The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  President Lerner’s position was definitely not weakened by that ruling, either. But there were still those who wondered.

  * * *

  —

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Doggie prodded T. Perkins with her bare toes. “Whaddaya say, T?”

  T let go of the railing and turned towards them. “Well . . .” he eventually answered, “sure is blue as hell, in any case.”

  Wesley laughed and had to hold his chest. His musculature had a habit of complaining when he sat upright for long periods of time.

  “Are you okay, baby?” Doggie asked.

  Wesley nodded. He couldn’t be more okay. Here they sat, under the life-affirming feather-light sky. They were alive. Doggie had said yes to sharing her life with him. So what could the past do, other than glide into the background?

  He looked devotedly at his fellow passengers. At Rosalie who sat there, fighting to keep her flower-bedecked sun hat in place, and at T, who was actually showing the beginnings of a tan. The group had shrunk since the trip to China many years ago. Each had lost a part of him- or herself, but here they sat.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Wesley,” said Rosalie.

  “I’m thinking about us. And being here. And John Bugatti. And all of us who were in China together.”

  Rosalie nodded. “I think it’s all gonna work out. There’s still plenty of shit to deal with, but at the same time it’s really something, what a big effect some of these reforms have had. Do you know what I mean?”

  Wesley nodded.

  “Am I right, T?” she said, nudging him so the ashes fell down his chest.

  T. Perkins nodded, and Rosalie laughed. “I’m just glad my sons have found work. My employer, Mo Goldenbaum, got them some good jobs down at the harbor. They didn’t dare refuse. It could have been a whole lot worse,” she said, revealing almost all her teeth in a generous smile. “Now they’re even paying rent at home—can you believe it?” She slapped her thigh and laughed even harder. “So you can’t say nothing’s happened in this country of ours, can y’all?”

  That’s right, thought Wesley. A lot had happened in just these last five weeks. President Lerner had performed well—surprisingly well. There were many—those who previously considered him a bureaucratic, dull-witted, southern Democrat—who now saw themselves proven wrong.

  Lerner had set the stage for reconciliation. Investigations and hearings had not gone on endlessly, the judicial purge had been handled soberly, and—aside from the radical fringe—Congress could work together in spite of its differences. It’s true that many were incensed upon hearing that Jansen’s life in exile was to be spent on a tropical island owned by the Jansen concern, but otherwise the new president enjoyed everybody’s respect. Some even went so far as to say he was a born statesman.

  “No, Rosalie, that’s right,” Wesley finally replied. “A lot of good things have happened.”

  * * *

  —

  It was a new America that had risen from the ashes—that’s how it appeared to Wesley. Bruce Jansen had put forth a vision that had gone wrong along the way, but his successor understood what needed to be done to try and preserve its best aspects in a difficult time. Of course Lerner met resistance, but he had many good cards to play. There was plenty of work, and the economy surged ahead. Families were reunited, like Wesley’s secretary, Eleanor, and her husband. The judicial system was transforming for the better, and there was talk of eventually closing prisons if the lack of business continued.

  And the latest positive development was that both chambers of Congress were talking seriously about reforming the electoral system and creating a responsible body of laws regarding weapon possession. There was plenty of disagreement and debate, but this was American democracy at work, and at a very opportune moment, too, with the nation largely disarmed and its citizens liberated from the paranoia of feeling the need to defend themselves with guns.

  He didn’t like to use expressions like “system change,” but that’s how it looked to Wesley. One felt it clearly, walking around the streets: People felt safe. Life seemed to have a purpose. The TV news’s horror stories became fewer and fewer, US soldiers had come home, and the world was looking on in wonder.

  * * *

  —

  He looked out over the sea, hair blowing in the wind. He and Doggie had been together for more than two months, and they’d begun making plans. Things would be different now. Much different. Bud Curtis didn’t want to work anymore. It was time to enjoy life, he said. It would please him greatly if Wesley and Doggie took over the hotel chain, and he asked them to think about it.

  Wesley looked over at her bare midriff and imagined how the soft skin would feel to the touch.

  “This is beautiful,” declared Rosalie.

  “Yeah,” Doggie agreed.

  The island’s palm trees could now be seen clearly, and then the house, perched on a hilltop. Perhaps not as big as they’d expected, but still it sparkled like a diamond in the hot sun, seemingly its own source of light.

  And then there were all the security agents, waiting at the pier.

  * * *

  —

  “I think President Jansen is just about ready to receive you. He’s been looking very forward to this,” said the head servant, leading them through a series of chambers that exhibited a riot of lush colors. There were jade-colored, Japanese lacquered chests and Persian wall tapestries in blue and gold, not to mention all the sweet-scented flowers. And there was the eternal, quiet roar of the sea—a sound to soothe the soul.

  They could clearly hear his voice behind a massive camphorwood double door, covered in symbolic carvings.

  Rosalie smiled, and Doggie squeezed Wesley’s hand. It felt like a portentous moment.

  “He sounds pretty good, doesn’t he?” Rosalie whispered. “Not exactly like an exile in disgrace, in any case.”

