“You’re right to worry, Marty,” Pickett said. “But I can tell you who to watch out for and how to deal with them.”
“You’re gonna deal with them by sending them on permanent vacations,” Bourque said.
“If that’s the way the vote goes,” Callaway said.
“We’re going to need a new Federal agency,” Veronica said. “Thousands of lawyers and judges and maybe police to spread throughout the South and supervise the transition.”
“Yes,” Wang said, “the Reunion Agency, we could call it. It would have the authority to make changes and enforce them.”
“Hold your horses, Chang,” Bourque boomed out. “There’s not gonna be any deal if you’re gonna take retribution or expect tribute. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Of course not, Buddy,” Callaway said. “We don’t want to do you any harm, just the opposite.”
“Well, I just thought I’d better check,” Bourque said, grinning.
“Always a good idea,” Callaway said.
Pickett decided it was time to get back to business. “So gentlemen—and Veronica—how are we going to make this happen?”
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re our legal eagle, Veronica,” Callaway said. “Why don’t you explain the legalities.”
“More like the legal beagle,” Veronica said. She noticed a dust bunny on the sleeve of her green and blue paisley dress and flicked it off with a fingernail. “But I taught Emerging Statehood a few years ago at Georgetown and I know the drill. You want the whole megillah or will the highlights be enough for you?”
Katz held up both hands. “Please, I beg you. Just the highlights.”
“Okey-dokey,” Veronica said. She reached into her big cloth pocketbook—it was more a knitting bag than a woman’s purse—and extracted a pair of red-framed spectacles, which she slipped on.
“You need glasses to talk about this?” Wang asked, confused.
“Makes me feel more professorial,” Veronica said. “Consider it an affectation. Shall I go on?”
“Please,” said President Callaway.
She surveyed the others, then resumed. “Okay. Everything’s based on the 1802 Enabling Act for Ohio.”
“1802?” Wang asked.
“That’s what I said,” Veronica told him. “Anyhow, this is the way it works: First, the potential state petitions Congress for statehood status. Second, Congress—if it wants to—passes an act giving the petitioning territory thumbs-up to hold a Constitutional Convention. The act specifies how the convention delegates are supposed to be elected.”
“But we already have state legislatures,” Bourque said. “Wouldn’t they be good enough for Congress?”
“No,” Veronica says. “Not if it follows the 1802 law. But maybe we could finesse that.”
“Is that it?” Pickett asked.
“Be patient, young man,” Veronica said. “I’ll get to the other stuff in my own good time.”
Callaway and Katz exchanged exasperated glances, which, fortunately, Veronica didn’t notice, partly because she’d put on the wrong spectacles—her reading glasses.
“Okay,” she said, blinking. “Now at that Constitutional Convention, the delegates must pass a state constitution that does not conflict with our Federal Constitution, and establishes a republican form of government.”
This time, the objection came from President Bourque. “Republican? You don’t mean Republican as opposed to Democratic, do you?”
Veronica sighed deeply. “No, Mr. President, I do not. Republican with a small “r”. Republican as opposed to tyrannical or dictatorial.”
“Ah.”
“At that point,” Veronica continued, “Congress takes a gander at the state constitution and votes yea or nay to admit the state. If they vote yea, the new state joins the union on an equal footing with all the other states. It gets to elect two Senators, and, until they do a new census, a single Representative. After the census, they’ll get Representatives in proportion to their population—about one for every half million.”
“That’s it?” Bourque asked.
“I got a million details if you want ‘em.”
Bourque and Callaway exchanged unhappy glances. “Sounds to me like we’re gonna be rasslin’ a pack of alligators, Mr. President.
“Oh, much worse than that, President Bourque. Senators and Congressmen. The media.”
“Okay,” Pickett said, “Let’s say all the states are readmitted. Is that all there is to it? From that moment on, we’re all one happy family, 50 states strong, marching to the same tune?”
“Ah, no, not exactly,” Veronica said. “We’ll have to make sure the new states are honoring our Federal laws and obeying their new constitutions.”
“I guess that would be the job of the Reunion Agency you were talking about, Mr. Wang,” Bourque said.
“Exactly,” said Eric Wang. “You know, groups of people—judges, maybe, or mayors—sent to every Confederate city, town and hamlet, beginning with the biggest ones, to help in the transition.”
“And make sure we behave,” Bourque said.
“Well, yes,” Veronica admitted.
“Would you like to be head of the agency?” Wang asked the Confederate President.
“Who me? Not on your life. I might be a useful advisor,” Bourque said.
Pickett seemed troubled. “Bunch of pushy northerners, pouring into the Confederacy—‘scuse me, the former Confederacy—telling everyone what to do…could cause some serious resentment among the good ole boys,” he said.
“Nah,” Katz said. “Won’t happen.”
Pickett was surprised. “Won’t happen?” he said. “Why not?”
“Because they’ll be bringing money, Mr. Pickett---money for roads and schools. Money to rebuild the ports. Money for unemployment, Medicaid and Social Security. And pensions for the mayors, the sheriffs and the judges who want to retire..”
“Or need a nudge,” Veronica added.
