“When do you think we should set this plan of yours into motion, Hector?”
Garcia asked kindly.
“Well, if I could have a couple of days, perhaps a week to arrange…
Garcia’s bushy brows knit in thought. “No,” he said slowly. “No, I think we should do it immediately.” He picked up a nearby phone. “Rosalita, send a pair of guards to the video room. Right away. Armed guards.”
*
In the White House video control room, Roy Pickett caught Eric Wang’s eye. “Well?”
“Impressive,” Wang admitted. “He has lots of presence.”
“You should have seen him ten years ago.”
Wang glanced through the window, at the office set. Bourque was still sitting in the chair. “Is he okay?”
They walked, perhaps a little too quickly, into the office set, and Bourque looked up suddenly, curious. “Well,” he said, “how did I do?”
“You were great,” Wang said. “And I’m not buttering you up.”
Pickett studied his Boss for a moment. “You okay?”
“Tired,” Bourque admitted. “Talking on TV takes a lot outta ya. Gimme a minute.”
“You really put it to Garcia,” Wang said. “I’d love to see his face.”
“I’d love to see his ass,” Bourque said. “So I could shove my boot up it.”
They laughed. But for Bourque, the laughing turned into a cough and he kept coughing until he gagged. After a minute or so—much too long for Pickett and Wang, who were watching with great concern—he caught his breath. Pickett fumbled in a pocket and came up with a vial of pills. He handed a couple to Bourque, who swallowed them quickly.
“I’m all right,” he said, waving them off with a limp gesture. “Just something in my throat.” His face was white and his hair was matted with sweat.
At that moment, Charlie Callaway walked into the room, all smiles. “I think you were terrific, Mr. President,” he said. “I can’t imagine how Garcia can…” He stopped in mid-sentence, shocked.
Bourque waved both hands, feebly. “I’m okay, Mr. President. Just have to catch my breath. And thanks for your kind words.”
“I think we should probably put off this afternoon’s session,” Wang said.
“No, no need to do that,” Bourque said. “I’m ready to go.” He pushed back in the chair, as if he was about to stand.
Pickett put a heavy hand on Bourque’s shoulder. “You know what sounds good to me?” He said, not really asking. “A good, long afternoon nap in a soft bed. What do you think, Boss? Sound good to you?”
“Yeah. A little noonin’ a good idea.”
“We’ll send lunch over,” Callaway said.
Chapter Sixteen
Wang pointed to the pink and orange box. “Any glazed left?”
Callaway gave him a guilty look. “I just ate the last one. I think there’s a chocolate covered, though.”
Wang opened the box and took inventory. He found the chocolate-covered donut and began nibbling. “You saw the polls, I assume?”
“Yeah,” the President said. “Not much comfort there.”
“Bourque’s little speech might help,” Wang said.
“Yes. Let’s hope it translates. Make any headway with Sylvia Pinchick?”
“She’s on our side, Charl—Mr. President. But she says she’s helpless. The board had a fight and Anthony Zolli won. The others, they’re either scared of him or they agree with him. Hard to tell which.”
Callaway sighed and nodded. “But Bourque’s okay?”
“According to Pickett, he’s full of beans and ready to ride.”
“You’re starting to sound like him.”
“Yeah. Maybe it’s contagious. Anyhow, he and Pickett are meeting us at the conference room at 10.” He took another bite of donut. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Sugar is the bane of my existence,” Callaway observed. He studied the box of donuts, then turned away from it. “And the Vice Presidents—how are they doing?”
“Like two peas in a pod.”
“Stop that.”
“I was quoting Veronica. They’re going golfing today.”
“Veronica too?”
Wang laughed. “No. She’s working on the arrangements and the schedules.”
Callaway was momentarily confused. “The arrangements and the schedules?”
“Yes, you know—the cultural and sports exchanges.”
“Oh that’s right.”
“She showed me a draft last night,” Wang said. “She’s doing a great job.”