  They heard Jansen’s voice approaching. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, throwing the doors wide open. A fantastic, sunlit room revealed itself behind him, with panorama windows facing the cliffs, white marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling ebony curtains. “Welcome to my exile,” he said, surprisingly low-key. “My own Saint Helena.” He was suntanned and well rested, but the ardor in his eyes was gone. There were only traces of scars left on his face, and his teeth had been repaired, but the scars on his soul were beyond the reach of even the cleverest plastic surgeon.

  He embraced T. Perkins and Rosalie Lee and thanked them sincerely for coming. “I’ve certainly been looking forward to this. I don’t get that many visitors, as you can imagine,” he said, smiling quietly.

  When Doggie stepped forward and put out her hand, he stood still for a moment to compose himself. Then he drew her to him. Wesley couldn’t hear what he whispered in her ear, but she gave several small nods. Begging forgiveness wasn’t something that came easily for Jansen. He released her and dried his cheek, eyes on the floor. Slowly his eyes moved up the length of Wesley’s body, until they met those of his former press chief.

  “My dear Wesley . . .” he began, then embraced him silently. When he could speak again, he said, “I’m so sorry, Wesley. Are you all right? Is your arm okay? Can you lift it again?”

  Wesley nodded. “Yes, I’m almost good as new.”

  The world’s once most powerful man eyed Wesley, looking as though he might launch into an all-encompassing testimonial. Then he sighed and his eyes returned to the floor. “I regret what happened, Wesley,” he said quietly. “It all just got out of hand.”

  Then he turned around, took Rosalie’s arm, and led her over to a glass cupola at the far end of the room in which a lemon tree was blooming, and where one could see through the plexiglass floor straight into the lush undergrowth below.

  Rosalie gave a nervous little laugh, feeling a bit dizzy as she peered down, and took a step back.

  “Here com
es Abrecita,” said Jansen, as a golden-brown, slim, probably fortyish woman entered the room. He took the glasses off the tray she was carrying and handed them around. He was obviously receptive to her enchanting eyes and smile, though he tried to avoid showing it.

  Wesley looked at Doggie. She’d noticed it, too.

  “Cheers, my dear friends,” he said. “No matter what life may have had in store for me, it was you—my old travel companions from China—to whom I owe my life today. When you reconstruct the story, nothing seems to have happened by chance. Seventeen years ago I had an idea for a quiz show, and now I’ve come full circle. A lot of unforeseen circumstances arose from that idea, but one of the few good ones was your finding each other—and my finding you. I want to thank you for that.” He raised his glass. “Thank you, Rosalie, thank you, Sheriff T, thank you, Doggie, and thank you, Wesley.” Lowering his head once more, he added, “And thanks to John Bugatti and Donald Beglaubter, too. They gave their lives for their convictions and the struggle for justice, and no one can regret what happened more than I.” He looked up again. “I’m deeply thankful for being alive today,” he declared, raising his glass to each of them in turn.

  “I hope you have some nice days here,” he continued. “You decide yourselves how long you want to stay. My old company has placed a plane at your disposal whenever you want to leave. In the meantime the island is all yours. And I hope you can put up with my bodyguards—I have to, in any case.”

  He tried smiling, but this time it didn’t work. “I work a couple of hours every day,” he said, “but I’m sure we’ll find time for some good moments together.”

  Wesley looked over at Jansen’s desk; it aroused peculiar memories.

  “Yes, Wesley. They let me take it with me. Maybe President Lerner didn’t feel right, keeping it.” Still no smile. Then his servant came in to announce it was the period of the day when phone lines were open.

  “You must excuse me,” he said. “I have some phone calls this time of day that can’t be postponed. But it’ll only take about a half an hour, so just enjoy yourselves. I’m sure Abrecita won’t mind showing you around.”

  * * *

  —

  The terrace was completely enchanting in the reddish glow of the setting sun, like the hanging gardens of Babylon, surrounded by bougainvillea, citrus, and bay trees and a profusion of hand-painted crocks containing all sorts of flowers.

  Rosalie put her hand to her breast and swayed a little.

  “Yes, you should probably stand back from the railing; it’s a long way down,” cautioned Abrecita, taking Rosalie’s arm.

  Doggie stood still and took in the scenery. “God, is this marvelous,” she said.

  “Thank you. We look after it ourselves,” said Abrecita, removing a few dead leaves from a hibiscus in full red and white flower.

  Wesley nodded. The human survival instinct was really incredible. He filled his lungs with air and sea fog that was beginning to rise off the water, thinking back to a string of terrible consequences of Jansen’s term in office: the closing of borders, deportation of “undesirables,” the summary execution of militia members, the strangling of the free press. But there was also the disappearance of private weapon arsenals and of the long lines of unemployed. And now here Wesley was, in this earthly paradise.

  The question was, whether it was also a paradise for Jansen. “You can look for truth and happiness your whole life, but there’s no guarantee you’ll find it,” as Wesley’s father used to say.

  Yes, the circle had been completed, as Jansen said, and here they were, together again.

  You can’t master fate, Wesley said to himself. Fate has a mind of its own.

  His eye fell on a gorgeous, neon-green butterfly, and he began following its progress from flower to flower around the house.