“Yes, exactly,” Katz said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those.”
“That’s going to take a lot of money,” Wang said, dubious.
“Not so much as you think, Mr. Wang,” Bourque said. “Don’t take much to make poor people feel rich.”
“I think you’re being naïve, Mr. Katz,” Pickett said. “They booed Delphine at her last show, after the meetings were announced—Delphine, who everyone in the Confederacy loves! What do you think’s gonna happen when we announce reunion? Mass protests. Stupid mass protests, by people who just want to keep living the way they are, no matter how bad it is. What are you gonna do with people like that?”
“We’ll hire ‘em,” Katz answered. “We’ll get ‘em building roads and schools and factories. We’ll put ‘em to work, give ‘em something to do they can be proud of, something to look forward to.”
“You make it sound possible, Mr. Katz,” Pickett said.
“The name’s ‘Marty,’” Katz said, “and almost anything’s possible if you work at it hard enough.”
“Hard to argue with that,” Callaway said. “That attitude got me elected.”
“Okay, what’s next?” Wang asked.
“Next we start telling the people who need to know,” Callaway said. “Starting with the Vice Presidents.”
“God help us,” Veronica said.
And it was on that note that the meeting broke up.
Eric Wang hurried back to his office, calling Linus Hawke on the way. “Could you come see me as soon as possible. I have business that can’t wait.”
“I’m in the building,” Hawke said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
They arrived at Wang’s office almost simultaneously.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, Linus.” Wang said, pointing to a chair.
Hawke took a seat, with his usual grace and looked at Wang expectantly. “What can I do for you, Eric?”
“Seems we have a leak,” Wang said.
“In connection with the Bourque meetings?”
“Yes. His biographer. Pinckney his name is.”
“You’re sure?” Hawke inquired, with the practiced politeness of a haughty man.
“No, Linus, which I why I wanted to talk to you. We think he may be a Garcia spy, but we have no proof. No evidence, really, except that Garcia appears to know something he shouldn’t know and Pinckney is the only possible leak.”
Hawke leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “Okay, come up with a piece of information he’d be eager to report to Garcia.”
“What kind of information?”
“I used the wrong word, Eric. I mean disinformation—something that will mislead our Mexican friend, maybe slow him down. Can you come up with something or would you like my help?”
“Thanks, but I think I can come up with something.” Wang said.
“If you make it too obvious, he might suspect you’re onto him.”
“I grew up on John LeCarre, Linus.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
“So, okay, we make him privy to some crucial information. What then?”
“From that moment on,” Hawke explained, “my people will keep an eye on his phone calls, his emails and any personal contacts he may have. I’ll get back to you when I know something.”
“Okay,” Wang said, “Give me a couple of hours, then it’s on.”
Hawke rose and nodded. It was almost a bow. “I’ll be in touch, Eric.”
Wang found Pinckney sitting in the White House reception room, busily filling up his notebook, apparently content to wait until Bourque was free. After a moment, he looked up. “Meeting over?” he asked.
“No, they’re going to be awhile,” Wang said. “President Bourque sent me out to find you and ask you to be patient.”
“No worries,” Pinckney said pleasantly. “I’m getting a lot of work down here.”
“I’ll tell the President,” Wang said.
A shrewd look flickered briefly over Pinckney’s face. “So,” he said, “how are things going in there?”
Wang had been afraid Pinckney wouldn’t ask, but here it was. “Well, you know I can’t give you any details.”
“No, of course not. Besides, I don’t really need to know now. President Bourque will tell me everything later. We’re very close, you know.”
“I gathered that…”
“But the talks are going okay, I assume.”
“Well…” Wang said, letting the answer be dragged out of him.
“In general, I mean.”
“Not all that well,” Wang admitted.
“Really? I’m surprised. Why? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“You know the man better than I do,” Wang said. “Bourque, that is. You know how demanding he can be.”
Pinckney nodded gravely. “Yes, of course. That’s been a key element in his public life, usually to his advantage.”
“Not this time,” Wang said. “This time he’s asked for too much and he’s going to end up getting nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Hey,” Wang said, raising his hands in protest. “I didn’t tell you anything. Remember that.”
“Of course,” Pinckney said. “But I do have one question, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s that?” Wang said, suddenly hesitant.
“Well, if it’s been decided, what are they talking about now?”
Wang was ready for that. “Setting up cultural and sports exchanges. You know, making it look good.”
Pinckney took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “It’s too bad.”
“Well, it was always a long shot, Gerard. But worth a try.”
“Yes, definitely.”
“Anyhow, they’ll be out soon.”
“Thanks for talking to me Mr. Wang.”
Wang put a finger to his lips. “Who me? I didn’t say a word.
He left as quickly as he could and somehow resisted a very strong urge to wait nearby to see if Pinckney came rushing out of the room, looking for a place to make a private phone call. Instead, he headed for his office, sat down and waited.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Hawke.
“We got him,” said DCI Hawke. “What do you want me to do about him?”
“Pinckney, you mean?”
“Yep. He called Hector Herrera.”
“Who’s that?”
“Garcia’s intelligence chief.”
