Prince Philip nodded but didn’t say anything. Prince Andrew figured his brother must not want to draw attention.
A moment later, they stepped onto the large Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King helicopter that was waiting for them. Prince Andrew and his brother exchanged glances of approval. This helicopter was plush and comfortable. As soon as everyone was aboard, the pilots spun up the engine.
“You hear that?” asked Prince Philip.
“What do you mean?” asked Prince Andrew.
“Exactly my point,” Philip explained. “You can barely tell the engine is running with all the soundproofing in here.”
Prince Andrew smiled. Both he and his brother were helicopter pilots themselves, so they knew a thing or two about flying.
Prince Philip turned to one of the American Secret Service agents. “Is this the same helicopter the President flies on?” he asked out of curiosity.
The agent turned to look at them and nodded. “The President sent his personal helicopter to come get you. Sorry for having you land at Andrews instead of Reagan International, but this airport is more secure and private.”
Prince Andrew suddenly realized that this meeting must be an even bigger deal than he’d originally thought if the President had sent his own helicopter. Besides, they were also accompanied by the former director of MI5 and a Tory MP.
“If Chattem found out about this meeting, he’d be piping mad,” Andrew thought. A smirk spread across his face.
When the helicopter flew over the White House, Andrew caught a glimpse of the outside. While a lot of tourists were snapping pictures of the iconic building, his eyes were immediately drawn to the one-meter-tall sandbag wall that had been built around the perimeter of the building. He also spotted several menacing-looking armored personnel carriers as well.
As Marine One circled the building and came in for a landing on the South Lawn, a sudden gust of wind hit them, bringing with it a torrent of rain. Once they had settled on the ground, Andrew noticed that the rotor blades wound down much faster than on a normal civilian model.
A couple of guards came walking over to the helicopters with umbrellas, ready to shepherd them to the portico and side entrance to the White House.
Once the British party made it into the building, they were led to a meeting room near the President's office.
One of the staffers at the White House brought them a tray filled with tea and light finger foods. “All right, gentlemen, wait here for a moment and we will let the President know that you have arrived.”
As the President waited for his British guests, he observed the shower pounding on the windows outside the Oval Office. A dark set of storm clouds had moved into the Washington area, providing some much-needed rain. The sudden tempest seemed a bit too symbolic of his mood at the moment.
“How do I tell these gentlemen that their PM cut a deal with the Russians?” he wondered. It still seemed almost bizarre to him that Chattem had made an agreement to withdraw armed forces from the war in exchange for his position of power.
Knock, knock.
The President looked up and saw the National Security Advisor, Tom McMillan, stick his head into the room. “Sir, our guests have arrived. Do you want me to bring them in?” he asked.
President Foss nodded, not saying a word. He was still trying to figure out what to say. Then he suddenly remembered that JP, his CIA Director, would also be there. JP had been so quiet as he’d sat on the couch, drinking his second cup of coffee and reading over documents to prepare, that Foss had actually forgotten he was in the room.
When the British contingent walked in, the usual greetings were exchanged. After all hands had been shaken, the President signaled that they should all take a seat. A few additional chairs were brought in to make sure there was enough room, but then the four British bodyguards found their way to the door to wait outside the room with the Secret Service agents. They had enough sense to know this needed to be a private meeting, even without being told.
George Younger, the former head of MI5, opened the discussion. He turned to his former counterpart, JP, and asked, “So, what is so hush-hush that you had the lot of us secretly whisked away from London to meet you here in Washington under such cloak-and-dagger means?”
The two young princes placed their cups of tea gently on the table in front of them and then leaned forward, obviously eager to hear the response.
JP opened his folder and produced some documents he’d planned to give as handouts. As he began to pass them out, he explained, “We brought you here under these circumstances because what we are about to brief you on is incredibly sensitive in nature, and frankly, we’re not sure how to proceed. We are seeking your guidance.”
The Brits looked at each other with perplexed expressions.
JP continued. “We have a deep cover agent in Russia who acquired some rather interesting information about the Prime Minister.” He held up a hand to stop any questions. “The document you now have in front of you is a dossier on Max Weldon, a Managing Director for the Rothschild Group. If you will continue to peruse the information, you’ll find that he is also known as Maksim Sokolov and belongs to the Russian Federal Security Service. Take a few moments to briefly scan the pages before you — I’m sure you will all come to the same conclusion that we have, that this Max fellow is a grave threat.”
Pages rustled as everyone rifled through the dossiers.
After a moment, Younger looked up. “Prior to being forced out of MI5, I knew of this character. We’d known about him for some time. Our continued hope was that he would lead us to some big fish, and we could find someone to turn and then get them to start feeding him false information. Why are you Yanks so interested in him now?” he asked.
JP then pulled up some images on his Microsoft Surface Pro, turning the tablet around so everyone could see the series of images that showed Chattem moving across London, wearing a variety of different disguises and ultimately ending his escapade at the Oxford Cambridge Club. He then played a video that showed the two men arriving at the same hotel room.
“They arrived separately, of course,” conceded JP, “but they were clearly meeting to discuss something.”
“Do you have audio of the meeting?” inquired MP Rosie Hoyle, the opposition leader in the House of Commons.
“We do, but not from the video. The FSB would have detected such a device if we’d used one that could record and store both audio and video. The recording we have was taken by Maksim Sokolov himself, probably to use as blackmail at a later date and time. Between the video and the audio recording, you can piece together what is happening pretty well. Our analysts have run their voices through our recognition software, and we came back with 100 % matches.”
JP then proceeded to pull a small digital recorder from the breast pocket of his jacket. As he placed the device on the center table between them, he hit the play button.
The group sat there listening intently to the two of them talk. At first, it seemed to proceed innocently enough as Max asked Chattem what his position on the war would be if he became the PM. However, when the conversation turned to what would need to happen in order for him to obtain the position of prime minister and Chattem specifically mentioned the assassination of several Tory MPs and a cruise missile attack against their country, their jaws hit the floor.
When the recording was done, the President looked at his guests, who were obviously in a state of shock. “Now that we have acquired this information and shared it with you, what are we supposed to do with it?” he asked.
“That traitorous bastard,” Prince Philip said under his breath.