America's Trust (2 page)

“No need to be alarmed, sir,” she said. “Just a routine operation. We’ll be out of your way momentarily.”

Jack was frozen to the spot. Although they were the words that she would have used with the president, the way she had delivered them was exactly how she would have calmed a member of the public, which is exactly how she had seen him - a member of the public. The operation wasn’t about Jack, it was about the stranger. Jack looked across as the man was being directed into the back of the sedan. The stranger caught Jack’s eye and winked a wink that told Jack the stranger knew exactly who he was.

Jack continued to watch as the young female agent looked around the street and, satisfied with what she saw, circled her finger in the air. Sirens and lights instantly stopped and with one last look back towards Jack but looking straight through him, she disappeared into the sedan. No sooner had she closed the door than the car screeched away. By the time Jack looked back towards the door of the Dana Center, it was hard to believe what had just occurred. Not a police officer was in sight.

He stepped once again towards the security door and, a little more tentatively than earlier, he entered the apartment block. Checking that nobody was around, he walked towards the end of the corridor and removed another key from his pocket. This one was far older and the door in front of him was far heavier than the security door at the entrance to the building. The key turned easily, far easier than on his exit. He opened the door and entered the apartment where time had stopped over 60 years earlier. The décor was upmarket fifties. The appliances in the small kitchen were museum pieces, as was the TV set. The dust that had settled suggested, like the furniture, that Jack was in fact the first living soul to enter the apartment since its previous occupant had vacated. Jack looked again at the simple note from his predecessor.

If you are reading this note and have come from beyond the park, enjoy the freedom it allows, I know I did! HST

Jack instantly recognized the initials ‘HST’- President Harry S. Truman, the man who had rebuilt the White House in the late forties. Obviously, his building had gone beyond the confines of the White House. Jack pulled back the rug and, lifting the hatch, he reentered the hole that led down to a subterranean tunnel. He shut the hatch and pulled the cord that ensured the rug would slip back into place. He climbed down the ladder and mounted the small bike that he had ridden what he guessed to be around a quarter of a mile from the White House. As he neared the end of the tunnel, he once again entered the coffin-sized vertical capsule and, by turning the handle at his waist, wound the small capsule up, by some hidden mechanism, back into his private office, previously his wife’s dressing room.

Stepping back into the room, he noticed a small note on the floor of the capsule. He looked around the dressing room; it definitely hadn’t been there when he left. He had searched every inch of the capsule when it had appeared earlier that evening. It wasn’t something he had ventured into lightly. It wasn’t every day that a decorative column which had stood
in situ
for the three years you had been in residence spun round and revealed itself to be an elevator of sorts. Jack had spent a long time looking at every detail and it had been with great trepidation that he ventured in and moved the lever that had lowered him to the tunnel below.

He bent down, retrieved the slip of paper, and read it.

Mr. President, if you are reading this and have not spoken with me, they have me. I must speak to you urgently. Our country and our very way of life as Americans depends on it.

Find me and beware The Trust.

Tom Butler

Jack’s memory flashed back to the face of the man being arrested in front of him and the recognition on his face. He had known Jack was the president. It was Tom Butler he had witnessed being taken away. Tom Butler knew about Jack’s escape route. Tom Butler had a key to Harry Truman’s apartment. The apartment had been locked when Jack had returned. Tom Butler was a man the president wanted to talk to but Tom Butler was a man the president couldn’t possibly know anything about.

Jack stepped back from the column and watched in panic as the column spun back to reveal its original and more normal decorative façade. His escape route had gone without him fully understanding how it had ever really appeared. He stepped forward in the hope that walking towards the column would elicit a response, but nothing happened. He shook his head. It wasn’t that simple, otherwise his wife would have found it many years earlier. Not to mention every cleaner that had ever worked in the private apartment. He studied the column in great detail. Nothing, certainly nothing visual, suggested any hint of the hidden mechanism.

Jack crossed the small room and sat staring at the column. The alcohol had dumbed his senses, he wasn’t thinking straight. He was missing something obvious. He must be.

Daylight hit him like a sledgehammer. The small room took the full brunt of the sun’s early morning reveille. Jack covered his eyes desperately but the ache in his brain failed to dissipate. It wasn’t the light. The memories of the previous night came flooding back. The beer and the whisky had taken their toll. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and certainly wasn’t used to drinking anything like the quantities that had so easily slipped down in the past.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the column, just as he had been when the fatigue and alcohol had ended any chance of uncovering the secret. He stood up unsteadily; the pounding in his head was going to take some getting used to. Hangovers had been a thing of the past. The President of the United States did not drink to excess and did not gamble - just two of the long list of his previous behaviors that were absolutely forbidden in his current office.
Forbidden is perhaps too strong a word
, thought Jack,
‘not expected’ is perhaps more accurate.
The expectation levels of a president were, to say the least, extraordinary. The expectations of a president who had lost a wife were inconceivable. He had to be strong at all times, even by her graveside. Weakness was not an option. Bullshit, it was all bullshit. His strength had never been doubted. It was exactly why he was where he was. After years of poor leadership, the country had been desperate for a strong and capable leader to take control. General Jack King, former Army chief of staff and former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, offered that in spades. Jack was exactly what the country had craved, a politician who they could believe in, a man of his word, a man who put his country and its strength above all else. The Republican nomination was secured even before Super Tuesday, with every other candidate unwilling to add to the humiliating defeats they had already suffered at the hands of the country’s clear favorite.

