Undersea Prison by Duncan Falconer

the vehicle stopped at the first security checkpoint on 17 th and East Street in north-west Washington DC. The driver powered down the inch-and-a-half-thick window enough to hang out his pass while another security guard looked in the back. Sir Bartholomew smiled politely at him while holding up his own ID. The vehicle was invited to continue. It passed through two more gated checkpoints manned by members of the uniform division of the Secret Service, the last of whom directed the driver into West Executive Drive.
    The Lincoln pulled to a stop outside the West Wing of the White House. As Sir Bartholomew climbed out he was met by a member of the Presidential office staff. The aide escorted him through the entrance where they turned immediately left and up a narrow set of stairs to the Vice-President’s office.
    Sir Bartholomew was escorted straight in.
    Vice-President Ogden eased his heavy frame out of his seat and stepped from behind his desk, wearing a broad smile. ‘Good to see you, Barty,’ he said, extending his hand.
    ‘You too, Frank.’ Sir Bartholomew shook the VP’s hand that was almost twice the size of his own.
    ‘How’s Gillian?’ Ogden asked.
    ‘At this very moment she’s being dragged around Georgetown Park Mall by Senator Jay’s wife.’
    ‘Kicking and screaming, I’ll bet.’
    ‘No fear of that, I’m afraid,’ Sir Bartholomew said, with a chuckle.‘Gillian could shop for Britain, I promise you.’
    ‘Tea?’
    ‘No, thank you. I’m not going to keep you long. It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice.’
    ‘Have a seat. I have a meeting in ten minutes. Is that enough time for you?’
    ‘Ample. Ample.’
    Both men sat down in comfortable antique armchairs, with a dainty coffee table between them. The aide arrived carrying a tray, a jug of ice water and two glasses balanced on it. He placed it on the coffee table and headed back towards the door.
    ‘Hold all my calls,’ Ogden called out.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ the aide replied before closing the door behind him.
    ‘So.What’s on your mind?’ Ogden asked, sitting back and shifting his bulk to get comfortable.
    ‘The subject is Styx.’
    Ogden nodded. ‘OK.’
    ‘You have three British subjects incarcerated in it.’
    ‘Now, Barty.You know that’s not a subject that right now you and I—’
    ‘No, no, no,’ Sir Bartholomew interrupted, smiling and gesturing dismissively. ‘Allow me to start again,’ he said, adopting a more appropriate expression. His smile disappeared. ‘There are problems involving the prison.’
    ‘Show me a prison that doesn’t have problems.’
    ‘Styx is not your usual prison and neither are its current problems. I’ve heard them described by some as merely problematic for your administration, downright serious by others.’
    ‘Barty, we’ve known each other many years.We have what I think is more than just a solid working relationship. You can be direct with me. But even as an old friend I’m not about to fill in any of the blanks for you.’
    ‘I wouldn’t play that game with you, Frank. To be honest, when I read the request from London I was unsure quite how to approach it. Still am, in fact.’
    ‘I’m all ears,’ Ogden said, making a point of checking his watch.
    ‘OK. Well, I’ll tell you how we see it and you can ignore me entirely if we’re way off the mark and I won’t be offended . . . The problems associated with Styx are heating up and when they boil over they’re going to cause a substantial mess. Your administration succeeded in taking a lot of the heat out of the volatile issue of political prisoners and foreign terrorists imprisoned without charge with the proposed closing down of Guantánamo. Even if you’re now in the process of hiding them all under the waters of the Gulf of Mexico instead. But that’s all about to erupt like a volcano. I’m talking, of course, about the corruption within the Felix Corp prison management - the funnelling of money to private