  Then he heard Jansen’s voice, coming from behind a curtain-covered doorway.

  He must be discussing the drugstore business, he thought. What else does he have to spend his time on? He took a step closer—what harm could it do?

  Jansen had set his telephone on speakerphone, and Wesley thought he recognized the voice at the end of the line. He stepped behind a citrus tree to follow the conversation more discreetly and try and get a glimpse inside.

  Jansen’s workroom seemed by no means pretentious. No carpets, no easy chair—just a lot of bookshelves and bulletin boards. He imagined it to be quite a small room, a little oasis within his island oasis where he could get further away from it all. As melancholy and reserved as Jansen had seemed, he probably needed a refuge like this.

  Wesley took a step closer to have a better look inside when the billowing curtains allowed. He’d expected to see Jansen sitting quietly at his desk, not with his feet up on it, gesturing and smiling. Nor had he expected the office to be so large. It was déjà vu, like turning the clock twelve months back to the long meetings and briefings on the campaign trail. This was Jansen in his natural element. Wesley was surprised to see that he appeared to be enjoying himself enormously.

  Then the wind lifted the curtain for a moment, but it was long enough; the sight he saw spoke for itself.

  One of the walls gave uncomfortable associations. It was covered with clippings of all the current major news stories from around the world and the United States; many lines of text were underlined in red.

  Photographs of world leaders were complemented by handwritten comments. There were maps, satellite pictures, and photocopied documents. It was like Thomas Sunderland’s office when he took over the vice presidency.

  Wesley felt his breathing getting deeper. The closer he got to the door, the more the sound of the sea receded, and Jansen’s voice grew clearer.

  “And last of all, Michael,” Jansen was saying, “I definitely don’t think you should discuss the Afghani pipeline with the Russian president. Just string him along; he won’t dare act on his own. In the meantime you can round up the steel producers in the eastern states. Let them come with an option; they’re well-softened up by now, I can assure you. Just stick to our plan—take it nice and easy. I mean it: Don’t push things, Michael. You can put Congress into the picture when the time comes. And if it becomes a question of new legislation, make sure you—and only you—dictate the wording. Do you understand?”

  Wesley was breathing so hard by now, he had to take a step back from the door and seek the support of the citrus tree.

  “Yes!” came the answer over the telephone speaker. It was clearly the voice of Michael K. Lerner, the forty-fifth president of the United States. “Don’t worry, I’ll go nice and easy, just as we agreed. Thank you very, very much for your advice. I’ll call you tomorrow at the same time, as usual,” concluded Lerner. “Good-bye, Mr. President.”

  “Good-bye, Michael. You know where you can find me.”

  AFTERWORD

  The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) was created during the Nixon administration and led an existence largely unnoticed by the public for years.

  FEMA was primarily devised to deal with the effects of a nuclear war but was also meant to be useful in the event of a natural catastrophe.

  Enormous sums have been earmarked for FEMA over the years, on top of its official congressionally approved budget. One can imagine that the more money FEMA was given in the absence of a natural catastrophe or atomic war, the harder it became for the agency to defend its budget.

  But of course the agency found a way to use its funding anyway. Giant underground facilities were built and personnel trained to take over the functions and duties of publicly elected officials in preparation for the day natural or man-made disaster finally struck.

  In the end it appears that an entire, nonelected governing system was established, with what could be described as a shadow Cabinet and shadow president.

  Had the American public known more at the time about the actual scope of FEMA’s power, activities,
and its enormous budget—swallowing funds that could have been put to more obviously sensible use—it is not unlikely that serious protest would have arisen.

  But then came the eleventh of September 2001, and FEMA suddenly had a means of legitimizing its existence. On top of natural and nuclear catastrophe, there was now the threat of terrorism in all shapes and forms.

  In all likelihood this is why FEMA has been able to maintain its funding, and there is evidence to suggest that in recent years FEMA has mostly been preoccupied with a series of preventative measures in the event of a massive terrorist threat. One of these measures is said to be the construction of hundreds of internment camps, capable of containing millions of detainees. It is a measure that has never at any point been discussed or debated publicly, and therefore the question of when use of these camps would become necessary—and whom would be imprisoned in them—has never been answered.

  Nor may one forget the existence of presidential decrees, capable of bestowing even farther-reaching authority upon FEMA, so that in the event of the “great catastrophe,” Congress would be rendered powerless, and the president and FEMA would have unlimited, unchecked authority.

  It is, among other things, this movement from democracy to autocracy that I have tried to deal with in The Washington Decree.

  Judging from the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s wretched handling of Hurricane Katrina in 2005, one is tempted to believe that the priority of dealing with natural catastrophes has been seriously downgraded by the agency. In its obsession to unearth and fight terror threats everywhere, FEMA has forgotten one of its basic reasons for existing.

  Therefore the helicopters arrived too late in Louisiana, (poor) people weren’t evacuated in time, and the government ignored urgent warnings that New Orleans’s levees would never withstand a natural catastrophe of this kind. One wonders if FEMA’s response would have been more efficient had Hurricane Katrina been a terrorist attack.