

# THE PRESIDENT'S NINJA

##

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

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CHAPTER ONE

President Bruce B. Brooking splashed three fingers of scotch into a drinking glass and added an equal amount of water. He dragged two chairs together, sat in one with his feet resting on the other and considered those issues that somewhat vexed him. The last slanting rays of a westering sun filtered through the Oval office windows.

Taking one consideration with another, he was a happy man. Not the happiest of men, but a happy man. He had an array of niggling concerns, most of them involving his reelection. Well into the third year of his first term, he desperately wanted a second term to nail down some sort of legacy.

In spite of all past talk about all the president's men, the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service, Homeland Security and so forth, there were few people he could actually trust. And of course he couldn't use government agencies for election activities.

But there was one person he trusted absolutely and that was his vice president, Tina Geer. Finishing his drink, he was about to pour another when it occurred to him that Tina might still be in her office at the Old Executive Office building. She worked long hours, and her dedication exceeded his. She was popular with the voters and perhaps had her eye on the Oval office following his eight years, if he survived two full terms.

Brooking pushed Geer's cell phone number, and she answered after the second ring. "Tina, are you still in your office?"

"Just finishing up."

"Drop by for a drink and chat."

"Are you drinking, Bruce?"

"Just finished the first one."

"Don't mix another 'til I get there. Ok?"

"Yes, Mother Tina. I'll be a good boy."

Brooking's wife had died of cancer just after Christmas during his second year in office. He was devastated. Unable to give his son proper care, the boy was now living with his in-laws. And he sometimes over-drank, as he put it, on evenings when there were no meetings or other events. He and Tina had had a brief fling when they were grad students at Stanford. Later, they had both found mates and each had a son. She had lost her husband through divorce.

When Tina entered the Oval office she went straight to the bar, hidden in a credenza, and poured them each a scotch and water, carefully measuring the booze in a one-ounce shot glass. She gave the President his drink, then dropped into a comfortable chair. "Is something bugging you?" she asked.

"Why would you think that?"

"Your tone of voice, I guess."

"I'm feeling a bit isolated," Brooking responded.

Tina laughed and sipped her drink. He was already well along with his. This troubled her. "It's lonely at the top, Bruce. Tell Tina your troubles and lay off the scotch."

"I have no one I can trust. Present company excepted."

She looked around cautiously. "Could we be overheard?"

"That does not worry me. I've had the FBI and the CIA sweep the place for bugs, then hired a private agency to do the same thing."

"My God, Bruce. You are the paranoid kid."

"You asked."

"Yes and you've assured me. Now tell me what you mean that you have no one to trust. Your chief of staff, your secretary, party functionaries, congressional leaders, big donors - these are all good people."

Brooking glanced at his half-empty glass and decided to set it aside. Tina was right. He drank too much. "I might want certain things done, done in a secret fashion. That's what I'm getting at."

"The CIA and the FBI supposedly carry on covert activities. And what about your own Secret Service?"

"My own, yes," Brooking smiled. "Everyone's out for him or herself, Tina. You know about betrayals, lapses in security, bribery and stupidity, pure and simple. Can I trust my own son? Not really. He may say or do something he thinks is quite alright only to find out he's given away hurtful information. My opponents are watchful."

Tina sipped her drink. She had noticed he had set his aside. She longed for a cigarette, but it had been years. "So the enemy never sleeps and neither does paranoia."

"I know I'm overdoing it." He reached for his drink, but took only a small swallow."

"You're alone too much, Bruce. Isn't it time we moved in together?"

The President chuckled. "I'd like to ask my advisors what that would do to my chances for a second term."

"Maybe enhance them. We could get married."

"If we moved in together that might validate the hundreds of thousands of Americans living in a sinful state. Then if we married, that would please the evangelicals by upholding the sanctity of marriage. Then if they learned that you are bisexual, that would please the gays to no end."

Tina pretended to pout. "I only experimented with that in college."

Brooking was grinning and had morphed to high good humor. "Can you imagine a president marrying his vice president?"

"It's a stretch. But I can imagine a president having sex with his VP."

He stood and extended his hand. They went through a barely visible door that led to his private office and a comfortable couch.

CHAPTER TWO

President Brooking prided himself on holding frequent press conferences, usually once a month, but seldom scheduled, either after making an announcement in the Rose Garden, or simply walking into the pressroom with little advance notice.

But he disliked private sessions with the press, which his chief of staff, Curtis German was now attempting to shove down his throat.

"These are important foreign print journalists," German was saying. "You're a global figure and these are global papers."

"But you said they want biographical information, like, this is your life. I've been over that a hundred times during campaign stops. The archives are full of it, the web is loaded with it."

"They want it from the horse's mouth," German countered." They want to sit in the Oval office and hear the President tell his story."

"And who might they be?"

"The London Times, Le Monde from Paris, and more than one Beijing publication." He checked a scrap of paper. The Beijing Daily, the People's Daily and the Globaltimes. That last one is English language."

"Do Chinese speak English?" the President asked.

"You bet they do. There might be more English speakers in China than there are over here. They begin to learn at an early age."

Brooking pondered his predicament. He knew he would give in to German, who was also his main political adviser, and he didn't want to act like a spoiled child, but he still wanted to convey the message that he was in charge. "So we have a Brit, a Frenchy and how many Chinese?"

"Just one. They have a cozy thing going on over yonder."

"Ok. Let's get it over with. Ten thirty tomorrow morning so we can shoo them out of here before lunch."

"I'll schedule it, Mr. President. If you're tired, you might think of a weekend at Camp David. Recharge your batteries."

"I'm not tired, Curtis. My wife is gone, my son is living with her parents. I'm all alone in this mausoleum. I'm not the happiest of campers. But in public and when I meet these newshounds I'll be on my best outgoing, cheerful behavior."

"I know you will, Chief." German left Brooking alone in his office, wondering if maybe he should marry Tina. What a mess that would be. The president and vice president a married couple. It was almost too disgusting to contemplate. There were other starfish on the beach. He buzzed his secretary and asked for a ham sandwich loaded with mustard and tomatoes.

At the appointed hour the following day the foreign press was escorted into his office and took seats. Brooking was all smiles and introduced the White House photographer who was standing to one side. He posed with each of the three for a photo, and a print would be passed to them as they returned to the pressroom. They were permanent Washington fixtures and each had press credentials.

The President recognized the threesome and had even answered their questions during press conferences. He was particularly impressed by Lin Yi, the Beijing reporter. Above average height, maybe five-nine, long black hair that fell to her waist, slim with well-developed breasts. Brooking wondered if they were real. He had seen many flat-chested Chinese women.

Brooking himself was a youngish president, six feet tall within a millimeter this way or that, 180 pounds, sandy hair, gray eyes, winning smile and a manner that put strangers at ease. He could work a room like nobody's business.

The second reporter was Wendel Mittman, an older bookish looking fellow who represented the London Times. The man from Le Monde was Jean Claude François, a robust figure who could be found on a nearby soccer field every Sunday, barring a downpour.

And so the interview began with Lin Yi asking, "Tell us about your boyhood, Mr. President."

"Gladly." Brooking was all smiles, enjoying every moment of the meeting. "My favorite topic. Myself." He beamed from one face to another. Lin Yi beamed back as if they shared a delicious secret. Wendel Mittman's stern demeanor was unchanged. Jean Claude François seemed to sulk.

The President continued. He used the first line of an old song as an opener. "I was born on a farm down in Iowa."

"This Iowa," Jean Claude interrupted. "Where exactly is it?"

"It's in the Midwest," he continued as if the question were perfectly normal. "Many states have a nickname. Iowa's is the Hawkeye State. Its capital is Des Moines. I believe that's French, isn't it, Mr. François?"

Jean Claude shrugged and said, "Possibly."

"Please continue," Mittman said.

"Yes, do," Lin Yi smiled. Brooking loved the way things were going. By noon they'd probably not get past his sixth birthday. He could tell by the cleavage that Lin Yi's breasts were totally legitimate.

He attempted eye contact rather than breast contact with Lin Yi. "I'll have to go back to my parents, who were joined by a common interest, ancient civilization. They had received various awards, studied in this country and abroad, then had somehow come into possession of a small farm, about 150 acres, in a very rural part of Iowa."

"All farms are rural," Jean Claude observed.

"Good point," the President agreed. "But this was far from any major population center, even remote from smaller cities, just a crossroad store a few miles away."

Wendel Mittman stirred in his seat, seemingly bored. "So they gave up the academic life and became farmers, much like your old-line hippies, or the more modern green people."

"Not so," the President said. "They had accumulated a considerable library, both in their line of interest and fiction; you might say the classics along with just published favorites. Of course they had the Internet at their disposal, subscribed to various magazines and The New York Times via mail. The household was quite well informed. They continued to write their books which ranged from the dawn of humanity through the Pilgrim Fathers."

"And just who might these Pilgrim Fathers be?" Jean Claude questioned.

Brooking was getting the idea that these three, maybe with the exception of Lin Yi, had been assigned to a story for which they had no relish. Probably they would rather be firing questions on current world affairs as opposed to dusty history. But the four of them were all here together, so he soldiered on. "The Pilgrim Fathers are credited to be the first permanent settlers in America, landing on Plymouth Rock. This is not altogether true, but it's accepted."

"You take exception to your own history?" Mittman inquired.

"My parents were in the business of straightening out history. You might say telling it like it is, or like it was. So I've come to be a bit sensitive on the topic."

"Of course you're a skeptic," Lin Yi said. "How wholesome. And you grew up in an academic household, but also farming."

Brooking smiled. "There was very little farming done. We had a small kitchen garden that was planted in a haphazard fashion and we bought a few chickens. There was a shed where they could roost at night. Other than that we threw them table scraps and let them fend for themselves. It was my job to go out every two or three days to try to find out where they had laid their eggs. You might say chickens have the IQ of an olive, but they are clever at hiding their nests."

Lin Yi smiled and threw back her shoulders. "The maternal instinct. How wonderful. Of course, when you did find the eggs they were free range."

"Free range and edible," Brooking agreed, "unless the hens had gone to set, then one would find small chicken embryos inside. There were roosters present."

"Raw sex in the farmyard," Lin Yi exclaimed. "It makes one almost yearn for the rural life."

The other two reporters gave her a sidelong glance, and Mittman observed, "I don't think we're getting an abundance of biographical material here. Perhaps you could move forward, Mr. President." Jean Claude glanced at his watch. Lunch was approaching. His editors were expecting a background piece. "Tell us about your school years."

"Up until the ninth grade I was home schooled. On the farm we had seven-day weeks like everyone else, but there was no weekend. Of course we had recreation, but it was sprinkled through the week. I was encouraged to run, generally at least five miles, working up to ten or more. Then the three of us would toss baseballs or footballs around. But it was mostly study."

"What topics in particular?" Mittman asked.

Brooking rubbed the palm of his hand into his eye. He had always been bothered by allergies. "Geography was big. My Mom said Americans knew very little about the rest of the world, and New Yorkers knew almost nothing about the rest of America. My parents were from the New England states."

"I've always wondered why they called them that," Mittman said, then added, "Continue."

Mittman reminded the President of his father, a quiet scholarly type who would occasionally cut loose.

"I can't think of a subject that was neglected. I even studied Greek and Latin. If my parents were ignorant on some topic, they would research the information and study along with me. Higher mathematics presented a definite stumbling block, but we forged ahead. English literature was a favorite. History was, of course, our bread and butter. There was a constant income from the books and papers they generated, plus a build up of investments that paid off handsomely. You would think we would have been lonely out there, just the three of us, but we weren't. It was a happy time. I look back with longing."

"What about higher education?" Jean Claude asked.

"In the ninth grade, our freshman year in high school, I attended a consolidated school, picked up each morning by the school bus crowded with other farm kids. To me the curriculum was primitive. I joked with my folks about what the other kids had been doing during the first eight years. But I was wise enough not to mention this at school. I just laid back and did well on tests, continued to study at home and concentrated on athletics at school. Because I was a good jock everyone excused me for doing well academically."

"That would have been a real put down if you were just a nerd, wouldn't it?" Lin Yi grinned.

He gave her a nod, then moved on to post high school. "I attended UCLA, really a huge, huge place with lots of choices. Summers were spent partly at the farm, partly in travel, bumming around Europe, a tour in Asia. Money was never an issue.

"I did the traditional four-year college stint. The following fall I was in Stanford working on an MBA. That's a two-year task."

"I've heard you met your vice president at Stanford," the Frenchman said.

"That's right. Tina Geer and I were good buddies. We even dated a few times, but nothing serious. She is a brilliant woman, as her post college career bears out. Also a good campaigner and a dedicated government worker."

"Is she simply political?" the Brit questioned.

"Not at all. Of course, we campaigned together, attend fund raisers and that sort of thing. But she spends long hours in her office, and drives her staff to the point of exhaustion. Women's rights, women's issues, still have a long way to go. You wouldn't think so, but overcoming religious barriers is a poser."

"I'd think so," Lin Yi interjected. "It's a global issue. But don't get me started. Ok. So your real life began after the Stanford MBA."

"You might say that. I owed everything to my parents, and Iowa was the only home I had known. So I e-mailed them that I was coming home to care for them in their declining years and that I might even take a crack at farming."

"So your life was laid out for you," Mittman said. "What happened?"

"I drove from Stanford, took my time. When I arrived home the old folks had just finished packing. Years before they had bought a condo on Manhattan's upper west side. It had been rented, but they cleared it out. That's where they were headed. Their luggage was sparse, but they had three large boxes sitting in the hall, one of clothing, two of books. I was to send them UPS when they sent word."

The Frenchman, who had not seemed to be enjoying himself, actually smiled. "So they abandoned you to the joys of a bucolic existence, life among the hay bales and the chickens."

"You got that right. Except it was spring and the fields were totally planted in corn, row upon row. They had leased the land to a nearby farm. Of course that money and more was mine. There was a small trust fund. The following day, a lawyer appeared and the farm was placed in my name. The lawyer then loaded my parents into his car and drove them off to the nearest airport. I was left with my old Ford and a Dodge truck, plus the chickens, running around every which way."

"Your parents were angry with you?" Lin Yi asked.

"Not at all. We were on the best of terms. Their life had arrived at a junction. They had always planned to move to the condo in the Big Apple. They waited until I could return and enjoy the farm, just as they had enjoyed it through the years."

"And did you?"

"Certainly. I still do. It's my home."

"It's empty?"

"No. I have an old couple living there. They have a kitchen garden; they actually feed the chickens real chicken food and they're quite happy. The place is big enough for them and my family if I get another family. I do have a son, you know." Brooking glanced at his watch. "Time flies. We'd best wrap this up."

"One moment," Mittman said. "Tell us how you made the journey from an Iowa farm to the White House."

"Ok. Briefly, I had little to do on the farm, just keep an eye on the chickens, watch the corn grow. I took a hand in local politics, stood for the state legislature, was elected, ran for the lower house and won, then a U.S. Senate seat opened up. I devoted sixteen hours a day to campaigning and edged out my opponent."

"In doing so you neglected your Congressional duties," Mittman said.

"Yes and no. I had a good staff in Washington. None of them served my campaign. They took care of business and I could fly in for key votes. That's the way the system works, or that's the way it's supposed to work. Then it was simply a step from the senate to the White House."

"With Tina Geer on board," Lin Yi said.

"Yes, Tina had graduated from Emory, really a wonderful university just outside of Atlanta. Big on liberal arts, health care and particularly research. She returned there after Stanford and began going through the chairs. She married, had a son, Benjamin Barley, was divorced, and had become chancellor when I realized the White House was a possibility. So, we balanced the ticket geographically, with a woman, and in the gray-matter field. She's brilliant, and her mind is much more nimble than mine."

"Is a nimble mind all you seek in a woman?" Lin Yi questioned, with a sly smile.

"It helps," Brooking said, rising and offering his hand to each of the three.

CHAPTER THREE

"I understand you had a private press conference," Tina said. She had dropped by his office unannounced for morning coffee.

"What I told you; the walls have ears."

"So does Lin Yi, lovely Chinese ears. She seems to have taken an interest in you."

"She called you to tell you that?"

"Few people call me directly, but she made an appointment. Was interested in our relationship and filling in the story she's doing on you. Did she flirt with you?"

"What a question, Tina. She recognizes me as a global leader, so naturally there was some deference. Respect, the usual thing." He knew she had been flirtatious, but he would never trade her in on someone like his vice president. For her age, which was his age, Tina carried herself very well. Red hair, which she continually touched up, short and feathery, about 5-6, 125 pounds, dark eyes on the greenish side, never boring or ill tempered.

"Well, you could have a lot of women. Presidents before you have done so. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not, Tina. Our relationship is solid. There has been talk, but with discretion, we can feed the flame."

"Well, if you ever feel the need just tell me and I'll stand aside."

"I'm guessing there'd be a horde of horny bachelors and a few married Lotharios standing in line the following day."

Tina smiled. "Let's not let a good thing go over a brief climax of emotions. Now tell me about this wanting someone you can trust. Maybe I can help."

"I went through that. Everyone seems to be grinding their own axe. And most can be bought either with cash or the promise of political advancement. So there are certain things I might like done with discretion."

Tina gave him a curious look. "Are you talking black opts or wet opts?"

"Certainly not. There's no one I really want to kill. Maybe shady opts. Certain things come up from time to time that I'd like to dig around and learn the source. But there's no one I can trust to do such a job. I mean these things have been tried in the past, then one of the operatives tells all and down comes the sky."

After a moment's hesitation, Tina said, "Maybe I can help. I know this man."

Brooking shrugged. "This man, that man, how can I trust any man?"

"He's a ninja." She waited for that to soak in, then said. "They have a certain code, a code to the death."

The President laughed. "Do they charge by the hour?"

"Let me explain. If a ninja agrees to work for you, you become his master. Very much like a samurai, they are loyal to the death."

"Really, Tina, I am not a moron. I know about ninjas. For one thing they are Japanese. For another it is a lost art. They are not around anymore because there is no work for them. It is an obsolete occupation. Like ah..." Brooking thought for a moment, "A knight's page, or a king's jester, or a samurai."

A delicious smile crossed Tina's face. "I know an American ninja."

