by Edward Klein
Whatever it was that had brought me to Grant Park, those three words convinced me that the tide of history had turned decisively against the CIA. The American people had chosen a new messiah—and this man was not the messiah that the CIA would have chosen for them.
“Yes we can!” the crowd continued to roar. “Yes we can!”
No I can’t, I thought. No I can’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
After I arrived back at my hotel suite, I zipped open the leather Louis Vuitton Dopp kit that Taitsie had given me for my thirty-seventh birthday and removed several bottles of Vicodan and Percocet. Each time I refilled the prescriptions for back pain, I had made sure to put aside half of the pills for just this moment.
The idea of taking my own life had been rattling around in my brain for the past four years. I had found a book at a used bookstore off Dupont Circle entitled How to Guarantee a Successful Suicide and Other Useful Tips for Improving Your Life. And I had placed a call to the office of Dr. Jack Kevorkian to schedule a consultation. But the voice on the other end of the phone answered, “Lucinda’s House of Nails. This is Lucinda, known as Lucky, which you will be if you schedule an appointment.” When I asked for Dr. Kevorkian, she told me, “Honey, the doc’s in the can…and I don’t mean the shitter.”
I took off my jacket and tie and shoes, and called down to room service and ordered a bottle of Hidalgo Manzanilla Pastrana sherry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Higginbothem,” the operator said, “but we don’t carry that brand of sherry.”
I couldn’t imagine committing suicide without my favorite brand of sherry.
“Okay,” I said, “then send someone out to get a bottle.”
“It’s after two in the morning, Mr. Higginbothem. There aren’t any liquor stores open.”
“Then call around to other hotels,” I said. “One of them must carry Hidalgo Manzanilla Pastrana sherry. Just get it!”
I sat down at the desk, and removed several pages of Ambassador East Hotel stationery from the drawer. I unscrewed the cap on my Graf von Faber-Castel pen, which was made of Indian satinwood and had been voted 2008 Pen of the Year.
I began to write a farewell note to my Dad when a knock on the door interrupted my concentration.
“Yes?” I called out.
“Room service” came the reply.
I opened the door and a waiter brought in a small silver tray with a bottle of Hidalgo Manzanilla Pastrana sherry.
“Great!” I said. “You found it!”
“We were able to track down the sherry you requested from the Hotel Burnham,” he said. “Only, I must tell you, sir, that the contents are more than half gone.”
“Well, it’s a start,” I said. “Tell the manager at the desk I need another bottle—a full one. And pronto!”
I handed him a big tip, and he was gone.
I left the door unlocked in anticipation of his return. At the writing desk, I felt a stabbing pain in the lower left side of my back. I poured two piles of pills into the palm of my hand—one of Vicodan and one of Percocet—then shoved them all into my mouth. I washed them down with the sherry.
I tried to stand up. But for a moment I couldn’t move! I fell to my knees and screamed out, “God, please make it stop! Please!”
And suddenly the pain did stop.
A wonderful, warm, comforting feeling invaded my body. And I saw this scene, not through my own eyes, but from above. I had somehow left my body and floated to the ceiling of the hotel room.
I saw a man who I knew was Jesus Christ. I was certain of it. He stood in front of me and wrapped His arms around me. Suddenly I felt better than I have ever felt in my life. I was at total peace.
And Jesus spoke to me.
“The-o-dore,” he said, “you really look like a wreck.”
CHAPTER FORTY
I heard voices coming from the black void of space.
“Doctor, how’s my husband?”
“We’ve pumped his stomach, Mrs. Higginbothem….”
“Will he live?”
“The hospital’s procedure is to continue to list him as serious until we get his vital signs stabilized….”
The female voice came much closer. “Bottom, oh my dear, dear Bottom, why did you do this to yourself? Why?“
“You’ve got to go now, Mrs. Higginbothem.”
“Oh, Bottom, my love, can you hear me?”
