The Society by Karen Guyler (feel good fiction books .txt) 📗

much time ticked by while she waited, so much water had rushed through the pumping station. How many people was it too late for?

Lily, don’t drink the water. I’m coming.

57

The automatic doors of the hotel where Charles waited swished open to admit a man in Arab dress, two suited men behind him. Allahu Akbar wailed in with them, the call to prayer cut off when the doors closed.

Charles looked back at the footage on the TV screens and caught it.

The cameras showed the outward view of the delegates enjoying their formal dinner as if it was sited on the top VIP table. A trickle of tuxedo-ed men and glittery-dressed women were leaving their tables. It was working. He gave it a while longer, each minute a torture, longer than the previous one until he just couldn’t sit there, passive, any more.

He power walked to the Hotel Adina, moping at his forehead with his handkerchief when he presented himself to the same guard he’d spoken to earlier.

“Hey, you remember I’m the relief physician for the President of the United States? Just got a call he needs me, can I go in? Just get me in the lobby, I still have to go through the Secret Service to get anywhere near the President. Don’t sweat it, I’m used to it.”

“Sit rep?” The man asked his tech. “Status of US?. . .Roger that. Okay to send in the relief physician?. . .Sending in Dr Charles Buchanan.”

Charles nodded thanks and walked past the fountains to the entrance. As easy as that.

The sumptuous foyer was certainly a couple of notches up from next door. A man with a weathered face and thick neatly styled grey hair in an expensive suit was holding a hushed but urgent conversation with the reception staff. They were good, Charles might not have noticed anything was wrong if he didn’t know better.

“Please take a seat, Sir, I’ll be with you in a moment.” One of the man’s underlings dismissed him.

“I have been, sitting. I got an emergency summons, I’m needed right away by the President of the United States, I’m his relief physician.”

“Sir, I—”

“I get you’re busy, but the guards outside cleared me, all I need’s his room number. You all don’t want him getting sicker here now, do ya?”

The man looked at his boss, who responded faster than Charles would have credited. “Suite Fifteen, Sir.”

Security was heavy out of the lift, but Charles had expected that. “Dr Charles Buchanan,” he announced, “the President’s fallen sick, I’m one of his physicians.” The guards hesitated, not briefed for this. “You won’t let me through, fine, but you go tell him because I don’t want his death on my conscience.”

“ID.”

Charles repeated the same charade. “They wouldn’t put me up in these fancy digs.” Inwardly he winced at the Britishism but arguing over whether to let him through they missed it. “I know it’s Suite Fifteen, I wouldn’t know that otherwise, would I?”

“Where’s your equipment, don’t you need a doctor’s bag?”

“We share medical equipment, too pricey for a kit each.” He pulled his driving licence away from the guard and pressed the call lift button. “Why don’t you just ask the President if I’m cleared to enter?”

Charles waited while his request was passed up the chain to their Commander-in-Chief, not sure which way his request would go.

“You can go in.” The agent said after a few minutes.

“Dr Emmanuel Seaton.” Charles heard the booming voice behind him when he was just a few steps away from the double doors with the number fifteen on them.

He turned around with a smile. “Emmanuel, didn’t realise you were in on this gig too.”

The round black man looked at Charles with the blank but not wanting to be rude look that Charles had seen so often at conferences. Charles held his hand out and withdrew it as Seaton went to grasp it.

“Sorry, force of habit, best not to, until we’re sure of what we’re dealing with. You up to date with your shots?”

“Naturally.”

“Looks like this could be a mutation of the virus that swept through these parts two years ago. I was here then, had a mild case myself. You probably need to consider full PPE, it’s pretty lethal. It showed up in Ethiopia last week. Look, I have some immunity, let me take this one. There’s a lot of people falling sick, best advice? Go to your room and wait it out.” Charles patted Seaton on the shoulder, “be good to see you again at the next conference.”

He nodded. “Appreciate that.”

“Not a problem, get the message out to the rest of the team. Stay safe.” He watched Seaton until the elevator doors closed on him, taking him away from Jed.

And, just like that, Charles was in front of his old friend, his now adversary, arguably the most powerful man in the world.

“Jed, you don’t look so good, buddy.” Charles was over to him where he was sitting on the couch.

“Charles? What’re you doing here?”

“Same as you, I came for the summit. Water, it’s quite a hobby of mine. You must be aware my wife has a charity that dispenses safe drinking water in the Third World.” Charles dropped his phony accent, curious, that he thought the one he grew up with was the false one and the one he’d affected, the British well-to-do, was now his natural choice. The brainwashing had really worked. “Would you like me to check you out, give you a once over. I’ve seen this before, this virus.” He took hold of the President’s wrist, counted his pulse rate, as rapid as he thought it might be.

“Couldn’t get fresh water for the President, could you?” He looked around the room, huge arrangements of flowers and fruit on the table and desk. “No bottled water?”

The agent shook his head. “No Sir, water’s safe here.”

“Fresh from the kitchen’s good then.” Charles threw over his shoulder at the bodyguard.

Jed nodded his agreement with the instructions. Charles heard the issuing of the order to someone else.