The President

by Parker Hudson

  “The fact is, sir, that it’s as if the warhead has dropped off the earth. Unless and until whoever now has it—and it could be anyone, anywhere— tells us more or makes a mistake, we have very little chance of finding it”

  William was silent for a long while, rubbing his temple. “Vince, this thing is starting to get to me. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about it. It’s not exactly the best thing for a peaceful sleep.”

  “I know, sir. I share it with you, as do all the men and women on our team. But I guess that’s exactly what whoever’s doing this wants—they’d take great satisfaction in knowing that you and I are not doing whatever else we should and are instead worried about their bomb. So my advice, sir, would be to try not to give them that satisfaction.”

  William half smiled and looked knowingly at the professional seated across from him. “That would sound great in a novel or a movie, general, and I appreciate your advice. I wish I could do it. I hate the idea of giving those people any satisfaction. But this is real life, and that’s a real bomb. If they detonate it, millions of real, innocent people will die. And that’s why I can’t shake it.”

  THE RESEARCH TRIANGLE—Ed Cheatham opened the door to the large computer/video control room and walked up behind his colleague Carl Hess in the director’s chair. On the monitors overhead were the virtually lifelike computer–created images of two young women and a man, as Carl manipulated the panel to simulate what the human participant in the video action might do, checking the response time and the naturalness of the motions.

  Ed quietly watched the action, amazed again by how real it all looked and frankly excited by the scene playing out in front of him. Finally he said over Carl’s shoulder, “I know—this is tough and dirty work, but someone has to do it. Right?”

  Carl turned and smiled. “You got it. I didn’t hear you come in. What do you think?”

  “It just gets better every time. Haven’t you changed the faces?”

  “Yeah, for the high school this fall we thought we better make the participants look like teenagers, so we shot some young models and men used them to alter the computer generated images. Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. That blond is awesome.”

  Carl nodded and then added, “And an unexpected benefit is that Pet Girl International really likes this younger look. Their marketing team was in here all day yesterday—we finally had to throw them out—they wanted to see more and more. But they flipped over these teenagers. They said they’ll be calling you next week to make us a better offer. They know this will be unbelievable in the PC/video market, and they want it. Maybe they’ll offer both cash and residuals.”

  “Sounds good, Carl. Your team is doing great. Just have it all ready in plenty of time for school to start in August so we can apply for the federal education grant as soon as we have some preliminary data. Then we’ll roll out the PC version in January. I’m sure glad we’ve got stock options! I’ll bring Jean in next week so she can see how real it is. Just keep up this great work!”

  “I think Peter will adore this tractor. You can never go wrong with a tractor for a little boy,” Elizabeth Harrison, the president’s mother, said to her husband, Tom, as they walked slowly in the early North Carolina summer evening from the department store to their car parked near the mall’s outer ring.

  They had stayed in the mall to have an early dinner at the food court after selecting a birthday present for their great-grandson. They knew they could not hurry too quickly because of Tom’s hip, but they wanted to be home in time to see the seven o’clock news, which they watched every evening as a ritual. So they made haste slowly, and, as usual, Elizabeth filled the time with her latest thoughts and opinions.

  “I remember Jonathan’s first tractor, and even Williams, of course. Those wouldn’t do what this one will,” she said, raising and shaking the shopping bag, “but they were wonderful just the same. Can you remember William in that sandbox the summer he was four?” she asked as they walked along behind the parked cars, which were becoming fewer in number as they moved farther from the department store.

  “Gosh...he had a yellow tractor, didn’t he?” her husband tried to remember.

  “No, that was Hugh. Williams was red. Bright red, with big black tires. Made of metal—weighed a ton. But how he loved to move sand with it!”

  As they neared their new sedan, purchased as a gift to themselves on their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary, Elizabeth opened her purse and removed her keys with the special activator on the key ring. She pushed a small button from ten feet away, the car’s alarm was deactivated and the doors were unlocked. While she put their purchase in the trunk, Tom opened the passenger door and began the laborious job of entering the car.

  Elizabeth closed the trunk and moved around to open the driver’s door. Just as she did, her keys in her hand, three young men in jeans and sweatshirts suddenly appeared from where they had been hiding behind the van parked next to the Harrisons’ car.

  The first one, the oldest and the tallest, ran around to Tom’s side and quickly pulled him out of his half-sitting position at the door. The next largest in size grabbed Elizabeth and spun her toward the rear of the vehicle, grabbing her keys as he did so and tossing them to the third one, who moved toward the driver’s seat.

  “Leave us alone!”Tom said, his voice rising, as the young tough pushed him to the side. Due to his hip Tom had to struggle to maintain his balance.

  “What are you doing?” Elizabeth yelled in anger and indignation, bounding back toward her assailant, her hands raised, not believing what was happening. “This is our car.”

  As the engine started, the teenager on the passenger side pushed Tom again and pulled a handgun from his back pocket. He said, “Too slow, old man.” Glancing quickly at Elizabeth, he added, “You shoulda run.” Then he leveled the gun and shot Tom Harrison in the head.

