The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  “I’m familiar with Cairo,” Hillary said in a Jason Wu pantsuit. Normally Michelle Obama’s go-to designer, she chose to use the young Asian American’s design with striking lapels for this occasion. “I’ve been familiar with it ever since President Hosni Mubarak . . .” now former President Hosni Mubarak, Hillary reminded herself, after his downfall in the popular uprising against him at Tahrir Square, “and his wife hosted us when I was First Lady. Just give me the location of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters inside the city.”

  “I really don’t see the reason,” Jake said, sounding flustered.

  “Just do it,” Hillary said, her voice raised. She knew she sometimes sounded like a scold when her anger piqued, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Jake sighed audibly from the satellite phone. “Alright, let me see . . .” His voice trailed off and the sound of pages furiously turning emanated from the phone. “The Book,” a policy binder that Hillary knew Jake was perusing, held within it the entire repository of the State Department’s knowledge of the world. Updated daily, its classified material, diplomatic cables, and analysis were all for the benefit of the Secretary of State.

  As Hillary waited for Jake’s report, the viewer on the back of the driver side headrest suddenly turned on. There, she saw Philippe Reines, her spokesman, and Dan Schwerin, her chief speechwriter, standing in a sterile looking office called Hillaryland Ops. The two staff members stood in the darkened room in between two rows of computer worktables. A flat panel television hung on the wall behind them, giving off an eerie glow as its screen displayed a digital map of the world with red pulsating markers on hot spots around the globe. Above it, the digital clocks displayed the time in four separate time zones: Washington, Greenwich, The Hague, and for this instance, Cairo. Named after the official State Department Ops, which manages all communications for State, only she, her staff, those with top secret clearance, and of course, the White House knew of its existence.

  “We’ve bought tickets to Cairo,” Philippe said. Even in a suit and his straightforward message, he had a mischievous quality about him.

  “Egyptian Airlines,” Dan Schwerin added, also wearing a Brooks Brothers suit that was almost a uniform among the DC set. “We tried to buy American like you wanted, but, um, this was the only nonstop flight we could find.” On the side walls, video monitors played muted news coverage or footage of flashpoints around the world, Syria, Burma, North Korea, Afghanistan . . .

  It had to do, Hillary thought, and then, she nodded at the viewscreen where inside the tiny screen, Philippe and Dan stood staring back at her. At least it was one less headache to worry about.

  “Why Cairo again?” Philippe asked. “To, um, notify the press of course,” he continued slyly.

  She tried not to smile. Philippe always had a knack of finding trouble or sometimes even causing the trouble himself. “Cheryl will explain,” she said to the two of them, though Philippe clearly tried to hide his momentary disappointment.

  “Here it is, Muslim Brotherhood HQ,” Jake interrupted from the satellite phone placed beside her. “It’s apparently in the El Mokattam neighborhood of Cairo. A suburban neighborhood named after the Mokattam hills that overlooks the entire city . . .” His voice trailed off as if he was deciding whether it was wise to ask the question. “What’s going on, exactly?”

  Even as the Cadillac sped under a highway sign that read “Welcome to Queens” suspended on the overhead gantry, Hillary opened her mouth, about to tell Jake what she told both Philippe and Dan. Instead—

  Bzzzt Bzzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt

  Her BlackBerry vibrated inside her handbag. It vibrated again, and she quickly reached over and got it out. On the LCD screen, the incoming call simply said “Cheryl.” She pressed the speakerphone button and awaited her call.

  “Everything’s ready,” the husky voice of Cheryl Mills said from the phone. African American and graduate of Stanford law, Cheryl, her Chief of Staff, always knew how to get things done. The “journalists” at the online news website Politico called Cheryl her consigliere, no doubt gleeful at the Mafia connotation, but Cheryl really was a great aide and . . . friend. She and her husband, David Domenici, were on her and Bill’s Christmas card list.

