by Larry Bond
A jarring bounce and the sudden roar of reversed engines interrupted his own depressing thoughts. They were down.
Overhead speakers crackled to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Washington’s Dulles International Airport. On behalf of the captain and your entire flight crew…”
Huntington tuned out the standard announcement he’d heard several hundred times before, waiting patiently while the 747 taxied off the runway toward the soaring steel and glass terminal building that was the airport’s trademark. Patience was a virtue he’d been forced to acquire in late middle age, and he still found his willingness to sit calmly somewhat surprising.
Certainly none of his former employees or shareholders would have described him as a patient man. Far from it. They’d have said he was hard-charging, aggressive, and often painfully blunt. And they would have been right.
Business Week had once called him “the CEO with a linebacker’s body, a first-rate mind, and a sailor’s mouth.” Those characteristics had helped him transform his family’s aging, tradition-riddled machine-tools firm into one of the country’s most profitable small corporations. They’d also nearly killed him.
At forty-nine, he’d been a driving, dynamic businessman. But he’d celebrated his fiftieth birthday in intensive care, felled by a massive heart attack brought on by stress and overwork. His recovery had been slow and painful, and his doctors hadn’t given him many choices. Retire immediately or face a likely sudden death. The frightened look on his wife’s face left him with only one real alternative. He’d turned the CEO slot over to his oldest daughter and settled into what he considered slower, quieter pursuits.
Other men in his position played golf or bridge or took up painting. Ross Huntington had other interests. Political interests.
He was one of the first passengers out the jumbo jet’s forward cabin door. Flying first-class had its compensations, and beating the mad rush through carry-on-bag-choked aisles was the one he prized most. That and the extra legroom it offered. At six feet two inches tall, Huntington believed coach seats could only have been designed with midgets and screaming children in mind. Personal wealth let him indulge his height.
As he left the jetway and headed for customs, a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit intercepted him.
“Mr. Huntington?”
“That’s right.” He slowed his pace, looking down at the man out the corner of his eye. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”
“Rawlins, sir. Secret Service.” The man fished a wallet-shaped identity card out of his jacket, flipped it open, and showed it to him.
Huntington stopped in the middle of the hallway, standing still while other travelers flowed past him like water around a well-worn rock.
The card showed Rawlins’ picture and looked real enough. He handed it back. “Well?”
The Secret Service agent nodded toward an unmarked exit. “No need to go through customs, sir. We’ve already cleared you. And there’s a car waiting downstairs.”
They wanted him in a hurry, then. Damn. He’d been looking forward to a nap and hot shower at his hotel first. Twenty hours of practically nonstop traveling left their mark on anyone. “What about my bags?”
“All arranged, sir. Our people will deliver them for you.” Rawlins paused. “Was there anything in them you need this afternoon?”
Huntington shook his head. Everything he’d need for this meeting was already crammed into his overtired brain or his scuffed leather briefcase. Unfortunately. He’d left for Europe with high hopes and expectations. And he was coming back with a fat lot of nothing.
The sour knowledge of failure stayed with him all the way to the waiting official car and the White House.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The antechamber outside the Oval Office looked oddly empty. The room was usually crowded — packed with important political contributors, a championship sports team, or a scouting troop waiting their turn for a quick picture with the nation’s chief executive. Now it contained only the President’s personal secretary, busy behind her desk, and his military aide, stiff and formal in full uniform. It took Huntington several seconds to realize what that meant. The President must have cleared his normal afternoon schedule just to hear what he had to say.
Wonderful.
He squared his shoulders and walked straight through the door. Old friend or not, these next few moments weren’t likely to be pleasant.
The President looked up from a mass of paperwork. Two years into his first term, the optimistic, “can do” attitude that had first attracted the American electorate was still there, but it was beginning to look a little frayed around the edges. And the broad shoulders and thick, muscled neck that had served him well as a younger man on the football field were hunched now — bowed down by the weight of constant battles with the same isolationist special interests that had wrecked the economy and sent his predecessor packing. The United States had already had two one-term presidents in this decade. If things didn’t improve soon, he would be the third. Despite that, an easy smile formed on a square-jawed face that still looked boyish beneath his gray hair. “Ross! How was your flight?”
“Long.” Huntington dropped into a chair in front of the desk.
“Yeah. Sorry about the rush. But you may have guessed that I’m kinda curious to hear how things went.” The President stabbed a button on his phone. “Maria? Would you call State for me and ask Thurman to step around later this evening? Nothing formal. Just for a drink or two. Tell him Ross Huntington’s back in town. He’ll know what I mean.”
Huntington eyed him curiously. “You sure that’s wise?”
Harris Thurman, the Secretary of State, was a stickler for protocol and established diplomatic procedure. He hadn’t liked anything about the President’s plan to use a longtime family friend as an unofficial, off-the-record envoy. In fact, Huntington remembered one memo that opened with the phrase “ill-considered” and ended with the dire prediction that “amateur meddling will only make matters worse.”