  Elizabeth screamed and put her hands to her face. Her attacker grabbed her and pushed her forcefully backward. “Shut up, old woman. He’s nothing!” Then he climbed into the back seat.

  Elizabeth stumbled and fell backward onto the pavement behind their car, where she saw Tom lying in a pool of blood only a few feet away.

  She cried out and began to roll over, wanting to get to her husband, but the teenager driving the car revved the engine and shifted into reverse, peeling backward and running over Elizabeth with the left rear wheel. Then he roared out of the mall as the three young men laughed together at their good luck.

  PARIS—It was just after midnight when the limousine stopped in the gravel drive outside the front door of a small but magnificent villa thirty kilometers to the west of Paris. Even in the dark, Trenton Patterson and Francis Palmer could tell from the long entrance drive, the immaculately sculptured and lighted landscaping, and the classic French architecture that this was a very fine country residence. The driver got out and opened the right rear door for the Americans and their two female guests.

  The large front door of the villa opened into a spacious two-story foyer ending in a wide staircase, with a classic Greek sculpture of a goddess standing at the middle landing. A uniformed maid took the coats from the tall, dark-haired identical twins and showed them through a door at the back of the foyer, while the butler politely led the two men to the right into a paneled drawing room, one entire wall of which was lined with books.

  The man seated at the desk at the opposite end of the room was working on a personal computer. He looked up as they entered, smiled, then came around the desk to greet them.

  “Trenton, Francis, so glad to see you in Paris. I hope our personnel have treated you well on your first day. This is not quite like the old dorm at Georgetown,” he said, looking around at the handsome room, “but it will do, don’t you agree?”

  Trent shook the outstretched hand and returned the smile. “Yes, I’d say it will do, Wafik. I didn’t realize business school could make such a difference.”

  “Perhaps not always. B
ut in our case it corresponded with the early run-up in oil prices...and so, with a little luck and a lot of good friends from those days with whom we’re still doing business, here we are. Anyway, how was your meal? I’m sorry I couldn’t join you, but we had another dinner meeting that I couldn’t cancel. Are the young ladies all right and to your liking? Would you care for some brandy?”

  Trent laughed. “Yes, yes, yes, especially the ladies and the brandy.” He lowered his voice a little. “Where are they from? They’re beautiful! They’re like twin goddesses. And their English is perfect.” As he spoke he looked at Francis Palmer, who nodded in silent agreement and smiled.

  Wafik moved over to the bar between tall windows and poured brandy into two snifters. “Marie and Paulette are French-Algerian. And, yes, they are rather nice, aren’t they? Again, I’m sorry I couldn’t join you, but I hope everything has gone well. Here are your brandies, and now we can sit and talk. The night is still young, and the drive back to your hotel is not too long. Or perhaps you would like to stay here with the two young women...The world will think you’re at your hotel, and we have everything you need right here.”

  Trent suddenly saw a visual image of himself alone with Paulette. His throat when dry. He couldn’t suppress a smile. Maybe they could have a short meeting.

  The three men sat together in comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. It was too warm for a fire, but the setting was very congenial. They talked about American and world politics in general for about ten minutes, including Patterson’s guardedly optimistic prediction that the Harrison Administration would soon hit its stride.

  After the natural flow of the conversation took them to the Middle East, Wafik, his hands folded in front of him while the other two men drank their brandies, said, “And of course, Trent, that’s why we’re here tonight. I assume that Francis has filled you in on our interest.”

  Trent raised one finger in warning, then reached into his coat pocket and removed a small device with a meter and several dials. He stood up and began walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, watching the instrument.

  “Trent, really. Don’t you trust us? Must you scan for listening devices in this room and at this hour?” Wafik asked, smiling but clearly perturbed by the congressman’s caution.

  “Just being careful, old friend. Another friend gave me this. He says it’ll find an activated microphone or an open line at the other end of an enclosed football dome. So just give me a minute to check. Imagine if you want to that I’m doing this for all of us.”

  As Wafik and Francis sat in silence, Trenton continued around the room, past the large library and over to the desk. He placed the meter next to Wafik’s personal computer, which was still on. Trenton noticed a small microphone imbedded just above the color monitor.

  “The meter gives no indication, but I see a mike; what’s this?”

  “It’s a voice activator for performing simple commands. If it makes you more comfortable, just turn the machine off. The switch is on the side. I’ve saved the letters I was writing. Go ahead,” Wafik concluded with a wave of his hand

  Trent shrugged, turned off the computer, and continued his walk, closing the curtains at the windows as he went. When he was finished, he put the meter back in his pocket, smiled at his host, sat down again and said, “I’m sorry, Wafik, but you just can’t be too careful these days. Everything’s fine. Now, please continue.”

  What the congressman didn’t know was that Wafik’s computer was no ordinary PC. The voice activator was much more than a servant for simple commands. Even when the computer appeared to be off, it still secretly listened to and recorded everything on a special internal tape. It was always at work, except when it heard the preprogrammed words “listening devices,” at which point it instantly turned itself off for two minutes, then silently turned on again, listened, and recorded. As Trent sat down, the computer’s internal clock registered 120 seconds since Wafik had said the command words. So as Trent finished his apology, his voice was captured perfectly on the slowly turning tape.