“Aha,” said Wang. “And did Pinckney say to him?”
“Well, he didn’t get him on the phone,” Hawke said. “Maybe he doesn’t know that Herrera was arrested after the bogus tanker sinking.”
“So he said nothing?”
“On the contrary, Eric. He obliged us nicely. He left a coded message for Herrera, no doubt telling him that the Bourque-Callaway meetings had collapsed.”
“Damn,” Wang said. “We got him.”
“Yes. That’s what I said. What do you want me to do with him?”
“Nothing, Linus,” Wang said. “Nothing at all.”
*
The New York Container Terminal, which is located on Staten Island near the Goethals Bridge, is the largest such facility in the North American Union, handling an average of 40,000 TEU a year, TEU standing for “twenty-foot equivalent unit” or shipping container. A forty-footer contains two TEU.
The great majority of these huge metal containers were either coming from or going to Europe and other points east, stuffed with exports and imports, with Germany as both the major source and the chief destination
Although the German container port at Bremerhaven handled more freight, the New York Container Terminal dwarfed any similar facility in the NAU, including the one at Long Beach, California, which mainly dealt with agricultural exports to the poor, underdeveloped of southeast Asia and China.
It was this facility that Anthony Zolli and Local 107 of the Truckers’ had shut down tighter than an elderly spinster’s knees—no traffic in, no traffic out; miles of trucks parked at the main gate, waiting to pick up a load, engines off, abandoned; containers piled as high as the legal limit permitted, covering every available square inch of the 190-acre site.
For the last 48 hours, Local 107 had been picketing, not working, carrying signs like “Just Say No to Bouque,” “keep the CSA out of the NAU,” “Thumbs Down on Bourque,” and “Break Off the Talks—Now!”. It took about 200 men to cover all the entrances and exits, but that didn’t strain the union local, which had more than twelve hundred members. They did it in shifts, which meant that for five days a week, everyone could sleep late and go to the afternoon Yankees’ or Giants’ game.
By targeting the New York Container Terminal Anthony Zolli, who was smarter than he sounded, was striking at the heart of American commerce, attacking a facility that had a direct or indirect effect on almost 50% of the country’s GNP. This was a strike that that would shake the entire country. If it lasted for more than a couple of weeks, every American would be affected.
That, of course, was exactly what Zolli was counting on. He was sure Callaway would fold, and probably sooner than later. The President was a nice young fellow, but he needed to be taught who really held the political power in this country and who would always hold it, no matter who was sitting in the Oval Office.
This morning, Tony had stopped by to check out the picket line, see how things were going, lend a little encouragement. Regan was delighted to see him.
“Pickett line’s lookin’ pretty good, Tim,” Zolli said. “Boys complainin’ any?”
“Nope.” Regan said.
“Good thing,” Zolli said. “Work doan get much easier dan dis.”
“How long we gonna keep this up?” Regan asked.
Zolli pursed his lips and shrugged. “Depends on Callaway, how much backbone he has. Couple more days, I’d say. Week tops. Any problem wit dat?”
Regan shook his head. “Nope.”
Two men in good suits approached them from inside the facility, one short, grey-haired and a little on the tubby side, with a nose like a clothes hanger, the other tall and thin, with eyes set so far back in his head you had to be standing directly in front of him to see his pupils.
“Anthony Zolli, is it?” said the man with the paunch.
Zolli turned and regarded the man with suspicion. “Dat’s me,” he said. “Who’re you?”
The man offered something similar to a smile and extended a hand. “Frank DuShain,” he said. “I’m the CEO of…” he turned back and waved a hand across the terminal…”of this,” he said. “Of the New York Container Terminal.”
Zolli took his hand, suspicion unallayed, shook it briefly and dropped it. “Our lawyers wount like us talkin’ like dis,” he said.
“I hope that you know, Zolli, that this little stunt of yours is costing me millions,” said Frank DuShain. “You are fucking me over royally.”
“Hey, hey, DuShain,” Zolli said, “take it easy. Dis ain’t about you or da terminal. Read da the signs.”
“He read the signs,” said the tall, cadaverous fellow. It sounded like a warning. “He didn’t like ‘em.”
“Dey don’t got nuttin’ to do with him.”
“They’ve shut down his container terminal. He takes that personally.”
“That’s right, Zolli,” said the other man. “Very personally.”
“Doan worry about it,” Zolli said. “Couple a days, it’ll be bidness as usual.”
“Why not today?” The taller man asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.
“Hey, who da hell r’you?”
“You don’t need to know.”
Zolli took a step forward and eyed the man with obvious malice. “You tryin’ to muscle me?”
The man gazed back, without giving a inch. “All he wants is you go away and the strike ends.”
“Listen, Bud, I want dis strike to end as much as you do. And it will, jes as soon as Callaway caves.”
“If this is some roundabout way to hike union wages,” said DuShain, “you can just forget about it. You’re not getting another dime out of me. What’s more, you’re breaking our contract.”
A tiny gleam appeared in Zolli’s eyes and soon it was accompanied by a sly smile. “You know how you could end dis strike?”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 32