Brooking rubbed the side of his face, not in despair, but to gather his thoughts. "So you do," he finally said. He valued Tina's input and didn't want to trash any of her convictions, no matter how outlandish. "So why would he want to serve me?"

"Oh, come on, Bruce. You are one of the most powerful and respected men on the face of the earth. How can you say such a thing?"

"You flatter me, Tina. You know everything about me. My strengths, my weaknesses. They say no man is a hero to his housekeeper. I'm not saying you're my housekeeper, but I am saying you know me well."

"Possibly it's wise to underestimate yourself, Bruce. Now about this ninja."

"Bring him on. I suppose if he knows the art of invisibility he won't need an appointment. He will simply appear in my office."

"That would be a convincing trick. I'll see what he says about it."

CHAPTER FOUR

Several days passed and Brooking almost forgot about Tina's ninja, remembering it now and then as a pipe dream. Then one day a figure standing near a window in his office caught his eye. He blinked because he was certain the person had not been there an instant before. Not a menacing figure. About 5-10, maybe 190 pounds, brown eyes, and brown, almost black hair.

The President reached for his phone to call security. "I can kill you before you pick up that phone," the man said in a calm voice.

"You have a gun?"

"Ninjas don't carry guns. I'm an old-fashioned ninja."

Brooking's mind worked quickly, realizing this was indeed Tina's ninja. "So Tina somehow smuggled you into my office."

"She helped. She got me a special tour pass."

There were two common White House tours. One the public stood in line for; the second one was used if a voter dropped by their congressional office to learn how the government works, or doesn't work, then they might be given a special tour pass. Neither tour came anywhere near the President's office. Secret Service saw to that.

"She got you into the White House and you did the rest?"

"Correct, Sir. I understand you would like a friend. May I shake your hand?"

"Why not." They shook and the ninja was waved to a seat.

"You've come at a good time. My schedule is clear this morning."

"I know. Tina told me."

"You and Tina seem to be on first name terms. She's the vice president, you know."

"I'm her personal trainer. I work in a gym a few blocks away."

"So you're a gymnast. That explains this ninja business."

"I work as a gymnast, but I am a ninja, although I don't do ninja things as a rule. When I was in school I did break a fellow student's leg. But I didn't do it in a reckless manner."

"Of course. Why not just tell me your life story?"

"I'll do that. But let me first say, to be the ninja for the President would be a great honor. It would honor my profession and my Japanese father, who resides among his ancestors. Tina has told me there might be a place for me."

"Very well," the President said. "How about beginning with your name."

"My name is Tarot Jones."

"Is Tarot a Japanese name?"

"No. Not that I know of. My Japanese name is Taro. I added the 't' to more or less Americanize it. My family name is Jones."

"You puzzle me, Tarot Jones. Maybe you should simply begin at the beginning."

"I was a baby in a basket, not unlike Moses."

The words "Holy Christ" crossed Brooking's mind, but Tarot continued.

"You see, the basket floated. My parents made the unfortunate decision to be touring Japan near the sea when a tsunami hit. They were doubtless drowned, but my basket was washed ashore. Although Japan is densely populated in certain areas, mountainous and almost deserted in others, they say it's a collection of villages. The villagers are loyal to their families. Adoption is unusual. So what to do with a gaijin infant?"

"Gaijin?" the President inquired.

"It means foreigner, or outsider. I was taken to a hospital and probably would have found my way to the American embassy in Tokyo, but I was claimed by a man everyone called Old Kaz. He became my Japanese father."

"He adopted you?"

"No. He simply took me. You see he was a ninja, the last in the line of an old ninja family."

"He stole you from a hospital?" the President asked in surprise.

"I was quite young at the time, but that's the way I reconstructed it later. Of course it was a simple matter for him to do that. And nobody really missed me because I had no relatives to complain."

"What about your surviving family in the States?"

Tarot nodded. "There were some, but no close relatives. They assumed I had died with my parents. So I was named Taro and joined a ninja family, a family of two. The training started when I learned to walk."

"And you spoke Japanese?"

"Certainly. I couldn't speak when Old Kaz adopted me. So I was definitely Japanese, pure and simple. I was definitely also a ninja. That's why he had adopted me. But like many Japanese, I begin learning English in the third grade. My Dad could speak fair English and he encouraged me."

"So you basically learned to kill."

"No. No. That's not a major part of ninja training. It came later. Invisibility, gymnastics, nimble movements, dodging."

"But you said you could have killed me instantly."

"Yes, of course," Tarot said. "My Dad didn't start that phase until much later. I was bullied in school. I ignored it for a time. You see they called me 'half' because they thought I was half Japanese, which wasn't true. But I have the brown eyes, the dark hair and could be part Japanese. You know the Japanese generally do not have those slanty-slitty Chinese eyes. They are drawn to western eyes because of color. They think all westerners have blue eyes.

"Anyway, one day after school the lead bully and his friends roughed me up pretty bad, and Old Kaz noticed. Then began my martial arts. I had mastered many things and it really wasn't much of a job to learn the basics, although I had much more to learn. But when the bully came at me again, I broke his leg as Old Kaz had instructed me to do."

Brooking allowed himself a chuckle. "That should have gotten you tossed out of school."

"Not so. The teachers and the principal knew me, they knew Old Kaz. He was feared and respected. The boy with the broken leg was a known bully and had bullied others. But two days later his father showed up at our house and Old Kaz invited him inside. He was quite rude and said he was going to have me put in jail, and file a lawsuit.

"Our house was traditional and the roof was supported by heavy poles, not unlike tree trunks with no bark. Old Kaz told the angry man to look at one of the poles. Suddenly there appeared three iron stars (shuriken) on the support, throwing weapons that can kill. The irate father was startled and turned back to Old Kaz, but there was no one there.

"There had been no sound. I was still there, so I suggested the man return the following day. He was confused and kept looking around, which gave me an opportunity to do the vanishing act. We never saw the man again, and I was never bullied again."

Brooking was impressed. Tarot was believable. "Mrs. Geer mentioned loyalty. Do you have some sort of oath?"

"What Tina mentioned was a type of employment. In the old days a ninja was like a samurai, loyal to his master. Of course, if I accepted employment, the same type of relationship would prevail. My life has been quite indifferent, drifting. The job of personal trainer is a hoot. That is I've spent my lifetime up until Old Kaz's demise in that sort of work. Training, dieting, the proper path, that's been my lifestyle. But now I would like to make a difference. Do something for our country. Your ideals, as far as I know, tally with mine. But I cannot see into your heart."

Brooking tried to absorb what Tarot had said, but he needed time. He finally replied, "I'm not certain where that leaves us. I trust Tina totally, and I tend to trust you. Give me room to talk to Tina. She obviously has something in mind, and your being here seems to be the first step. She is many things to me. One of them is a caring mother."

"You could do worse in your choice of mother." Tarot rose from his seat.

"I actually have a mother and a father. They schooled me much as Old Kaz schooled you, but in a different way. Then they cut me loose, just as you were cut loose. But they are still alive and more or less camping in a place called Gobekli in a remote area of Turkey. What a change for folks their age to go from a Manhattan condo to a rough camp far from civilization."

"What is civilization?" Tarot questioned.

"What indeed. We live in a jungle. I'll have a Secret Service person escort you out. No questions asked. How you got in will remain a mystery."

CHAPTER FIVE

When Tarot was gone, Brooking reflected on the lax security around the White House. The guards at the gate were often joking and cutting up among themselves. Members of the Secret Service often acted like small-town cops, carrying out their duties by rote. The fact is nothing much ever happened, and the elaborate security members were bored.

A small, swift plane loaded with explosives could easily penetrate the air space and crash into the White House or Capitol building before protective aircraft could be scrambled. From five miles high, a small military-type plane would fall like a ray of sunshine. Even aloft an Air Force pilot would hesitate shooting such a plane out of the sky. A thousand thoughts would be rushing through his brain. Then hindsight as usual would be 20-20.

But nothing could be done except occasionally attempting to jack up the troops to keep them alert and on edge. Everyone had his job.

If Brooking might single out one enemy it would be John Joe Conner, minority senate leader. He was a kingpin in the narrowly divided upper house who held in his hand the one lethal tool, the filibuster, that could block any legislative incentive the President proposed.

John Joe, as he was known on the Hill and throughout the nation, was a short, pudgy man, balding, red hair with a comb over, the mustache of a dandy, fancy dresser and disdainful manner.

He fully realized he was in the catbird's seat and enjoyed every minute of it. He could make deals and he could break deals and he did so with impunity. He had the mentality of a bully, which got Brooking to thinking about the story Tarot had told him, breaking the bully's leg. Might some higher power have sent Tarot to him at this particular moment?

He decided to ask Tina for a drink or two late in the day and a hair-down session over the multiplicity of problems. He would get a bowl of peanuts or pistachios as snacks. They would reach a solution.

Before he could call her, J.O.P. Quirk dropped by his office to report on his recent visit to several Asian countries. The President sometimes wondered what the J.O.P. stood for, but apparently no one ever asked. He was the well-respected secretary of state and had served in the Congress for several terms, famously as the chairman of the Armed Services committee.

As the meeting was winding down, Brooking said, "As world traveler and your former work with the military, could you tell me how many military units we have stationed abroad?"

"You mean military bases, Sir. All services?"

"I suppose so?"

"No."

"Any estimate?"

"Hundreds, maybe more than a thousand."

"Tell me, Quirk. Are we in danger of being attacked?"

Quirk smiled. "Of course not. Who would do such a thing?"

"I can't imagine. With your help and with that of Congress, I'd like to pare down that number, maybe to a point where we could easily count them."

"Don't try that, Mr. President." Quirk struck a serious note.

"Why not?"

"Lobbyists would be all over you and all over both houses. The military is serious business in this country.

"Too serious, Quirk. It sops up money like a giant sponge, money for personnel and particularly money for military gadgetry. Why should we be the world policeman, if indeed we are? For all our military might we seem to screw up badly abroad."

Quirk became defensive. "Don't blame me, Sir."

This was exasperating. "I'm not blaming you. This has been going on long before you and I arrived in Washington. At least since World War II. Reagan helped it along. He used to do a snappy salute like he was a military man. He dodged military service in World War II, unlike real stars like Stewart and Gable."

"Reagan was a national hero, Sir. Don't forget that." Brooking wondered on what factor Quirk based that statement. The cold war ended because the Soviets were facing bankruptcy. Their system simply didn't work. Quirk had done well as a glad-handing secretary of state, but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

"So we need to spread our military all over the face of the globe, is that it, Mr. Secretary?"

"Yes, Sir. And it's a wonderful thing. You should see the reception I get from our military bases when I arrive in different countries. They all turn out. Fanfare, trumpets. It's a site to see. Celebrations, toasting, the wine flows. It's like Christmas and the Fourth of July all wrapped up with a gold ribbon."

"Military ceremonies and state dinners?"

"Of course, Sir. That's what impresses these foreigners. If you know your history, you'll remember how powerful ancient Rome was with its legions camping all over the known world."

"I was raised on history, Quirk. Morning, noon and night. The legions and the military became a preoccupation with Rome only during its decline. So did excessive bathing." Brooking chuckled. "Both seemed to contribute to its degeneration."

Quirk looked surprised, then asked, "You do bathe, don't you. Sir?"

"A quick shower now and then."

CHAPTER SIX

Vice President Tina Geer arrived just after six in the evening. Brooking had been up since 5:30 that morning and was ready for a drink. He set out a bowl of pistachios and a second bowl for the shells, then mixed a couple of light drinks. "You know what it takes to get a bag of pistachios around here?"

"It's never troubled my mind," Tina said.

"Well, it's not easy. My cook bugs me because I don't come up there for meals. You'd think he'd be happy to rustle up a bag of pistachios now and again."

"Well, Bruce, I don't think you rustle up pistachios. They must be grown on some sort of a farm, or plantation. Maybe on a bush or a tree. I don't believe I've ever seen them in the wild."

"Everyone likes them, Tina. They can be a struggle to open if they're closed. But there's your challenge. Man against nature. Drama during cocktail hour." The President was on his third pistachio. There had been very little resistance on the part of the nuts.

"Incidentally, where do you eat?"

"I send someone to the cafeteria for a sandwich or a bowl of soup, sometimes a bagel. My diet is varied."

"Do we have a topic this evening? You seemed a bit excited on the phone."

"Were you of the generation that read _Catcher in the Rye_?"

"Oh, this is book night. I have read the tome."

"You realize then the book is loaded with symbolism. These are symbols either the author stuck in there on purpose, or he simply was writing to fill space, and a bevy of English professors set out in search of symbols. I believe they wondered why the book was such a hit, so sought secret meaning. Truth to tell it struck gold because every rebellious teenager saw him or herself somewhere there."

Tina had eaten only one pistachio and was struggling to open a second. Brooking paused to show her how to pry a reluctant nut open with half a shell of another. An age-old pistachio trick.

The President continued. "There is the carousel ride. Holden sees it going round and round, pointless, as a metaphor for life. The feeling of movement, but going nowhere, like the Kennedy rocking chair. As of this day, not unlike my term in office. Yes, this is my watch. Yes, the country is running fairly smoothly. But there are many things I'd like to do that are beyond my reach. We are in and have been in gridlock."

"And you've had a moment. A flash of light on the road to Falls Church?"

"Yes, you gave me a moment. I need a ninja, or something very much like it – maybe a suicide vest at a large congressional and lobbyist gathering."

"Cast of thousands."

"You betcha. But let's talk ninja."

"I have a plan."

"Let's hear it."

"It's a good plan."

"Ok."

"I've talked to Tarot about it. I think I should bring him here and the three of us can confab. I hate to chew my cabbage twice."

Brooking looked up from his pistachio. "The sooner the better."

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was difficult finding a time to fit Tina and Tarot in for a meeting of any length. But a meeting fairly late in the evening was scheduled. This time she would escort Tarot into the Oval office.

Brooking had a cabinet meeting early on the day of the talk, a session skipped by Tina. A couple more of the country's aging bridges had collapsed, moving the spotlight to highway infrastructure and the need for more funds in that area. Money is to highway maintenance and construction as rain is to corn. Should already high gasoline taxes be hiked? The secretary of transportation had a lengthy report delineating the thousands of unsafe bridges and miles of crumbling highways. Nothing was decided, leaving the question in Brooking's lap and at the mercy of Congress. He would see that the report was distributed to the usual suspects.

Then there was the telephone conference with the British prime minister who complained of the influx of Islam and the resulting religious unrest in all quarters. The President could do nothing but express his sympathy and note that there had been lesser but similar incidents in the States. Plans for the prime minister to visit Washington and the West Coast were discussed.

A group of fossil fuel magnates joined the President and his energy secretary for lunch. Oil and coal barons, as Tina termed them.

The afternoon was spent catching up on paperwork, which involved a lot of reading. Brooking had tried, but had never become a speed reader. He digested every paragraph, which made for toilsome, but accurate work.

Toward normal quitting time the White House social secretary, Wilbert Lyn, had scheduled a meeting. Of all the executive staff, Lyn's task might be termed the most sensitive. He could delight individuals out there beyond the beltway, or snub them in such a way that they would never support the President again.

Millions in contributions hinged on his decisions, not just dinners, but festive events at Christmas and egg rolls at Easter.

The bundlers, those who grouped funds for the President, were important. News anchors, sports figures, military heroes, Hollywood stars, business tycoons, financiers, lawyers, educators, philanthropists. Cabinet members, mayors of major cities, foreign dignitaries, UN officials and high court judges. These are just a few of the types that need to be carefully balanced at each event, plus a balance must be maintained over the long haul.

The task was extremely delicate with pulls and pushes from all sides. One might say a social ninja is required.

Another long day wound down, and Brooking enjoyed a toasted cheese and bacon sandwich while he waited for the final session.

Tina and Tarot arrived as advertised, and Brooking poured drinks and set out a bowl of peanuts. "How's your day been?" Tina questioned after they did the usual clinking and cheers, although Tarot said 'kampai,' and were seated. The Oval office can be a cheerful place with the right kind of company.

"The usual crop of cares. Sometimes I wonder why I wanted this job. It was better being a senator. I had protective cover and was like one in one hundred sheep, driven by lobbyists and contributions from the one percent set. Why did I think I could speak for the great unwashed? Just today I was going over a list of power brokers, contributors and major TV and film figures who have not yet disgraced themselves."

"For what purpose?" Tarot questioned.

"Oh, sure. You're not yet an insider. To invite to glitzy White House functions. I get to shake hands, not stay for the entire affair, not eat much and try to remain sober."

"Quite a responsibility," the ninja chuckled.

"And this afternoon I devoted myself to health care issues. What the law considers an appropriate standard of care, what procedures health insurance companies do and do not cover, how overextended a facility's patient caregivers might be, prescription drug prices. I'm quite the jack of all trades. Now, I understand you two have come up with a plan to lighten my burden."

"Tarot's been a trainer in a nearby gym for five years. He, like you, feels as if he is on a carousel, revolving to no place. I and other executive and Hill workers have availed ourselves of his adequate services. Our plan is to bring him into the White House as the physical fitness trainer, possibly have an early morning session for staffers, schedule personal sessions at other times. It's workable," Tina said.

Brooking nodded approval. "We could have a session for the Secret Service, might keep them from binge drinking. Also the Marine guards. Plus Tarot and I could get together for other projects." The President turned to the ninja. "Are you on board?"

Tarot smiled. "One hundred percent. You don't know what such a thing would mean to me. I would honor my Japanese father, Old Kaz. He and those who came before him would be thrilled at one of their number serving the President of the United States."

Both Brooking and Tina were not certain how this would be communicated to a series of dead people, but saw no harm in it. In fact they were delighted by the degree of dedication the ninja had expressed. The President saw it as a new beginning, a piece of superb human equipment placed in his hands to achieve goals both honorable and wholesome. He reached out and shook Tarot's hand, then turned to Tina. "I should stay out of this as much as possible. Could you get together with Curtis German and tell him the scheme has my approval?"

"Certainly, Mr. President, but I don't think I'll use the term 'scheme.'"

"Good point. Let's have another drink and eat a few more peanuts. I have a video we might want to watch."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Time slipped by and Washington fell into the political season as the election, although not exactly looming, was close enough for the first bit of mud to be slung. The Senate seemed bent on blocking anything the White House backed, such as legislation to tamp down violence against women.

