Scion (46 page)

Before Jack could ask, Kenneth was on the defensive. “No idea, I was just informed that the meeting was scheduled.”

“By whom?”

“Your PA informed me it was in the diary when we came into office.”

“What, we’re taking meetings arranged by the previous government?!” he asked, incredulous. “How many more have they left?”

“None, this was it. We tried to clear it but it wouldn’t delete. It was like it was hard wired into the system. I was sure it was a glitch until half an hour ago when I got the heads-up that your 1:00 p.m. had arrived!”

“Well I’m not going back into a meeting arranged by my predecessor,” concluded Jack.

“But that’s the strange thing, according to the system, it wasn’t the previous government that arranged the meeting.”

Jack waited for Kenneth to reveal who had, but he remained silent; it was obviously too big a deal to just tell him outright.

“So who did then?” Jack played along halfheartedly, much to Kenneth’s disappointment.

“William Howard Taft. As in President Taft!” revealed Kenneth.

Jack could barely hide his incredulity that a president had allegedly arranged a meeting 100 years in the future.

“Are you mad?” he asked.

“That’s not the best part, the meeting was at the request of JP Morgan, who died less than a month later.”

“Bullshit! Why on earth would a meeting arranged a hundred years ago be in a modern computerized diary system?”

“I thought the same. I can only assume the meeting was noted in each of the presidents’ subsequent diaries and passed onto each subsequent PA until it was computerized. Thereafter, it must have just been coded in and the code has been there ever since,” Kenneth surmised, facing the door to the Cabinet office that held the answer.

“How on earth did they know it would be a Mr. Walker?” asked Jack, facing the same door, finding the weak link in Kenneth’s summation.

“There’s no name listed, it just states ‘a representative of America’s Trust’.”

They looked at each other and it was clear both were desperate for more information.

Jack walked towards the door and opened it. Kenneth remained standing. He, as Mr Walker had pointed out, was not invited.

“You don’t mind if Kenneth joins us do you, Mr. Walker?”

“Not at all, Mr. President, that is your choice.”

As they sat down, Mr. Walker cleared his throat. Both the president and his Chief of Staff were on the edge of their seats.

“Gentlemen, how much do you know about compound interest?” began Mr. Walker. It was only thanks to their exceptional poker faces that Mr. Walker failed to notice just how underwhelmed his audience was by his question.

Chapter 6

Present day

Wednesday 1
st
July 2015

Butler pulled himself gingerly out of the Audi. The relief at reaching the diner in one piece was slowly sinking in. He felt as though he should bend down and kiss the sidewalk but felt the gesture, although warranted, a little melodramatic.

“You know there is a brake on the car, right?” he offered helpfully, with a soft dose of sarcasm.

Swanson didn’t even justify his criticism with a response. She merely smiled politely and led the way into the diner.

“Clever name!” added Butler with yet more sarcasm. Swanson shook her head.

“You know it’s a diner, so what better name than ‘The Diner’?” explained Butler to the uninterested Swanson.

Swanson dismissed Butler by simply pointing towards a booth while she caught the waitress’ eye. A simple two fingers raised by Swanson received a nod of understanding from the waitress, along with a warm, welcoming smile.

Obviously a regular
, thought Butler as he took his seat. The subsequent look of disapproval from the waitress to Swanson when the waitress eyed Butler, did not go unnoticed by him.

Swanson pulled herself into the booth. “Calmed down yet?” she asked sternly.

Butler caught himself. She was right, he did have to calm down. How many people, however, had met their executioner, stared down the barrel of the gun about to kill them, only to be saved at the last second? The vision of Smith beginning to pull the trigger with a smile on his face was not one Butler would forget, nor did he ever wish to remember. He realized Swanson was staring at him, reading his every thought. She was an FBI agent trained in the art of reading every nuance, every movement and action of their suspects. He had to change the subject.

“Not a fan?” he asked, motioning towards the waitress.

Swanson looked bewildered for a second. “No, no, she’s been trying to set me up for some time and you’re the first guy I’ve ever brought here. She put two and two together and came up with about eighty seven,” she laughed. A little too much Butler thought. Although who was he kidding? He was old enough to be her father. At least it had lightened the mood. She was studying him again.

“Do they have a menu?” he asked, keen to have something to do other than be under her gaze.

“Already ordered. Now are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on or not?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly.

“Okay, let’s do it the hard way,” said Swanson, noting Butler moved back slightly in his seat. “Full name?”

“Remember I’ve been released.”

“On you go,” said Swanson. She had seen the fear in Butler’s eyes. She knew he was going nowhere.

“I think we both know I’m not going anywhere, although do you mind if I just nip to the restroom before we get started?” he pleaded, a little too pathetically.

Swanson wasn’t quite buying Butler, something was amiss. He came across meek and mild, but his eyes told her something different.

“Fine, but don’t do anything silly.”

Butler got up and found the restroom. The pay phone sat next to the entrance of the restrooms just as he had hoped. He dialed the number and was pleased to hear the voice on the other end. “Six?”

“Negatori,” was the slightly panicked response.

“Scatter!” he said quickly and hung up, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He made his way back to the booth and pulled himself in.

“Thomas Franklin Butler,” he said.

Swanson noticed his change in demeanor.

“Occupation?”

“Retired.”

Swanson smiled without any warmth. Butler understood.

“Retired analyst,” he added with a hint of a grin.

Swanson remained silent.

“Honestly, I
was
an analyst!” he replied indignantly.

