by Doug Walker
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On the plane ride to Santa Monica Brooking chatted with his chief of staff, Curtis German.
“You know, Curt, that reporter from the Sun asked if I personally knew anything about that al Qaeda sleeper cell. Not that they were Muslims, but it dawned on me that as this country becomes more and more Muslim, and they are outbreeding us, we could have more home-grown terrorists.”
“By and large the Muslims are good people, Mr. President.”
“I know that. But there is a fanatical strain running through that religion. An odd spark might set them off. Say they feel they are discriminated against. Of course they will be if they continue their odd attire and the habit of dropping to the ground in prayer at frequent intervals.”
“I suppose we just have to get used to it.”
“True again. And like birds of a feather they tend to flock together, in this country and abroad. Whole towns become Muslim enclaves. Meanwhile, other nationalities breed less and perish. I read recently at a certain time in the future there will be only one Japanese on that chain of islands.”
German had been drinking coffee. He glanced out the window. The plane was already losing altitude on this short flight. Taking the final bite of his cracker and Brie, he asked, “What will that person be doing?”
“Making sushi for one, I suppose. But here’s my point. Take the reporter from the Sun, or any reporter on a metropolitan paper far from Washington. Now they aren’t terribly bright. What I mean is, they may be clever, but few have taken a path to the land of big bucks. Maybe for good reason.”
German was listening, but he fastened his seat belt. They would be on the ground soon and there would be a reception committee.
“So, a very bright and clever person might take a low-paying newspaper job, make impressive strides, become the local political reporter for a year or two, move on to cover the state legislature, then become the paper’s Washington correspondent. This would mean a White House press pass with daily access to our building. Over a period of time that person might carry in small pieces of material and build a very large bomb.”
German laughed and shook his head in disbelief.
“You may scoff,” Brooking said. “But a variation of that scenario is not only possible, it could be highly possible.”
“I’ll alert the palace guard.”
“You can send in the clowns if it pleases you. It’s not going to happen in our time, but if you live long enough and your memory doesn’t fail you in your declining years, remember, I told you so.”
The plane touched down and rumbled along the runway. The President put on his political face, brushed himself off and prepared to meet his beloved constituency.
This was the final stop on his Route 66 bucket list. Among the Hollywood glitterati, the famous beach city was totally surrounded by Los Angeles. The President had been given a long fact sheet about the city, including its name – in honor of Saint Monica of Hippo, the site first visited by Spaniards on her feast day.
He had also learned it was the home of Fatburger’s, and had read a list of well known people who called the city home, including Charlie Sheen, Troy Donahue, Bob Dylan, Tom Jones, Sean Penn, Robert Redford, Shirley Temple, Robert Downey, Jr., and on and on.
Of course there was beach volleyball, played by robust young ladies in bikinis, the famous pier open 24/7 year round, famous for its breathtaking sunsets, along with a claim of 300 days annually of sunshine.
During the first event, an informal cocktail party that carried a whopping entry fee, Brooking was asked about becoming president.
“Was it a life-long dream, something carefully planned and scripted? When was the first time you had your eye on the Oval office?”
“During my first and only term as a U.S. senator,” he replied. “The party chair came to me and asked if I might toss my hat in the ring.”
A few chuckles from the martini-and-pate crowd. “That’s difficult to believe,” a fairly well known Hollywood name responded.
“Difficult, but true,” the President said. “I could stand upright, do what I’m doing at the moment, address a diverse crowd. I had a couple of college degrees, I was raised on a farm in Iowa, I had steered clear of controversy, I had a stable marriage. So I had no warts, unsavory blemishes or crime activity in my portfolio. Who could ask for more?”
More chuckles and murmurs from the crowd, a few of whom were somewhat tipsy. “Then tell us how you first entered politics,” a well-known female producer asked.
“Of course. My parents decided an Iowa farm was as good a place as any to raise a child. At that point they wanted some isolation to do research and write books and papers on antiquity. Our house was loaded with books, many arcane volumes that I never opened, but also all the classics and current novels, which I did read.”
“And you were a farm lad with chores, mowing the corn, rounding up the doggies,” an air-head starlet tossed in. Her elderly escort attempted to shush her.
“For the most part, we grew weeds. There were a few chickens and some cats. I was home schooled until high school. The parents traded off as teachers, seven days a week, from dawn until the five o’clock cocktail hour. I was sent to church Sunday mornings. That was my social life.”
“When did you start drinking?”
“Alcohol? I can’t remember precisely. Probably when I was seven or eight years old. My Mom gave me what she called the French child’s drink, half water and half red wine in a small glass. Only one a night except on Sunday when I was permitted two.”
“Back to politics,” someone tossed in.
“Ok. Let’s skip to the second degree at Stanford, then graduation and home to the farm. I arrived, my parents left for New York and places of antiquity. So there I was on the farm, my farm, they had transferred the deed to my name. I had a trust fund, little to do with my time, still less ambition. I read, watched videos, got involved in local politics, eventually elected to the state legislature, then to the U.S. Senate. On the way I picked up a wife and fathered a son. The rest is history.”