  “Maggie’s with me too,” Cheryl added, referring to Maggie Williams, one of her best friends and counselors all the way back to the Clinton White House. “I asked for help and—” she paused for a moment with a steely determination. “We’ve taken care of everything.”

  The satellite phone sounded again. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Jake piped up. “The East Timor delegation is going to visit State soon.” he said, panicked. “East Timor!”

  “Yeah,” Philippe chided from the viewscreen on the back of the driver side headrest. “Tell us what’s going on—I mean, please?”

  Hillary looked out the window. She was now on the Van Wyck Expressway headed straight for JFK International. During her Senate run, she had memorized the road system of the city. New York was her home state after all.

  From the viewscreen, Dan Schwerin looked inquiringly at her, also curious to know what was going on.

  Hillary took a deep breath. She didn’t want to tell them, but she owed them a reason for her soon-to-be absence. Her staff knew all about her secret identity as a State Department spy unlike her husband’s staff who would have already spilled the beans to the nearest New York Times reporter. Especially that George Stephanopoulos, now inexplicably the host of Good Morning America, who incidentally was also on her and Bill’s Christmas card list.

  “What I’m about to tell you is a direct violation of the President’s orders,” Hillary said gravely. Inside the viewscreen, both Philippe and Dan gulped while the satellite phone and her BlackBerry only had a muffled silence.

  “As long as no one finds out, right?” Philippe said sheepishly, trying to break the tension in the meeting with some levity.

  No one laughed, least of all Hillary, and Philippe quickly closed his mouth, knowing his joke bombed.

  “Huma’s been captured,” she said, feeling like all the air from the room vanished with that admission. “I’m going to rescue her. The President has already sent a team and expressly forbid me to mount a rescue operation.”

  On the viewscreen, Dan looked over at Philippe to see if he too was as shocked as him, while Jake’s breathing came through from the satellite phone. Hearing her staff, she instantly regretted telling them what she was about to do. Huma’s capture rattled her honed political instincts, which reverberated with the thoughts of a Republican Congressional Committee investigation.

  “Huma needs me, though,” she said, pressing on with her voice lowered, speaking as if almost to herself. “Huma needs all of us.” She looked up at the viewscreen and then to the satellite phone and BlackBerry. She felt as if they were in the same car with her. “Ever since the nineties, my staff has been called ‘Hillaryland’ but it should really be called ‘All of Us Land’ because we’re all in this together.”

  Dan Schwerin’s eyes glanced up in a northeasterly direction as if trying to rearrange and fine tune her speech.

  “I couldn’t have asked for a better team,” Hillary continued, her voice breaking. “Thank you all” she finished.

  The black Cadillac DTS pulled up to the service road of JFK’s Terminal 4. Futuristic in design, the glass-sheathed terminal seemed akin to a gigantic glass hangar on the airport grounds.

  From the side window of the Cadillac, two African American women, one svelte, the other full-figured, approached the back seat door. Maggie Williams, the full-figured woman, held a duffel bag in one hand and a windbreaker in the other, while Cheryl Mills, the svelte one in a pantsuit, quickly pulled open the door with Hillary climbing out.

  Before she was seen by any onlookers at the airport, Maggie shrouded her inside the windbreaker, and all three of them marched into the lobby of the terminal, which revealed an open space design with the flags of several countries hanging prominently in the air. Afraid t
o miss their flights, harried crowds with wheeled luggage in tow, hurried to check in.

  “Welcome to JFK International Terminal 4,” an articulate lady said from the intercom. “Bienvenidos a JFK Internacional Terminal de cuatro,” another lady said in the intercom, repeating the greeting in Spanish.

  They didn’t have time to admire their surroundings. Together, Cheryl and Maggie veered Hillary from the lobby to the ladies restroom. Inside, one lady was checking her makeup in front of a mirror, but both of the African American women ignored her and instead pushed Hillary into one of the stalls with Cheryl passing by her and going to the adjoining stall.

  Before Hillary could say anything, a duffel bag slid in, courtesy of Maggie who waited outside the stall.

  “There’s a leak here,” Hillary heard Maggie say.