“Retired?” she questioned, unconvinced. She knew Butler was fifty-four from the APB that had been circulated for his arrest. Other than his name and age, the APB had been bereft of any other information. Fifty-four was not an age you retired willingly unless monies allowed, and from what she could see, certainly from his clothing and wristwatch, money was not overtly displayed.

“Downsized,” admitted Butler reluctantly.

“From where?”

“My firm on Wall Street,” replied Butler.

“So you were a financial analyst?”

“Yes,” lied Butler.

Swanson did not miss the lie, the telltale movement of his eyes giving him away. Before she could challenge him, the waitress arrived with their two coffees and two of the largest mounds of pancakes Butler had ever seen. He stared at them in disbelief.

“Seriously, half that would still be far too much!” protested Butler, looking around his mound to the lithe and athletic figure of Swanson.

Swanson missed little. “I’ve got an extremely fast metabolism,” she said in response to his quizzical look.

“I’ll gain three pounds just looking at this,” murmured Butler as Swanson tucked in.

She washed down her first mouthful and picked up where she had left off. “So, what was the name of your firm?”

Butler took a mouthful just as she began to speak. He took his time masticating the melt-in-your-mouth pancake, not an easy task as he desperately tried to stall long enough to work out exactly what he was going to tell Agent Swanson.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I worked for…” the sight of the Chrysler pulling to a stop at the curb stopped him in his tracks. Swanson followed his gaze out of the diner’s window and calmly reached for her cell phone.

Butler’s reprieve had been short lived. They knew he was with a senior FBI Agent. Whoever was pulling the strings had obviously decided this was no longer an issue and Butler’s removal was worth that level of fallout. He knew Swanson was a dead woman, her intervention had sealed that. He thought he’d have time to work out a way to save her. The arrival of Chan and Smith so publicly was an extremely worrying turn of events. Such an overt display would suggest the timescales were even less than Butler had feared.

“Don’t!” warned Butler. Despite the early hour, the diner had a number of patrons taking advantage of their 24/7 operation.

“Don’t what?” replied Swanson angrily lifting the cell to her ear.

“Call for backup. They’ve already decided we’re collateral, no point adding others.”

Smith and Chan exited the Chrysler and took up station at the curbside. The Band-Aid on Smith’s nose proudly displayed Swanson’s earlier intervention.

“What in the fuck are you talking about?” Swanson was beginning to get seriously pissed off with his cryptic approach to whatever was going on. She began to move from the booth but was stopped by Butler, his hand snapping across and firmly pinning hers to the table.

“I said don’t!”

“Take your hand the fuck off mine,” she hissed angrily. Her body continued to move despite her hand being left behind, leaving her in the bizarre situation of leaning towards Butler while trying to get away from him. “I’m going to speak with those two assholes and find out what they want.”

“Fine,” Butler released his grip and let her walk two paces away before adding, “but they’re going to kill you.”

Swanson laughed but saw nothing in Butler’s face to suggest that he was being anything but sincere. She looked outside. Her smile dropped slightly and she noticed that her movement had resulted in a readying of Chan and Smith. Their jackets had been opened and their handguns visible. The FBI standard issue weapon was a Glock. Years earlier it had been possible to use a personal weapon but those times had long since gone. Every FBI Agent who wished to remain one carried a Glock. From what Swanson could make out at the distance between herself and Smith and Chan, neither carried a Glock. Not good.

Noticing her hesitation, Butler went on. “They won’t come in here, too many cameras. One above the till, one in the corner on the way through to the restroom and if I’m not mistaken, that smoke detector is a fish eye camera,” he said without looking at any of them. “It’s a twenty-four seven joint, lots of drunks and brawls. They’ll have a direct alarm to the police and the cameras will be linked to the web. They can’t simply steal the tapes. We’re safe for now.”

Swanson sat back down. She had a feeling Butler was finally revealing himself.

“Analyst?” she asked sarcastically.

Butler shrugged his shoulders. “I analyze situations,” he offered with a smile.

“For who?”

“For whom,” he corrected.

“Fuck, whatever!”

“Formerly the CIA.”

“So you were downsized?”

“Hmm, I think fired would be more appropriate.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” she said with some concern, wondering whether Chan and Smith really were the good guys.

Butler watched as she looked at Chan and Smith. “Trust me, I’m not your problem here.”

“Are they CIA?” she asked watching the two become twitchier. Her sitting back down had unnerved them.

“I’m not sure. Hired assassins, probably,” mused Butler, refusing to look at them.

“So they were going to kill you?”

“Right about the time you drove your car at them. Smith was about to pull the trigger when we had to brake.”

“Holy fuck!” she exclaimed a little too loudly and caused a number of patrons to turn and look at them.

Butler threw a look towards the other patrons that resulted in them all suddenly finding whatever food lay before them far more interesting than anything else.

“I do therefore owe you a very heartfelt thank you,” said Butler.

Swanson looked deep into the eyes of a man she had arrested the previous day, just spent the last hour with, and it seemed had just met in the last few seconds. The man before her bristled with confidence, sat straighter and sounded far more commanding than the man she had arrested.

“Who exactly the fuck are you?” she asked again.

“A great friend and a truly terrifying enemy,” he replied while watching another Chrysler pull to a stop.

“And how should I view you?” she asked, her hand moving towards her Glock. She was going to have to choose sides. She had noticed the other car draw to a stop and three men had exited. It was five against two and Butler was unarmed.