“Ma’am, please! We need to move your husband into radiology for the insertion of the percutaneous nephrostomy tube…”
“Doctor, tell him I was here. Tell him Taitsie was here….”
“Who?”
“His wife. Taitsie.”
“You’ve got to be kidding….”
My brain was so clouded by the effects of the overdose of prescription narcotics that I couldn’t process smatterings of conversation. I heaved in and out of consciousness, and not until several hours later did I begin to make some sense of what had happened to me.
A tiny Filipina nurse by the name of Girlie informed me that I was in Mercy Hospital and Medical Center on South Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. An Ambassador East room service waiter, who was bringing me a fresh, unopened bottle of Hidalgo Manzanilla Pastrana sherry, had found me unconscious and sprawled on the floor of my hotel room. Jesus was right: it wasn’t a very dignified way to die. The hotel acted swiftly and summoned an ambulance, which had brought me here to the ER.
“When they pumped your stomach,” Girlie said, “they ran all sorts of tests and they found a huge kidney stone at the top of your urethra, which had been causing your back pain. The doctors are amazed you were walking around with a stone that large for so long.” Such a medical marvel had her in a state of rhapsody. “Now you know what childbirth feels like. The doctors anesthetized you and inserted a tube right into your kidney—ugh!—area and removed the stone.”
“Forget the stone,” I said. “How did the hospital find my wife?”
“The organ donor card in your wallet had your wife’s name listed as next of kin,” Girlie explained. “We reached her on her cell phone, and she rushed right over here. You’re a lucky man to have a wife like that, Mr. Higginbothem.”
Lucky? A wife that would turn down a chance at a three-on-onesome?
Then I caught myself and wondered: Why had Taitsie come to the hospital? What did Taitsie’s visit mean? Did she still have feelings for me? Was there any hope whatsoever that I could win her back?
In the middle of my gaudy musings, the phone next to my hospital bed started ringing.
“It’s your son,” Girlie said, handing me the receiver.
“Hey, Dad, how’re you doing?” Vier said. “Mom told me you almost died…from food poisoning. I hope you’re better now.”
“I’m coming along just great,” I said, relieved that Taitsie had not told Vier the truth about my attempted suicide. “Nothing to worry about, son.”
“Dad, can I come and see you? Being the only man in a house of women who blabber nonstop is getting seriously old.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Several weeks later, pain-free and sober, I was staring out of a big bay window at Heron Point, a secret CIA campus just outside Chestertown, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Tucked away in a corner of this wooded compound was a small rehab clinic for CIA personnel who had run into drug and drinking problems. The program was called S.A.D.D.—Substance Abuse, Drug and Depression—and successful graduates were referred to around the CIA as SADD-Sacks.
After a knock on the door, my supervising counselor at Heron Point, who went by the moniker McQ, entered the room. He had a nose the size of a doorknob and a face with a million broken veins.
“Hey, man,” McQ said, “can I come in?
“As Whitney Nutwing would say, La mia casa è la tua casa.”
“That sounds just like Nutwing,” McQ said. “So, how ya doing, man?”
“How do I look?”
“Like a new man, man,” he said. “I’m really impressed by your rec
overy. You’re trim, you’re fit—”
“And,” I interrupted him, “eager to begin life again. I want to go home and see my son. I miss him terribly. And as for Taitsie, I’m determined to win her back and fill the emptiness I’ve felt since the day she left me.”
“I’m glad you’ve been able to talk in the AA rooms about your feelings for Taitsie,” McQ said. “That’s healthy, man. And I was really impressed by your dream of creating a ‘Girls of the CIA’ wall calendar and making Valerie Plame the month of January. But don’t forget, when you see Taitsie, remember it’s you who’s supposed to make amends. Not the other way around. Got it?”
“I got it.”
“By the way, you’ve got visitors waiting outside. Whitney Nutwing and The Deuce. Can they come in?”
“Sure, bring them in.”
