The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker

  The President glanced at a small sheet of prompts he had prepared. “I have fought and defeated legislation that weakens the Violence Against Women Act. I have fought off attacks on Roe v. Wade that would omit reasonable exceptions for a woman’s health. You probably all know what I mean. I have warded off legislation to deny public funding to Planned Parenthood. Most of you know the good work that organization does. I have been working to update and improve the Equal Pay Act. Lastly, I have attempted to ward off attacks on the Violence Against Women Act. So you see, part of the fight is to not simply move ahead, but to retain ground already won.”

  Brooking sat down and a riffle of applause swept the audience.

  The conference had no chairwoman, but the first to speak was Elizabeth Draper, a New England congresswoman, large of frame with a type of purple babushka bonnet partially covering large honey-blond dyed hair, like a gladiator playing at opera diva. Not your girl next door.

  “College debt,” she began, “it’s a damn shame it exists for anyone, male or female. This is the only advanced democratic country where college grads end up like galley slaves, chained to staggering debt. Of course it impacts women more than men because in our lifetime we will earn a couple of million bucks less than men. We have the same debt but the struggle to pay it back is more intense.”

  But it was Renee Camus who stood out during the session. Brooking remained longer than intended to hear her out.

  Camus began by thanking Draper for reminding everyone that college debt is a woman’s issue.

  Then she said, “Same sex marriage and women’s issues are in lockstep. The same groups that oppose contraception are against same sex marriage, because they have been taught that human sexuality has no purpose other than reproduction. Reproduction freedom is a basic right, like freedom of speech or any other.”

  She went on to say that women made 77 cents to every dollar made by men in similar positions, and that less than 25 percent of state legislature seats in this country were held by women. “Our nation as a whole ranks 71st in female legislative representation.”

  Camus said that 40 years ago people claimed that the women’s movement was against God, against nature. Then they said it must come from the top. “But I tell you today change is a tree – it grows from the roots.”

  She sat down to sustained applause. Brooking slipped out of the room, only to reappear for the cocktail hour. Managing to get Camus aside, he asked if she might linger for a private conversation. She was a woman in her mid-thirties, average height, 5-5 or so, possibly 125 pounds, auburn hair, attractive. She was skeptical of his motives.

  “I’ve been around this town for some time. Politicians are high-powered creatures, predators. Women are the weaker sex, easily persuaded to give pleasure to their male companions.”

  “It sounds like a mutual thing to me.”

  “It is only mutual if it is mutual. If there is one dominant factor and one submissive, it is not mutual. I don’t want to be nailed by the President or any other high-powered politician.”

  “I see. You want to be the dominant one.”

  Camus scowled and said, “This conversation is over.”

  “Just one moment. I enjoyed your talk. When my wife died, that side of the White House pretty much went dead. She took care of social activities, plus a few pet projects, one of which was women’s issues. I’d like to revitalize that.”

  Camus actually stuck out her lower lip. “I’m not a social butterfly.”

  Brooking grinned. “Far from it. You’re more a take-no-prisoners type. My chief of staff, with the help of others, handles social affairs, like the one we’re attending at the moment. My thought for you was to install you as the women’s rights, women’s issue person. You’d be at the top of the heap.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll do it. When do I start?”

  “Be here at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Meet with my chief of staff. His name is Curtis German.”

  Camus pulled another face. “I know who he is. I’ve been trying to get an appointment with him for weeks.”

  “Now he’ll be your boss,” Brooking said. Camus scowled slightly at the word boss. “But you’ll have a secretary you can boss around.”

  “Male or female?”

  “You’re choice. Good luck.” Brooking turned and quietly left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Several weeks went by and Brooking was careful to avoid Renee Camus’s office. She reported only to German who would now and then brief the President on how she was doing. She had a female secretary and a couple of interns, one of each sex.

  German said she had hoped to report directly to the President.

  “That wasn’t the impression I got. When I approached her at the reception she thought I was hitting on her. She seems a little skittish, gun-shy, but she has a good intellect and a way of holding an audience, good presence.”

  “She is that. She’s solid, if a bit too dedicated. Dedication can be a trifle boring. What about sending her on the road as a speaker?”

  Brooking hesitated. “That would be legitimate, but she might think she was campaigning. I don’t know how she’d feel about that. I don’t know if she’d be an asset or a detriment. She might say Washington is a sham and we’re simply an old boy’s club.”

  “I’ll feel her out. Her main task is to work on legislation. She might move the people to move their representatives.”

  Brooking laughed. “Ok, but don’t let her hear you using that ‘feel her out’ term.”

  Things seemed to be going well. A series of campaign trips were in the planning stage, some coupled with legitimate presidential activities. Others pure and simple politicking. A careful watch was kept on who paid for what in an effort to separate politics from government finances.

  Then there was personal bad news, fortunately brought to him by Tarot Jones. There had been a repeated rumor in Le Monde that Brooking’s son was enrolled in a Swiss prep school for the sons of wealthy parents. Just which school had not been revealed.

