Captive-in-Chief (20 page)

“Well?” asked Elsa as the call was answered.

“Well what?”

“I got your message. The new pool man, anything?” she snapped, angry her mission for the governor hadn’t gone as planned.

“Oh that, yeah. He’s a nobody. Nothing to be worried about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” Elsa said icily. “School, college, work history, any connections?”

“Graduated barely from a poor school in a mining town, Virginia, if I remember, definitely not Florida where the president graduated. Joined the Marines in—”

“He was a Marine?!”

“Force Recon. Never in the same unit, and from what I could see from his records their career paths never crossed. He was an NCO and honorably discharged for psychological and physical medical reasons in 1991. Long before the president left the Marines, and he wasn’t Force Recon.”

“Force Recon is pretty hardcore.”

“He’s a drunk. Got the shakes and he’s popping Librium like they’re candy. He’s rough, been living on the streets for years. I couldn’t find any history of any work since he received disability from the Marines back in 1991. He’s a nobody.”

“A nobody that somebody gave a job to and we don’t know why?”

“I told you, it could have been anyone. The chief of staff or someone who asked him to do a favor and help an old guy out. The guy who knows is dead. I’m not in a position where I can ask too many questions. Could have been the first lady asked him to employ the old guy, she’s always got a new cause.”

“I’m not convinced. I’ll look into it. Until then keep an eye on him!”

“Won’t be hard, he’s in my basement apartment.”

“He’s what?”

“Trust me, this guy has nothing to do with the president. He’s an old guy down on his luck with a cute dog. Jesus, I caught him sleeping on the sun lounger on his first day at work!”

“You’ve got a cover to keep up,” warned Elsa.

“Don’t worry, ditzy Amy will be fine.”

“Ditzy Amy was on her honeymoon and came back to a note on her desk from a dead guy that nobody knows anything about!” Elsa snapped.

“Don’t even go there.”

Elsa calmed herself. Amy was right, Elsa shouldn’t go there.

Amy had given up two years of her life to play her part. As the ditzy blonde employed at the White House she processed new employees for the White House. In reality, she was a highly intelligent woman and had secretly vetted every new employee inducted into Clay Caldwell’s administration.

As a member of the team that controlled the president, she was the brilliant Amy, highly intelligent, organized, and ensured there was nothing they didn’t know about the people around Clay Caldwell. Her team of investigators drilled into the minutiae of every employee’s personal and private life, who was cheating on their spouse and with whom, who were closet homosexuals, who had drug dependencies, drink problems, addictions to porn, normal or depraved, who beat their partners, who got beat by their partners. It was as shocking as it was revealing as to how you never really knew the people around you. Many shouldn’t have been anywhere near the White House, never mind the president. Amy believed that at least five should have been in prison and for two of those, prison was too good.

Her biggest sacrifice had not been pretending to be the ditzy blonde that ensured she was never considered for promotion or looked at too carefully by her colleagues. The biggest sacrifice had been her marriage. Her husband was not a dashing young businessman. He was rich, obscenely rich, although unfortunately he was as rich as he was repulsive. He had taken a shine to Amy a few years earlier and came to an understanding. His contributions were directly proportional to how well he and Amy got on. She had managed to stall relations for a time but as time progressed, dating, engagement, and ultimately as more monies were required, a Vegas wedding followed by a week in Bora Bora.

Elsa had nicknamed him Jabba and joked that was perhaps insulting to the
Star Wars
character. “Sorry, it’s just our plan in Alabama didn’t quite come off as we hoped.”

“Fine, although you know I wouldn’t have gone unless it was—”

“No, no, I was out of order, you have done more than—”

“Please, don’t,” Amy shuddered. “I managed to keep him at arms length for the last two years saying I wanted to be a virgin bride.”

Elsa couldn’t help laughing. Amy had been a wild teenager, her virginity gone long before the age of consent.

“So you had to…”

“Oh God please, I’m going to throw up.”

“So, this Joe…?” Elsa changed the subject back.

“Trust me, he’s a nobody. His dog’s a service dog, a companion dog to help keep him calm. Anyway, he’s in my basement, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Investigators?”

“There’s nothing to investigate. He’s a bum from what I can tell. He’s lived on the streets for the last twenty odd years. You should have seen his reaction to the bed in the apartment. You can’t fake that. So what’s next?” asked Amy, keen to change the subject.

“I’m on my way back to D.C., not sure what I’ll be doing next.”

“I can’t believe it, our whole lives, our mothers, fathers, grandparents. We’re finally—”

A loud knocking on her front door interrupted her.

Amy checked the video feed. The house was fitted with the best security system money could buy and she could check any camera on any TV screen within the house.

Joe stood in her doorway, a remote control in his hand.

“Jesus, I’ve shown him five times how to use the system!” Amy exclaimed with a sigh. “The guy’s never even used a computer, and I mean never!”

“He really is a nobody,” said Elsa.

Joe had unwittingly by his ignorance of modern technology ended any suspicion he was anything other than a nobody.