  “Oh ok,” a woman said back. “Give me a min—hey you don’t have to be so pushy.” With that, the door slammed and Maggie’s body thudded against the door, no doubt to block anyone from entering the restroom.

  “We’re good,” Maggie said aloud.

  The go ahead given, Cheryl, spoke up from the adjoining stall. “You’ll find what you need in there,” she said, and Hillary’s eyes went down to the duffel bag on the bathroom floor.

  She dug into the duffel bag and found some makeup, a passport with plane tickets tucked inside, and a single black wig. Without an explanation from Cheryl or Maggie, she already knew they had obtained for her a disguise and the forged documents she needed to fly to Cairo undetected. The wig and other items in her hand, Hillary set to work . . .

  A moment later, Hillary emerged from the ladies room a new woman, the passing crowds as evidence that her disguise, chiefly the black wig she wore, worked, though she still wore her Jason Wu pantsuit.

  “Hilaria Jones,” Cheryl said, presenting her forged passport in front of her. Flipped open to a blue-tinted page, a photo of a black-haired Hillary looked back at her. “Mother of three from . . . Park Ridge, Illinois.”

  Hillary looked quizzically over at Cheryl, who winked back. Park Ridge, Illinois was her hometown growing up, and she distinctly remembered Pickwick Restaurant. That place had the best olive burger.

  Cheryl and Maggie led her to Egyptian Airlines’ ticketing area, where travelers, a few women in head scarves, wheeled their luggage beside them towards a line already forming amongst the belted stanchions that zigzagged up to the check-in counter. The sun disk logo of Egyptian Airlines hung prominently on the pristine wall. Several check-in attendants of Egyptian Airlines in blue and white uniforms were already attending to would-be passengers.

  They quickly found their place in line. “How about you guys?” Hillary asked. The hush of conversation and the hurried scruff of footsteps surrounded them. “You can’t come into the Gate area without tickets.”

  Cheryl rummaged through her purse searching for something as Maggie held close the luggage to take on her “trip.” “We already bought cheap tickets to Albany,” Cheryl said, and then, she plucked out what she was looking for: Hillary’s boarding pass and wallet. “Here,” she said, handing over her alter ego Hilaria’s passport, driver’s license, and boarding pass. “That should be everything you need.”

  She took the items in hand and waited for her turn in line. It certainly was a different experience, she marveled. As Secretary of State, she had her own plane called SAM, short for Special Air Mission, for official State trips and not so official ones as well . . .

  The line gave way, and the check-in attendant soon called on them. “May I help you,” the attendant asked, wearing a hijab headscarf.

  With Cheryl and Maggie, she went up to the counter with documents in tow.

  “Boarding passes . . .” she said with a hint of an accent as she typed something on the computer console, but when she looked up, she stared fixedly at Hillary. “plea—” A trace of surprise crossed the attendant’s face.

  Hillary suspected she may have recognized her under the black wig and looked down and away from the attendant.

  “Is there a problem?” Maggie said, moving up and shielding Hillary.

  “No, no,” the attendant, brought out of her momentary shock. “Um,” she said and viewed the computer console again, though she didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

  Cheryl grabbed the documents from her hand and shoved them onto the desk. “Please hurry this along?”

  “Yes, ri-right away,” the attendant said uncertainly. She picked up the documents and inputted them into the computer console, but when she got to her “driver’s license,” she looked skeptically at the driver’s license picture and then to Hillary again.

  Continuing to block the attendant’s view and keeping Hillary behind her, Maggie audibly cleared her throat.

  The attendant got back to her duties and pushed the documents along with the airline ticket. “Enjoy your flight . . .” she said, though she still tried to get a good look at “Hilaria.”

  Hillary wouldn’t let her and discreetly looked down. “Thank you,” Cheryl said, confiscating the documents, and all three of them headed towards the security area.

  “I think she recognized me,” Hillary said to both of them. “She’ll forget,” Maggie said to her, and looking back, Hillary saw other passengers already taking up her attention, though she did catch the flight attendant make one last glance at them. “Let’s keep going,” Maggie added.