Even though a majority approved a bill, the body was unable to rally the 60 senators required for a cloture vote to put down a filibuster.

At the heart of the problem was John Joe Conner, that pudgy little dandy, not five by five, but approaching it. The Senate minority leader had both the filibuster as a weapon and the ability to place a hold on any nomination the President might make that required Senate confirmation.

Tarot Jones had been an immediate hit. Both his group and individual programs kept him hopping. He had a small apartment in the lower regions of the White House and had been granted high priority security clearances. The apartment pleased him to no end, both because of its proximity to the gym and because he could use a rice cooker to keep those sticky grains edible for up to twenty-four hours. His taste for the Japanese diet had not been replaced by cheeseburger cravings.

During his individual workout, Brooking confided that he needed to do something about John Joe.

"You want him disabled, Sir?" Tarot inquired.

"Yes, but not physically. I need some information about him that might be unpleasant. Many men, particularly in politics, have something one might call unsavory in their past."

"I believe I get your drift. I will research."

The President was pleased to have the ninja in his service. He had even learned a few ninja tricks in their one-on-one workouts. Tarot was careful not to let slip any Asian secrets during sessions with others in the White House gym.

He and Brooking had discussed the source of Eastern martial arts. About 700 B.C., he related, a young woman named Yuh Niuy wrote that to be battle-ready one had to have full spirit within, but outwardly appear calm and relaxed: "Appear to be as gentle as a fair lady, but react like a vicious tiger." She is said to have defeated three thousand men in a sword battle lasting seven days.

Brooking imagined he might become a serious student of tai chi. The thought rolled around in his brain for several days before being discarded. He had many other fish to fry in days jammed with a plethora of activities and decisions.

Getting away to New York for a United Nation's session, he managed to work in a Mitsuko Uchida concert. It was a daunting display of talent and endurance, the last three sonatas of Schubert, the C-Minor and A-Major Sonatas alone were vast and sometimes wildly chaotic. The Adagio of the C-Minor Sonata could be likened to a mountain range of contrasting emotions. And finally the Andante of the B-Flat Sonata transported the audience to a level seldom achieved.

The President's thoughts drifted to his days on the farm in Iowa and the baby grand that graced their living room. The hours his mother spent as his tutor, hours that he thought would be better spent roaming the fields and woodlands, or curled up with a book.

To counter Schubert, he led his Secret Service escort into a performance of Nice Work If You Can Get It, featuring the product of George and Ira Gershwin.

In his absence from Washington, Tarot used the time to visit Hanover, New Hampshire, the home of Dartmouth, founded in 1769 and the smallest of the Ivy League institutions of higher education with less than 7,000 undergraduate and graduate students combined. One of those students was Dalton Conner, son of John Joe, a festering thorn in the President's big toe.

Dalton was a good student, industrious and favored his father, fairly short, prone to corpulence, intelligent. His dad didn't get where he was by being stupid. Perhaps his father has his eye on the Oval office. The path to glory might be littered with obstructionist tactics. The opposition in politics seldom accentuates the positive.

Tarot had already done some checking on John Joe and his Georgetown townhouse in Washington. Now there was a third item he needed to complete his quest. But that would take a little cash.

He returned to Washington and submerged himself up to his chin in the Japanese tub that had been installed in his small apartment. The water was much too hot for the average American, but Tarot had been steeped in Japanese culture. His body soon glowed ruddy pink, and he seemed as one with his ancestors, the dead ones of two races. The hour of the bath was sacred.

The Japanese love of water was well known. Their island nation is surrounded by water that has fed them and cooled them for centuries, plus providing protection from their enemies. Of course Tarot soaked alone, but on those islands there is delight in the communal bath, simmering with steam rising in the "onsen," exchanging comments on how wonderful the water was.

Then the betrayal. The occasional tsunami, sweeping life and treasure into the sea. Destroyer of lives, homes and fishing vessels. Over the years the disasters had been many – wars, earthquakes, fires, to name a few. But always the return to the healing ritual of the bath.

CHAPTER NINE

Back in Washington the President was determined to win John Joe over for the sake of the country. He decided to make an earnest appeal by inviting the Senate minority leader to his office for a one-on-one session. He had his secretary, Penny Aycock, phone Conner's office to make the appointment.

Before that day arrived, the President kept his early morning workout date with Tarot who told him he might have found a key to part of the puzzle.

Brooking was all smiles. "Give me the good news. It'll be a blessed relief from the way things have been panning out."

"And I could be wrong," Tarot added. "But I need money for a trip to Panama to pin this down."

"You are full of surprises, Tarot. Panama." The President took a moment to look perplexed, then said, "Ok. You're my one and only ninja. So how much do you need?"

Tarot shrugged. "Maybe three or four thousand in cash."

"Cash. Of course, cash. But one word of warning. The money will come from my personal finances. I want to make it clear from the start that no campaign contributions will be used to do whatever it is you intend to do, which I'm certain will be perfectly legal."

"But it is to the best interest of the government and therefore the people," the Ninja stressed.

"Of course. But using campaign funds for any non-campaign purpose can land me, probably not you, in federal prison. It's happened."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tarot said with a large smile. The game was afoot and he was pleased with the way things were going so far.

"The reason I stress this is that individuals involved in this sort of thing, or other sorts of things, like paying off mistresses, have been dragged into court in the past. So please remember our conversation. Drop by my office just after lunch. Penny will have an envelope for you." The deed was done and Tarot was dispatched to Central America to ferret out whatever it was he was attempting to ferret out.

The President spent much of the remainder of the day with his ambassador to the United Nations. They were attempting to hammer out a resolution on which all countries could agree to end violent border disputes between Sudan and South Sudan.

The bitter conflict was over oil, the source of which was not far over the southern border, a black poverty region that had always played second fiddle to the Arab north. The resolution would be quite simple: Stop fighting, start talking. But for the zillions of countries crowded into the UN quarters nothing was simple.

Midmorning the following day, John Joe Conner arrived at his office a half hour late, no doubt to indicate who was actually calling the shots.

Brooking was cordial, and had Penny bring in coffee and small scones. After the usual greetings and handshakes the two settled into seats for their chat.

"I've invited you here, Senator," the President began, "because I think we can put petty and political differences behind us and agree on some wholesome issues that will benefit the Republic."

John Joe smiled slightly, possibly trying to mimic a grandfatherly like image. "I've been in politics for some time, Mr. President. I think I know what's best for the country. You know the old saying, what goes around, comes around. If you play ball with me, you'll find your troubles will vanish."

"Like cutting taxes for the rich?"

"Well, we must protect the job creators."

"We have other problems at the moment. We need a comprehensive and fair immigration bill. We need to address the area of unemployment."

"And, Mr. President, doesn't that come right back to the job creators?"

"If you mean the superrich, Senator, they are sitting on their collective asses in South Florida, Palm Springs, wherever, collecting dividends and interest on their investments, except for a motivated few, doing very little for their country. In fact some reside abroad and a portion of their money is hidden away offshore and in various financial institutions around the globe."

"I would repeat that those investments are being used to create jobs."

"Did you know, John Joe, that unemployment among the working and middle classes actually causes deaths?"

"How so? They can apply for your favorite programs – food stamps, welfare. People are dropping dead. But the fact is some folks actually enjoy unemployment."

"There have been highly professional studies. Mortality rates climbed sharply the years after the 1981-82 recession among workers who lost their jobs. Mortality rates among laid-off workers were much higher than average twenty years later. Also, consider this, jobless workers have no income and aren't paying taxes."

John Joe seemed to be enjoying the encounter. "So, what are you doing about it, Mr. President?"

"There's not much I can do about it with you blocking every initiative I send to the Hill. But long-term unemployment can erode job skills thus making those folks less employable. Also, the public will get the idea that a high unemployment rate is natural. The crisis will no longer seem like a crisis. It will simply be the way things are. Certainly you do care about your country, don't you?"

"I care very much, Mr. President, and we have certain bills we would like enacted."

"Of course, tax cuts for the one percent. One would think the Congress and the Federal Reserve would be working full time to end the job crisis. Take Germany, they've developed a system of job subsidized sharing which is gradually bringing down long-term unemployment."

John Joe was on his feet. "Of course subsidized. You think big government can do everything. But I don't buy your socialist programs."

"At some point government has to step in to stimulate the economy by whatever tools it can manufacture. You could help."

"I can help myself back to my office. If you come around to my way of thinking, the only way you're going to get anything done, you can come to my office for the next chat." With that he turned and left the room.

I tried, Brooking thought, and then wondered if Tarot was in truth on to something. He buzzed his secretary and inquired, "Penny what time is that Medal of Freedom presentation?"

CHAPTER TEN

Tarot returned from Panama and huddled with the President. He tried to avoid the Oval office, so they chatted while seated on a gym mat in a corner of the exercise room. There was one backboard and basket, a few mechanical exercise machines against a wall. Weights and large inflated balls were scattered on the floor.

Brooking was not only pleased, but also absolutely startled by Tarot's revelations. He had done a bang-up job, first in New Hampshire, then in Washington and finally in Panama. Stealth had been important, but digging for the facts produced unforeseen results.

The President pondered Tarot's findings overnight, attempting to avoid a reckless decision. Finally, he returned to the obvious. He must meet again with John Joe, even though the senator had said the President must come to him. That was out of the question.

Midmorning the following day he asked Tina to come to his office and apprised her of a few of the facts Tarot had given him. Then he suggested she invite John Joe to the Oval office. Part of her job was to preside over the Senate, casting a vote only as a tiebreaker. She seldom took the presiding platform, but moved about the Senate side of the Capitol with ease.

Rather than seek John Joe out she contrived to bump into him in the hall and casually mentioned that the President would like him to drop by for a visit. The Senate minority leader actually laughed in her face. "I told your President he would have to come here if he wanted a second meeting. Maybe to do a little pleading."

"Perhaps that's true, Senator. But he thinks it wise to meet very privately in his office. It's free of bugs and prying eyes."

Joe John retained his jocular demeanor and quipped, "You can tell your President I'm going to get him."

Tina looked him squarely in the eye and said, "You get him once, he gets you twice," then added, "there's something puzzling him about your son."

Joe John's eyes flared with anger. "You tell him he can keep my personal life out of this. Dalton's a good boy and he's doing well at Dartmouth. He has my brains."

Tina laughed. "I think that's what puzzles the President. If he has your brains, he assumes you don't have any." Joe John started to glow red with anger, but Tina quickly added. "Just joking. But the boy does favor you. I suggest you accept the White House invitation. If it were known you were invited and declined, what would your colleagues think? You might enjoy throwing your weight around, but you remain the minority leader and you can be replaced."

John Joe was also puzzled. He didn't know just what the President was up to, but it didn't sit well with him. Reluctantly, he agreed to the meeting.

Brooking had spent most of the morning and the bulk of the afternoon screening candidates for a vacancy on the Supreme Court knowing full well that he would have to battle Joe John tooth and nail to get even a halfway decent candidate nominated. The advice-and-consent privilege accorded the Senate had been carried to ridiculous extremes.

Toward evening, Senator Conner's secretary called to say her boss would be down directly for the requested meeting. Brooking sighed and wondered how long he must wait for the arrogant lawmaker to show up. The call must have been made while the senator was already on his way. He popped into the office five minutes later. Brooking suspected John Joe had hoped the President would be tied up and unable to meet with him, such was the maneuvering of the day.

He was greeted cordially and took a comfortable chair. Brooking had come from behind his desk and took a seat immediately across from him. "You know, John Joe," the President began, "What's going on in the Congress has become a type of legalized bribery." The senator started to respond, but Brooking held up his hand so he could continue. "The big money, the one percent and their army of lobbyists are all over that hallowed body. They reward work they want done with endless campaign funds and other perks, and get revenge on those who turn against them with the harshest negative campaign attacks."

"So, what else is new?" John Joe asked.

"The life has been choked out of a formerly viable political system. The court's ruling that corporations are people was a disaster. I need your help in getting the ship of state back on an even keel."

"Play ball with me and I'll play ball with you," the senator replied.

"I'm afraid that's too one sided for me. I may begin playing hardball with you."

"You and how many marines?"

"That's just an expression. I really didn't mean it. You know, John Joe, your life has been remarkable. A bizarre twist propelled you into public office. Now let me recite what I know. You were born a girl. As a teenager you realized you were a boy in a girl's body, at least that was your thought."

"Exactly my thought," the senator agreed.

The President continued. "You had a close female friend in high school. Your father, a doctor, explored sex change operations at your request. He idolized you." The senator nodded in agreement.

"So it came to pass that there was a noted clinic in Panama that had great success in sex change operations. You traveled to Panama, had such an operation, and after a period of recuperation married your girlfriend from high school, right?"

"Yes. Marriage as it should be, between a man and a woman. This according to my Christian ideals, by the words set down in the Bible, much approved by Christians everywhere. I had gone that extra mile and stood up for my beliefs. But that was long ago and the story is well known."

"Very well known. But one question was not asked. Can a person born female, then changed to a male by surgery, produce sperm and father a child?"

John Joe shrugged. "What if I could or could not produce sperm. The fact is my wife and I, we wanted a child and we got a very fine one. There are sperm donors, a common practice."

"Yes, there are sperm donors, but your son, Dalton, is in fact your son."

"Of course he's my son. My wife and I raised him from birth." John Joe was showing signs of becoming uneasy.

"What I'm saying, Senator, is you're not Dalton's father, you're his mother. There was never any sex change. You and your wife are a pair of lesbians. No harm in that, as you say, a common practice."

John Joe rose from his chair and shouted. "How can you make such an accusation?"

"Two major things," the President said calmly. "First there is no record in Panama of your having a sex change operation. Second DNA proves beyond a doubt you are either Dalton's mother or father. I pick mother."

"You have no right to invade my privacy!" John Joe shouted.

"I have a country to run, Senator. You are a small fly in a very large bowl of ointment. You are cock of the walk today on the Senate floor, disdainful, arrogant with your filibusters and your Senate holds on my appointees. Tomorrow you could be hounded and laughed out of this gridlocked city."

"You intend to expose me then?" John Joe was almost hopping around the office, still highly excited. Brooking wondered if he might throw some relic, or possibly injure himself.

"Of course I don't want to expose you, or threaten you in any way. I simply called you here to see if we could work together. And to admire that fake comb over you have, which must indicate you're undergoing male pattern baldness. What a battle you must have had over the years hiding your true sex."

John Joe sat down, seemingly relieved, and said, "It hasn't been easy. I'm almost happy you found out. We can share my secret, we can bond, we can do great things together." The senator seemed on the verge of tears.

The President rose and patted the senator on the shoulder. He guessed what had happened. Two misfit girls in high school, both short and a little dumpy, who found one another. What to do. Surrounded by Christians and right wingers . There was no coming out as lesbians. So they tricked up a devious path. "It's late. Time for a drink."

John Joe stretched and yawned. "Make mine a triple."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A peculiar conundrum faced the President two days later. He was invited to a wedding in the small town of Algona, near the family farm. What to do? He knew both sides of the match from high school. It was the second marriage for both.

So should he descend on that small town with a bevy of Secret Service? There was some history there. It seems because of immigration, New York had too many orphans in the late 1800s and shipped 100,000 of them west to make new lives with American families. Algona received almost one hundred, and many spent their lives and founded families in that community.

There was also a prisoner of war camp nearby during WWII with 10,000 German prisoners, many of whom worked on nearby farms. In 2003, thanks to a local DJ, the town boasted the world's largest cornmeal snack in an effort to promote tourism.

A President attending a local wedding might rival the world's largest cornmeal snack. This was into the election season, and any trip out of Washington not on government business might be labeled political. Brooking would be seen among the common folk of Iowa, exactly where his roots were the deepest

Vice President Geer had already been criticized for speaking engagements in Florida and Chicago. So, what of it, Brooking finally decided. He would fly to Des Moines, leave by car before dawn for Algona, be there well before the wedding, talk to as many people as he could, most of them at least nodding acquaintances, then depart after the cutting of the cake and the comic photos of the bride and groom stuffing each other's mouths.

So it was done. Beginning the evening after a workday, back at the White House before nightfall the following day. His office and staff on Air Force One during the flight. No fund-raising dinners, no political speeches. Of course he was criticized anyway, which annoyed him. Thus annoyed, he huddled with Tarot at his next workout.

"Are you aware of that glitzy neighborhood, basically 14th Street between P and U Streets?"

"Mr. President, I try to be aware of everything. I've strolled that route. Fashionable lofts, new condo structures with lots of glass, trendy shops, the smart set promenade with dogs or strollers, some high class dolls in skin-tight outfits. I've even stopped in for a snack at Masa 14."

"Masa 14," the President said in awe. "Tarot, I think we might be paying you too much."

The ninja grinned. "I have my slush fund. No questions asked."

"Right. You certainly don't sound Japanese."

"I'm not Japanese. I was raised a ninja, but I've been in this country a long time. Gaijin blood flows through my veins." The President recognized the Japanese word for foreigner.

"It's those high-class dolls with skin-tight attire that have drawn my attention. You know we're overwhelmed with lobbyists. They vie among themselves. I've mentioned before that it's a case of legalized bribery. But in politics, as in the lobbying profession, one hand washes the other and neither hand gets clean. So how to bring a politico to heel? Some may have resorted to sexual entrapment."

"Prostitution," Tarot said. "Of course, what of it? It's more or less legal in Japan."

"But not here."

"I know that."

"And these Hill people are hard-core Christians. Unless they're a Muslim or a Hindu. There may be a few oddballs among them. Some of them hop on an intern or a page now and again and get away with it. Some bang their secretary, male or female. But sex for pay is a no-no."

Tarot had listened intently. Now he questioned. "Do you have a plan?"

"You know I think the FBI or the CIA may monitor that sort of thing, they have the resources, but they play it close to the vest for their own purposes."

"I understand. They could be dropping not-so-subtle hints to certain key members to talk up their budgets or programs. Where does that leave us?"

"At first it would seem way out in left field. But to go to the heart of the matter, these hookers may be organized to one extent or another. That would mean a madam or a tour guide, whatever you might want to call him or her. They might have names, phone numbers, dates, clients and johns."

"Probably deeply buried in a computer." Tarot conjectured.

