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Pock-Mark had alerted his men to enact the next stage of their plan. Once they had cleared and were out of sight of landfall, a few selected containers would be moved on deck. Their outward facing panels had been painted in such a way that from a distance, they would appear to be part of the hull. The ship’s structure would, to all intents and purposes, change and not by chance. From a distance, it resembled a US Navy supply ship. The movement of the containers had the added bonus of creating a wall behind which Pock-Mark’s men could train. In addition, a huge tarpaulin now stretched across the top of the tallest containers, creating a vast roof over an indoor warehouse which expelled the constant drizzle and more importantly, the burning focus of American satellites.

“Good. You’re here. Take a seat, Andrew,” instructed the President.

“Thank you, Mr President.”

The National Security Adviser took the lead. “Gentlemen, we believe the Secretary of Defense has been kidnapped.”

Russell nearly choked on the gulp of tea he had just taken. He had been assured by the CIA director that all traces of the attack in Georgetown had been covered.”

“I’m sorry, did you say kidnapped?”

“Yes, he has now been out of contact since making an emergency appointment to see the President over 72 hours ago.”

“72 hours? What the hell have we been doing for 72 hours?!” demanded Russell, the best form of defense was attack.

“Exactly what I said,” said the President.

“We’ll come back to that. So far, all we have is his limo which was found at a small airfield just south of Washington earlier this morning.”

“Any sign of a struggle or a fight? I can’t believe he’d go willingly.”

“No, the limo is perfect, not so much as a scratch…”

The President’s phone interrupted the meeting.

“Yes, send him in,” instructed the President. Turning to the group, “It seems Director Johnson has some information.”

The director of the CIA entered the room followed by one of his deputies whom Russell recognized as the Director of the Intelligence Department. Most definitely one of their men. He began to relax. Johnson must have worked some magic.

“Mr President,” began the Director of the Intelligence Department. “As soon as we heard about the Secretary’s disappearance, we checked a couple of things that hadn’t previously made sense. As you are aware, the radioactive zone was declared non US territory after the accident. However, the Defense Department took ownership of the property rather than it be left ownerless and we believe it’s being used by them for training purposes. However, it appears the land’s now been sold but no monies have ever reached the Defense budget. Almost $250 million dollars are currently unaccounted for, as far as we can gather.”

“And?”

“We have today uncovered a number of Swiss bank accounts in the name of James Murphy. To date, we have tracked just shy of $127 million dollars and are finding more every hour.”

Andrew winced inwardly. He knew what Johnson was trying to do but if there was one thing you could be sure of, James Murphy was not a thief and the President would never believe it.

Johnson could see the President was unconvinced and produced a photo which he placed on the President’s desk.

“This, Sir, is an agent within the Secret Service.”

Russell leaned over and looked at the photo of the agent protecting Senator Baker.

“She also disappeared at approximately the same time as the Secretary.”

The next few photos that were placed on the desk were masterpieces in the doctoring of photos. Had Russell not known that what was going on was a cover up, he would have sworn the compromising photos of Secretary Murphy and Clark were real.

“We believe she’s influenced the Secretary and he’s fled the country with her and the money. Leaving us and his wife with egg on our faces.”

“Jesus, can I have a minute with Andrew please?” asked the President, putting the photos back on the desk. As always, the Presidential request was not a question but an order. The others left the room immediately.

“Andrew, just what in the hell is going on?”

“Sorry?”

“I’m too old for all this shit, just tell me what’s going on. Jim Murphy pulling that girl, don’t be ridiculous, the man can’t get it up and even if he did, he has other preferences which your bloody idiots out there have obviously missed. And we know the money’s bullshit and you know I know the money’s bullshit.”

Russell shifted awkwardly in his seat. The President was right, it was all bullshit. Russell couldn’t tell him the truth, he’d never accept what he had done. Despite his failings, the President believed wholeheartedly in democracy. Killing Senator Baker would be a step too far.

“I really don’t know what’s going on, Sir. I’m as in the dark as you are.”

“Bullshit, Andrew! One last chance to come clean or I swear this will cost you the Presidency.”

Andrew stood up and left the room. He was going to have to become President in the next few hours or they were all screwed.

Johnson watched as Russell came through the door. The look on his face said it all. Things had not gone well. He brushed past Johnson and whispered. “He has to go,” before continuing out of the West Wing, ignoring the shouts of the President to “get back in here!”

As he stepped outside and into the gardens, he considered his options. There were none. Within the hour, the President would be calling the party and probably removing the Vice President from his position. That would mean handing the presidency to either Baker, if he survived, or the Democrats and pretty much ensure Russell’s premature death at the hands of the Horsemen who were going to be monumentally pissed off.

He sat on the bench and looked out across the city that was almost his, the country that he had within his reach. All gone because of Charles Baker. If he ever did anything, he’d make sure that Baker died.

The soon-to-be former Vice President watched as a helicopter landed on the lawn. The President must have gotten fed up with the stink and decided to leave. He was probably going to meet the Party Chairman thought Russell, resigned to his fate. The Agents running towards him didn’t even surprise him. The President may well have him arrested while he tried to find out what he had been up to. The helicopter was already increasing its engines and over the deafening sound, he struggled to hear the Agents informing him of his arrest.

He stood up and followed them as instructed, two behind and two in front. Jesus, what did they think he was going to do, run away?

The first agent directed him towards the West Wing and held the door for him. The first thing he noticed were the tears. Jesus Christ, a bit OTT he thought. The second agent held the next door open and directed him into the Oval Office where, no surprise, the Attorney General waited. The President really hadn’t wasted any time. Not just anyone was going to read him his rights, the chief law enforcement officer of the United States was going to arrest him personally.

“Please place your right hand on the Bible and repeat after me.”

Russell did what he was asked without thinking.

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

Russell’s mind was cart-wheeling. In the space of ten seconds, he had gone from being a political down-and-out to President. And he had no idea how! He repeated the sentence and was congratulated by the Attorney General and the two Secret Service agents still in the room.

“Would somebody mind telling me what in the hell just happened?”

“Mr President,” said the agent who had come for him in the garden. “Sorry, I thought you might not have heard me. The President died from a suspected heart attack just a few minutes after your meeting. He died instantly, dead before he hit the floor, according to the doctor. He was rushed to Walter Reid but he was already 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
you
touched them?”

“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.”

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.