  “Think nothing of it,” Wafik returned the smile. “I guess the world has reached the point where one never knows whom to trust. Now hopefully we can talk openly and candidly.” He turned to the congressman. “I trust that Francis has explained our offer to you. I wanted to meet personally with you to answer any questions, hear your reaction, and, if you are agreeable, to set up the personal codes you will need to retrieve your money when you want it.”

  Francis Palmer spoke. “I’ve of course repeated your offer, Wafik, but I think Trent would like to hear your requests directly from you.”

  “Of course. We simply want at least one more balanced voice of reason in the U. S. Congress where the Middle East is concerned. We want an honest assessment of the plight of Palestine and a balanced approach to the solutions, one of which requires Israel to participate in those solutions. We don’t expect anyone to sell out Israel. We just want the U. S. to blend its policies so that they conform to the body of U.N. resolutions, which include Israel returning lands to the Palestinians. You are one of the most powerful and respected men in Congress. We would like you to support this view in general, and to begin to shift public opinion with your voice. And during the next two years or so we will ask you to lead the vote for a specific resolution along those lines. That’s it—pretty simple, and actually in the best interest of your country anyway.”

  Trenton shifted slightly in his chair. “That’s all? And you’ll deposit one million dollars in an untraceable account in Zurich if I simply speak a little more pro-Palestine—‘balanced’ as you call it—and then vote for a similar resolution?”

  Wafik again smiled. “That’s it.”

  “When?”

  “We’re prepared to deposit $500,000 tomorrow, an additional $250,000 when the vote is scheduled, and the same amount when it passes.”

  “I thought you said $750,000 would be paid now,” Francis protested.

  Without looking at his companion, Trent raised his hand, thinking about half a million tax-free dollars that could be available to him tomorrow, following a long night with Paulette. Still, there was his honor. “Make it six hundred now, then two hundred at each point in the future, and you’ve got a deal.”

  Wafik seemed to take a moment to think, then nodded his head, smiled, and rose, extending his hand. “All right. Done. Francis’s fee will be paid in the same proportions.” As he shook each man’s hand in turn, he continued, “Let’s take a minute to set up the account codes, and then you can both experience the unusual delight of true French-Algerian culture. I think you’ll enjoy it immensely. And since we’ve successfully concluded our business in such good time, there’s absolutely no rush in the morning. Perhaps your jet lag will be completely cured!”

  Twenty minutes later, his left hand almost shaking with anticipation as he placed it on the latch to an upstairs bedroom door, Trent Patterson smiled broadly, unable to believe his good fortune at being reelected so many times from his home district. This is the payoff for serving my people so well, he congratulated himself. He ran his right hand through his thinning hair, pulled in his stomach, and opened the door.

  WASHINGTON AND ATLANTA—“Rebecca, are you by any chance alone there tonight?” William asked his younger sister over the telephone. He was seated at his desk in his White House bedroom. She was reading a nursing journal in her living room in Atlanta.

  “As a matter of fact I am, William. Bruce is still working out at the sports club. Why?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about his mother’s situation, to get your personal input.”

  “Oh. Okay. Shoot. But I put everything I could think of in the letter.”

  “I appreciate that. But I guess I just wanted to hear your thoughts firsthand, while I’m trying to decide. It sounds like it’s a mess.”

  “It is, William, and Bruce is about to go crazy. But, William, like I wrote in the letter, I know you can’t go around overruling the Surgery Suitability
Board for someone you know—or really don’t know, in this case. Anyway, for Bruce’s sake, I had to ask, in case you knew of some way.”

  “It’s a new subject for me, actually, so I had an aide check on her case specifically, and on the point system in general. I had no idea, by the way, but almost fifteen percent of the letters received at the White House are from people asking for the president’s intervention on a health plan requirement for themselves, their children, or relatives. Can you believe that? It’s a huge number of letters, every day. I’ve just read some of them this afternoon, and frankly they’re gut-wrenching. What a mess some people are in. I don’t know how you do it, Rebecca, dealing with illness all day, every day.”

  “And what does the White House say in response to all those letters?”

  “We apparently send a pleasant form letter telling them in so many words that it’s not appropriate for the executive branch to get involved in health decisions, that they should consider the established appeal process if they think there has been an oversight, and we hope they have a nice day.”

  “And that’s what Bruce would have received if I hadn’t written a letter to my big brother. I guess it’s what has to be.”

  “I don’t know, Rebecca. There is a provision for awarding extra points for cases deemed to be in the special interest of the country. I imagine I could write a letter and the points would be awarded. Actually, I’ve just found out that there are apparently some senators and congresspeople who write such letters on a fairly regular basis for some of their constituents. If you think about it, I guess it sort of stinks, letting politicians play God with the lives of their voters; it’s really the ultimate ‘favor.’ But I could do it this once for Bruce’s mother without raising too many eyebrows, I think. But some reporter might not agree that her life was in the national interest, so I wanted to get your input. How upset is he?”