"Just your meat," the President said, then added, "I think I'll hit the steam room, then the sauna."

CHAPTER TWELVE

President Brooking paid a surprise visit to the pressroom hoping to discuss the plight of New England fishermen. There had been complaints that trawlers dragging nets across the ocean floor were over-fishing and could possibly wipe out whole species. Atlantic cod was the example given.

But octopus, tautog, halibut, sturgeon, turbot and some species of tuna, swordfish and rockfish had also been cited, not all from New England waters. He explained that several agencies of the government were examining the issue.

Because no news people from that area happened to be in the pressroom, there was little interest in the subject. But the President was peppered with shouted questions on other topics. He managed to quiet the ravenous crowd by announcing that he was thinking of acquiring a cat.

"A cat!" the Cox newspaper reporter shouted. "What's a cat got to do with running the government?"

"Cats are calm and deliberate," the President responded. "The Congress might use some of that."

"They are so deliberate that nothing gets done," another said. "Maybe a cat should replace the American Eagle as the symbol of government."

"Get real," the Cox reporter said.

However, most of the newshounds were excited. They were on to something. A presidential cat. What a break for a dull news cycle.

"What kind of cat?" The LA Times asked.

"When I was a boy down on the farm in Iowa we always had cats and dogs. Feral animals mostly. They wandered in. Or maybe the town folks were tired of them and dropped them off in the country. You know, a cat has a litter and what to do with the kittens."

"They were Lord knows cats," a woman columnist suggested.

"I'm sure that's right. We used to say fifty seven varieties. Maybe that's gone out of vogue."

"But your cat, the White House cat, what kind do you have your eye on?"

"I don't know. I thought you, the cream of the press gathered here, might be of some service."

"It shouldn't be a purebred." The woman columnist said.

"Long hair or short hair?" The St. Louis Post questioned.

Brooking shrugged. "I might be slightly allergic to cats. On the farm most of them were kept outside. There were outbuildings where they could hole up. We did need the occasional mouser inside. You know winter brings the mice inside for the warmth."

"Then despite your possible allergy, you have your heart set on an ordinary cat," the LA Times said.

"But a healthy, clear-eyed cat," The Washington Post tossed in.

"Definitely healthy," the President agreed.

"Do you have anything against a sick cat, a rescue cat?" the woman columnist inquired.

The President could sense trouble brewing. "You haven't been a great help. Now some of you don't think this is worthy to be called news. But some of you do. So if you report that I'm seeking a regular cat for the White House, maybe the public will come to my rescue."

"Do you have any idea how many breeds of cat exist?" the woman columnist asked.

"No. Thanks for your time." Brooking retreated to the privacy of his office, totally unaware of the hornet's nest he had stirred up. In the ensuing days the White House was buried under an avalanche of mail, e-mail and visitors attempting to talk their way in.

Every breed of cat seemed to be sponsored. America seemed to be a nation of cat lovers. But this notion soon faded once the dog lovers made their presence known. Why in the world did the President pick a cat over a dog was the standard assault. Why indeed. White House dogs have a long and outstanding legacy. Many oldsters still remembered FDR's Scotty, Fala.

Brooking was amazed to learn that cat lovers were organized on more than one level. For example, the American Cat Fanciers Association; this is not a group of folks who fancy themselves a cat, which would defy common logic.

He learned there were 80 cat breeds, of which 41 were recognized by Cat Fanciers, and that there was a long history of domesticated cats, stretching to 2500 BC in Egypt.

So the trick was to first let popular opinion pick a cat, then a similar method would be used to name the cat. The maelstrom he had kicked up was overwhelming.

Before it had subsided, Tarot Jones came to him with his findings. At a workout session the ninja told him that he had secured a list of those men who frequent the 14th Street houses of prostitution.

"You mean there is more than one?" the President asked.

"There are two, but they are under the same ownership. One is just a shade higher class than the other."

"Thus more expensive. What, more options?"

"Yes, and maybe a better class of whores. There are discriminating users, tasteful, discriminating gentlemen."

"Going into this, I didn't know what to expect. But one thing I didn't expect is a list of names. I thought the option might be a type of surveillance."

"Well, Sir, they take credit cards. The organization calls itself the Federal Health Club. I have a printout of users. It's quite surprising."

Later in the day, Brooking found time to go over the printout Tarot had nipped from the health club's computer. Quite surprising was almost an understatement. Stunning would be more like it. Members from both parties, government agencies and even one White House executive. Speak of bombshells.

Not certain what to do, the President summoned his chief of staff, Curtis German.

When German arrived in his office, Brooking told him about the printout and the scope of health club membership.

"Breathtaking," German said.

The President chuckled. "Hardly the word, Curtis, your name is on the list. It offers a new dimension to the Washington social set."

"I suspected it might be."

"You have a family, don't you?"

"I do, but like many other men in Washington, I find little time to spend with them. Nor do I have time to take female companions to dinner for carnal purposes. A trip to 14th Street is much like a business appointment."

"What do you suggest I do with the list?"

German laughed. "You might burn it."

"That crossed my mind. But perhaps I should hand it over to the Justice Department."

"Like many other departments, it's leaky as a sieve. Certain names would get out, certain names would be suppressed. It would depend on who had access to the list. New hires, or holdovers."

"But to be honest..."

"What's honest about politics? It's like liar's poker. If you must release the list, please strike my name."

"Would that be honest?"

"You're holding a stolen list of names. What's honest about that? I don't know where you got them, but I know the 14th Street madam didn't hand deliver them to your office. This is a political town."

"If I've learned nothing else..." Brooking pondered a moment, then said, "I'll let the attorney general know that I've obtained some information about a niche business known as the Federal Health Club on 14th Street, that I'd like to know more about the operation. How would that be?"

"That should do it."

Grinning widely, the President quipped, "Helter-skelter, can you imagine everyone scrambling for shelter. The list names a bevy of good souls in high places, some pro-life evangelicals. They say Baptists don't recognize one another in liquor stores. I wonder how they feel about chance meetings among harlot cribs?"

German explained that the Health Club proprietor was extremely discreet, the master of her trade, skilled at keeping clients separated.

"You know they have what they call love hotels in much of Asia," Brooking said. "These are hot sheet joints rented by the hour. A Japanese friend told me that one such establishment sought to give those waiting for a room the privacy of small cubicles. To their surprise the clientele preferred a common waiting room where they could chat. Some of the patrons were married couples seeking a spot of privacy from their small living quarters, often crowded with children, grandparents and so forth. Then there were widows and widowers who sought companionship on the sly. Anyway, we'll see how this plays out, if at all."

So Brooking avoided a slippery slope and, as luck would have it, the cat issue was resolved. The White House cat would be named Fancy and it was of the common tiger stripe. Now to deal with the pro-lifers – to neuter, or not to neuter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For some time the President had been deviled by a minority whip, Jon "Flash" Fern, a fast talking ex-jock who rose to speak on any occasion. He was a little to the right of Attila the Hun and a red-hot Christian who spoke at tent meetings and mega churches.

On the House floor he had accused Brooking more than once of not being a true Christian.

Brooking responded to questions at press conferences that he was as good a Christian as the next person. He attended services occasionally at different churches in the vicinity of the White House. As a youth in Iowa his parents saw to it that he attended a Methodist church every Sunday, except during sieges of illness, or drifting snow.

His parents, not churchgoers, arranged for rides with neighbors, or on the occasional church bus. Both parents saw the church as a social outlet in addition to school. There were different sorts of folks there than he might normally contact.

The President was surprised when his secretary told him that Flash Fern had called to challenge the White House to a touch football game on White House grounds, reminiscent of the JFK era. Everyone seemed aware that Flash had been an NFL quarterback for just over one season. A series of injuries retired him and forced him into real estate sales, then politics. He had managed to acquire a liberal arts degree thanks to a football scholarship.

The following day Brooking asked his secretary, Penny Aycock, to bring him Flash's team roster. It seemed the team consisted of five House members, none of them known for athletics except for Flash.

The following day the President phoned Flash Fern.

"Flash, how are you today?"

"Fine, Mr. President. You received my invitation?"

"You know I did. I've been looking over your roster. Are these all Christian men?"

"Of course. Just like you and me."

"Then you've accepted the fact that I'm a Christian?"

"Why, Mr. President, there are Christians and Christians."

"You'll have to explain that to me."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now."

"I know you are a Christian, Mr. President."

"Flash, sometime you talk in riddles. Have you ever met an honest non-Christian?"

There was a pause, then, "Of course. Our Jewish friends, Mormons, some Islamics. Those people in India. The world's full of them."

"But it's important to you that I am or am not a Christian. Is that true?"

"Yes. This is a Christian country and we need a Christian at the helm."

"With your touch football proposal you hearkened back to the Kennedy era. Kennedy was a Catholic. Do you consider Catholics Christians?"

"Of course. They are a type of Christian."

"But not your type?"

"Certainly not. They have statues, graven images and odd assortments of ceremonies, but that's not to say they aren't good people."

"You're very liberal."

"I'm a big tent sort of person, Mr. President."

"Particularly if it's a revival tent."

Flash guffawed. "That's a good one, Mr. President. Now, about my invitation."

"Frankly, I'm game, Flash. You don't mind me calling you Flash, do you?"

"No. Everybody does. From the NFL days, you know."

"I'm not certain I can get five people from the staff here who are able to run up and down and hold a football. I know of three including myself. If I could toss in a couple of Secret Service types, I could field a team."

"No problem. A couple of old jocks, I suppose."

"Not really. Usually they're in fair shape. That's their job. But not noted athletes."

"Name the day."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The day came and a short field had been marked with plastic chairs. Tina Geer, Penny Aycock and Lin Yi lolled in folding chairs as make-believe cheerleaders. They were backed by various executive branch staffers and a few hangers-on. Across the narrow field were gathered sundry House members and staffers.

Flash drop kicked the ball to start the game, and a Secret Service man returned the ball half the length of the field. A Capitol police officer with a whistle served as referee. A Justice department clerk kept time. A female Park Ranger kept score with a felt tipped pen on computer paper.

The game was divided into four ten-minute quarters. At half time the score was 0-0. Everyone mingled for ice tea and Snapple. The third quarter ended 0-0.

Five minutes into the fourth quarter the ball was snapped to the President at mid-field. He stepped back into the pocket, spotted a receiver at the goal line, and lofted a pass to connect for a winning touchdown.

Just after the ball left his hand Flash blindsided him for a hard head butt into the ribs. A sickening cracking noise and Brooking fell to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. Flash immediately attempted to help the President to his feet among profuse apologies. He said he tripped.

Tina and her cheerleading staff led the White House contingent in loud and extended booing. Flash continued to apologize and motion with his hands like it was all a mistake. The President made his way to the sidelines and flopped in a chair, a sharp pain in his rib cage.

The late hit cast a pall over what had been a carefree afternoon of sport. Finally people simply began to drift off and the janitorial staff took over to set the field to rights.

The White House physician verified two cracked ribs, but said little could be done. They would heal themselves, though he offered pain pills, which Brooking refused. "I played sports in high school and was injured more than once," he offered by way of explanation.

A video of the game showed Flash coming at the President head down like a cannonball with no sign of a stumble. Privately, House members and others simply said Flash wanted to physically injure the President, and the entire match was set up for that reason. Flash, the human torpedo.

Penny told the President that talk was rife in the pressroom that the hit was deliberate and something should be done about it.

Brooking chuckled and asked what they had in mind. But he did make a trip to the pressroom to explain the situation as best he could.

"I've heard there was some talk about a deliberate hit in that friendly bout of touch football," he began. A general mumbling in agreement.

Jean Claude François of Le Monde piped up to ask, "Why do they call it football when the ball is not controlled by the feet?"

"The ball is kicked now and then," he replied.

"Please, can't we talk about Flash Fern and the late hit?" The Washington Post tossed in.

"That's why I'm here," the President said. "There's been some grumbling about Fern's action on the field. He is a former NFL player, so you'd imagine he knows what he's doing. But he has been retired for some time. So things happen."

"Did you see the video?" The Miami Herald asked.

"No. And I don't want to see it. I was there."

As a follow up the reporter added, "Did you know Flash is seen like something of a hero by some of his fellow House members?"

Brooking smiled. "That sounds incredible. I think I'll pass on that one. What I've come here to say is I played sports in high school. I had other things to do in college and grad school. But I had an excellent coach, a fine old man who passed away a few years back. He was a total sportsman, a good sport. So a late hit, a couple of cracked ribs. What of it? It means nothing to me or anyone else. Flash was elected by the people of his district. I'm certain he does what he thinks best for those good folks. So I suggest we all forget about this entire incident and go on with our lives and do whatever is best for our country. Thank you."

With that he turned and sought refuge in his part of the White House amid the usual shouted questions.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

So the incident of the late hit was laid to rest, and the President turned to affairs of state such as the price of gasoline, oil profits, global warming, and the quandary of low taxes for high rollers, the so-called one percent.

But not everyone could forgive and forget.

Tina huddled with Tarot during a workout session and flatly announced, "I am vindictive. Flash Fern must pay a price."

"I agree totally," the ninja replied. Although he served the President and could only have one master, Tina had brought him into the White House, and he reasoned he could serve his master by heeding Tina's advice.

"I don't want to see the son-of-a-bitch dead, or even crippled for life, but I want him hurt bad and in such a way that everyone knows he is hurt bad. They can guess at the rest."

Tarot nodded wisely. "Leave it to me. You stay totally out of it. I have followed this man's speeches on the floor. He loves the sound of his own voice. I will devise a suitable punishment."

"But maybe I can help. You will want him in an isolated situation."

"The contrary is true. I will want him in a fairly large group of people. There is anonymity in a crowd. You have heard that the loneliest people in the world walk the crowded streets of New York City and London."

Tina touched Tarot's shoulder in a farewell gesture. "I leave you with your evil thoughts."

He grinned.

Tarot took his time scoping out the House side of the Capitol. He knew he would have one chance and one chance only. He did one of the things he did best – not be noticed as a result of years of practice with movements and clothing. Blend in, blend out.

There were quorum calls and votes that brought throngs of members to the floor. They were like bananas, they traveled in bunches.

Tarot was thorough. In his room he had set up a prayer altar to the snake god. A glass of water and an egg were set out for the god's use. He made obeisance to the god and also to his ancestors, ancestors of Old Kaz, his Japanese father. He considered the "shinobi" who appeared during the warring states period of the 15th Century his antecedents. They were spies and mercenaries.

During that "Sengoku" period, through the 17th Century, they became active in Iga Province, near the village of Koga. It is here the true ninjas have their roots. The word shinobi appears in written record as far back as the 8th Century. Many words, or kanji, have been used to describe the ninja. Kunoichi means female ninja. So there was equal opportunity.

Tarot appeared in the hall near Jon Flash Fern's office knowing there would soon be a roll call vote. The constant televised floor scene when the House was in session had its advantages. The hall began to fill with members and Tarot moved with the crowd, drawing close to Flash, waiting for his signal.

There was a startling explosion somewhere in back of the crowd, not an actual explosion, but an instant bomb designed to frighten, which was the exact impact it had on the seemingly panicked crowd who rushed away from the frightful noise, everyone thinking of terrorist threats.

Tarot was now almost beside Flash. He curled his fist into an iron-like ball, loosed it like a rocket, striking the congressman's jaw with a crushing blow. Flash was dashed against the wall and fell to the floor, a bloody spray coming from his mouth.

Already on the run, many of the members simply ignored their fallen comrade and headed for the safety of the floor. The thought that terrorists had felled him clouded most minds. But two members did stop, whipped out cell phones and dialed 911.

Tarot had fallen back and was out of the building and speeding down the Hill on a bicycle before the first siren sounded. Capitol Police swarmed the corridor and sat Flash up against the wall. He was bombarded with questions until the realization struck the authorities that the man could not talk. His jaw was smashed into several pieces.

By this time, Tarot had abandoned the stolen bicycle and was strolling along the Tidal Basin with the look of a mindless tourist. He spotted a pair of youthful female Japanese tourists on a park bench, immediately recognizable by their attire and hairstyle. One even had a Hello Kitty backpack.

Approaching them with a broad smile, one placed a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Neither spoke good English, but to learn was part of their mission. Their eyes widened when this American man spoke to them in fluent Japanese. He took a seat next to them on the bench. Their day, and possibly their night, was certainly made.

The news of the Flash incident spread quickly across Capitol Hill and then to the White House and into every government agency. The Pentagon and Homeland Security went on full alert. It wasn't long before the White House pressroom was abuzz connecting the two events – Brooking's cracked ribs and Fern's smashed jaw.

The office of the press secretary was deluged with questions, a virtual avalanche. But who would have done such a thing? The press secretary implored the chief of staff to come up with an answer. Curtis German told the press secretary to pass the word to the press. Every law enforcement agency, including the many faces of Homeland Security plus the Pentagon and the four armed services – each of these agencies in Washington and Northern Virginia – were hard at work and would soon get to the bottom of it. He counseled patience and prayers for a quick recovery for Flash Fern.

Meanwhile. Flash Fern held the attention of several surgeons who crowded around him in an operating theater discussing ways to repair his jaw. There were multiple fractures that would require a complicated series of wires. But where to start?

Outside the operating room lawmen from several agencies waited, hoping the doctors might give them some clue as to what had hit Fern's jaw. Perhaps there would be tiny shards of something or other embedded in it. There had been a fruitless search at the Capitol as to what caused the loud bang that a host of witnesses said had panicked House members. But none had witnessed an explosion. Whatever remnants must have been carried off.

Committee chairmen were busy mulling the idea of hearings, urging their staff members to come up with a list of witnesses.

Three days later Jon Flash Fern was released from the hospital. He carried an ample supply of pain pills and could drink through a straw. Smoothies and daiquiris were his chief form of nourishment.

There had been no breaks in the case. The finest investigative agencies in the nation were totally baffled.

At the Washington Hilton, a Japanese tourist couple was having breakfast, the man reading The Washington Post. He remarked to his wife, "This business of the congressman with the broken jaw. It sounds to me like the work of a ninja."

He smiled and his wife laughed out loud.

The patience of the press was running thin. They demanded that the press secretary produce the President, who might be a key to the puzzle. Possibly whoever was responsible for this obvious act of vengeance might have contacted him either before or after.