  “Yeah,” Cheryl agreed and already fixed her gaze to the next gauntlet of airport security.

  Oh no, Hillary thought. The TSA. Already another line formed where TSA screeners manned the various booths and scanners to check for any terrorist activity. Men and women and a few children had removed their shoes while personal items like shoes, wallets, and purses moved through the conveyor belt.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Cheryl said with a resigned tone, and once more, they took their place in yet another line.

  As they moved up the line, Hillary debated the merits of increased security in the nation’s airports in her mind. Unlike many young people, she remembered distinctly the days before such heavy-handed measures were instituted after 9/11. She knew, however, they couldn’t go back to those days. As Senator, she supported increased airport security with votes for the PATRIOT Act and others. It was the right vote, but yet, she knew the inconvenience America’s airline travelers faced every day.

  This exercise was a teachable moment, she decided. Still, ideas, too many ideas, bubbled in her head about perhaps mitigating the inconvenience of air travel. She made a mental note to tell Barack about some of her proposals.

  They made their way to the gate area, and she hurried onto her plane—

  “Hillary wait,” Cheryl called out. “We can’t go in yet.”

  Hillary stopped and turned back. Oh right, she thought, briefly forgetting that they had to wait to board a plane. Around them, passengers sat on the various seats or walked to their designated gates. A CNN news report blared on the various LCD flat screens that hung on the walls.

  “Cheryl, Hillary,” Maggie said. She had stayed back and stared at a video display board detailing flight times. The two of them went towards her. “Take a look at this,” she added, upon making their way. “The flight’s delayed.” Maggie pointed at the display board.

  What? she thought, slightly panicked. The flight’s delayed? It couldn’t be, and she looked at the video display board. Sure enough, one line said Egyptian Airlines flight delayed to 4:30 PM.

  “Let me see that,” Cheryl said, taking a closer look. Hillary already tried to think of other ways. A delay wasn’t part of the plan especially with Huma in danger.

  “Wait,” Cheryl said, pointing at the video display board, her finger directed to another Egyptian Airlines flight time. “We’re the flight before. The 1:30 flight.”

  Maggie peered closer as if to check, but then saw her mistake. “Oh,” she said. “You’re right.”

  Hillary breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s alright,” she said to Magg
ie. “I got confused about this board too.” She gave her a big toothy grin.

  “Gate B28, it looks like,” Maggie said, attempting to save face, and with that, they headed towards the gate but not before stopping at a Panda Express in the food court.

  Their greasy lunches in tow, they sat together on the black acrylic seats with Cheryl taking out the foam containers of food from the plastic bag.

  “What’d you order?” Hillary asked.

  “I got you the fried rice and orange chicken,” Cheryl said as she handed each of them their foam takeout containers filled with the Asian fast casual food.

  She opened the container covering her lunch, and a heavy cloud of steam wafted up at her. Inside, globules of delectable glazed chicken with the added benefit of bacon rested beside a bed of fried rice.

  Sorry, Michelle, Hillary thought guiltily, and she ripped open her plastic Spork packet and dug into her delicious Asian fare.

  “What ticket did we get?” Hillary said in between bites.

  Beside her, both of her friends enjoyed their Panda Express lunches as well. Cheryl raised a finger to finish her bite and then rummaged through the documents. Bringing it up for a closer view, she frowned.

  “Coach,” she said.

  That surprised her. She hadn’t ridden coach in, come to think of it, she didn’t quite remember the last time she rode in coach.

  “I told Philippe to get—”

  “That’s alright,” Hillary said. “I can manage.” Besides, she thought, how inconvenient could it be?

  They finished their lunches and made small talk even while through the glass of the terminal, airplanes loaded and unloaded on the tarmac.

  At last, the intercom sounded what they’d been waiting for. “Now boarding Egyptian Airlines,” the slightly-accented female voice said. Roused, the passengers all got up to head to their flight.