The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker

  Every breed of cat seemed to be sponsored. America seemed to be a nation of cat lovers. But this notion soon faded once the dog lovers made their presence known. Why in the world did the President pick a cat over a dog was the standard assault. Why indeed. White House dogs have a long and outstanding legacy. Many oldsters still remembered FDR’s Scotty, Fala.

  Brooking was amazed to learn that cat lovers were organized on more than one level. For example, the American Cat Fanciers Association; this is not a group of folks who fancy themselves a cat, which would defy common logic.

  He learned there were 80 cat breeds, of which 41 were recognized by Cat Fanciers, and that there was a long history of domesticated cats, stretching to 2500 BC in Egypt.

  So the trick was to first let popular opinion pick a cat, then a similar method would be used to name the cat. The maelstrom he had kicked up was overwhelming.

  Before it had subsided, Tarot Jones came to him with his findings. At a workout session the ninja told him that he had secured a list of those men who frequent the 14th Street houses of prostitution.

  “You mean there is more than one?” the President asked.

  “There are two, but they are under the same ownership. One is just a shade higher class than the other.”

  “Thus more expensive. What, more options?”

  “Yes, and maybe a better class of whores. There are discriminating users, tasteful, discriminating gentlemen.”

  “Going into this, I didn’t know what to expect. But one thing I didn’t expect is a list of names. I thought the option might be a type of surveillance.”

  “Well, Sir, they take credit cards. The organization calls itself the Federal Health Club. I have a printout of users. It’s quite surprising.”

  Later in the day, Brooking found time to go over the printout Tarot had nipped from the health club’s computer. Quite surprising was almost an understatement. Stunning would be more like it. Members from both parties, government agencies and even one White House executive. Speak of bombshells.

  Not certain what to do, the President summoned his chief of staff, Curtis German.

  When German arrived in his office, Brooking told him about the printout and the scope of health club membership.

  “Breathtaking,” German said.

  The President chuckled. “Hardly the word, Curtis, your name is on the list. It offers a new dimension to the Washington social set.”

  “I suspected it might be.”

  “You have a family, don’t you?”

  “I do, but like many other men in Washington, I find little time to spend with them. Nor do I have time to take female companions to dinner for carnal purposes. A trip to 14th Street is much like a business appointment.”

  “What do you suggest I do with the list?”

  German laughed. “You might burn it.”

  “That crossed my mind. But perhaps I should hand it over to the Justice Department.”

  “Like many other departments, it’s leaky as a sieve. Certain names would get out, certain names would be suppressed. It would depend on who had access to the list. New hires, or holdovers.”

  “But to be honest…”

  “What’s honest about politics? It’s like liar’s poker. If you must release the list, please strike my name.”

  “Would that be honest?”

  “You’re holding a stolen list of names. What’s honest about that? I don’t know where you got them, but I know the 14th Street madam didn’t hand deliver them to your office. This is a political town.”

  “If I’ve learned nothing else…” Brooking pondered a moment, then said, “I’ll let the attorney general know that I’ve obtained some information about a niche business known as the Federal Health Club on 14th Street, that I’d like to know more about the operation. How would that be?”

  “That should do it.”

  Grinning widely, the President quipped, “Helter-skelter, can you imagine everyone scrambling for shelter. The list names a bevy of good souls in high places, some pro-life evangelicals. They say Baptists don’t recognize one another in liquor stores. I wonder how they feel about chance meetings among harlot cribs?”

  German explained that the Health Club proprietor was extremely discreet, the master of her trade, skilled at keeping clients separated.

  “You know they have what they call love hotels in much of Asia,” Brooking said. “These are hot sheet joints rented by the hour. A Japanese friend told me that one such establishment sought to give those waiting for a room the privacy of small cubicles. To their surprise the clientele preferred a common waiting room where they could chat. Some of the patrons were married couples seeking a spot of privacy from their small living quarters, often crowded with children, grandparents and so forth. Then there were widows and widowers who sought companionship on the sly. Anyway, we’ll see how this plays out, if at all.”

  So Brooking avoided a slippery slope and, as luck would have it, the cat issue was resolved. The White House cat would be named Fancy and it was of the common tiger stripe. Now to deal with the pro-lifers – to neuter, or not to neuter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For some time the President had been deviled by a minority whip, Jon “Flash” Fern, a fast talking ex-jock who rose to speak on any occasion. He was a little to the right of Attila the Hun and a red-hot Christian who spoke at tent meetings and mega churches.

  On the House floor he had accused Brooking more than once of not being a true Christian.

  Brooking responded to questions at press conferences that he was as good a Christian as the next person. He attended services occasionally at different churches in the vicinity of the White House. As a youth in Iowa his parents saw to it that he attended a Methodist church every Sunday, except during sieges of illness, or drifting snow.

  His parents, not churchgoers, arranged for rides with neighbors, or on the occasional church bus. Both parents saw the church as a social outlet in addition to school. There were different sorts of folks there than he might normally contact.