To quash the hubbub, the President agreed to a late-afternoon press conference, scheduled well in advance so everyone might attend. It drew such a crowd that the venue had to be changed to the Rose Garden.

When the President appeared the first question was, "Have you talked to Congressman Fern?"

Brooking smiled, but suppressed laughter. "Flash cannot talk. So I said it with flowers."

"What kind of flowers?" came the follow-up.

"Appropriate for the occasion."

"And what might they be?"

"Whatever the florist and my secretary agreed upon."

The Baltimore Sun got right to the point. "Do you know who made this attack, or who planned it, or do you have any information regarding the attack?"

"I have been briefed by the attorney general who is touch with the numerous agencies investigating. I seem to have been told precisely what has appeared in the papers and on TV, tweets, social networks and so forth. It seems to be a great mystery."

The Sunpapers reporter followed up. "Do you have any theories?"

"None whatsoever. I know some have attempted to relate it to an incident at our touch football outing. But that's simply foolish. A person like Flash, a public servant, has a voting record. He must make certain decisions. When that is done some are pleased, some are upset. My guess is that's where the troublemaker comes in. Maybe even his home district. What's being done there?"

"I don't think anyone's gotten into that," the CNN newswoman said. "So you think it might be his voting record?"

"Possibly, or maybe one of his speeches. He's quite an orator so I've been told. I've not heard many of his talks, I'm too busy to watch C-Span. He seems to be on the wrong side of several women's issues."

The Fox TV newsperson snapped back, "What's the wrong side?"

"It's the wrong side by my definition, not his. Abortion, birth control, job pay equality, things of that nature. We all know what they are."

"I don't know what they are," the Fox reporter replied, obviously miffed.

"These are contentious issues," the President replied evenly. "If you are unaware of the controversy you must have just flown in from Mars. Any other questions?"

He pointed to an obscure reporter in the back, doubtless a one-man bureau probably from a fly-over state.

"Do you consider this poetic justice, Sir?"

"That's an interesting question. I've not read a whole lot of poetry, but I do go for the term justice. So, poetic justice, I'm aware of the term. Now take Beowulf. Do you think that's a poem or do you think it's one of the first novels?"

"I'm not certain, Sir. Is he a member of Congress?"

A riffle of laughter swept the crowd.

A CBS commentator shouted out that Beowulf was a novel because there was character development.

A cable newsperson declared that Beowulf was an epic poem. Then attempted to elaborate. "Beowulf was the hero of the Geats who came to help Hroogar, king of the Danes, who had been under attack by Grendel. Beowulf slays Grendel whose mother takes offense..."

At that juncture the speaker was shouted down and the news conference descended into disarray. Brooking took advantage of the turmoil to excuse himself, retreating to his office for the evening drink. There he found Tina waiting, drink in hand, watching a live feed of the press conference.

"Quite a little melee," she said. "It was a nice touch to invoke Beowulf."

"I thought so. I'm tired." Brooking slumped in a comfortable chair. "Care to fix me a drink?"

"Certainly, Master Bruce. It's a strange, strange world that we live in."

Drink in hand, a couple of sips down, Brooking gave her the evil eye and said, "This Flash thing puzzles me."

"The authorities must have it well in hand. It's no concern of yours."

"But it was slick. Well planned. Well executed. Who could have done such a thing?"

Tina laughed. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It had been called to the President's attention that ExxonMobil had been dumping oceans of cash into goodwill advertising.

"For what purpose?" he asked his chief of staff, who had made the observation.

"To give the public a warm fuzzy feeling about the company."

"Do you own stock?"

"No. Maybe I should. Advertising is a legitimate cost of doing business. If your profits are huge, you really don't miss the cost."

"Possibly that's true, but oil firms, speaking generally, don't market their products retail."

"They do," Curtis German said. "The various companies have service stations. They compete."

"You call that competition? Gasoline prices go up and down in lock step, station by station."

"True. But they peddle credit cards, discounts for cash. Of course prices near expressways are usually a little higher. You might write that off to the properties being more expensive."

"Or you might write that off to greed," Brooking said. "But the country's been struggling with this for some time. Someone once wrote that there are short spaces of time when our minds are spotlessly clear of worry. At those intervals panic has taken over."

"A wise man."

"Or woman. You well know that maybe sixty percent of federal spending, maybe $2.1 trillion, goes for social programs – including Pell Grants, Medicaid, food stamps, Medicare. Social Security. Then tax codes may favor the rich. Then there's the military, a standing military and gadgets far beyond our needs. We could fix the problem if all parties could get together, but no one wants to give an inch."

"You said a mouthful."

"Sadly, maybe I did. But I suppose I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for all those problems. Problems that while campaigning I promised to remedy. Of course the other candidates did too.

"You're working on it, Mr. President."

"Bit by bit. One step at a time. A famous author once voiced a belief that if the military would give up its glitzy uniforms with all that gold, brass and ribbons; if they would dress in tacky coveralls, or as lumberjacks in second-hand garments, those problems might vanish like a gambler's lucky streak."

"We could start the trend, Sir. Lead by example."

"Sure." Brooking laughed. "Me, you and the vice president can dress like the three stooges."

"I'll be Moe."

"No. I want to be Moe. You can be Curly. Wasn't he bald?"

Later that day, far into the evening, following a reception honoring Habitat for Humanity volunteers, Brooking and Tina Geer got together for a drink and some brie and crackers she had rescued from the reception.

"I thought you'd get some shrimp," Brooking said.

"They were all eaten. Those volunteers eat like construction workers."

"They are construction workers," the President said. "They are construction workers who eat like ravenous wolves. It's difficult not eating or drinking during those things, but it's the best idea. Stuffing one's mouth makes speech and small talk a problem. Drinking without eating tends to damage one's equilibrium."

"At least we have each other and our cheese and a few broken crackers and a fairly good bottle of wine. In truth, three bottles of wine. I like the Pinot Grigio, the red tends to catch me by the heels."

"Ah, yes. Thank God for the Italians." He smeared Brie on a cracker, popped it in his mouth and took a sip of white wine. "I've been thinking of doing a number on one problem facing the nation. Of course not ignoring everything else, but bringing one problem into focus."

"And attempting to solve it?"

"At least lessen the burden. If we could solve one problem totally and then go on to the next, it wouldn't be long 'til our country was perfect. But we can at least take our best shot."

"You mean jawboning?"

"No. Talking won't cut it. Maybe later on. But we need to do a little spade work initially."

"I'm assuming when you say 'we,' you mean the two of us?" Tina refilled her glass and dabbed at her face with a cocktail napkin.

"Of course. We're in this together. Can you guess what the problem might be?"

"I could, but I'd rather have you tell me. You're such a big, brawny, handsome brainy fellow. You have it all figured out don't you?"

"Of course."

"Does it involve sex?"

"Maybe."

"OK. Out with it."

The President drained his glass, refilled it and raised it as if to toast. "The biggest problem facing this country and the world in this decade, in this century is...drum roll please...energy."

"Right on target," Tina agreed.

"But first I'd like to get something off my mind. If I'm a fair-minded individual with the good of the country at heart, why doesn't everyone think like me? Why don't we all pull together?"

This brought a chuckle and an eye roll from Tina. "Should I go along with the gag?"

"Please do."

"Greed and power."

"Do you mean the accumulation of money and the longing to be admired by one's fellows?"

"Admired, respected, feared. Does that sum it up? Can we open another bottle?"

"Easy," Brooking said. "Screw caps." He lifted one from the floor by his chair and twisted the top off, handing it to Tina who poured herself a full measure. She loved philosophy and ethics. He added, "Conscience does make cowards of us all."

"Thank you, William S. But as a paragon of virtue myself, I will not lead you awry, despite your best-laid plans."

It was the President's turn to roll his eyes. "I think we're both getting slightly trashed, or tipsy, whatever. Let's have sex on the floor, kill the wine and take up the topic tomorrow. I'm working on a plan and may need help."

"Are you talking ninja?"

"At the moment it's nebulous pie in a cloudy sky. Embrace me, my sweet."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brooking wished to continue his conversation of the night before, this time without alcohol. He had fitted Tina in after a luncheon with a diverse delegation of fishermen, which included those who trapped lobster and regular fisher folk from Alaska and New England, prior to a cabinet meeting.

There was adequate time for a long chat. "I believe I know what's wrong with this country and the rest of the world," the President began.

"A revelation?" the Vice President questioned.

"Something of that order. The problem lies in the Industrial Revolution."

"Can it be fixed?"

"No. Too late."

"You're talking about the revolution itself, aren't you?"

"Of course," Brooking replied. "When people stopped farming and started making stuff to sell to one another. The end was inevitable."

"And that end?"

"We would run out of things to buy and sell. No one would really want much of anything. There would be no money to buy things. The so-called economy would slowly grind to a halt. Take paper. A few years ago we were worried about harvesting forests for newsprint. Now newspapers are fading away. Electronic news delivery is king. Very little typing paper still used."

"There will always be a demand for toilet paper. Maybe even more so as primitive countries develop. Do you think we should all go back to farming and drive horse or goat carts?" Tina questioned.

"That would be an answer, but again too late."

"Then you are content to face things as they are? I mean there's a certain reality out there." She waved her arm toward the window.

"You mean in the Rose Garden?"

"Well, yes, but also in the wide world as we know it. But confined to this planet." Tina smiled a delicious smile. "So what's your answer?"

"Once again, energy. I'm placing it at the top of my agenda for the immediate future and maybe beyond."

"Beyond what?"

"Beyond the election. I think the American people owe me a second term. I've only just begun."

Another broad smile. "Let's hope a majority of the American voting public feel the same way."

"You'll be by my side," he said cheerfully, "A staunch vertical supporter and a comfort horizontally."

"Plus a trusted advisor and campaigner." Tina bridled at the thought of being simply a sexual partner. She demanded a full partnership in every way. Brooking was keenly aware of her value in that capacity and had voiced it time after time. Academically, she was his senior.

"I'd be lost without you. Now let me throw out a few thoughts on the energy thing. Just trying to clear my head. I've made a list."

Brooking picked up a paper from his desk, glanced at Tina and said, "This is a short list. I've condensed it from a longer list. Electricity, biomass energy from plants, geothermal energy, fossil fuels, coal, oil and natural gas, hydro power and ocean energy, nuclear energy, solar energy, wind energy and transportation energy."

He looked up and shrugged, as if expecting a comment.

Tina responded. "I don't understand transportation energy because transportation eats up energy, but I am fascinated by ocean energy. Not only is it not fully exploited, it's hardly exploited at all. Agreed?"

"Totally, the oceans and seas are powerful forces, driven by tides and other factors. I think you can trace all energy back to the sun. But think of the heaving masses of great waters, pulled by the moon, whipped by the winds, the great northern force of tides and consistent sea currents. Day and night, twenty-four/seven. These forces were known to those who manned sailing vessels thousands of years before the birth of Christ."

"So, what's your plan?"

"There's been consistent criticism of coal and nuclear power. Hydro dams also meet with opposition wherever they're proposed. We have natural gas and oil, but it won't last forever."

"But it should see us through our lifetime," Tina tossed in.

"True. And this is what we must deal with. Big oil, you might say ExxonMobil and a few others, seem to think they're above the fray. Administrations come and go, but they go on forever. But they are peopled by ordinary people remarkably like you and I. So our flaws are their flaws."

"And my house is your house, whatever that means. I believe that I have flaws that are unique to my being. Don't go selling me short."

"Tina, I apologize, you have remarkable flaws, some yet to be detected. I'm merely saying that big oil is made up of mortal men and women. They walk among us. Collectively they provide us with a valuable necessity. Something at the moment we would be hard pressed to do without. But they drag their feet in certain areas. They might be more helpful."

"Do you have specifics?"

"Of course. The obvious. They are seldom out in front when it comes to oil spills. Despite this they enjoy excessive profits and too kindly a treatment by the government. If they could just make certain adjustments to their outlook and be a bit more helpful. Is that asking too much?"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A crisis a day would not be an understatement for the person who fills the power chair in the Oval office. Some major, some quite minor. It was a seemingly minor matter that might turn into something major if blown out of proportion by the opposition and the opposition press.

That there was an opposition press seemed an oxymoron. Traditionally the press had vowed to publish the news without fear or favor while comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable.

Neither of those seemed to apply in this particular case, brought to the President by his press secretary, Tutor Conlon.

"I thought I'd better tell you, Mr. President." Conlon spoke in a barely audible voice, throwing furtive glances this way and that.

The President interrupted him to say, "We're alone here, Tutor. There are no bugs. Please have a seat and speak up."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'll come to the point. I've had sex with an underage intern, and she's threatening to expose me. I don't know which way to turn."

Brooking was not aghast at the confession. This was Washington, but it could also happen in Peoria, or Yellow Knife. "As I recall, Tutor, you're married."

"Yes, Sir. Have been for some time. It's strictly a secret, you might say back street affair. We've used protection and have sworn to simply keep it as a brief affair. But the young lady seems to have changed her mind."

"Is there blackmail involved?"

"I suppose. She wants me to divorce my wife and marry her."

"That would certainly qualify. It doesn't seem to me like a wholesome basis on which to ground a marriage. You must have said to this youthful intern that you loved her."

"I did, and in a way I do. She also suggested that taking sexual advantage of a minor might earn me ten to twenty years in prison."

"She is no dummy. But again, a threat like that would not necessarily launch a successful marriage. There would be a type of dark cloud hanging over the entire scenario. My first thought is to rid the White House of the pair of you. My second is you've been a successful press secretary, have great presence and poise from the lectern and seem to have the confidence of the media. Thus I would hate to lose you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"As President, I cannot advise you in this matter." Conlon seemed to pale at this statement. He had hoped the Oval office might solve what for him was a hideous dilemma. But then Brooking added, "A similar problem was mentioned to me by my personal trainer, Tarot Jones. You may have met him."

"Yes, Sir. He is well known in these quarters. A gifted trainer and a fine gentleman."

"So I advise you to seek his advice. I generally meet with him privately in the early morning. To insure a private meeting with him, I'll mention to him that you will take my spot tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Thank you, Sir."

After Conlon had departed, Brooking sat back and pondered the niggling small matters that often intruded on the time of a chief executive. Then he picked up the phone and called his ninja to fill him in on the problem and the possible solution.

He suggested Tarot check the young lady's background to find a few skeletons and see if she might be amicable to a pay-off. Obviously, if she carried through with her plan to expose Conlon, both he and she would be tossed out of the White House. That seemed unlikely.

Three days later Conlon again appeared in the Oval office and said the matter had been settled amiably. "Tarot said he had learned, and I'll never know how, that Lydia, for that's her name, has a boyfriend back home in Oklahoma, and another on Capitol Hill, another intern it seems. You see interns get together now and then, there are hookups."

"Hookups and hookups," Brooking observed.

"So how was it resolved?"

"I think she was going to plead pregnancy and ask for the money for an abortion. I mentioned that any disclosure would be a scandal that would get both of us bounced out on our ass."

"And?"

"Lydia cried. Crocodile tears streamed down her pretty face. She kissed me and said goodbye. As a parting shot she said the two of us must never meet again."

"Dramatic."

"You bet since she works in my office. That's how we got together in the first place. She's something of a flirt. You might say a flashing flirt."

Brooking sighed. "Well, let's keep her. I guess she won't be around too much longer."

"Two months," the press secretary said.

The President nodded. "I'd like you to release an incident to the press. It involves Fancy."

"The cat?"

"Yes, the White House cat that caused such a stir. She brought a dead mouse to my desk the other day."

"She must like you."

"Cats have always been fond of me."

"What happened to the mouse?"

"I dropped it in the waste basket."

"No autopsy?"

"None. I've never thought mice carry diseases. I wouldn't mind mice except they leave droppings all over countertops. They are not toilet trained, or do not have the good grace to do their business out of sight. By such action, they give their presence away, which sparks different reactions from different individuals. Anyway, the press becomes almost breathless where Fancy is concerned."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

How to reign in big oil puzzled Brooking. The public saw the results with some disgust at the gas pumps. The Congress, both houses, saw big oil through the eyes of an army of lobbyists who demanded continued subsidies, tax loopholes and paid off handsomely with campaign contributions.

The so-called "house" ad campaign also worked nicely for the various companies. What they contributed toward efforts to save the country and the planet.

The President knew he had to walk softly. Big oil supplied the nation with fuel for autos, homes, factories and farms. There were good works being done outside their own special interests. There were big oil executives who were philanthropists and who cared very much for the environment.

But there was also a flip side, a dark side that kept energy costs unnaturally high and chewed away at the economy, much like a crew of mice gnawing away at a farmer's profits.

Calling in his chief of staff, he asked German to provide him with the names of the top five oil lobbyists in Washington.

"The top one is easy," German said. "He's a lawyer, Derek Park. I've heard the price for a stranger to get an appointment, actually enter his office, is ten thousand dollars."

"Some practice. I'd like four others just to keep things balanced. Do they work together?"

"You mean as a group? Yes and no. They form liaisons for certain tasks, then form other liaisons, then always lone wolf-it for special members. They form personal attachments with certain members. Maybe from their home state, or college chums, or simply money. So as far as one all-powerful man is concerned, Derek Park comes close, but he could never work alone on an issue."

"Would you say there are many issues?" Brooking knew the ins and outs of the oil industry and what the issues might be, but he enjoyed listening to German's input in hopes of learning something new.

"Everyday. Oil spills, pipeline debates, issues with foreign powers."

Brooking interrupted to ask, "Do these lobbyists reach into oil producing countries?"

"Damn right they do. They have sources and operatives worldwide. Big oil is dependent on them. A problem flares, they're expected to tamp it down."

"And the oil companies, they work in partnership too, don't they?"

"Of course."

"See if you can get me four more names anyway. I'd like a manageable group of people."

German smiled slyly. "If you think you can manage big oil and their lackeys, well, more power to you. It's been tried before."

"I don't intend to manage them. I simply hope to work with them for the common good. You know, oil production through hydraulic fracturing, or fracking, is driving the EPA crazy. Farmers, ranchers and simple home owners complain that it's ruined their water supply."

"I'm sure it has in some cases, but the system works."