“The golfing was her idea?”
“She’s acting in loco parentis.”
“Any word from Garcia yet?”
“Not a peep.”
Callaway became thoughtful. “I wonder how he’s going to talk his way out of this one.”
“If I remember the procedure in events like this, I believe we shall soon see an innocent lamb offered up for ritual sacrifice. I’m betting it will be bloody, although he might fake that too.”
“Think he’s going to leave the CSA alone now?” Callaway asked.
“El Presidente? Cut his losses? Curb his ambitions? You’re talking about Miguel Garcia, you know.”
“Yeah, you’re right of course,” Callaway admitted. “What do you think he’s going to try next?”
“God knows. But we better be ready for it. I’ll have a conversation with Linus Hawke.”
*
They met in the conference room, said their hellos and took their seats, the same as yesterday’s.
“You’re looking well this morning,” Callaway said to Bourque.
“Mr. President, those beds you got over there are soft as rabbit fur,” Bourque said. “I slept like a hibernatin’ bear.”
“And you had a good breakfast, I hope?”
Bourque patted his considerable belly. “Et about half a hog and a hen-house full o’eggs, all of it cooked to a turn, thank you very much.
“You’re very welcome,” said Eric Wang.
“So,” said President Callaway. “Where were we?”
Their gazes converged on Pickett, who nervously consulted his notes. “President Bourque had just asked me to tell you what we want,” he said.
“Best note-taker there is,” Bourque said, pleased.
Callaway was finished with the small talk. “And what do you want?” He asked.
Pickett shot a look at Wang, hoping for help.
“Well, we’ve already provided a task force to cover your Atlantic Coast,”
Wang said.
“A grand gesture indeed,” Bourque allowed, “and it will surely help, until the ships weigh anchor and sail back north. And of course our Gulf Coast is at risk despite the task force.”
“So you’re looking for a larger military force?” Callaway asked.
“And a permanent one?”
“Well now,” Bourque said, “I’m not sure I should go ahead and ask for indoor plumbing, a walk-in fridge and a hot tub all at once.”
Callaway held up a hand. “No, no,” he said. “let’s get it all out on the table. Then we’ll look at what more we can do…if anything.”
Bourque glanced at Pickett. “Well, I’m not one to turn down an engraved invitation. Okay, what we want—to begin with—is a formal military alliance, with all the bells and whistles. Ships permanently stationed off both the Atlantic coast and the Gulf coast. The Bourque Line repaired and brought up to snuff. Some tanks, artillery, rockets. Could use some new small arms for the troops as well.”
“You don’t want much, do you?” Wang said.
“Eric,” Callaway warned.
“Forgot airplanes,” Bourque said. “And helicopters.”
“Our radar systems are pretty antiquated,” Pickett added.
“Jesus Christ,” Wang said, and got another warning look from Callaway.
“A formal military alliance,” Callaway said. He opened a notebook and jotted down a few words. “Anything else?”
; Bourque thought a minute. “Money,” he said. “We’d prefer grants, but if it has to be loans, we’d make do somehow.”
“Do you have a figure in mind?” Callaway asked.
“Something in the neighborhood of $134 billion,” Bourque said.
Callaway considered this. “That’s some neighborhood, Mr. President.”
“You’re sure that $133 billion won’t be enough?” Wang joked.
“I suppose we could economize,” Bourque said.
“What about the money you already owe Germany?” Wang asked mischievously.
“Well now, we could give you two sets of figures,” Bourque said. “One that included paying off Germany, one that didn’t. I’d prefer the former.”
Wang took off his glasses and began polishing the round lenses. “Amazing,” he said.
Callaway leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Let me see if I have this right,” he said. “What you have in mind is that the North American Union becomes your protector and sponsor. For the rest of eternity. Is that it?”
Bourque turned to Pickett with a sly grin. “Have I left anything out?”
“Seems pretty inclusive to me, Boss.”