  This was not good news, and Brooking thought it had not yet reached America. But why? That Le Monde reporter, Jean Claude François, was certain to ask about it if no one else did before him. Poor Ben would be assailed by reporters and photographers when they learned which school, without security, open to kidnapping or worse. Then François might ask if Ben spoke French. Idiotic questions. Of course he’s taking German and French, but has not had enough time to master either. Perhaps he took a language in Iowa. But if so, it would have been Spanish. Anyway, Brooking thought, why am I anticipating dumb questions from François? His mind was simply in a whirl. Then he hit on a plan.

  First he dispatched Tarot to Europe to be ready to extract Ben, whatever his last name was now. He had forgotten, but knew it was a German name. Hans something or other.

  Next he called his father.

  “Bruce, do you know where I am?” His father came on the line in an exasperated voice. “You’re costing me a fortune with roaming charges.”

  “I’ll pay for it, Dad.”

  “You’ll pay for it, ha. On a politician’s salary. Unless you’re on the take like the rest of them.”

  “I’m the President, Dad.”

  “I know that. Of course you still have your trust fund. Once we set that up for you, we couldn’t touch it. Anyway, your Mom and I have more money than we’ll ever spend. We still can’t figure why you got involved in politics. You could have made something of yourself.”

  “You left me on that farm in Iowa for Chrissake. What did you expect?”

  “We picked the farm so we could see to your education. We did the best we could. History, antiquity, archeology, science, math, even music. Do you still play the piano?”

  “I really don’t have much of an opportunity. I am the President. There are responsibilities.”

  “Truman was president and he still played. He beat Dewey, you know.”

  “I under
stand that, Dad.”

  “Don’t forget, you had two degrees when you came back to the farm and you could have had a third if you had had the ambition. Son, you could have been an academic!”

  “You left me with that farm. You and Mom took off for New York, as I recall. Why didn’t you stick around for a few months anyway, point me in the right direction? Whatever your idea of that might have been.”

  “We felt our work was done, Bruce. You were like a young bird with the whole wide world before you. You somehow fell into local politics. In rural Iowa of all places.”

  “I’ve thought of that, Dad. It was the trust fund. I had little ambition and I didn’t have to work for a living.”

  “So you became a politician. Oh, well, there’s still hope for you. You won’t seek a second term will you? You’re still a young man.”

  “Of course I must seek a second term. The country and the party, they’re counting on me to finish the work I’ve begun.”

  “How noble. We may be isolated here in Turkey, but we can read almost every paper on-line. Your Mom and I know what’s going on in Washington and America. Very little, I’d say. Education is getting so expensive, the nation has to rely on imported brains from China and India. You’re simply a prisoner in the White House. We’ve talked about asking you to resign and join us over here. We have important work.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “We’ve set out to write the true history of Gobekli Tepe. Surely you know something about this dig?”

  “Of course I do, Dad. It’s in southeast Turkey. A Kurdish shepherd stumbled on a perfectly carved stone projecting from the earth and began to dig. It soon became obvious there was a sophisticated ancient structure somewhere down there.”

  “Sophisticated! You bet! Twelve thousand years old, maybe 7,000 years older than any structure we have yet found on our planet. A German team has been excavating here for years and has only just begun. It’s the most astonishing discovery in modern times. It doubles the history of humanity on the planet. Who built this? Who buried it under the sand?”

  “It was intentionally buried?”

  “It seems to have been. It dates to the last ice age. There’s still a lot we don’t know. Strange animal carvings in stone. Still the bulk of it to be uncovered.”

  “You’re in an isolated situation, Dad. No one has asked about my parents for a couple of years. They’ve lost interest, or maybe think you both passed on.”

  “So, what about it?”

  “I’d like to give you another chance at rearing a son. Ben, your grandson. I’d like to send him to you for safekeeping.”

  “What’s wrong with the White House?”

  “It’s no life for a teen-aged boy. Secret service, prying eyes. I’d like him to get to know his grandparents. What a thrill for him to join a 12,000-year-old dig in Turkey, crawling with Germans.”

  The father was immediately suspicious. “Something’s happened over there, hasn’t it?”

  “Truth to tell, I managed to send the boy off to a Swiss prep school under an assumed name. Now Le Monde has some sort of gossip column that has hinted that the son of the U.S. president is secretly enrolled in a Swiss school. It’s bound to come out soon and the boy can’t stay there without protection.”

  “I see. The French are given to gossip almost as much as they are given to food. If you’ve ever been in a French neighborhood after dark, there they are standing shoulder to shoulder in the street, talking, talking, talking. You know that office tower that was built on the Left Bank? It was a scandal in the streets. The French live in their homes, at their work and in the streets. One cannot gossip in the halls of an office tower.”

  “Yes, but about Ben…”

  “The Eiffel Tower was a scandal in the streets. It was to be taken down after the exhibition, but now is the symbol of France. What a bunch of people. They are anti-American you know.”