"I understand that," the President said. "And it's created an old-fashioned boom town in the western and northern tier of states, complete with drugs, prostitution and high crime. With the good comes the bad, then there's the water supply."

"I'll get you four more names," German promised.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Brooking had been studying the process of extracting natural gas from methane hydrates for some time. He didn't fully understand it, but he had been instrumental in funding the ongoing experimentation. The secretary of energy was in charge of the program.

Results could not be expected overnight. The Energy Department's investment in shale gas research during the 70s and 80s helped pave the way for the ongoing boom in natural gas with a projected cost slash of thirty percent.

He had gathered from his reading that these methane hydrate formations were widespread around the globe. Ongoing efforts would likely safely extract natural gas from such formations in the Arctic and along the U.S. Gulf Coast.

Brooking was distracted from his energy studies by Tutor Conlon who said there had been numerous press inquiries about the cat and mouse incident.

"You mean Fancy and that dead mouse?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, Sir. The public seems fascinated by the White House cat and the adventures of that cat."

After a thoughtful silence, the President said, "Yes, I'll drop by the pressroom after lunch, say at 2 p.m., and discuss that compelling issue."

"They'll be pleased, Sir. Nothing like a good feline tale to startle the news cycle."

Brooking stepped into the pressroom sharply at two, no reason to keep the newshounds waiting. When Conlon suggested the press was eager to learn more, he had immediately thought of his mouse analogy and planned to work it into his statement.

"I'm told you're interested in the activities of Fancy the cat. Of course she is my favorite cat, in fact the only White House cat."

"Would you enjoy a second cat, a companion for Fancy?" a woman from the Post questioned.

"The thought never crossed my mind, possibly because it would be offensive to Fancy. The idea of a companion cat would likely be foreign to her. Cats are often solitary beings, although I've known them to pair off. Down on the farm in Iowa there were quite a few cats coming and going. So during my growing up years I had an excellent opportunity to observe the, you might say, ecology of the domestic cat."

"The cat population on the farm then was made up strictly of domestic animals?" A question from the Kansas City Star.

"Excellent line of thought there, Carl. Very likely there were feral cats mixed in with the lot, cats that had simply come out of the woods to enjoy the easy farm life and share companionship, if only for the moment. So we had a mixture of domestic and others you might classify as wild."

A female reporter from the Newark Advocate raised her hand and asked, "Did you feed these animals and take them on regular trips to the vet?"

This brought a smile to Brooking's face. "Yes, we bought large bags of dried cat food, quite inexpensive, really. It was my job to pour what I considered the proper amount into a trough each morning and to make certain two large bowls were filled with water. As for trips to the vet, on Iowa farms, the only vets are those that treat large animals. Cows, horses, pigs, sheep and so forth. Small animals lived much like we did, hoping we wouldn't fall ill."

"That's inhumane," the woman scoffed.

"Perhaps, but you might call it a lingering pioneer spirit. I'm guessing the same situation is true at this moment on the majority of family farms across the nation. The cats do serve a useful purpose. They catch and destroy mice, just as Fancy has done in the White House."

"A modern task for exterminators," the same woman tossed in.

"I might give you an analogy that came to mind recently. I've been debating with my staff the pros and cons of big oil. On one side, big oil is good; it gives us energy, provides jobs and does other good work.

"On the flip side, excessive profits keep prices high at the gas pump, the government provides unneeded subsidies and there are tax loopholes that steal money from the American public. This bad side is aided and abetted by an army of highly financed lobbyists. You might liken them to an army of mice eating away at the farmer's profits, and thus bringing grief to the consumer."

"Is your administration at war with big oil?" the Boston Globe asked.

"The term 'at war' has been used and abused entirely too much. I began my statement by pointing out the good side of big oil. What I intend to do is work hand in hand with big oil and help them help themselves to a much brighter future."

"They can't do that alone?" the Canton Repository asked.

"As the song goes, The Times They are a'changin'. We have fracking, sometimes at odds with the EPA, we have a multiplicity of other energy sources in the development stage. I have the Department of Energy. This administration holds out its arms to embrace big oil. We look forward to a balmy courtship."

Brooking noted with pleasure that the print scribes were scribbling at their best pace. He was pleased with the 'balmy courtship' phrase. But to end the session on a light note, he turned back to the cat.

"I've made the statement that cats seem to be fond of me. As you know, they are independent creatures and do as they please. My impression of their fondness for me comes from the observation that they do not reject me. There is a difference between fondness and the lack of rejection. So I must say they tolerate me."

"Is there some depth to these feelings of inadequacy?" the reporter from Le Monde questioned, bringing a prolonged snicker from the crowd.

Brooking too smiled. "You French, you are so, what should I say, charming in your dialectics, if that is the proper word. My point is the cats, like the French, are loyal to their food bowl." A howl of laughter from the press corps and a look of indifferent disdain from the Parisian reporter. "I fed the cats on the farm so they may have actually enjoyed my company. I also feed Fancy."

"You feed Fancy?" the Post reporter asked in disbelief.

"I do. I have small cans of quality food that I open with a pull top. One can a day. I do not clean the cat box. The regular janitorial service takes pains with that chore. So, good day ladies and gentlemen." He turned and retreated to the safety of the Oval office.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Curtis German supplied the names of four additional prominent big oil lobbyists: Samuel Gilkes, Alexander Thompson, Hugh O'Brien and Erin King.

Brooking asked him to arrange a breakfast or luncheon meeting with the man he considered the top lobbyist, Derek Park, at the White House. German came back with the message that Park was reluctant to come to the White House, that he preferred neutral territory.

Brooking shrugged. "Hardly worth fighting over a location. The request indicates a reluctance to cooperate. Just don't carry it any farther."

"Shall I tell Park that?"

"No. Just forget the request."

The President decided to wait a day or two and then go to the second tier of lobbyists, maybe all four.

Two days later German reported that that Park had a change of heart and would come to the White House. Brooking was tempted to inform him that other arrangements had been made with other lobbyists, but decided not to play hardball at this stage in the game, and it was a game. Something akin to romance.

While German was in the office the President related a story about a White House cat from long ago. It seems that a small town banker was invited for breakfast with the president. Although a worthy citizen, the banker was nervous about just how to act. An advisor told him to watch the president and do what the president did.

Coffee was served, and the president poured quite a bit of cream in his, then poured a portion in his saucer and blew on it, as if to cool it. The banker did the same. The president than placed his saucer on the floor for the cat.

German had heard the story before, but complimented Brooking on his wit and went about his business.

The weather was fine the morning Park arrived, and the two of them adjourned to a small table under the Truman balcony. They were served a pot of coffee and bagels, cream cheese and lox.

"Keep it simple," the President said smiling.

"Simplicity, the secret to a good life," Park agreed.

After a few silent moments of cutting and assembling the bagels, the President began his pitch. "I thought we might agree to address some of the problems perceived by the public to hound the oil industry on a mutually acceptable basis."

"Public perception?" Park questioned.

"My job is to serve the public. In a way, yours is too."

"I suppose anyone in a position of power is honor bound to care for the general population," Park agreed. "What is it you have in mind?"

"The usual. There will always be oil spills, and the industry seems perpetually ill prepared for such spills, tax loopholes, subsidies, excessive profits."

"You want me to help you with all these things, or do you task me with doing it alone?"

"Working together with you and other lobbyists, with the Congress, with the executive branch, with the EPA. I thought we might diffuse disputes through a spirit of cooperation and make some real progress."

Park appeared to be thoughtful. He applied more lox to his bagel, took a small bite followed by a sip of coffee. "I think you might be asking me to do what I am paid not to do, Mr. President."

"And very well compensated, I'm certain. But in the end the public and the oil industry would be well served."

"And I might be out of a job. The ball game would be over."

After a few more minutes of low-key wrangling, all the pair could do was agree to disagree.

As a parting shot, Brooking asked if Park participated in a health club in the newly trendy part of the city.

"I'm not certain what you mean," the lobbyist replied.

"I was looking over a list and believe I saw the name of your firm and others as contributors; I assume for good health services. Myself, I have a small workout room here at the White House."

"It could be some members of my firm use a downtown facility, perhaps at lunch. Of course I'm a country club member. I often take clients for a loop. You might join us sometime, Mr. President. Some of my clients contribute to political parties and to individuals."

"I'm sure they do, Derek. I'm sure they do." He rose and the two shook hands. Park had seemed to decline any compromise. But the game was afoot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Park returned to his office at a slow boil, which quickly turned into a rage. He railed at his private secretary, "I want every record for payments to the Federal Health Club, that place on 14th Street. How in God's name did he get a look at those records?"

"What, Sir?"

"Nothing, just get me anything to do with that club." He was still fuming when she brought him the material. After scanning the file, he shouted at his secretary, "We made these payments with credit cards!"

"Yes, Sir. It's a health club, just a few blocks away. They billed us. It is legitimate, isn't it?"

"Yes and no," he replied, taking a long look at his secretary, an attractive woman in her early thirties. She was pretty, but he had never hit on her. The old saying stuck in his mind: Never dip your pen in company ink. Should he confide in her? Probably not. "I'll check this out myself." He was aware that she was aware that his firm regularly dined, wined and paid for junkets for members of Congress, but this health club thing was a trifle unsavory. Brooking had somehow obtained information that was supposed to be confidential. But how?

A telephone call to the proprietor of the club left him even more mystified. She claimed no one had access to those records except herself and a trusted bookkeeper. She also reminded Park that she did run a health club with a variety of exercise equipment, fully operational, in a large reception room.

"Gathering dust, I suppose," Park said sarcastically.

"Not at all," the proprietor insisted. "The girls use it. They stay in top shape."

"Well, either the President has seen your records or someone has informed him about them. I spoke with him and he seemed to know about them."

"Well," the proprietor said thoughtfully, "he is single, isn't he?"

"I don't think he's a candidate for your services. But I'd still like to know how this happened."

"We're pros, Derek. No leaks. I suspect it came from your office. But I do have a solution. Pay with cash in the future. Filthy lucre."

"If we use your services in the future."

"Come on, Derek. We can weasel and wheedle men's darkest secrets. You need us and we are discreet. The leak is very likely your problem."

"It could be our problem, depending on who this information goes to. There could be a committee hearing."

"You should be able to nip that in the bud, Derek. Anyway, forewarned is forewarned. The President did you a service. You destroy your records, I'll destroy mine. I'm on my way to the shredder now."

* * *

Meanwhile, Brooking asked his chief of staff to have a bill prepared to end federal subsidies to oil companies.

Curtis German chuckled. "You're trying to stir up the animals?"

"No, I think it's time to end the subsidies. With their profits the oil companies don't need them. So have a bill prepared that does one thing and one thing only: end the exploration subsidies. Take copies to the Senate leadership and suggest it pass with no amendments."

"Should we let it be known it comes from the White House?"

"Certainly. It's a small effort in the right direction. Any right thinking person will agree with it. How could it fail?"

German was incredulous. "There is a Senate rule that permits filibusters."

"Who would filibuster such a simple measure that curbs wasteful spending on an industry already glutted with profits?"

German shook his head in disbelief and set out to have the bill drafted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Brooking was feeling pretty good about himself and his presidency. Things were not so bad and his reelection prospects seemed favorable. Then a tragedy struck that would mar his life forever. There would never be another day when it didn't shadow his life.

His secretary, Penny Aycock, came slowly into his office with her head bowed in sorrow, stood for a moment with tears welling her eyes, then announced slowly: "Tina Geer has been killed in a traffic accident."

The President was unable to instantly process the information. Seconds later it filled his mind with horror and he had the notion to simply reject the entire statement and order Penny back to her desk.

Finally, he spoke. "Tell me the details, Penny."

"Somewhere between her residence and the Kennedy Center she was struck and killed by a car. That's all the information I have so far."

Again, Brooking paused and blinked a few times. Could this be real? "Ask Curtis to get the details and fill me in. I'll be right here."

"Yes, Sir."

He told himself to be calm, but a thousand thoughts crowded his head, flashing by quickly without pause. Tina, his college chum and now his vice president and sexual partner. What an odd combination, yet it seemed natural. She divorced, he lost his wife. A political pair. Now this macabre twist. He turned and stared out the window, losing himself, almost semi-comatose. Then Curtis German was behind him, clearing his throat for attention.

Striving for normality, he said, "Yes, Curtis."

"Vice President Geer was struck and killed as she got out of her car at the Kennedy Center. The District police are treating it as a serious accident, a hit and run."

Brooking did not fully understand what German was saying, except to note that Tina was definitely dead. "Was she driving a car?" he asked.

"No. She emerged on the passenger side. The hit and run car had to come up on the sidewalk to hit her."

"An assassination?"

"It would seem so."

"Normally," the President said, still trying to keep calm, "there would be Secret Service."

"Yes, Sir. There were three."

"And they too were killed?"

"No, Sir, it seems they were able to dodge the reckless vehicle."

"I see. Where is the body?"

"At the morgue."

"I see." Brooking was within a hair of breaking down, so he dismissed his chief of staff, suggesting that he give the press a full briefing. He then buzzed Penny and told her he would be in his residence if anything came up.

For a long time he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Then he fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until nightfall.

When he woke his mind was clear. He called German from his residence and asked him to see how the questioning of the three Secret Service agents was coming along. He also asked him to call Penny and have her return to the office, adding that he expected German to be there within minutes.

Once in his office he called the head of the CIA and requested that he immediately come to the White House. When Penny arrived he told her to get in touch with the chef and have coffee and pastries brought to the Oval office.

"He should make pastries?" Penny inquired.

"The vice president has apparently been assassinated. We don't need poison pastries. Something odd is going on."

German called as soon as Penny signed off. "The FBI has asked the three agents to come in fairly early tomorrow, maybe eight or nine o'clock."

Brooking struggled to hold his temper. "Inform the director to send adequate men to each of their homes and bring them in immediately, to place them in separate interrogation rooms and begin the interrogation within the hour. Also ask the director how many men he has investigating this murder and tell him I want him in my office in one hour." He slammed the phone down, cracking the frail instrument. He then picked it up and hurled it across the room with all his strength.

He walked quickly to Penny's office and demanded she find him another telephone, then asked her to get the director of the Secret Service in his office immediately.

She delivered the phone as silent as a mouse and crept out of the room. She was frankly terrified. She was aware of the tight bond between Tina and the President.

He used the new instrument to call Tarot Jones, rousing him from sleep and asking if he knew about Tina's death.

"Of course, Sir. Hard to miss. Accept my condolences. She was a fine person."

"And foully assassinated," he added. "The powers that be in Washington move like molasses in January. I'm trying to jack up the troops at the moment and get a total investigation in full swing. But somehow, I wonder. If you could spend full time on running the culprit down, I'll give you all the information I get, and I plan to stay on top of this on a daily, maybe hourly, basis."

"Of course I will, Mr. President. I'll have to give up my other duties."

"Do you have an assistant?"

"I have an intern."

Brooking hoped it wasn't a young lady, but found it was a young man who hoped someday to be a cheerleader coach. That seemed a bit odd, but so many men had fallen prey to female interns he was relieved. But then, who preyed on whom?

"I have total faith in you, Tarot. Let me know when you have something."

Curtis German was the first to arrive, followed shortly by the Secret Service chief, and then came the head of the FBI. The head of the CIA was the last to enter the office. Brooking had neglected to call in the head of Homeland Security, simply an oversight. The chef had come in with an urn of coffee and explained that pastries were in the oven.

"Plenty of butter and jam," Brooking said.

"Yes, Sir. Will do."

The President poured himself a cup of coffee, added a small spurt of half and half, suggested others join him, then took a seat behind his desk. No one spoke as they settled in. They watched and waited.

He asked the FBI chief if the interrogation of the Secret Service agents had begun.

"I don't think they've had a chance to get to our building, Mr. President."

The Secret Service chief spoke up and said he should be handling the interrogation.

"You were handling it, were you?"

"Not tonight. I thought it best to let them get a good night's sleep and try to remember exactly what happened."

Brooking turned back to the FBI and said, "Call your office. See what's happening. No one sleeps tonight." Then to Secret Service he said, "All three will likely be fired unless they can come up with excellent excuses for failing to protect the Vice President."

"Things happened so quickly," Mr. President.

"They like to respond to such incidents at their leisure?" He was angry and everyone in the room knew it. "Get their stories together?"

"Of course not."

"But they did save their collective asses. Right?"

"Yes, Sir. They managed to dodge the speeding car."

"And how many shots did they get off at the car?"

"None, as far as I know."

"And why was that?"

"It was so quick, Mr. President."

Brooking turned to the FBI man, who was just off the phone, and said, "Well?"

"Two of the agents are in the building in separate interrogation rooms and the teams to question them are being assembled."

"Good start," Brooking said. He buzzed Penny and asked for a whiteboard and markers. The chef brought a platter of hot pastries into the room, looked around and the President motioned for him to put it on his desk. Penny came in and set up a whiteboard.

Brooking turned to the FBI man and asked him to use the whiteboard to sketch exactly what happened at the Kennedy Center.

"I'm not certain I know, Sir."

"Then who does know?"

"The District police are handling the initial investigation."

"Meanwhile the principle in an assassination of the Vice President goes free in a federal district while the FBI, CIA and Secret Service wait until sunup. Are you trying to give the person, or persons, behind this plot a head start?"

Everyone nodded and mumbled no.

"It could be that the Secret Service is culpable."

"We do our job," the Secret Service chief responded.

"Do you, now. An innocent woman is dead, obviously targeted." He turned to the CIA chief. "Would you dispute that?"

"No, Mr. President, not from what I know of the story."

"Do you think the assassination might be of foreign origin?"

"It could very well be," the CIA responded.

"Then, how many men do you have working on the case?"

"None, Sir. We're waiting for directions."

"From whom?"

"Homeland Security. We all work for Homeland Security."

"Well, that's a clever out. Sounds like the good German excuse. Just following orders. You may go into Penny's office, roust a few of your agents out and get them working on the case."

"Now, Mr. President?"

"Of course. Why not now? The enemy never sleeps. You have your orders directly from me."

"Yes, Sir."

Then to the FBI man. "See if you can learn if they've found the third agent. You might have to comb all the high-end bars on 14th Street." He poured himself more coffee and grabbed a pastry. He was famished. "For the night, gentlemen, this is the command post. By the time the city gets humming again, shortly after dawn, we will agree on how the joint operation will work."