Straight white teeth flashed as the President grinned. “My esteemed Secretary of State has long since seen the error of his ways. He’s one of your biggest fans now.”
“Oh?”
The President nodded. “I showed him copies of the letters I sent with you. Took the starch right out of him.”
Huntington could understand that. Communications between heads of state were usually wrapped in gauzy, vague phrases of mutual respect and warm admiration. The handwritten note to the French President hadn’t contained anything remotely resembling diplomatic language. Neither had the missive addressed to Germany’s Chancellor. Thurman, undoubtedly horrified by their tone, was probably grateful that they’d been delivered outside official channels and without his sanction.
He grimaced. “I’m not so sure he wasn’t right the first time around. I didn’t get very far.”
“I didn’t really think you would, Ross.” The President cocked his head slightly to one side and nodded toward an antique globe in the Oval Office’s far corner. “We’ve all painted ourselves into corners with this tit-for-tat protectionist crap. We’ve got so many restrictions and retaliatory tariffs on our stuff that it’s amazing anything sells. Nobody’s willing to listen anymore. The major governments are now in power because they promise to ‘protect trade.’ The French. The Germans. The Japanese. Every mother-loving one of us. We’re stuck with a trade war nobody can win.”
He shook his head in disgust. “But nobody wants to back down first. World leaders, hell! We’re all like a bunch of little kids screaming that the other fella threw the first punch.”
“Including you?”
The President snorted. “Especially me! If I even so much as think about relaxing our tariffs or import quotas, I’m gonna have Congress and big labor jumping down my throat with boots on and fangs out! That’s one reason I sent you over to Paris and Berlin, and not somebody carrying a passport stamped ‘U.S. Government Employee.’ If anybody had raised a stink, you�
�d have just been some overeager private citizen trying a little private diplomacy.”
Huntington arched an eyebrow. “But you still didn’t expect much from my mission?”
“Not really. The trade war’s gone too far for quiet words behind the scenes to have much effect.” The President jabbed a finger at him. “But I did want you to meet my counterparts. I need your firsthand impressions of these men. And your best guesses as to what their next moves might be.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the kind of shrewd, hard-eyed bastard I can trust to give me the straight scoop… without any punches pulled.” The President frowned. “Look, Ross, every other piece of analysis I get is skewed in some damned way. The CIA hems and haws and tries to cover every base from every angle. State’s too busy crawling on its belly to Congress to give me a clear reading. And the rest of my so-called experts can’t make up their minds about what they want for lunch — let alone where Europe’s headed!”
Huntington nodded slowly. Bureaucracies rarely produced anything more than a muddied consensus. The man sitting across from him wouldn’t be the first American president who’d decided to make an end run around the “normal” channels. Or to use a friend and political advisor to do it, either. Woodrow Wilson’s trust in Colonel Edward House and FDR’s use of Harry Hopkins came immediately to mind.
His thoughts twisted away from the comparison. Despite his years of experience in both the domestic and international business arenas, it seemed presumptuous to equate himself with either man. House and Hopkins had helped mold history during two world wars. He only wanted to help his country muddle through its current economic woes. History could look after itself.
He shrugged. “Guesses are about all I can offer, Mr. President. Where would you like me to start?”
“With France.”
The President’s interest in his French counterpart was very keen. Everything both men knew about the European situation pointed to France emerging as the continent’s leading political power. On the surface that seemed illogical. Germany was richer and had a bigger population. It also had Europe’s most powerful army. But the Germans were still stepping somewhat warily — with their economy and industry still weak, they were reluctant to awaken old memories of German military power. While both had economic problems, France had not had the crushing expense of rebuilding half its industry. Their treasury was in better shape, and their industry better established.
Even more important, the French possessed both a substantial nuclear arsenal and a U.N. Security Council veto. That gave them room to maneuver without much fear of foreign interference. And for the moment, at least, Berlin found itself forced to follow the course charted by Paris.
Huntington summoned up a mental image of the French President as he’d last seen him. “Bonnard’s more a figurehead than anything else. He’s too sick and too old to exercise effective control over his own household officials — let alone the country. They say he’s only made ceremonial appearances for the past several months.” He grimaced. “His aides practically had to read your letter to him three or four times before he understood it all.”
The President seemed surprised. “He’s that bad off? I’d read he’s been ill but I hadn’t heard anything like that before.”
“Not many people have, outside the Élysée.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, most of the government’s scared to death of showing any signs of weakness. They don’t want the opposition calling for new elections — not right now.”
“Understandable.” No politician with the brains God gave a snail would want to campaign behind a sickly, senile old man. Especially not at a time of growing civil unrest. “And the second reason?”
Huntington leaned forward. “Let’s just say that certain cabinet ministers enjoy operating pretty much on their own.”