  “Of course, Dad. They are also anti-German, anti-British, anti-Italian, even anti-Belgian. I could go on. You seem to dislike the French.”

  “I love France, Bruce. In France nothing is bad. There is no bad food. Their outlook on life is wholesome. They have done some bad things. Take Les Halles for instance. A fine old market place where one could get onion soup at any hour of the day and night. Torn down. Made into an inverted glass pyramid, a shopping center. France is wonderful, but not the French. You must make a distinction. We stood with France in two wars against Germany. Yet the Germans are our friends.”

  “Yes, Dad. We all have our views. But about Ben. I think he would be safe with you. Very likely no one over there knows you are the parents of the President.”

  “We haven’t gone out of our way to mention it. I think you’re right. Ok, send the boy over, but tell him he must be respectful. No teen-age shenanigans.”

  “He should be there in a day or two. You might just keep his fake identity and mention that he is the son of friends.”

  “We can’t pick him up anyplace.”

  “I know. He’ll be delivered. One small problem. I believe he has a fake German name, Hans something. He knows no more than a few words of German.”

  “We’ll take care of that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Gobekli Tepe was the last chance to keep Ben out of the Washington scene. If that failed, he would be back in the White House.

  So it was back to the business of the nation and the business of the election for the President. The campaign staff was separate and headquartered in its own offices a few blocks from the White House. But Curtis German, in effect, was campaign manager, but not in name.

  He had sent Vice President Ducote out on the hustings, being careful that he was accompanied by his wife.

  He told the President that he was arranging a campaign trip through New England and the northern tier of western states for him.

  “I’d like Renee Camus to accompany you and speak on women’s rights. It would be ideal. She could address the press corps, she could address women’s groups and sit near you on the platform for major campaign speeches.”

  “You think we can trust her?” Brooking questioned.

  “You mean she might blurt out something detrimental to the administration? No, I don’t think so. She’s had a steady hand thus far. She has a small press following, has made some appearances locally and seems to be right on target. So this would be the litmus test. We need the women’s vote, every one of them. She was your choice, remember.”

  “Ok, so it’s a test. No major cities?”

  “After New England, Buffalo and Cleveland, then it’s off to the wide open spaces.”

  “She could leave the tour at any time, of course,” the President observed.

  “Of course. We could send in the vice president or the secretary of state, any number of people. The secretary of agriculture might do for Des Moines.”

  “Dear old Iowa. Actually, it is dear to me. I’d like something really major there.”

  So they flew to Maine, arriving in Bangor not long after noon for a meeting with state officials, then Brooking hoped for a nap in his hotel room before an evening cocktail party followed by a dinner. He had just taken off his trousers and flopped on the bed when there was a rap on his door. Getting up, he climbed back into his trouser then cracked the door with the safety chain in place.

  A Secret Service agent said Renee Camus would like a word with you.

  “I was not to be disturbed for two hours.”

  “She insisted, Mr. President. She is an executive in the White House. We thought it might be important.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the coffee shop in the lobby.”

  He stared at the agent for a moment, then said, “She wants me to meet her in the lobby coffee shop when I’m having a nap?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. But that’s what she said. She made it sound like it was Ok.”

  “How many agents do you have in the coffee shop?”

  “As far as I know t
here are none, Sir.”

  “Is that what you call security?”

  “No, Sir. Far from it. We thought you might have a personal relationship with the lady.”

  “I’ve met her once and I’ve never been alone with her. Would you call that a personal relationship.”

  “She acted like you two were the best of friends, Mr. President.”

  “Do you know where she was seated on the plane?”

  “Of course. With the low level staffers and a couple of congressmen from Maine.”

  “Do you know what I’m going to do now?”

  “It’s just a guess, but I’m thinking you’re going to take a nap.”

  Brooking closed the door, removed his trousers and pitched himself onto the bed. Struggling for a moment, he managed to go to sleep until his wake up call from German.

  “Curt, did you know Renee Camus sent word to my room while I was napping. She wanted me to meet her in the coffee shop. How crazy is that?”

  “Fairly crazy, Sir. She is angry because she was not seated in your section of the airplane.”

  “Does she have a schedule here in Bangor?”

  “Yes, while you’re at the reception, she’ll be meeting with a group composed of various women’s groups, including the League of Women Voters.”

  “That’s in what? About an hour?”

  “I would think so.”

  “I want you to sit in on that meeting, Curt. See if she says anything stupid.”

  “I think it’s all women, Sir.”

  “Then dress in drag.” He cut off the conversation. This thing with Camus was not getting off to a good start.

  At the reception, he tried to meet and greet everyone there. They had all paid generously to attend. There were photo ops, and he managed to work in a glass of ginger ale and some pate smeared on a tasteless cracker.

  Then an hour for a shower and a shave, change into a black tie, drink a large glass of water, and off to the banquet.

  He and the others to be seated at the head table were herded into an anteroom. Renee sidled up to him immediately and asked, “Why didn’t you meet me at the coffee shop?”

  “I have security concerns. I was cowering in my room. How was the women’s meeting?”