Curtis German spoke up and said, "Mr. President, you might want to think of Tina Geer's successor."

"That's no trick, Curtis. It's all cut and dried. Next in line, the speaker of the house, then the president pro tempore of the Senate, then the secretary of state, then treasury secretary, followed by defense and the attorney general. Need I go on?"

"No, Sir. But will you bring the speaker on board?"

"I don't know, Curtis. I simply haven't had time to think. If I'm next in line for assassination, you can brief the speaker and so on through the list. All of these people in file are competent. And you and cabinet members can bring them up to speed. Why don't you call Tutor Conlon and get him in here. I think we should tell the press the gravity of the situation and that our various agencies are all pulling together."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Days drifted by and the investigation continued, constantly goaded by Brooking. Homeland Security, a little miffed for being left out initially, had become the focal point, gathering and consolidating what information there was.

Matters of state did not go away because of the death. The measure to end oil subsidies was sent to the House and seemed destined for easy approval. Derek Park called Brooking to suggest the measure would never pass the Senate, so he might let it simply remain in committee.

"Why would I do that?" the President asked.

"It would save you embarrassment, save me and my colleagues the trouble of working against it. The oil industry enjoys its subsidies."

"Yes, but Derek, the bill is breezing through the House, no reason it shouldn't pass the Senate. The oil industry, what some call Big Oil, doesn't really need subsidies with all those profits. It's a simple measure that seeks to do only one thing, kill the subsidies. We could have closed a few tax loopholes and attempted to rein in excessive profits, but we didn't. I think in the spirit of cooperation you will give us this one. If not, there could be trouble ahead."

"I hope you don't mean that health club thing you mentioned, that place on 14th Street." Park's voice carried an ominous note.

"Why, no. What could I do about that?"

"Probably nothing. I checked for records and there don't seem to be any records."

"That is odd, Derek. I have a copy of the records right here in my desk drawer. If you'd like I could fax you over a copy."

A long pause on the other end. Finally, Park said, "Don't bother. But this bill, I'm sorry, Mr. President, my job is to see it doesn't pass. That's what I'm paid for."

"Most generously, I'm certain. What if it does pass? Where does that place you?"

Park laughed. "Somewhere out in left field. I'm not the only one working for the oil industry. If it were just me, Mr. President, maybe we could talk."

"But you can talk to the industry. And if you do, please tell whoever that might be that this bill is something the public favors. There is no one out there who thinks the industry needs subsidies. This is the easy one. If you cooperate with us, you're a hero. If you even attempt to block it, you become something of a putz, to Congress, the Administration and Big Oil."

Brooking could tell Park was smiling when he said, "I prefer the title of hero and a regular stipend for my good work. I warned you, Mr. President. You don't have to fail if you simply let the legislation die in committee. You have that power."

"You are a worthy opponent, Derek. Enjoy your health club."

Park was uneasy about the health club matter. He thought Brooking had tipped his hand by mentioning records. Now he believed the President had copies of the records. But he didn't seem inclined to do anything with them. Very likely it would cause problems in many quarters. When one takes a stick and stirs up a pile of shit it's bound to smell.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

As time went on, Brooking began to believe that the killer of Tina Geer might never be found. Then one day his ninja called and asked for a meeting, preferably fairly late at night, in the exercise room.

Tarot Jones was waiting for Brooking with a large bottle of sake and some small glasses, but not too small. The two men shook hands, and Tarot poured drinks, raised his and said kampai. They drained their glasses and Tarot refilled them.

"It was an al Qaeda sleeper cell, Mr. President. You were the target, but something went wrong. If it had gone right, al Qaeda would have heralded the news and taken full credit. The cell members would have probably dropped out of sight."

"My God," Brooking said, "al Qaeda, right here in the District. Unbelievable."

"Deep sleepers. Six members in all with very visible jobs. One was on that Secret Service detail. Probably the one who screwed things up. It would appear they thought they were picking you up rather than the Vice President."

The President took a small notebook from his shirt pocket along with a pen. "Give me a name."

"Jackson Kammer. And get this, there's a female member, a Marta Williams. She's a secretary at the J. Edgar Hoover building, married to an FBI agent. Speaks four languages, born in Iraq."

Brooking simply shook his head in wonder and jotted notes in his book. "How did you track your man down?"

"The FBI and Secret Service had a fairly good description of the car. I simply looked for a stolen one from the area, found one had been taken from a Watergate parking lot. Led me to the janitor."

"His name?"

Tarot made a motion with his hands as if to dismiss the question. "I'd rather not say. You see, I zeroed in on this gentleman, then rented a fairly remote cabin in West Virginia, two or three hour's drive from here. Then I picked him up and put him in the trunk of my rental car. We had solitude and time for questioning up there. He ultimately answered all my questions."

Brooking frowned, then said, "You killed him?"

"Quite painfully."

"Excellent. I wish I could have been there."

"You would have enjoyed it because he killed Tina. I know what she meant to you. Nothing personal, you understand. But she was my favorite too. This guy was a fairly tough nut to crack. Hacking off an ear, using a cleaver on a few fingers, then the electric shocks. He finally opened up and spilled his guts." The ninja laughed. "I was about to spill them for him. He was such a mess after that, probably happy to advance to the next place, wherever that might be."

"His earthly remains?"

"Gone."

"You know there are coyotes and wild pigs up yonder, plus crows. Let's say he was recycled. Be kind to bird and beast."

Brooking felt good. He had prayed to Tina and would pray again on this night. The circle was complete and justice was served. He downed his sake, and Tarot refilled their glasses. The President would sleep on a gym mat tonight with his ninja standing guard. Life was good and revenge was sweet.

Before they killed the sake, Tarot gave him the other three identities: Hal Adelson, a bartender; Matt Rothman, an airline ticket agent; and Mohammed Al-Quso, a souvenir shop proprietor.

Showered and buffed, Brooking felt good the next day, as if a weight had been lifted from his head. He was not a great believer in revenge, but there was such a thing as justice. In a way he thought it had been truly served and now he hoped to dish out an object lesson to Homeland Security along with a generous portion of crow.

The day was crowded with the usual activities, obligations, photo ops and massaging well wishers. His final appointment was with the head of the CIA. He had already asked Penny to schedule an early morning meeting with Homeland Security, Secret Service, FBI and the CIA chieftains.

Morning came and found the four men ranged around the dinner table in the presidential residence. Coffee was served and pastries and donuts were available. The President entered the room, told the men who had risen to resume their seats, poured himself coffee, took a seat and began eating a donut. He seemed in the best of appetites.

His first question was to the CIA director. "Were my instructions carried out?"

"To the letter, Mr. President."

"Fine. Good job." He finished the donut. "As you might have guessed, there has been a break in the assassination of Tina Geer. It seems it was carried forward by a six-member al-Qaeda sleeper group, a bungled job at that. I was supposed to be the target."

The men who had been casually eating and drinking coffee were suddenly alert. They had no notion of what had happened. Even the CIA director, who was in on part of the plan, was surprised. The mention of al-Qaeda had placed it squarely in his bailiwick.

"Of the six, one has worked at FBI headquarters for several years, and the FBI had one in custody for questioning shortly after the murder." He looked toward the FBI director and said, "Shocking, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir," the man replied. "If true."

"Yes, if true," the President said. "If true, you should probably be sent to federal prison, or damned to become a galley slave. But if true, I'm hoping it will serve as a lesson to you. This might mean you will become a better director and run a tighter ship. Do you think that might happen, Director? Or would you prefer to resign?"

He hesitated a moment, then replied, "I feel I would profit from my mistake and become a better person."

"Good. I'm not into the blame game. I merely want to clear up this mess. Why I had to do it on my own, I'll never know. The facts were there, staring everyone in the face. The FBI mole is a secretary named Marta Williams. She's married to an FBI agent."

The FBI director almost gasped, then sputtered, "A valuable employee and loyal. She speaks four languages, a rare find. Your charge is preposterous."

Brooking silenced him with a cold stare. "The man the FBI had in custody and released is Jackson Kammer, one of the three Secret Service men assigned to guard the vice president."

It was the Secret Service director's turn to protest, but not quite as violently as the FBI.

"I expected a negative reaction from you both, and judging how this case has gone so far, I couldn't be certain how you'd handle the news. So I asked the CIA to take the two into custody last night, along with Marta's husband. I don't think he is a party to the plot, but he has been sleeping with the woman for several years." Brooking looked to the CIA chief and nodded.

"Your will was done. They are each locked up in separate cells, all protesting to the heavens."

Brooking smiled and said, "Excellent."

The Homeland Security chief spoke up and asked, "Is there a chance you might be wrong, Mr. President?"

"Certainly. But at the moment, I don't think so. I'd like us all to proceed on the basis that I'm correct. The use of lie detector equipment might come in handy, and I mean on each of the three, that includes the agent. Also I have a list of three other members of the sleeper cell. I'm counting on the FBI to bring them in during the next hour or two. That is before word gets out that we've nabbed two of them."

"Certainly, Sir," the FBI man replied. "But you said it was a six-member cell."

"That sixth member has vanished. Let's say no more about him. Except it was a man."

"I'll go along with that, but do we get custody of the three the CIA is holding?"

"For all appearances, I think it would look better if the two agencies conducted a joint interrogation, with members of both agencies on board at all times."

The FBI man reluctantly agreed, and the meeting broke up with the puzzled spooks wondering how in the world Brooking obtained his information, if it was accurate, and wondering whether they should investigate his investigation.

However, with the help of determined questioning, lie detector experts from both agencies and extensive background checks, the President was found to be right on target.

When the lovely and talented Marta Williams was permitted visitors in her prison cell she was instantly offered book contracts from three different publishers. Her husband resigned from the agency and made the talk show circuit, finally landing a job as the news weatherman in Topeka, Kansas.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Brooking's depression over Tina's demise deepened, pitching him into a glum blue mood, you might say indigo. He toyed with the idea of making an immediate announcement that he would not seek a second term.

But the crushing demands of his office snapped him back to reality. He was heartened by the coming of abundant natural gas, driving down the price and cutting back sharply on the use of coal in the nation as a whole. Coal company stocks tanked and some mines were closing.

The latest threat on the horizon was wholesale tax avoidance on the part of large companies using accounting techniques that placed assets overseas, often jumping them from one country to another. For once this alarmed members of both parties who were witnessing a sharp decline in revenues for both the military and social programs.

Then there were those who insisted he bring the speaker of the house on board as vice president. Brooking would have been happy enough with Jairo Ducote, a popular representative from a parish just outside New Orleans, but he saw no reason for it.

For one thing he and Ducote had worked closely and in harmony on more than one piece of legislation. To establish Ducote as vice president would send the House into temporary turmoil in the squabbling to elect a new speaker.

Brooking told the press the line of ascension was crystal clear. Ducote would be the next president in case he was killed or resigned. Mentioning resignation was enough to send the press into temporary turmoil. He answered the flurry of questions by stating, "People do resign. I serve the people, I do my best, but I am not wedded to the office. There are others who could take the helm in stormy or fair weather. I haven't had a vacation since I've been in office."

That last vacation thing caused another stir among the press, one of whom pointed out that he had been on numerous trips around the country.

"If you think I've been vacationing on presidential trips around this great nation, you've got another think coming. Vacations are care free, and I have a bucket list."

He was pressed for what might be on his bucket list.

"I definitely have three items, but to mention them might bring consequences."

"In what way?" CNN questioned.

"What if I am able to do one of the three items while in office? Remember the vice president was assassinated. There is a theory that her killers were in truth targeting me. Something went terribly wrong, and poor Tina paid the price. My enemies, these are the bad folks who are the enemies of this country, might lay in wait for me at one of the three locations. You might recall that Marta Williams lured an FBI agent into marriage years ago, then with her language skills landed a job in the J. Edgar Hoover building."

"That story has never been fully told," the CNN reporter responded.

"Nor will it ever be," the President said. "There is a time for transparency, that is most of the time, and a time for dense fog in the name of national security."

"You are saying the full story will never be disclosed?" The LA Times reporter shouted from the rear.

"Yes. That's my take."

"Under what circumstances might the story unfold?" CNN asked doggedly.

Brooking grinned. "A herd of wild horses might drag it from me. But let me add this. Since a vacation does not loom on my horizon, I'll tell you the three outings that might interest me, not necessarily in this order: One, to drive what's left of old Route 66 from Chicago to LA. Two, a long stay in Trieste. Three, a cathedral tour. That's it, I'm gone." He turned and retreated into the maw of the White House.

The mainstream media, also known by some as the lame-stream media, had the first crack at the bucket list story as news. Then the commentators and thumb-sucking columnists got hold of it. The question seemed to be – what was the lure of these three items? Not a beach or a mountain vacation among them. Not even a desert with a novel camel ride. Of course Trieste was at the head of the Adriatic.

One could imagine picking one's way over the remnants of old Route 66 with an army of Secret Service, or through the cathedrals of Europe and maybe even South America. Were there other cathedrals? And what did Trieste have to offer?

The President's popularity was at an all-time high, thanks partly to feelings of sympathy over the death of the vice president, well known as his college chum. But his taste in vacations was questionable at best. But then, Route 66 was a saving grace – it was pure, authentic Americana, an anchor to the past, part of the heritage. Maybe we should all take that nostalgic drive with its quaint tourist havens.

While the chattering class was still active with his bucket list, Brooking's attention was directed to the Senate where the bill to stop federal subsidies to the oil industry was out of committee and headed for a floor vote.

Chatting with the president pro tem, he was told the bill would pass, but could face a filibuster. "What if you get enough votes to make it filibuster-proof?" he asked.

"That's unlikely."

"When will it come to the floor?"

"We could bring it out tomorrow."

"Do so. I'll do a bit of lobbying myself."

"Good luck with that. You'll have to promise someone a spot on Mount Rushmore."

Brooking laughed. "If that will get it done, I'll do it." Buzzing his secretary, he said, "Penny, would you call John Joe's office, speak directly to him and tell him I'll call him at home tonight. Ask him for a time."

With that done. He did something he had been putting off for two days, answering a series of calls from his party's headquarters. The party chair, Peggy Rains, more or less demanded a meeting. He could come to party headquarters, or she and two others would come to his office. She sounded angry. He scheduled a meeting for late the next day.

Still at his desk at 6:30 p.m., he punched John Joe's home number into his phone. Three rings, then the words, "Hello, Mr. President, right on time."

"Thanks for standing by, John. The subsidy bill will be on the floor tomorrow."

A deep sigh came across the line. "I don't want to have to filibuster it, Mr. President."

"I was hoping you'd say that, John. What have you worked out?"

"Well, it's a popular bill. I thank you for that. It's the least harmful thing we could do to the oil industry. I have to vote against it, but I think I can give you enough votes to withstand a filibuster. So it should be on your desk very soon."

"That's great, John. Can I expect you at the signing?"

"Hell no. I'll be chewing the scenery about the godawful injustice to the oil industry, the job creators and those nice people who light up America, keep our cars and trucks on the highway and so on and so on 'til hell won't have it."

"And I'll praise those gallants who voted with the majority. Reaching across the aisle, pulling together for the good of the Republic and so forth. All in all, a fine example. You eat yet?"

"No. Just about to sit down and crack open a bottle of fine old oil company vino. You eat?"

"Still at my desk. Not much joy in Mudville."

"I'm truly sorry about Tina, Bruce. Have a drink and get yourself some food."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Peggy Rains was angry and it showed when she entered the President's office with her two staffers.

"What is this shit about a vacation and hints at resigning from office?" she almost shouted when the door was closed.

"Just jawing with the press, Peggy. Nothing nefarious."

"Damn right it better be harmless. The party put you where you are, and don't forget it. We let you pick Tina as a running mate. Now, we are sorry that she was killed, and I won't say it's an asset for your reelection, but it doesn't hurt. Your popularity is high, but you've done nothing toward your reelection campaign. And campaign funds need attention."

The three of them had taken seats around Brooking's desk. "What is it you want me to do, Peggy?"

She made a noise like "huh" and sounded exasperated. "Get off your butt and raise some cash. I've got your little tour of Route 66, believe me."

"I don't know what you mean." He was trying his best to humor the party chair. He did owe the party.

"For one thing, Bruce, the public seems to like your reference to Route 66. It's the only thing you mentioned that seems to be in this country. For another thing there is very little left of Route 66 to tour. But you can drive it on the web both backwards and forwards with a shit-pot full of information."

He nodded and said, "Ok, I'll look into it." Smiling he quipped, "Shall I tell the press I'm taking a virtual vacation."

Peggy was not amused. "I've got your fucking vacation, Bruce. It will take me two weeks, but I'll arrange five fund raisers for you, all in Route 66 cities."

"I do have duties here," he shot back.

"And we are entering election territory and you are the head of the ticket. The entire party is counting on you. Also, you can take care of your presidential duties on the road for a day or two."

Brooking raised his hands in surrender. He knew this was coming, but hoped it wouldn't come so soon. He had entered the political life and he was a politician by definition, at the moment the top one in the country, possibly the world. "Just where are the five fund raisers?"

Peggy finally cracked a smile. She had prevailed. "Two trips. The first night in St. Louis. The second day in Oklahoma City and Santa Fe. See, I've made it easy for you."

"Then how long before the second trip?"

"The following weekend. The major gatherings will be in Flagstaff and Santa Monica. There will be three or four minor receptions, meet and greet. We should take in five to ten million in all."

"A sweet little bundle."

"Very sweet and much needed. The enemy is slightly ahead of us at the moment. With this Route 66 tour," she shook her head in glee, "it's a sure fire winner. You know that old road is also called Main Street America, the Mother Road and, officially, Will Rogers Highway. There's a lot of sentiment there."

"I agree, Peggy. You'll talk to the Secret Service?"

"Damn right I will. This has got to be the beginning of a crackerjack election season. I'm feeling great, Bruce. I could kiss you."

"Please don't."

"Speaking of kissing, it wouldn't hurt if there was a White House romance or two in the air. If you're not up to the job, I could start a few rumors. How about it?" Her eyes were gleaming, she was in her element, total campaign mode.

"Thanks for the offer, but I prefer to rely on Mother Nature. The demands of office, you know. They leave little time for romance."