I hadn’t seen either man since the Ambassador East incident. In fact, I hadn’t seen anyone from my past. But during all this time I had never felt alone or abandoned. As a born-again Christian, I had the rocklike support of my new best friend and Higher Power, Jesus Christ, who had shone me the light on election night, and was now with me each and every day. I started thinking, those portraits had him all wrong. Someone as enlightened as that wouldn’t have dressed in dirty robes. He would have had a sense of style. He would have ditched that beard. He would have walked around wearing—
Nutwing and The Deuce came into the room, bearing flowers and broad smiles.
“The-o-dore…you look ten years younger!” Nutwing exclaimed.
“Can’t say the same for you,” I said after he released me from his moist, warm grip. “Looks like you put on some more weight.”
“A pound or two, Higgy. A pound or two. But then, who’s counting?”
The Deuce and I exchanged a manly father-son handshake.
“Throw on a warm jacket and let’s go outside,” The Deuce said. “Mr. Nutwing and I have something we want to discuss with you.”
Nutwing led the way to a heated golf cart that was waiting at the front door. He and The Deuce sat in the front; I climbed into the back. Nutwing hit the accelerator, and we sped off to a part of the campus that was usually off-limits to SADD-Sacks like me.
As we drove through the woods, we passed a shooting range and heard the muffled pistol fire of target practice. We also passed a wooden building designated Close-Combat/Hand-to-Hand, where years before a CIA-trainee by the name of Tina Fey had accidentally received her facial scar.
Nutwing drove us to a secluded corner of Heron Point, which was segregated from the rest of the campus by a high barbed-wire fence. A heavily armed security team manning the gate waved us through.
Nutwing stopped the golf cart in front of a wooden building marked Enhanced Interrogation Training Center.
“I hope you didn’t bring me here to interrogate me,” I said, half-joking. “I’ll confess to anything. I’m a T.F.F.—a Total Fucking Failure.”
“Not in my eyes, you’re not,” The Deuce said. “Higgy, I’ve always been proud of you, and I’m proud of you right now. McQ’s told me all about your remarkable recovery. Personally, I wouldn’t want to see Valerie Plame on that CIA calendar you have in mind, but that’s only a quibble. All in all, if I could choose a son all over again, I’d choose you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, deeply touched.
“And The-o-dore,” Nutwing added, “we’re not here to talk about the past. We’re here to discuss your future assignment. As you know, Barack Obama is going to be inaugurated next week. Whether we like it or not, Obama’s the only president we’ve got. So, it’s time to reassess our approach—drop our investigation of Obama and start doing everything in our power to protect him. That’s going to be a tall order. From what I’ve seen in your confidential Obama work-up, Yurik Maligin has collected damaging goods on Obama. And, no doubt, the Russians are prepared to use this information to put the squeeze on our new president.”
“Yes,” I said, “the Russians will use the incriminating information that Maligin has collected on Obama to blackmail him…try to make him cancel America’s plans for an anti-ballistic-missile system in Poland and Czechoslovakia…try to make him back off NATO membership for Ukraine…try to make him replace the Statue of Liberty with a large-scale set of Russian matryoshka nesting dolls….”
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of,” Nutwing said dryly. “So here’s your new mission. We want you to meet personally with President Obama.”
“Meet? With Obama?”
“Yes, you and Barack are about to become great friends.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I heard screaming sirens and saw a Secret Service motorcade with motorcycle outriders, black SUV’s, an ambulance, and two long, dark limousines. The motorcade streamed through the gates and pulled to a stop. Half a dozen Secret Service agents hopped out and surrounded one of the limos. They had those transparent wires running from their sleeves up their necks to their ears. On a silent command, they opened the back right door.
Out stepped Dick Cheney, the soon-to-be ex vice president of the United States, looking grim and sour. He strode toward the wooden Enhanced Interrogation Training Center building. Following in his tracks were a blonde woman and several male staffers.
Nutwing, The Deuce and I climbed out of the golf cart and followed Cheney into the building. It had been turned into a mockup of a Middle Eastern prison. It was dark and dusty, and the smell reminded me of an Arab souk. A CIA man addressed Cheney.