  The President was surprised when his secretary told him that Flash Fern had called to challenge the White House to a touch football game on White House grounds, reminiscent of the JFK era. Everyone seemed aware that Flash had been an NFL quarterback for just over one season. A series of injuries retired him and forced him into real estate sales, then politics. He had managed to acquire a liberal arts degree thanks to a football scholarship.

  The following day Brooking asked his secretary, Penny Aycock, to bring him Flash’s team roster. It seemed the team consisted of five House members, none of them known for athletics except for Flash.

  The following day the President phoned Flash Fern.

  “Flash, how are you today?”

  “Fine, Mr. President. You received my invitation?”

  “You know I did. I’ve been looking over your roster. Are these all Christian men?”

  “Of course. Just like you and me.”

  “Then you’ve accepted the fact that I’m a Christian?”

  “Why, Mr. President, there are Christians and Christians.”

  “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “I know you are a Christian, Mr. President.”

  “Flash, sometime you talk in riddles. Have you ever met an honest non-Christian?”

  There was a pause, then, “Of course. Our Jewish friends, Mormons, some Islamics. Those people in India. The world’s full of them.”

  “But it’s important to you that I am or am not a Christian. Is that true?”

  “Yes. This is a Christian country and we need a Christian at the helm.”

  “With your touch football proposal you hearkened back to the Kennedy era. Kennedy was a Catholic. Do you consider Catholics Christians?”

  “Of course. They are a type of Christian.”

  “But not your type?”

  “Certainly not. They have statues, graven i
mages and odd assortments of ceremonies, but that’s not to say they aren’t good people.”

  “You’re very liberal.”

  “I’m a big tent sort of person, Mr. President.”

  “Particularly if it’s a revival tent.”

  Flash guffawed. “That’s a good one, Mr. President. Now, about my invitation.”

  “Frankly, I’m game, Flash. You don’t mind me calling you Flash, do you?”

  “No. Everybody does. From the NFL days, you know.”

  “I’m not certain I can get five people from the staff here who are able to run up and down and hold a football. I know of three including myself. If I could toss in a couple of Secret Service types, I could field a team.”

  “No problem. A couple of old jocks, I suppose.”

  “Not really. Usually they’re in fair shape. That’s their job. But not noted athletes.”

  “Name the day.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The day came and a short field had been marked with plastic chairs. Tina Geer, Penny Aycock and Lin Yi lolled in folding chairs as make-believe cheerleaders. They were backed by various executive branch staffers and a few hangers-on. Across the narrow field were gathered sundry House members and staffers.

  Flash drop kicked the ball to start the game, and a Secret Service man returned the ball half the length of the field. A Capitol police officer with a whistle served as referee. A Justice department clerk kept time. A female Park Ranger kept score with a felt tipped pen on computer paper.

  The game was divided into four ten-minute quarters. At half time the score was 0-0. Everyone mingled for ice tea and Snapple. The third quarter ended 0-0.

  Five minutes into the fourth quarter the ball was snapped to the President at mid-field. He stepped back into the pocket, spotted a receiver at the goal line, and lofted a pass to connect for a winning touchdown.

  Just after the ball left his hand Flash blindsided him for a hard head butt into the ribs. A sickening cracking noise and Brooking fell to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. Flash immediately attempted to help the President to his feet among profuse apologies. He said he tripped.

  Tina and her cheerleading staff led the White House contingent in loud and extended booing. Flash continued to apologize and motion with his hands like it was all a mistake. The President made his way to the sidelines and flopped in a chair, a sharp pain in his rib cage.

  The late hit cast a pall over what had been a carefree afternoon of sport. Finally people simply began to drift off and the janitorial staff took over to set the field to rights.

  The White House physician verified two cracked ribs, but said little could be done. They would heal themselves, though he offered pain pills, which Brooking refused. “I played sports in high school and was injured more than once,” he offered by way of explanation.

  A video of the game showed Flash coming at the President head down like a cannonball with no sign of a stumble. Privately, House members and others simply said Flash wanted to physically injure the President, and the entire match was set up for that reason. Flash, the human torpedo.

  Penny told the President that talk was rife in the pressroom that the hit was deliberate and something should be done about it.

  Brooking chuckled and asked what they had in mind. But he did make a trip to the pressroom to explain the situation as best he could.

  “I’ve heard there was some talk about a deliberate hit in that friendly bout of touch football,” he began. A general mumbling in agreement.

  Jean Claude François of Le Monde piped up to ask, “Why do they call it football when the ball is not controlled by the feet?”

  “The ball is kicked now and then,” he replied.

  “Please, can’t we talk about Flash Fern and the late hit?” The Washington Post tossed in.

  “That’s why I’m here,” the President said. “There’s been some grumbling about Fern’s action on the field. He is a former NFL player, so you’d imagine he knows what he’s doing. But he has been retired for some time. So things happen.”

  “Did you see the video?” The Miami Herald asked.

  “No. And I don’t want to see it. I was there.”

  As a follow up the reporter added, “Did you know Flash is seen like something of a hero by some of his fellow House members?”