The President nodded. Again, that made perfect sense. Ever since the time of Louis XIV, the Sun King, the French had shown a taste for being ruled by powerful, domineering men. Even under the republic, its presidents functioned more like elected kings than public servants. He could understand why the ambitious officials who often surrounded such leaders would jump at the chance to run their own ministries without interference. “Which ones?”
Huntington ticked them off on his fingers. “The defense chief, Minister of the Interior, head of intelligence, you name it. Practically everyone who controls a powerful department. Bonnard’s Prime Minister is almost as much a nonentity as he is right now.”
“So who’s top dog now? Or are they all still snarling for the honor?”
“Still snarling mostly.” Huntington laughed briefly at the image conjured up by the President’s choice of words. Then he stopped laughing. “But the word is that the intelligence boss seems to be emerging as the first among equals. A man named Nicolas Desaix.”
He remembered the hushed tones his French friends and former business associates had used when discussing Desaix. Their attitude toward the DGSE director had been a strange mixture of unspoken fear and uncomfortable admiration. And if just half the stories they’d told him were true, the man was charming, intelligent, supremely self-confident, and utterly ruthless.
“Will he replace Bonnard?”
“I doubt it.” Huntington shook his head quickly. Everything he’d heard about Desaix suggested the man enjoyed being the eminence behind the throne. He’d be surprised if the French President’s chief puppeteer opted to wear strings around his own arms. “But I do think he’s the man we’ll ultimately have to deal with.”
“Wonderful.” The President looked troubled. “I don’t like the idea of negotiating with somebody I can’t see or talk to directly. Damn it, when I horse-trade with a man, I want to look him right in the eye!”
Huntington agreed with that sentiment. Even in this day of computerized analysis and instantaneous telecommunication, there wasn’t any substitute for the personal touch. Half his success in the business world had come from an ability to size up his competitors, his employees, and his customers: to judge their strengths and weaknesses and to discern their needs and their desires, all in face-to-face meetings.
He rocked back in his chair. “I’d be surprised if Desaix’s interested in real trade talks anyway, Mr. President.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a nationalist to the core. The kind who says ‘France for the French’ and means it. The word is that he’s the driving force behind this crazy foreign worker relocation program of theirs.”
“Great.” The President looked even more worried. News reports from Europe were full of horrific images these days — trainloads of frightened people guarded by soldiers and growling dogs, bloody riots in burning neighborhoods, and all the other warning signs of a rising tide of racism and xenophobia spreading across the continent. Trying to deal with someone who thought all that was a good idea seemed likely to be an exercise in futility.
He glanced out the window toward the White House Rose Garden, almost as though he were seeking solace in its quiet, sun-drenched beauty. Then he sighed heavily and turned back to face his friend. “What about the Germans?”
“Not much better.” Huntington brushed a hand across his overtired eyes and swung into a detailed account of his meetings in Berlin. None had been any more productive than those he’d held in Paris. More of Germany’s business and political leaders wanted an end to the disastrous trade war with the United States, Japan, and Great Britain, but their hands were just as tied by domestic politics and by a need for short-term profits from their captive markets in Eastern Europe. Germany’s eyes and full attention were focused on her growing internal problems, not on the need for fair competition with onetime allies now turned sour trading rivals. Until she could control her massive unemployment, bitter nationalism, and fragmented political spectrum, Germany would be a weak actor on the international stage.
In the western half of the country, high taxes and the loss of overseas markets were s
lowly strangling key old industries and vital new ones. Protected by strict labor laws, few existing jobs were being lost, but no new ones were being created. As a result, more and more young people were trapped in boredom and state-supported idleness — either on the dole or as “professional” students endlessly pursuing meaningless degrees. They were growing increasingly radical and restless.
The eastern states were in even worse shape. Despite the huge sums invested after reunification, the easterners, the “ossies,” were still poor relations — plagued by continuing high unemployment and by the environmental disasters left by forty-five years of communist misrule. Old tensions were rising as growing numbers of those who’d escaped one form of totalitarianism clamored for another. Though still only a small percentage of the population, neo-Nazi groups were turning bolder and ever more violent. Swastika flags were often openly displayed in smaller villages and in the east’s run-down inner cities.
Attacked from both the right and the left, Germany’s coalition government stood on increasingly shaky ground. The Chancellor and his cabinet were too busy trying to survive almost weekly crises to spend the time, effort, and political capital needed to drop their nation’s protective tariffs and trade barriers.
With all that in mind, Huntington didn’t see any realistic prospect of successful negotiations with either nation. Too many of Europe’s most powerful politicians had too much prestige wrapped up in half-baked economic nationalism and in appeals to growing anti-American sentiment. His dour analysis left the President visibly shaken. Nobody wanted to go down in history as the chief executive who’d held the reins while America and its old allies bickered and squabbled their way into a global depression.
The two men were still talking when the President’s secretary brought coffee in for them an hour later, and neither noticed when she took the empty pot away an hour after that. They were too busy trying to find some way out before the civilized world plunged itself into irreversible economic catastrophe.