John Carlyle kissed his wife, son, and daughter, and headed out for another day’s work. Like the majority of Americans, as devastating and shocking as the recent events had been, it didn’t change their daily routine. They still had jobs to go to, bills to pay, and children to raise. The riots that everyone felt would cripple the country had been dealt with swiftly and efficiently by the FPS. Other than a few flare ups in some of the more racially charged neighborhoods, subsequently dealt with just as effectively by the FPS, there had been little disruption beyond the first initial riots.

The loss of the Capitol had been a catastrophic blow to the legislature of the United States. However, for the normal, average American family, other than news broadcasts being almost entirely dedicated to the aftermath, little affected their daily lives. The government continued to function, banks and ATMs still worked, supermarkets were well stocked, schools and businesses were open as usual. Life went on. The US had taken its swift and decisive revenge for the attack and to most Americans, the matter was already falling into a terrible event that they’d remember forever. However, it was not as important as making sure they had food on the table and money in their pockets.

John closed the door on their Brooklyn townhouse and embraced the morning sunshine, its warmth bringing a smile to his face. It was a beautiful morning. He looked at his car parked in the bay in front of their house. They were spending their weekend at his parents’ house upstate, and knowing his wife, that would mean even at a bare minimum, a trunkful of luggage, of which they’d use barely a fraction. A spot that close to the house was like gold dust. Ninety percent of the time, he was lucky to be on their own street. He looked up at the sky, azure blue without even a wisp of cloud. It was a beautiful day indeed, a fantastic day for a walk.

He checked his watch; he had plenty of time to travel the two miles. He knew he should exercise more, mainly because his wife was constantly telling him, although he had noticed he was using different belt notches from the previous year. He set off at a pace that would have him in work by 7.45 a.m., before any of his 1,700 schools began lessons for the day. Reaching the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade, he slowed his pace. The wonder of the New York skyline lay in front of him. The view zipped by when he traveled by car. The Empire State and Chrysler buildings lay off to his right; buildings that had been constructed with pride and true engineering genius. No computer modeling was available to ensure the structure would last the test of time, stand up to all that nature could throw at them. Yet there they stood, almost ninety years on, as impressively as they ever had. Five of the sixteen tallest buildings in New York had been built in the 1930s. It was an era he looked back on with great fondness, a time that America rose from the depths of depression, showing a tenacity, determination, and value system that would drive the country onward.

He checked the time. He needed to pick up the pace. He had never envisaged himself as an educator yet there he was, the number one educator in the New York City district, Chancellor John Carlyle. He’d always wanted to be a pilot, but as his father told him, pilots didn’t help drive the country onwards, a pilot wouldn’t help bring change to the country. Change was coming. He knew that the last few days were only the beginning. Attitudes were already being altered beyond anything thought possible mere weeks earlier. The US detaining over 60,000 of its own citizens and hardly an outcry; it was staggering. He stepped off the bridge and into the shade and chill that the skyline offered. Beautiful from afar, the modern skyscrapers had none of the style or grace of the classics. Where he would stand and gaze in awe in the shade of the Empire State, he simply shivered in the shade of the modern lesser buildings.

He hurried towards his office, Tweed Courthouse, embracing the grandeur and class from two centuries earlier as he bounded up the grand staircase. Seventy-five thousand teachers, educating over one million students in the New York area, required his leadership.

“Mr. Carlyle,” greeted the security guard on the door.

“Morning, Jim, beautiful day.”

“Kathy,” he said, tipping his head to his PA as he swept into his office. His walk had invigorated him, he felt good. His cell chimed, notifying him a message had arrived. He checked the time, 7.48 a.m. His mood changed instantly, messages that early were never good.

He extracted his cell from his pocket, and read the message. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“
Our time is now.
”

Four words. Four words that meant the world to him. Four words that his career had been founded on, the reason he was an educator. The reason he had sold his soul to ensure he became chancellor. He unlocked his bottom drawer and extracted a lockbox. He removed the key he kept around his neck and unlocked the box. He opened the lid, his hands shaking. He was sure, just like the many thousands around the country in his position. He wasn’t the only one who would have received the text. Thousands like him, senior managers within federal, state, and local government had spent years building their careers to enable them to play their part.

An army had been awoken, an army with no weapons, an army whose pen really was mightier than the sword.

America was on the brink of a new dawn.

The ear-piercing scream reverberated around the walls. The hardness of the concrete encased the sound, lengthening the life of the stomach churning cry. The pliers crushed downwards, there was little more for them to do. The two pincers were almost back together. Uday strained with all his energy to bring them together. A pop sounded as the testicle finally gave way. The scream, to the surprise of everyone in the room, intensified. The man’s larynx was in danger of popping also.

Joe couldn’t stop watching. His eyes were taped open and his head restrained in place. He had no option other than to watch. The young Iraqi had done something to upset Uday Hussein. Joe had no idea what, although whatever it was the young man was clearly paying a very dear price. Uday moved to the second testicle. Joe’s empty stomach heaved, his body convulsed, muscles in his neck strained violently. Unable to flex, he winced in pain. The young Iraqi’s eyes pleaded with Uday, words failed to form in the young man’s mind, pain consumed him.