“Seems pretty ridiculous to me,” Wang said.
“Wait a minute, Eric,” Callaway said. “We don’t have the whole story yet. President Bourque, we both know you are asking for a great deal. What do you intend to offer the NAU in return?”
Bourque offered a broad grin. “I hardly know where to start,” he said. “We have so much to give.”
“Take a stab at it,” Wang said.
“Okay,” said President Bourque. “As a start, we’ll drop the tariffs on your manufactured products by 50%...
“100%,” Wang said.
Bourque nodded in acquiescence. “Let’s say 75%,” he said.
“Go on,” Callaway prompted.
“And it would be only fair if you cut your tariff on our seafood products,” Bourque said. “That would be…
“Wait a minute,” Wang interrupted. “Weren’t we discussing what you’re going to give us?”
“Of course, Mr. Chang. I just had a side thought there and I wanted to get it said before it slipped my mind.”
“Wang,” Pickett whispered, loud enough for the others to hear.
“I’m sorry, of course it’s Wang,” Bourque said. “I’m just terrible with names. But I’m not much better with faces.”
Everyone laughed politely.
“Okay,” Bourque continued, “Now I’m prepared to open up all of our Atlantic ports to NAU trade—import, export, whatever makes you happy. No limitations on value or quantity.”
Callaway made a note and Bourque smiled, pleased.
“Got anything else?” Wang asked.
“We also have the Gulf ports, of which you have none,” Bourque said. “That would greatly improve NAU access to South American markets.”
“That would be useful,” Callaway said.
“And our geologists tell us there could be big oilfields in the shallow waters under the Gulf. We can’t afford to exploit them, but they could be very valuable to you.”
“Interesting,” said Callaway. “I didn’t know that.”
“Anything else?” Wang asked.
“Military bases—half a dozen of ‘em. You tell us where you want ‘em, we’ll see to it that you get the land.”
“Wait a minute,” Callaway said, “isn’t that us giving you something?”
“Not the land,” Bourque said. “We’ll give that to you. Air rights too.”
“Mucho gracias,” Wang said. “Got any more to trade?”
“Very frankly,” Bourque said, “There isn’t much else—except for our everlasting gratitude. But our deal would do a pretty good job gelding El Presidente. I’d say that has a lot of value. For both of us.”
This time, it was Callaway and Wang who exchanged glances. “I can’t deny that,” the President said. “Still, it leaves me with a problem.”
“Which is?” Bourque inquired.
“Which is how the hell do I sell this to my people, Mr. President?” Callaway said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve got some folks objecting to our meeting, and I suspect they’ll be mighty unhappy with any agreement we announce.”
“Or try to hide,” Wang added.
“We’re not going to hide anything,” Callaway said. “Whatever happens will be out in the open for everyone to see.”
“That’s your call, Mr. President,” Bourque said, “But I can tell you that some of my people aren’t exactly jumping for joy for the prospect of an agreement between us.”
“I imagine not, President Bourque.”
Wang checked his watch. “I have a suggestion,” he said.
“All suggestions are welcome,” Callaway said.
“It’s lunchtime. Why don’t we have lunch separately. That’ll give both parties a chance to discuss what’s been said so far.’
“Ah,” said Bourque. “Giving us a chance to converse, confer and hobnob with our brother wizards.”
“Brother wizards?” Wang said. “You mean your Vice President and your biographer?”
“Come to think of it, I think Pickett and I had better lunch alone.”
“Whatever happened to your biographer?” Callaway asked.
“Veronica parked him at the National Archives,” Wang said. “Apparently, he’s in ecstasy.”
“Your Ms. Tennenbaum is quite a woman,” Bourque said.
“Indeed she is,” Callaway agreed.
“Shall we reconvene here at 2 o’clock?” Wang asked.
“Sounds good,” Pickett said.