“Sir, when you’re ready, change into a standard-issue detainee orange jumpsuit. Then come back out here.”
Cheney nodded, took a folded set of clothing from a staffer, and headed into changing room. A couple of minutes later, he emerged looking like a Gitmo prisoner of war.
The CIA guys running the operation grabbed Cheney and shackled his hands together. Then they chained his feet so he could only shuffle along. Two members of his Secret Service detail leaped forward to protect the soon-to-be ex v.p.
“Stand back!” Cheney barked at his Secret Service bodyguards. “It’s all right. Let’s do this!”
The CIA men dragged Cheney over to a low metal table and forced him to lie on it, face up, with his head hanging over the edge. They strapped him tight. Suddenly, the blonde woman who had followed him into the building started shouting.
“Daddy!“ cried Liz Cheney, his conservative firebrand daughter, “I’m worried all that water’s going to short-circuit your pacemaker.”
But the CIA agents didn’t pay any attention to her. They produced a dirty-looking rag and a bucket of water. They spread the rag over Dick Cheney’s face and slowly pored the water over the rag.
Cheney began squirming like a fish thrown on the deck of a boat. But the two CIA men held him down as they screamed at him.
“Tell us about your ties to Al Qaeda… When is the next attack… We can do this all day if you want… We’re going to wipe your ass with the Koran….”
This went on for several minutes, and I thought they were going to kill the old guy. Then, without warning, the CIA men stopped the interrogation. They unshackled Cheney and stood him up. He was gasping for breath. He looked like a beaten man. His white hair was frazzled and his orange jumpsuit was wet down to his waist. But, for the first time since his arrival, a huge smile came over his wide mouth.
“I loved that!” he said. “I loved getting water boarded! Can we do it again? Come on, fellas. Water board me again! Please!”
Whitney Nutwing pulled me aside and pressed something into my hand.
I looked down and saw that it was my suicide note.
Nutwing smiled and nodded toward The Deuce, who was walking out of the building.
“After your botched suicide, we swept your hotel room,” Nutwing said. “The Deuce never saw your suicide note.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“You owe me big time,” Nutwing said. “So here’s your new mission. I want you to go the White House on Inauguration Day, introduce yourself to
President Obama and inform him that the CIA has designated you as his John the Baptist.”
“His what?”
“John the Baptist,” Nutwing repeated. “As a born-again Christian, you must know who John the Baptist is. You’re going to prepare the way and purify the waters for Barack Obama—The Chosen One, the Messiah, the Deliverer of our nation! You’re going to protect President Obama from the Russians—and from his own worst instincts. You’re going to be his John the Baptist.”
“If I remember my Bible accurately,” I said, “wasn’t John the Baptist the guy who was beheaded?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
After his inauguration at the Capitol, Barack Obama motorcaded to the Oval Office, where Sydney Michael Green and I were waiting for him along with his White House Secret Service detail, his secretarial staff, and his three closest aides—Valerie Jarrett, Rahm Emanuel and David Axelrod. Needless to say, I didn’t invite Sydney Michael Green. He was there courtesy of Whitney Nutwing, who ordered him to keep an eye on me.
Everyone in the room broke into applause as the 44th president of the United States strode into the Oval. He took his place behind the Resolute Desk, a large, nineteenth-century partner’s desk that was a gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and was built from the timbers of the Arctic exploration ship H.M.S. Resolute.
“Let it be recorded that these were my first words as president,” Obama declared. “I. Am. Where. I. Was. Always. Destined. To. Be.”
“Sock it to ‘em, baby!” Sydney Michael Green blurted out.
Obama ignored the outburst and leaned back and threw his long legs up on the Resolute Desk. In an instant a Filipino steward rushed forward carrying a portable basin and a bucket of water. The steward began unlacing the president’s shoes.
“What’s going on?” Obama asked, starting to pull away. “I only take my shoes off in a mosque.”