Joe wept as he watched Uday strain once again, putting every ounce of effort into destroying the young man’s manhood. It wasn’t the first time Joe had witnessed such obscene torture. It was almost common practice, leaving no doubt as to the insanity of Saddam’s eldest son. Tears fell, not for the young Iraqi’s manhood but for what Joe knew would come after the young man had been destroyed as a man, after hours of the most intense pain that a human could possibly bear: a bullet to the head as the young man lost consciousness.

Joe was forced to witness torture, rape, murder, whatever Uday decided was his choice for the day. All Joe had to do to stop him and help the young men and women was tell the truth. Joe was hoarse from telling Uday the truth, however, Uday never believed him. He’d been telling Uday and every one of the Iraqis the truth from day one, yet still they marched the young men and women in, torturing, raping and killing them, all because of Joe.

“They are all on your conscience,” explained Uday calmly. “I am only doing this because you continue to lie to us.”

Joe struggled violently against his restraints. He wanted to rip Uday’s throat out. He fought as hard as his restraints would allow, and felt them begin to give way. The chair that was screwed to the cold hard concrete slipped beneath him. Every muscle in his body wanted to get to Uday, to stop him. He fell from the chair, crashing to the concrete. He was free.

Joe jumped up, Sandy stared at him, the bedclothes she had been tugging at still in her mouth. She had been pulling at him to wake him from his nightmares. It had been a terrible night, he’d hardly slept, catching a few minutes here and there between the memories. Memories undulled and in brilliant Technicolor for the first time in years. That was the reason he drank. The memories, hideous memories that he’d promised never to forget yet never wanted to relive. The alcohol had blurred them. Sober Joe had to relive them as though the incidents had happened yesterday. Although the Librium would help with many the affects of the alcohol withdrawal, it would not help with the reason he drank it to begin with.

He patted Sandy. She kept the worst at bay. When his mind got too close to the truly horrific memories, she seemed to know and woke him. He stared at himself in the mirror, his first night in a bed in so many years, and he looked more tired than when he’d climbed in eight hours earlier. Soaked in sweat, his hair matted to his head, he wasn’t a pretty sight. He popped a Librium and a pint of water before walking out onto the deck and plunging into the pool. Whatever was wrong with the pool, he wasn’t sure, it felt amazing. He swam a few laps. It had been days since he’d had a swim, and it helped clear his mind, although it was usually an alcohol numbed mind he was clearing. He pushed on, picking up the pace, his body enjoying the punishment. His muscles began to burn. Sandy joined him for two laps before pulling herself back out. Joe was in the zone and not in the mood to play. He powered through the laps, the twenty yard pool awash with his wake. His legs kicked harder and his arms drove his body on, faster and faster, twenty laps became fifty, fifty became seventy-five. He pushed himself still more, a hundred laps. He eased off, smacking the wall in triumph, one hundred laps. He felt exhilarated, he felt good.

Exercise was going to be his thing. If he was going to have an addiction, he may as well have one that made him feel better for a change. He pulled himself out and slapped his stomach.

Won’t be there much longer,
he promised himself.

He walked back into the apartment. It was minimalist, and the designer obviously had a thing for wood and brushed steel. As a work of art, he couldn’t fault it, as a home it was beyond clinical. The workmanship and quality of every single detail was exquisite to the point he was scared to touch or do anything. Not that he had much to do. So far, pretty much everything was done for him. When he walked into a room, the lights went on, and the music playing in the previous room or the TV station he had been watching would project onto the wall of the next room, even the restroom. The apartment sensed his every movement, his every motion. He walked towards the shower cabinet, the shower started, he hadn’t touched anything; it sensed his presence and assumed he might want a shower. He stepped back, the shower cut off. The apartment was state of the art, sensor and voice controlled, or, if he preferred, a keypad. It was quite literally blowing his mind. He walked into the shower cabinet.

“Ah, too hot!” he said. It cooled automatically. He wasn’t impressed. He looked for a knob or switch, there was nothing. He had no control over his own shower. The fact he had complete control was lost on him.

He showered quickly, didn’t even attempt the kitchen, frightened it would start making him breakfast and truly freak him out.

He dressed in his Marine outfit and with Sandy dressed in her service vest, closed the apartment door behind him. Amy opened the door to the main house, almost as though she had been waiting for him.

“Morning!” she called. “I was waiting for you.”

Sherlock didn’t have a look in
, thought Joe, throwing a wink to Sandy. She looked back at him blankly.
You’re no Watson,
he concluded, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Good morning,” he replied to Amy.

“Sleep well?”

“Never better,” Joe lied.

“I’ve got an Uber coming,” said Amy, locking her door.

“We’re going to walk to work, if that’s okay,” Joe said awkwardly, not wanting to appear ungrateful for Amy welcoming them both into her home. “I should probably get some new clothes as well.”

Amy clapped her hands excitedly. “Shopping trip, yippee!”

Joe looked at Sandy. She was looking at him and he would swear she was thinking exactly the same as him. Yes, Amy had said “yippee.”

“After work?” asked Joe, hiding the dread he was already feeling at the thought.

“It’s a date!”