A riffle of applause and the party ended. Three hours later a final grand banquet, then back to Washington.
CHAPTER THIRTY
On the return trip to Washington, two things kept bobbing up in Brooking’s mind. First, that he should be a better father to his son, Ben, who was rapidly growing into a man. There were two Secret Service agents assigned to keeping an eye on the boy, but he was painfully vulnerable to kidnapping, or even physical harm. On that plane, the seed of a plan emerged.
His second thought went out to Heidi Nilsen, the statuesque beauty from Scottsdale, Arizona. How could a single president have a love life, i.e. “sex life,” and maintain decorum? Was there an answer? He struggled with that one.
He waited until he thought the boy would be home from school, then made his phone call, first talking to his mother-in-law. Both the in-laws were in fair shape, but they were well over eighty and dwindling.
“Molly, I want to thank you both for keeping Ben, but it’s time I brought him home. I’ll send someone to bring him to Washington.”
“Home, Bruce? You call the White House home?”
“It is for now. I know you two are a little too old for child rearing. You did a great job with your daughter and we all miss her a bundle. Could you let me talk to Ben?”
So the arrangement had been made, the first phase of his plan. Earlier, he had asked Curtis German to step into his office.
“I want to plan a reception, Curt. It has to do with women. The Catholic Church at war with women. The job market. Women’s rights. Whatever you can think of.”
“How about breast feeding?”
“That would do.”
“Any special time you want this reception?”
“Yes, three to four weeks from today. Of course in the White House.”
“Of course. You have an invitation list in mind? Single mothers perhaps? Fresh young interns? Ex porn stars?”
/> “Now, Curt. You’re reading things into this. There is one woman I’d like you to invite. Heidi Nilsen. I believe she lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
“I believe she does. Isn’t she the one who shared the limo with you?”
“She is. She’s a strong advocate for women’s rights. We had a fine chat.”
“I saw her, Mr. President. She certainly looked chatworthy.”
“Well, whatever you saw or didn’t see and whatever you think, don’t share it with anyone including, in fact most absolutely, your wife. We don’t need a rumor mill around here.”
“Of course not. This is Washington after all. The home of the tight lipped, land of the sphinx. I shall do your bidding.”
“Oh, by the way. I’m bringing my son back to the White House. Could you have a private jet pick up him and his two agents. At my expense, of course.” The chief of staff shrugged, nodded and left the office. What other things were happening that had escaped him?
That evening Brooking met with Tarot Jones in the exercise room.
“I’ve been reading about ninjas, Tarot. Most accounts say they work for the highest bidder, have no real loyalty.”
“Yes, that was true in some cases. But Old Kaz, my Japanese father, taught me the code of Bushido, the way of the warrior, or samurai, absolute loyalty to one’s master. In my case, you.”
“I’ve thought that all along, and believe me it’s a reciprocal situation. You and me against the world. I have a couple of jobs for you.”
“I await your pleasure.”
“First I’d like you to visit Scottsdale, a hip city just east of Phoenix. There’s an attractive lady there who’s shown an interest in me. Heidi Nilsen. She’s a fairly recent widow, has money. I’d like to know if she’s playing the field, sleeping around, or anything else that might be of interest. If you need money for extra help, I’ll provide it.”
“Sounds interesting. Any timetable?”
“Yes, I’d like to know something within two weeks. The second project is extremely delicate. I’m bringing my son back to the White House. Ben is sixteen and has been living with his Mom’s folks in Iowa since just after her death. They’re quite old, really too old to raise a boy of any age. Also the school system lacks sophistication as you might guess. Now he presents a target for terrorists, or simply some disgruntled psycho. What I want to do is send him to school in Switzerland.”
Tarot rolled his eyes heavenward. “Sounds like out of the frying pan into the fire. How can you justify massive Secret Service protection in Europe?”
“There’ll be no protection. I want you to give him a new identity, passport and all. I have a close college friend who I think will be a stand-in father. He will back up the claim that Ben is his son. We’ll probably need a fake birth certificate for the passport. You can pick the school, I’ll route the money through my friend. He will simply be another American boy getting cultured-up in Switzerland.”
“Sounds solid. When do we move on this one?”
“As soon as you return from Phoenix. You’re booked out of National at 0800 tomorrow. It’s an e-ticket.”
Three days later, Ben was back in the White House. Brooking was quite pleased because the boy had long hair and dreadlocks, a sloppy blue jean look and a wool hat. Of course there had been photographs of the lad. To arrive in Switzerland with short-cropped hair and dressed as a young gentleman would be a total change of appearance.
Brooking explained his plan to Ben on the first night, and the boy reluctantly agreed. By the following Day, Ben was sold on the plan.
Ben was asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. I did but she threw me over.”
“Lover’s quarrel?”
Ben laughed scornfully. “She was the cheerleader type, prettiest girl at the high school. She made a play for me. I suppose she thought we were both bound for the White House. When nothing happened she drifted off to the top jock, they make a nice pair of morons.”
“So you are on the rebound and ready for Europe. An American in the land of the Swiss miss. Want to go outside and play catch?”