  Brooking smiled. “That sounds incredible. I think I’ll pass on that one. What I’ve come here to say is I played sports in high school. I had other things to do in college and grad school. But I had an excellent coach, a fine old man who passed away a few years back. He was a total sportsman, a good sport. So a late hit, a couple of cracked ribs. What of it? It means nothing to me or anyone else. Flash was elected by the people of his district. I’m certain he does what he thinks best for those good folks. So I suggest we all forget about this entire incident and go on with our lives and do whatever is best for our country. Thank you.”

  With that he turned and sought refuge in his part of the White House amid the usual shouted questions.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  So the incident of the late hit was laid to rest, and the President turned to affairs of state such as the price of gasoline, oil profits, global warming, and the quandary of low taxes for high rollers, the so-called one percent.

  But not everyone could forgive and forget.

  Tina huddled with Tarot during a workout session and flatly announced, “I am vindictive. Flash Fern must pay a price.”

  “I agree totally,” the ninja replied. Although he served the President and could only have one master, Tina had brought him into the White House, and he reasoned he could serve his master by heeding Tina’s advice.

  “I don’t want to see the son-of-a-bitch dead, or even crippled for life, but I want him hurt bad and in such a way that everyone knows he is hurt bad. They can guess at the rest.”

  Tarot nodded wisely. “Leave it to me. You stay totally out of it. I have followed this man’s speeches on the floor. He loves the sound of his own voice. I will devise a suitable punishment.”

  “But maybe I can help. You will want him in an isolated situation.”

  “The contrary is true. I will want him in a fairly large group of people. There is anonymity in a crowd. You have heard that the loneliest people in the world walk the crowded streets of New York City and London.”

  Tina touched Tarot’s shoulder in a farewell gesture. “I leave you with your evil thoughts.”

  He grinned.

  Tarot took his time scoping out the House side of the Capitol. He knew he would have one chance and one chance only. He did one of the things he did best – not be noticed as a result of years of practice with movements and clothing. Blend in, blend out.

  There were quorum calls and votes that brought throngs of members to the floor. They were like bananas, they traveled in bunches.

  Tarot was thorough. In his room he had set up a prayer altar to the snake god. A glass of water and an egg were set out for the god’s use. He made obeisance to the god and also to his ancestors, ancestors of Old Kaz, his Japanese father. He considered the “shinobi” who appeared during the warring states period of the 15th Century his antecedents. They were spies and mercenaries.

  During that “Sengoku” period, through the 17th Century, they became active in Iga Province, near the village of Koga. It is here the true ninjas have their roots. The word shinobi appears in written record as far back as the 8th Century. Many words, or kanji, have been used to describe the ninja. Kunoichi means female ninja. So there was equal opportunity.

  Tarot appeared in the hall near Jon Flash Fern’s office knowing there would soon be a roll call vote. The constant televised floor scene when the House was in session had its advantages. The hall began to fill with members and Tarot moved with the crowd, drawing close to Flash, waiting for his signal.

  There was a startling explosion somewhere in back of the crowd, not an actual explosion, but an instant bomb designed to frighten, which was the exact impact it had on
the seemingly panicked crowd who rushed away from the frightful noise, everyone thinking of terrorist threats.

  Tarot was now almost beside Flash. He curled his fist into an iron-like ball, loosed it like a rocket, striking the congressman’s jaw with a crushing blow. Flash was dashed against the wall and fell to the floor, a bloody spray coming from his mouth.

  Already on the run, many of the members simply ignored their fallen comrade and headed for the safety of the floor. The thought that terrorists had felled him clouded most minds. But two members did stop, whipped out cell phones and dialed 911.

  Tarot had fallen back and was out of the building and speeding down the Hill on a bicycle before the first siren sounded. Capitol Police swarmed the corridor and sat Flash up against the wall. He was bombarded with questions until the realization struck the authorities that the man could not talk. His jaw was smashed into several pieces.

  By this time, Tarot had abandoned the stolen bicycle and was strolling along the Tidal Basin with the look of a mindless tourist. He spotted a pair of youthful female Japanese tourists on a park bench, immediately recognizable by their attire and hairstyle. One even had a Hello Kitty backpack.

  Approaching them with a broad smile, one placed a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Neither spoke good English, but to learn was part of their mission. Their eyes widened when this American man spoke to them in fluent Japanese. He took a seat next to them on the bench. Their day, and possibly their night, was certainly made.

  The news of the Flash incident spread quickly across Capitol Hill and then to the White House and into every government agency. The Pentagon and Homeland Security went on full alert. It wasn’t long before the White House pressroom was abuzz connecting the two events – Brooking’s cracked ribs and Fern’s smashed jaw.

  The office of the press secretary was deluged with questions, a virtual avalanche. But who would have done such a thing? The press secretary implored the chief of staff to come up with an answer. Curtis German told the press secretary to pass the word to the press. Every law enforcement agency, including the many faces of Homeland Security plus the Pentagon and the four armed services – each of these agencies in Washington and Northern Virginia – were hard at work and would soon get to the bottom of it. He counseled patience and prayers for a quick recovery for Flash Fern.