped Don, all joviality dropping from his voice. “Transferred it to China. Fucking
China
, can you believe it?!” he muttered as he staggered off towards his home.

Jack shook his head. “I’m sure he didn’t!” he called after Don, knowing he damn well hadn’t. He hadn’t heard anything about Insignia on the news, he remembered the contract being discussed. Insignia had the contract for printing all federal brochures and documentation. There was absolutely no way Jack wanted that work going abroad in order to save a few bucks. He had made it clear that under no circumstance was the contract to be outsourced to a foreign company. He’d be asking a few questions the following morning, but he was going have to be careful as to how he came about the information.

Jack checked his watch as Don swayed off into the distance. He had been free for over four hours. Four hours and nobody knew he was missing. In his two and a half years as president, he had hardly had four minutes to himself, let alone four hours. Of course, he was assuming nobody knew. With no Blackberry or method for anyone to contact him, they may have been turning the White House upside down to find him. Mind you, if he were missing, he had to assume there would be helicopters and police cars scouring the city. He picked up the pace as he headed south back down 16
^th
Street, NW. There was no point ruining a good thing by being greedy on his first outing. He covered the two miles much more quickly than the outward leg. At midnight there were far fewer people around to watch and analyze.

He hung a left on K Street NW and a right onto Vermont, and as midnight signaled the start of a new day, Jack walked towards the entrance of the Dana Center. As he withdrew the key to open the security door before him, it flew open, knocking him backwards onto the street.

A man paused briefly before him, recognition registering instantly on the stranger’s face as to who Jack really was. However, before Jack could say a word, the street was bathed in flashing blue lights and the scream of sirens as the street filled with police officers and FBI agents in what, to Jack, looked like full riot gear. The police rushed forward, and Jack anticipated being rushed into a car and being sped back to the White House and most likely given a severe dressing down by the Secret Service and his senior staff. However, he was brushed aside as the focus appeared to be the stranger who had almost knocked him over. The man, who Jack estimated to be in his late forties or early fifties, was thrown unceremoniously to the ground before being handcuffed and marched past Jack towards a waiting sedan. As they rushed past, a young female FBI agent holding one of the stranger’s arms, brushed past Jack.