“On the White House lawn?”
“Yes.”
“Next you’ll be taking me to the circus. Really, Dad.”
“You did live here when your Mom was alive. And we had a pretty good run for quite a few years. Things change and we adjust.”
“I know, Dad. I’m cool with everything. I’ve got to check my e-mails. A couple of friends back in Iowa.”
“Oops. I’d forgotten. We’ll have to work out some plan. Maybe snail mail. You can claim security reasons. They write you here, I forward the letters and so on. We absolutely mustn’t let your true identity slip out.”
“Maybe I should simply stay here.”
“It would be a mess, Ben. Secret Service everywhere. You couldn’t have dates like a normal teen. I’ll tell you what, you pick.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, exhaled, then said, “Switzerland here I come.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
When Tarot returned from Arizona he reported that Heidi might be likened to a hellcat cupcake.
“Quite a description,” Brooking replied with a slight smile. “Any corroborating details?”
“If you wanted to do her you should have done her in the limo. She seems to have wandered off to Italy with a Spanish count.”
“I’ve always wondered what a count might be. Where the title comes from.”
“We have counties, Spain has counties. A count is the headman in a county, or was at one time. Those days are long gone, but minor royalty drags on, at least in inherited titles.”
“So Heidi is lost to me forever?”
“It would seem so. You have regrets about that limo ride?”
“I think not. I’d be more apprehensive. No thanks for the buggy ride.” Brooking paused, then switched gears. “Ben has made up his mind to go the Swiss route. So he’s all yours. Do your best to impress upon him the need for secrecy. No whispering in the ear of a Swiss miss.”
The following day during a regular briefing with his chief of staff he asked if arrangements had been made for the women’s conference.
“Reception, Mr. President. You said reception.”
Brooking rubbed his hand across his chin as if checking his shave. “Perhaps I misspoke. Incidentally that Heidi person I mentioned is out of touch. So you can forget her. But I do want you to assemble some knowledgeable women. I’ve done some reading on women’s rights. Not that I wasn’t aware of the problem. But it seemed more pronounced in places like Egypt, or Syria, or Saudi Arabia, maybe even Israel.”
“Israel?”
“Yes. The Jewish religion seems to have some built-in notions about the inferiority of women.”
“I think it’s more separation, Mr. President. Each sex has its own role.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I’m no expert. But the Congress has struggled with legislation concerning abortion, equal pay, access to health care and domestic violence. Why certain members of those two bodies seem dead set on keeping women in their place, not a wonderful place, puzzles me.”
German shrugged. “At least they have the vote.”
“Very funny. Invite at least two or three members of the press, print and electronic media, plus at least one male newshound. The forum should last at least two hours, with an informal milling around with food and drink to follow.”
“Finally, the reception.”
“Yes, Curt, the reception.” Brooking pondered a moment. “Invite a good cross section of the press to the reception. Maybe you could have them sign up, first come first served. You can work something out.”
“I’ll be firm, but fair. There’ve been requests to interview Ben.”
Brooking wasn’t expecting that, but he had a ready answer. “Many children have been reared in the White House, including Ben prior to the death of his mother. It’s doable, but in my mind not ideal. At the moment we are looking at live-in prep schools along with the p
ossibility of his returning to finish high school with the in-laws in Iowa. The least publicity the better. Just say no.”
“Very good, Sir.”
“And when we have the Women’s Conference, I’ll address the group, a short welcome, let them know I’m aware of the problems, then I’ll sit in for a time. Maybe there could be a break for coffee or something, and I could steal away.”
“If you’re present, they’ll be talking directly to you. Something like married life.”
“I haven’t been nagged for some time. It might feel good.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
When the Women’s Conference opened, Brooking made the usual welcome remarks and said he understood many of the snares and pitfalls facing today’s women in America and globally.
He was immediately challenged by a woman identifying herself as Renee Camus, a women’s rights magazine writer.
“Do you?” she questioned. “Do you really?” she added for emphasis. “Then why haven’t you done something about it?”
“It was my idea to organize this meeting, Ms., Ms…”
“Camus,” she interjected. “Renee Camus. It’s rather late in the day, late in your administration to take up the issue that involves more than half of the population of this country. I’d like to hear what you have to say for yourself.”
“I too would like to get a word in, possibly edgewise.” This drew a few sniggers. “Women’s issues have long been on my agenda. There are many diverse issues facing my administration. If a woman were president…”
“Ha, ha,” Camus interrupted. “Fat chance.”
Brooking gave her a look that seemed to quiet her. He wondered if she were on some sort of drug. “If a woman were president,” he continued, “her administration would very likely look much like mine. Can you imagine a woman president devoting the bulk of her time to women’s issues?” He looked directly at her, but she did not speak. He added, “Can you?”
“Of course not,” she finally said. “Let’s hear your views.”
“I’ll say a few words, but this meeting isn’t about me preaching to you. The contrary is true. I’m always seeking new ideas, new approaches to old problems. There are problems that simply won’t go away. But we can ameliorate them.”