With debt spiraling, unemployment out of control and what seemed no end to the downturn, Jack King had won the 2012 election by one of the clearest margins in modern history.

Jack was ready. His presidency was going to be one of legend, one of resolve. He was going to turn the country around in four years. In and out. That was his motto throughout his military career. Hit the problem hard and fast. He had promised his wife just that. His country had needed him and he couldn’t say no. Four years was all he needed.

That was until the day of his inauguration and the revelation that was about to be bestowed on the new president, America’s Trust.

Wednesday 1
^st
July 2015

Washington D.C.

When the key turned in the lock at 4:00 a.m., Tom Butler knew he was about to die. After his arrest by the FBI, he had been marched into the local office and watched as the lead female agent had gesticulated wildly on the phone. When she had ended the obviously angry exchange, she had subsequently kicked a wastepaper basket clear across the room. “Put him in a fucking cell!” she had shouted before storming out of the building. Tom knew then he was in trouble. The tentacles of The Trust had reached far deeper than he thought possible.

The door opened to reveal two immaculately dressed men in suits, one standing well over six feet in height while the other barely cleared five feet.

“Mr. Butler?” the smaller of the two asked.

Tom feigned tiredness and nodded sluggishly, rising slowly from the narrow bench that doubled as a bed.

“How can I help you, Agent?” asked Tom stretching and yawning.

“Special Agent Wen Chan. There’s been a terrible mistake but I’m pleased to say it’s been resolved,” smiled Chan.

“Excellent, so I’m free to go?” asked Tom, knowing it was the last thing they planned for him.

“Yes, Mr. Butler,” replied the other agent.

Tom smiled. “And I suppose you’re Agent John Smith!” said Tom, referencing the man’s European features versus Chan’s Asian heritage. Wen and Chan were the two most popular first and last names in China and the equivalent of Western society’s ‘John Smith’.

The American agent smiled and nodded. They knew Tom Butler would not fall for their bullshit cover story but the show wasn’t for Tom Butler, the show was for the FBI.

“So what’s the plan guys, get me out and offer me a lift home?”

Chan nodded.

“Airline ticket bought in my name and a look-a-like to use my passport and make the trip? I’m guessing South America or South East Asia?” added Tom, shaking his head. He knew exactly how effective the plan would be.

Smith smiled. “Quit stalling and start walking!”

“Hmm, I think I’ll just hang out here, thanks.”

“I would advise against that, Mr. Butler,” countered Chan sinisterly.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” laughed Tom.

Chan’s sinister smile didn’t waver. “No, we’ll simply extend our area of operation. Who knows what you may have divulged to that pretty little niece of yours?”

Tom’s anger exploded and he charged across the room. Before he reached Chan, Smith’s massive hands grabbed him and held him back.

“Let’s just calm it down,” Smith suggested to both Chan and Tom. “Creating a scene does none of us any favors.”

Tom struggled against Smith’s grasp but soon realized it was futile. The man was like a rock, a solid mass of muscle covered his already inflated frame.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” hissed Tom as he accepted his fate.

“All you need to do is walk out of here a happy bunny and she’ll be fine, that’s a promise,” offered Smith in a conciliatory manner.

Tom nodded his head in acceptance and followed Chan out of the room. The sight of the three men would have raised some sniggers during the day, a real small, medium and large offering. Each stood a good head taller than the next. Tom at 6 feet had never felt taller while Chan led the way and never smaller when Smith took over as they neared the front door of the all but empty Washington field office.

“
Smile for the camera!” whispered Chan as they neared the door that would lead them to the main entrance.

Tom was finding it hard enough to take his last few steps, never mind throw a smile to the inanimate cameras that followed and recorded their every move as they walked silently in a death march towards his last breath.

“Special Agent Chan!” came a shout from behind. One of the few FBI agents on duty at 4:00 a.m. stopped them all in their tracks.

Tom turned and noticed Chan’s hand move slowly and carefully towards the bump on the inside of his jacket. Chan refused to look back.

“Yes?” he asked, shouting behind him towards the onrushing agent, his hand nearly touching the handgrip of his pistol.

“You left your ID card when you signed out, Mr. Butler.”

Tom watched as Chan spun and in the blink of an eye, removed his hand from his pistol grip and held it out to the helpful agent who placed his ID safely in it. The movements, Butler noticed, were exceptionally fast and left the helpful agent blissfully unaware of Chan’s previously deadly intent towards him.

As the agent walked away, Tom couldn’t resist. “Tsk, tsk, imagine leaving your fake ID behind,” he chided quietly.

“Who said it was fake?” questioned Chan so straight-faced that Tom realized he had seriously underestimated his foe.

The final door buzzed open and the coolness of the early Spring morning flooded into the vast entrance hallway. Tom looked around, desperate to scream for help but unwilling to sacrifice his niece. He knew it was likely to be an empty threat. They knew she had nothing whatsoever to do with his work but it was a threat he nonetheless took seriously. She was the only person on the planet they could have used against him. The fact they knew that was more than enough to make him take his fate with as much dignity as he could possibly muster.

He could see the car sitting waiting for them. Its engine was running and a third agent, or whatever the hell they were, was ready and waiting behind the wheel. Just a few steps and the sidewalk separated him from his imminent death. The moment he was in the car, they’d probably put a small caliber gun to his head and end it quickly. The last thing they’d want was a struggle or a fight in a confined space.