A White House page led Bourque and Pickett back through the tunnel to the Blair House, where lunch was waiting for them in the “small” dining room, a cardiac meal of New York strip steak with baked, stuffed potatoes, asparagus spears in butter and blue cheese on the salad. The beverage choice included three bottles of wine and a variety of soft drinks.
“Well now,” Bourque said, surveying the feast, “that’s a mite better than a possum and a six pack.”
The waitress smiled. She was a handsome woman in her 30s, confident and knowing. “We also have coconut crème pie for dessert, or any one of three flavors of ice cream if you prefer. I’ll come back later for your order. If you need me, just ring the little silver bell.”
“Thank you missy,” said President Bourque. “I’ll surely do that.”
She smiled again and left them to themselves.
“That was quite a meeting,” Pickett said, breaking the silence they’d maintained until they were alone. “I didn’t think you’d ask for so much, not at first anyhow.”
“Just negotiatin’ Roy.”
Pickett raised an eyebrow. “I think you may have shocked them, Boss.”
“Well, if I did, they played it pretty cool, dontcha think?”
“Callaway is definitely a cool customer,” Pickett said. “I’ll bet he’s a hell of a poker player. Don’t underestimate him.”
Bourque responded with a broad grin. “You ever known me to underestimate anyone, Roy?”
“No, not really.”
“You ever known anyone to underestimate me?”
“Sometimes,” Pickett admitted.
“Well, that’s what I’m goin’ for here.”
Pickett tried to understand. “So that’s why you asked for too much?”
“I was testing Callaway. Wanted to see what kind of man he is.”
“And what’s your conclusion?”
“He plays his cards so close to his vest that the ink’s near to rubbing off.”
“Wang is a little easier to read,” Pickett said.
Bourque chuckled. “That man’s got some sand in his gizzard, don’t he?”
“Yeah, he’s a prickly one,” Pickett said. “But when he’s on your side, he’s all in—the naval task force was his idea, you know. And he sold it to Callaway and the military.”
Bourque nodded. “I gotta kee
p that in mind when I’m talking to him.”
“Think they’ll make a counteroffer? Or just turn us down flat?”
“That’s what’s wrong with you young people,” Bourque said. “That’s it in a nutshell. You can’t think of more than two possibilities.”
“Hah! What do you mean—do you think they’ll offer more than we asked?”
Bourque’s expression turned sly. “It could happen. It could happen.”
In the White House, Marty Katz joined President Callaway and Eric Wang for lunch and they quickly brought him up to speed. “He’s got big ones, I’ll say that,” Katz said. “Big brass ones.” He pulled out his cigar case, but the President wiggled a forbidding finger at him and he desisted.
“Bourque is looking for a counteroffer,” Wang said. “You know, we offer him half of what he’s asking for and we settle for someplace between—that’s if we give him anything at all.”
“We’re talking about the President of the Confederacy, Eric, not some Persian rug merchant.” Callaway said.
“You’re sure there’s a difference?” Wang asked playfully.
“We’ve already given him too much, in my opinion,” Katz warned. “When the press—especially Metzger’s people—finds out about the task force we sent to the Atlantic the shit is really going to hit the fan.”
Callaway raised an eyebrow. “So, Marty, you’re willing to see the CSA fail and become part of greater Mexico, with Presidente Garcia the most powerful man in North America?”
“You think that’s inevitable, if we turn Bourque down?” Katz asked.
“If we turn him down, Bourque may feel he has only two choices,” Callaway said. “Make a separate peace with Garcia and becomes a Mexican protectorate, an independent nation in name only, or wait for the invasion and try to fight it off. The result would be pretty much the same, either way, except in the second alterative, lots of people die.”
At that moment, Veronica Tennenbaum appeared at the door. “Room for one more?” She asked.
“There’s always a place at the table for you, Veronica,” Callaway said.
She sat, and while the wait staff brought out the food—burgers and fries for everyone—the President and his Chief of Staff filled her in on the negotiations.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 29