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The President of the United States was not a happy man.
He hung up the phone and glanced out the window. The sun was bright, and the impeccably kept grounds of the White House were awash with color; his office had a beautiful view, it was one of the perks of his job. It was also a way for him to regain his equilibrium, which right now he was sorely close to losing.
He turned back to the silent office and looked at the equally silent man sitting stiffly on the couch. “This is a mess,” he said. “And you made it, Richardson. What the hell were you thinking?!”
The other man got even stiffer. “If this technology isn’t in our hands, it shouldn’t be…”
“…In anyone else’s, right. I heard you the first five times, and I believe I told you to come up with a better excuse,” the president snapped. “Dr. Allen, in case you’ve forgotten, is a U.S. citizen; so is the man you tried to have killed.” He leaned forward across the files and faxes scattered across his desk. “And so were the two agents whose bodies were found in Illinois a few days ago. Your two agents, Richardson, whose ‘liquidation’ you apparently arranged. Oh, and Dr. Allen knows all about your earlier attempt on Mr. McKinney and the machines. He has the young man you hired, and said young man not only gave them all the information he had but he also threw in with the Sol Foundation and he’s been working with them for the past four months.”
Richardson made a face. “We can extradite him. Canada will…”
“Canada will tell you to go to hell, they have people in Project Sunflower too – at least one of whom was also on your hit list.” There was a knock at the door, and the president raised his voice. “Come in!”
A clean-cut young man entered, holding a clipboard and yet another pile of files. “Mr. President, I have the information you asked for.”
The president nodded. “What did the Prime Minister say?”
The aide swallowed. “He didn’t, sir. His office says if you want to talk to him…well, you have to talk to him.”
“I have to say I expected that.” He sighed. “All right, what else did his office have to say?” The aide fidgeted, and the president’s eyes narrowed. “Mark?”
“The P.M.’s lieutenant was speaking French, sir.” The president nodded and made a ‘go on’ motion, and Mark swallowed again. “Sir, the translators…are afraid you’ll hold them responsible for the...content of the message.”
“I see.” The president sighed, shook his head. “Give me the hardcopy, and then take the translators who worked on it their favorite Starbucks order, my treat. Tell them I’m sorry they had to be the middle-men for something like that.” He took the papers, then waited until Mark was gone again before scanning them – the original transcripts rather than the translations, since French was one language he was actually reasonably fluent in. After a few minutes he snorted and tossed the papers on top of one of the other piles on his desk. “Well, that was unimaginative. I’ll have to tell him so when I call him.”
The CIA director leaned forward again. “Sir, you can’t…”
“Sol Island is officially throwing in with the Commonwealth, Richardson,” the president said, still evenly. “The P.M. and Dr. Allen went before Parliament last night – emergency session, one the press corps wasn’t invited to. Canada is agreeing to let go of the island as a possession and make it a sovereign grant; Sol is going to be its own little country. And the P.M., through his not-very-imaginative office staff, just told me to fuck off and stay fucked off unless we want to take on Canada and then England and then the E.U.” He grimaced. “People from all over Europe are sitting on that island, Richardson – more Europeans than Americans, in fact. And it might interest you to know, France is prepared to claim the Millers just to help things along.”
“But the Millers were ours! I approved their being placed in the French project, I…”
“Ordered them killed?” The president let loose a short, sharp chuckle when the other man didn’t answer. “Oddly enough, the French don’t seem to be too unhappy that they’re dead…but they’re gearing up to be very unhappy that we killed them. The impression I got is that they’re going to leak it to the U.N. that the Millers were double agents, working for France all along, and that France let them go to Project Sunflower because they wanted out of the business. I think the story will probably be that you blackmailed them, forcing them out of retirement against their will. And of course, the Scottish government is already screaming bloody murder behind closed doors because somehow the British P.M. got the idea that you’ve been trying to recreate the Isle of Sodor tragedy and decided to pass the story on. So in a way you’ve done a pretty good thing – you’ve united England and France, and Scotland has decided to let bygones be bygones and throw in with them too.” He leaned forward again. “Of course, the bad part of it is, you united them against us. Ask me if I want to start playing Cold War with our allies in Europe, Richardson. Ask me if I’m ready to deal with boycotts and trade embargos and deportations, why don’t you? Or do you already know what my answer is going to be?”
Richardson cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Sir…they won’t do that.”
