The Sins of the Fathers

Chapter Eighteen

The White House

Washington DC

Sean Fletcher was sitting on a bench in the famous rose garden, drinking a decent single malt whisky and chain-smoking Marlboro lights at midday. Not a great look for the leader of the free world, but he needed to think and he needed nicotine and some Dutch courage to do that effectively. He was angry, first and foremost, and he was just about perceptive enough to realise that he could not afford to lash out and repent at his leisure. Not when the ultimate consequence of Gideon Palmer's theory was accusing the British and the Chinese of causing genocide through deliberate negligence. And it was only a theory at that stage. Yet again, all they had was anecdotal evidence from Mena Forbes and some statistics that were considered dubious at the time. It desperately needed investigating but he was instinctively reluctant to involve the United Nations again, because Beijing and London would know all about these new allegations five minutes after Claudine Delacorte was looped in. However, as the rather stunning revelation was made to a UN investigator, in front of UN cameras, and the words recorded on UN microphones, that might not be his choice. For the time being, because Pan Deacon was a decent guy and fully aware of what would happen as soon as he submitted his report, they were safe. But things could change.

Beijing was the major problem, of course. If he could go on the attack against the British government without involving anyone else, the fleet would already be sailing and he would be preparing to lead the charge. But China was an aggressive nuclear power in the grip of a brutal regime who did not take kindly to threats. He would be risking war. Even making the allegations public would be dangerous. So, no public opinion, no UN and no chance of going after the Brits. Not until he had exhausted any other options he could come up with. Britain was a member of NATO, G7 and G20, so there was no other handy talking point from where he could speak freely, without the British knowing. But he needed allies, he told himself as he lit another cigarette. He could not make it the USA against the Brits again, because he was the short-term leader of a country that was about to vote a Reformist into replace him.

"It's fucking cold out here, Norman?" Jake Palmer moaned as he reached the bench, giving his uncle the once over.

"It concentrates the mind?"

"So...are you taking meetings out here?"

"Are you saying that playtime is over?"

"No...you're the boss...but I am saying that the world is still turning and that we do have other things on the agenda?" Jake shrugged, hands in warm pockets, regretting that he had not bothered to find a coat before coming outside.

"Noted...you think I am obsessed?"

"Yes...but I understand why...once you are dragged out of here kicking and screaming in January, the baton passes to me...and I am going to be fighting a Reformist president...but I intend to fight today's battles?" Jake said, shuffling his feet, and glancing back towards the building. "Because the old ones are unwinnable?"

"You don't see a way around the Chinese problem, either?"

"Not a way that doesn't involve starting a war?" Jake sighed and shook his head, feeling the familiar weight on his shoulders, the family pressure. He was thirty-eight, born whilst his grandmother was President, in the year that his aunt was married to Ralph Winstanley. His namesake, Jacob Rosen, was leading the fight back then, but they were all in the trenches. It was in his blood, an itch he could never quite scratch, and he had never met Caitlin. Drew Symonds was the bogeyman, and the British were the enemy. "If they had the vaccine early as well, they will never admit it, and they will defend their interests with force. If we accuse them, if we publicise this, we start a new cold war at best...at worst, it gets a lot hotter?"