by Doug Walker
The audience now was hanging on every word. What will come next?
“This may sound like I’m bragging, but why not. This is my swan song. In two weeks I will resign this office and turn the mantle over to Vice President Park.”
Here he paused to let the crowd react and the noise to die down. There were a couple of garbled shouts. He was well aware he would be hailed as a traitor in some quarters. Although he felt he had delivered the country into capable hands.
When the noise subsided, some of the press dashing for the door, he continued.
“After that statement there’s really very little more to say. I believe if you have listened carefully to my words, you know why I am leaving. And at this stage of the game I have no intention of writing a book about my term in office or founding a library. Goodnight and goodbye.”
There was loud applause, even some tears as he was escorted out of the building to a waiting car, then whisked back to the White House.
The next two weeks were spent more or less in seclusion from the press, but in meetings from morning until night with cabinet members, foreign envoys, members of Congress and assorted business people, always with Derek Park by his side.
The chief justice of the high court came to the White House to receive his resignation and swear Park in as president. A score of witnesses, plus a few pool press people were in attendance.
One of Penny’s assistants had overseen the packing of Brooking’s personal belongings and sent them into storage.
Following the ceremony, Brooking and Tarot boarded the helicopter, were taken to Air Force One and flown to Istanbul. A pair of Secret Service agents accompanied them, but it was unknown whether the agents would be permitted to operate in Turkey. That decision was left to Secretary of State J.O.P. Quirk and the Turkish diplomats.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
In Istanbul he was treated to a reception and a state dinner. It was a different experience because he had a couple of drinks at the reception and then ate what he wanted to at the dinner. Asked to speak, he rambled on for twenty minutes pointing up the great friendship between Turkey and the U.S., a shout out to the Orient Express, the noble history of the Turks, ending with the thought that he hoped to be an ambassador of goodwill.
They left at dawn the following day, courtesy of the Turkish air force. The Secret Service agents were permitted to stay, even permitted to keep their handguns on the promise not to shoot innocent Turks. It seemed to be open season on Kurds.
The plane swooped low over Gobekli Tepe offering a magnificent view of the 25-acre site of the mysterious series of handsomely carved stone circles.
Then they were on the ground and a military vehicle whisked them to four platform tents, with the elder Brookings waiting to greet their son and Tarot.
“I can’t believe you finally did the right thing,” Brooking’s Dad said, embracing his only boy. Then it was the Mom’s turn. Both hugged and shook hands with Tarot.
“We’re living in tents?” Brooking asked.
“For the moment,” his Dad said. “This one is ours, next is your son and Helga.”
“They’re living together,” Brooking interrupted.
“Certainly, why not. There’s a child.”
“They’re going to marry?” he asked in wonder.
“Of course not, they’re just kids. Both of them intend to go to college. I’m seeing about enrolling your boy in Brown.”
“Brown, why Brown?”
“Oh, come on, Bruce. It’s a good school. Dear old Brown. Anyway, the next tent is Tarot’s and the fourth one is yours.”
Brooking was curious. “You seem to know all about Tarot.”
The older man smiled. “He’s something of a mystery man, you know. Now, better get settled. Tarot’s already in his tent. We’ll be having lunch in the mess hall. You can meet a few Germans. They’re good people.”
“Salt of the earth, I’m certain.” He grabbed his bag and went off to his tent.
From the brilliant Turkish sunshine to the half-light of the tent, he could see very little, but he was aware of a figure seated in a canvas director’s chair.
“I had been napping,” Renee Camus said. “I heard the plane. It woke me. You must have buzzed the site.”
Brooking took time to think, then said, “Quite an impressive sight from the air. Did you find employment here?”
“I keep busy. We all do. I help the Germans more than anything. Your parents seem to be writing books.”
“That’s their game.” There was another canvas chair. He tossed his bag on one of the two cots and sat down. “Alright if I take that cot?”
“You’re tent, take your choice.”
“Well, I seem to have a tent mate and democracy rules.”
“One vote to one vote. Deadlock. Gridlock. Shades of Capitol Hill.”
“You know Tarot’s here, don’t you?”
Renee finally smiled. “Of course. How do you think I got here?”
“He’s in the next tent. We also brought a couple of Secret Service men. I don’t know what happened to them.”
“The Germans probably got them. Two men, not quite enough for round-the-clock protection. Do you mind if I call you Bruce?”
“You usually do. And my status is nothing now. What I’d like to do is get a six-pack of beer and kick back. But this tent has no sanitary facilities. You drink beer, you lose the beer.”
“There’s the great outdoors. Also a shower house with toilets. The Germans have plenty of beer. We do have electricity and there is a house being built.”
Brooking chuckled. “Big enough for two?”
“Several bedrooms and more than one bathroom for your beer drinking needs. You know your son’s name, don’t you?”
“I think it’s Hans something or other.”
“Hans Bruger and his girlfriend, the mother of your grandchild, Helga Berger.”
“We’ve always been a close-knit family.”
“Indeed. We’ll go to lunch soon and you’ll meet a lot of people. They’re excited about the ex-president of the U.S.A. coming here, the world policeman.”
“Not anymore. I hope none of them take a shot at me.”
”The Germans have their own security. The Turkish army has a troop or two scattered around. You know the Turks, no prisoners. Then there’s your agents. And Tarot.”
“You know something about Tarot, don’t you?”
“I know a lot about Tarot,” Renee replied.
Brooking yawned. He was tired. The long flight to Istanbul, the banquet, rising early and coming to this ancient spot.
“I suppose we’re stuck with each other,” he said.
“Looks that way.”
###
About the Author
Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.
His first novel was “Murder on the French Broad,” available only in a print edition published in 2010.
Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.
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