“They might. And if you respected me, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” the president informed him sharply. “If your goal was to sully this administration, you got what you wanted; consider it well and truly sullied. Unfortunately for you, it’s a smear I can wipe off.” He shook his head. “Obviously we can’t make a big public issue out of this, as you well know, because Project Sunflower is still a secret and needs to stay that way. I’m sure you were counting on that, knowing that I couldn’t fire you or even publicly censure unless I wanted to be responsible for letting that secret out – which I’ve sworn not to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. President,” Richardson said, straight-faced. “I always try to do what’s best for my country. Now if we’re done here, I have a meeting…”
“Well yes, I believe you do.” The president stood up when the other man did, a satisfied smile on his face. It wasn’t a nice smile. “It’s not the meeting you were planning to attend, however. I took the liberty of setting a new one up for you, and I’m afraid you’re going to be busy with it for the foreseeable future.” The door to the office opened again, and two men in nondescript black suits stepped inside. “Gentlemen! Just in time. I believe Mr. Richardson and I have said all that needs to be said.”
The men stepped forward, and when Richardson realized who they were he blanched. “Mr. President, you can’t…!”
“Oh believe me, I can,” the president assured him. “You’re a traitor to your country, Mr. Richardson. And because you have knowledge which could literally be the death of American intelligence agents worldwide, I was able to invoke my special powers under the revised Patriot Act. You will be delivered to a secure location for detainment until such time as you may either be charged and tried or extradited to face charges elsewhere. Until then, you will be held in solitary confinement.”
Richardson’s face flushed an ugly color. “So you’re just going to try to bury me, is that it? Well, I won’t go quietly! I’ll yell out so many state secrets along the way that you’ll spend the rest of your life answering questions! And I’ll tell everyone I see about your precious Project Sunflower – starting with these two!” He turned almost viciously toward one of the black-suited men. “Did you know we actually have working, viable artificial intelligence? Did you?! Talking, thinking machines. And instead of using that for America’s advantage, keeping it for ourselves alone, we’re letting it run free on an island in Canada where half of Europe has access to it. So tell me, who’s the traitor to our country, gentlemen? Me, or him?!”
The man in black looked to the President, received a nod of permission, and then turned back to the frothing man before him. “We know about the machines, sir. It would have been imprudent to send anyone who didn’t.”
“They also know about Sodor,” the President said quietly. “And that you not only tried to kill the American who keeps that from happening on Sol…but that you also tried to frame him, at least posthumously, for the murders of several more people, one of whom is his fiancée.” He didn’t quite sigh, shaking his head. “We don’t do that sort of thing in my America, Mr. Richardson – which also happens to be their America.” He nodded to the two men. “He’s all yours.”
Before Richardson could react, one of the men had pulled out a small bottle and sprayed its contents directly into his face. He tried to draw back, to fight…and then he stopped, looking confused. The black-suited man nonchalantly put the bottle back in his pocket while his partner took out a handkerchief and wiped the stunned ex-Director’s face with it. Then each of them took one of his arms; he didn’t struggle, or even protest. “We’ll be going now, Mr. President. If we might cut across your patio, our plane is waiting.”
“Of course you may.” The President went back behind his desk and sat down, waving the men and their prisoner toward the French doors; beyond them, just out of sight through the garden, was the private helipad that served the Oval Office. “Have a safe flight, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sir.” And then they were gone.
The President sat there, listening, until he heard the helicopter take off. Then he shuffled through the papers on his desk, putting them into the order he wanted them to be in, before fishing his cell phone out of the top drawer of the desk and thumbing through the directory to find the number he wanted. He dialed, waited, and then responded to the somewhat gruff French-accented voice that answered. “You won’t be having any more problems from our end – pass that on to Charlie for me, if you would.” This time the voice on the other end was less gruff, and he almost smiled. “Yes, I know. I don’t blame him a bit, either. Tell him that too. And tell your office staff to leave the cursing to the expert next time, that sounded like something a college kid would say…yeah, yeah, save it for someone who’s never gotten drunk with you. Yes, the same to you. Let me know if anything else turns up…okay, yes, yes I will. Keep me posted. Thanks.”
He disconnected, slid the cell phone back into the drawer, and sat back in his chair with a sigh. It was a damned lucky thing for everyone involved that the Canadian P.M. was an old friend of his, one who knew him well enough to know he wasn’t the sort of man who played the dirtier, bloodier sort of governmental power games people like Richardson involved themselves in. Or who allowed the people under him to play them on his watch, either.
This one had still slipped through, though. And it had cost them more dearly than most people would ever know.