"Hell, young people these days hook up in the twinkling of an eye. A glance in a barroom, catching some young lady's eye."

"How about a seventeen-year-old intern."

This snapped Peggy back to reality. "For Chrissakes, Bruce. No jailbait. Just grown-up adult stuff. Get in the swing of things."

"I've agreed to the fund raisers. Let's shelve any thought or rumor of romance for the moment. If I do a good job in this office, I will merit reelection. If not, I deserve to lose."

"How noble. Good works and a few million dollars will lead you and the party to delicious victory. A sweep or a cliff hanger, just so we win and I can have a happy old age among my adoring friends and family."

When they were gone, he retreated upstairs to his residence. In the kitchen he made himself a ham, tomato, onion and lettuce sandwich, slathered on mustard, then popped open a beer. Seated on a couch with a TV table, he began switching from one news channel to another, brushing mustard from his chin with a napkin.

He was about to get another beer when his cell phone chimed. Very few people had that number. Checking the ID, it was Peggy Rains. He smiled. The thought crossed his mind that she had found him a girlfriend. Send her right up, he thought.

"Hello, Peggy. Long time no see. Maybe one hour."

"Bruce, I forgot. You've got to bring Jairo Ducote in as your vice president. You should have done it immediately. What's the delay?"

"No delay, Peggy. If I die or am incapacitated, he succeeds me. That's crystal clear. I've meant to talk to him about it, but haven't. I'm a bit concerned about who will follow him as speaker. He's a good man."

"Damn right he is. Also he'd make a damn fine vice president."

"I wondered about that too, Peggy. Would it be automatic that he would be my running mate?"

"He's the best there is, Bruce. And the sooner you get him in office the better for the party. Some people think things are in disarray. What about it?"

"I know the drill is for me to ask him to step up. Once again, you're right. I should have done so. Get me his number and I'll call him."

She apparently was holding his number in her hand and she passed it on.

After she signed off, the President took a deep breath and punched in his number. This was a major deal, something that would change his life and would change Ducote's life forever. A woman answered the phone.

"Good evening, this is President Brooking, may I speak to Jairo?"

"He's not in, Mr. President, some kind of committee meeting. The fact is, I seldom see him. This is his wife, Nancy. I believe we've met a time or two."

"Of course, Mrs. Ducote. You know I should have made this call several days ago. Of course I want Jairo to assume the role of vice president. You'll tell him, won't you?"

"Certainly, Sir. He'll be very pleased. And it's true, he wondered why you hadn't called."

"Just an oversight, so much going on. But he was always going to be the VP, you both knew that?"

"We did."

"If you would, have him call me first thing in the morning."

"Will do."

There was something in her voice that he did not like. Her statement that she seldom saw her husband. True, Jairo had a tough job as speaker, but spending time with one's family was a priority. He had forgotten if there were children. So many congressmen, so many names. He rang up Tarot and asked him if he could do some discreet checking on the house speaker.

Next he called Peggy Rains and shared his concern. "Why would you think that?" she asked.

"Just something his wife said. That she seldom sees him."

"We're all busy as hell, Bruce. That shouldn't set off any alarms."

"I'm in this deeper than you are, Peggy. You can walk away with alacrity. I know Jairo must be vice president. But he doesn't have to be my running mate. Let's vet his private life before we make that decision."

"Of course you're right, Bruce. I'll check around."

Frankly, a bit puzzled by what Nancy Ducote had said, Brooking decided not to have another beer. Instead he poured himself three fingers of scotch in a water glass, topped it with a splash of water, stripped down to his skivvies, sat on his bed with his clock radio turned on the news and sipped his drink.

Speaker Ducote called just after eight the following morning. "Nancy called this morning and told me you had called. I'm really glad we're doing this, Mr. President. Some folks up here wondered why you waited."

"I knew there'd be some jockeying for your job, Jairo, unless the next in line steps in and is approved. That would take a few days, and I guessed you'd want to be in on it."

"That's true. There are several candidates. I think the members will make the right choice."

"You weren't home last night?"

"No. I slept in my office. A lot doing here. Committee hearings, people coming and going. It's really like running a ship. I'm an old navy man, you know."

"I've heard. As speaker, you must have an elaborate apartment up there."

"Oh yes, shower, wardrobe, all the comforts of home."

"Except a wife," Brooking said.

"Nancy understands."

"I'm sure she does. I've asked my secretary to make arrangements for your swearing in. You probably know her, Penny Aycock."

"We've met. I'll be in touch. And thank you, Mr. President."

Brooking signed off and wondered just what sort of a ship Ducote might be running. He missed Tina more every day. It would be a bad move to pick another female running mate, but he wasn't certain about Ducote. He was a popular man in the House, and the party liked him. The voters had also given him a strong majority, but this virtually living in the House side of the Capitol seemed less than wholesome. Time would tell.

Later in the day Derek Park called. "You pulled one off, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Derek. Was there ever any doubt?"

"On my part, yes. I thought we had the Senate sewed up. You might let me in on your secrets."

"Would you like to share?"

"Mine involves a steady stream of money, not necessarily cash, but favors of one sort or another. How about yours?"

"Friendly persuasion and pointing the way of the righteous. That is giving a little shove towards doing the right thing."

"And I believe that. Well, Mr. President, you are becoming a man to be feared. After what happened to Jon Fern, also known as Flash, and after you seemed to track down that sleeper cell, seemingly single handedly when the FBI, CIA and others failed at ferreting out sleepers from federal ranks, you may be hard to beat in November."

"Derek, I will be hard to beat. And if you can see the writing on the wall, I may have a place for you in my administration. You know where the bodies are buried and you know which buttons to push. You could be a valuable asset."

"But the money, Mr. President."

"I believe you have all you need and more. Just invest it in the right places, avoiding insider trading, of course."

"Of course. Anyway, who would share government secrets with me, like which contractor is likely to get the next multibillion dollar contract?"

"Who indeed. Say no more. This conversation is bordering on sedition. But seriously, you'd make a fine public servant and I know you'd put your heart and soul in whatever work you happen to be doing. Even the devil's work, which you seem to be engaged in at the moment."

"Those pools of oil do smack of Satan himself," Park agreed. "But I called to congratulate you and I will think your offer over."

Brooking sat quietly at his desk musing over what a fine running mate Derek Park would make, then a horrible thought crossed his mind. What if a person like Flash Fern was elevated to house speaker, next to the next in line? God help the Republic. Life would go on. No one is irreplaceable. Stick your hand in a bucket of water, then remove it. See the hole you made? That's how much you would be missed.

For the next few days Brooking divided his time between government and party matters. The first campaign-fund raiser was coming up and he worked with speechwriters for a generic gem speech, polished like a precious jewel. Then there were the local jokes for each of the five stops, a sop to local dignitaries and office holders. Possibly a few scattered campaign promises regarding the location. He had a good mind and a near photographic memory and was able to get a grip on many issues, faces and names at the same time.

He was a one-man campaign machine, backed up by Air Force One, an army of Secret Service agents, a bevy of speechwriters, the press corps, local and national party operatives and an admiring public. Life was good.

A day before departing on the tour, Peggy Rains, the party chair, called to say she had looked into the lifestyle of Jairo Ducote and found he was a hard working speaker with a host of friends, a man who enjoyed life, but there was nothing out of the way in his activities, other than a neglected wife.

A half hour later Tarot called and invited him to the exercise room. Tarot did not trust telephones. When they met, he drew close to Brooking and said Jairo was a womanizer of the first water. "He has no less than three women on a string and is sexually active with each. One is a government secretary, one is a lawyer and lobbyist, the third is a fellow House member. They may or may not know about one another, and if they do they probably could care less as long as all four of them are disease free."

The swearing-in ceremony had taken place the day before, and Ducote was already setting up housekeeping in the Naval Observatory. He had said he preferred to keep his old house in Falls Church where his wife would remain. In truth, this was not such an odd arrangement. More than one vice president had either failed to live in the great white house, or used it strictly for entertainment. But none was known to have isolated his wife in northern Virginia.

Brooking was steamed. He asked Penny to track Ducote down and get him into the Oval office. It took several hours, but the former speaker and now vice president finally appeared.

Brooking offered him a seat, asked if he would like coffee, then, keeping his temper under control, asked about the peculiar household arrangement he was setting up.

"I just want to keep my Falls Church house, Mr. President. Who knows what the future holds?"

"Do you love your wife?"

"Of course I do. What kind of question is that?"

"You don't seem to want to live with her."

"But I see her often."

"She's content to stay married to you under these odd circumstances?"

"There's nothing so odd about it, Mr. President. House members often have their families in their home states, hundreds of miles, maybe a thousand miles from Washington."

"Well, Jairo, I suppose we can fence like this for another half hour, but I can't have this sort of situation in my administration. You can live on the grounds of the Naval Observatory, or you can live at home in Falls Church, but you cannot live in both places."

"You can't tell me how to run my life."

"If I wanted to I could name the three sexual partners you are seeing on a regular basis. I think that would be sufficient to ask you to step down. The people might tolerate one infidelity, but three at the same time? That's a little much, Jairo."

"I thought Peggy Rains told you I was leading a wholesome life."

"She did."

"Then, why these charges?"

"Because they are true. Can you deny them? Do you want me to name names?"

"No, Sir." Ducote seemed a bit subdued.

"If you want to be vice president, you're going to have to do it with your wife by your side. I can tolerate same-sex marriage, but I cannot tolerate wholesale philandering. And I mean forever. I'll be watching."

"You sound like my mother." Ducote had recovered and was laughing.

"Well, I guess boys will be boys, Jairo, but we're grown men and have grown up problems. Let's shake on it and start fresh. I hope you'll bring your wife around to see me when my campaign trip is over. You should be settled in your new place by that time. That's some kind of a house."

"Good luck on your campaign trip, Sir."

"I'll need it. One little ground-to-air rocket and you're the next president. Savor that one."

Ducote thought about it and smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When Air Force One set down in Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, Brooking had brought the presidential office with him, including Penny Aycock and other staffers. Basically, they would stay aboard the plane and see to day-to-day administrative activities.

The governor, the mayor and a small assembly of dignitaries were there to greet him at planeside, the usual handshakes, pleasantries and photo ops, then nothing would do but a tour of the sparkling facility with its soaring multi-colored windows and brightly appointed interior.

Brooking spotted only one protester, a stout, middle-aged woman holding a hand lettered sign reading: "WWJD – Send Brooking back to Iowa."

As an opening line for his first speech, he said, "It's great to be here on Route 66," which drew a few guffaws and a riffle of applause. His bucket list had been well publicized. Everyone seemed to understand Cathedrals, but he was often asked, "Why Trieste?"

He always attempted a brief explanation. "Primitive man had been there, so had the Greeks when they were really something, then the Romans. It had been the seaport for the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had been an open city for a time, was part of Italy, but not thoroughly Italian. James Joyce had been there." He tried to cut it off at that and generally could.

He mentioned the woman with the sign. "Send Brooking back to Iowa. Not a bad idea, really. The Midwest is my home. Iowa, Missouri, the real America. Harry Truman, Give 'em Hell Harry, played the Missouri Waltz on the piano."

Brooking knew how to please a crowd. He talked for twenty minutes without notes.

In Oklahoma he used a line from the Route 66 song, "Oklahoma City is mighty pretty."

Then Santa Fe, four hundred years of art, culture and beauty wrapped in adobe. One could spend a lifetime marinating in the city and the surrounding natural wonders. That is, if one had the price.

Flagstaff, Arizona, a small city of less than 60,000 souls also has a small airport, too small it was thought for Air Force One. So the large plane touched down at Phoenix Sky Harbor International airport on the desert. The motorcade from the warm desert to the chill of near 7,000 feet took almost two hours, but kept to the Route 66 tour theme.

A college town, many of the students turned out to either cheer or heckle the President, while many of the contributors were drawn from the wealthy Phoenix suburbs. Because of the proximity of the Grand Canyon, an abundance of lodging options was available. Brooking and a couple of aides dined at an authentic Mexican restaurant, El Charro, known for its enchilada sauce among other things.

During the cocktail reception preceding the dinner, a tall, slim, big-bosomed woman with raven black hair and stunning green eyes managed to slip a card into Brooking's hand containing her telephone number. "Call me anytime, I'm discreet," she managed to whisper during the brief encounter.

The President grinned and shook his head as he greeted the next person. How discreet, he wondered. Later he gave the card and the story to the head of his Secret Service detail. Still later, he learned she was a $500K donor. She would definitely be invited to a White House reception.

Meeting informally with the press, a Phoenix Sun reporter reminded him of the glories of Rome and questioned why he was attempting to hold down the military budget.

"Rome had a good run," he replied. "But any history of that great empire will tell you that the military came to the fore not during its height, but only during its decline. I've heard the same can be said of excessive bathing." The same line he had used before.

Another said, "If it was an al Qaeda sleeper cell that was responsible for the vice president's death, why didn't al Qaeda trumpet its victory?"

"Because it was a failure. The plot was to kill me. The Secret Service mole somehow got the wrong information and gave the wrong signal. The cell hoped to remain in business and take me out at a later date."

"Then how was the cell uncovered?" the reporter asked. "I understand these people were deep sleepers and had infiltrated sensitive posts."

"They had. Al Qaeda has its secrets. We have ours."

On the trip back to the Phoenix airport, Brooking found himself sharing his limo with that tall, slim, big-bosomed woman with the raven hair and glowing green eyes. She introduced herself as Heidi Nilsen.

The President was puzzled. He had brought a stack of work to look over during the two-hour trip. "How did you get here?" he questioned.

"I have friends in high places," she replied.

"But my security is generally overly cautious."

She smiled mischievously and said, "They patted me down."

Brooking enjoyed her humor. "I'll bet that was fun, for them."

"It wasn't so bad for me. Want to snuggle?"

Brooking laughed out loud. "You promised to be discreet."

"Up to a point."

"Did you make a bet with someone?"

Heidi sighed. "I'm on my own."

"Do you have a husband? A better half."

"I was the better half. He was rich, but he passed on."

Brooking stifled a laugh. "Too much excitement?"

"He had a small plane and he drove it into a mountain. He became part of the landscape and here I am, looking around."

"For anything in particular?"

"Like anything in the animal kingdom, a mate."

"Perhaps I can help you with that." She purred and moved toward him. "I know a few eligible bachelors."

"I've set my sights high."

"That rules me out I'm just an ordinary person who happened to be elected president. Many starfish inhabit the beach. Not all of them two dimensional like myself."

"Really, Mr. President, I think you have great depth and no wife. No one to come home to."

"You've got me there. A person like you, you'd be so nice to come home to."

"So nice by the fire. Shall we get to know one another?"

"I'd like that, but not in a stretch limo, if I get your meaning. Let's talk and enjoy the countryside."

"Too dark to see much."

"Are you certain you don't have some sort of bet?"

"You are a naughty boy. So I'll play by your rules. Can we see one another again?"

"Why not."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

On the plane ride to Santa Monica Brooking chatted with his chief of staff, Curtis German.

"You know, Curt, that reporter from the Sun asked if I personally knew anything about that al Qaeda sleeper cell. Not that they were Muslims, but it dawned on me that as this country becomes more and more Muslim, and they are outbreeding us, we could have more home-grown terrorists."

"By and large the Muslims are good people, Mr. President."

"I know that. But there is a fanatical strain running through that religion. An odd spark might set them off. Say they feel they are discriminated against. Of course they will be if they continue their odd attire and the habit of dropping to the ground in prayer at frequent intervals."

"I suppose we just have to get used to it."

"True again. And like birds of a feather they tend to flock together, in this country and abroad. Whole towns become Muslim enclaves. Meanwhile, other nationalities breed less and perish. I read recently at a certain time in the future there will be only one Japanese on that chain of islands."

German had been drinking coffee. He glanced out the window. The plane was already losing altitude on this short flight. Taking the final bite of his cracker and Brie, he asked, "What will that person be doing?"

"Making sushi for one, I suppose. But here's my point. Take the reporter from the Sun, or any reporter on a metropolitan paper far from Washington. Now they aren't terribly bright. What I mean is, they may be clever, but few have taken a path to the land of big bucks. Maybe for good reason."

German was listening, but he fastened his seat belt. They would be on the ground soon and there would be a reception committee.

"So, a very bright and clever person might take a low-paying newspaper job, make impressive strides, become the local political reporter for a year or two, move on to cover the state legislature, then become the paper's Washington correspondent. This would mean a White House press pass with daily access to our building. Over a period of time that person might carry in small pieces of material and build a very large bomb."

German laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

"You may scoff," Brooking said. "But a variation of that scenario is not only possible, it could be highly possible."

"I'll alert the palace guard."

"You can send in the clowns if it pleases you. It's not going to happen in our time, but if you live long enough and your memory doesn't fail you in your declining years, remember, I told you so."

The plane touched down and rumbled along the runway. The President put on his political face, brushed himself off and prepared to meet his beloved constituency.

This was the final stop on his Route 66 bucket list. Among the Hollywood glitterati, the famous beach city was totally surrounded by Los Angeles. The President had been given a long fact sheet about the city, including its name – in honor of Saint Monica of Hippo, the site first visited by Spaniards on her feast day.

He had also learned it was the home of Fatburger's, and had read a list of well known people who called the city home, including Charlie Sheen, Troy Donahue, Bob Dylan, Tom Jones, Sean Penn, Robert Redford, Shirley Temple, Robert Downey, Jr., and on and on.

Of course there was beach volleyball, played by robust young ladies in bikinis, the famous pier open 24/7 year round, famous for its breathtaking sunsets, along with a claim of 300 days annually of sunshine.

During the first event, an informal cocktail party that carried a whopping entry fee, Brooking was asked about becoming president.

"Was it a life-long dream, something carefully planned and scripted? When was the first time you had your eye on the Oval office?"

"During my first and only term as a U.S. senator," he replied. "The party chair came to me and asked if I might toss my hat in the ring."

A few chuckles from the martini-and-pate crowd. "That's difficult to believe," a fairly well known Hollywood name responded.

"Difficult, but true," the President said. "I could stand upright, do what I'm doing at the moment, address a diverse crowd. I had a couple of college degrees, I was raised on a farm in Iowa, I had steered clear of controversy, I had a stable marriage. So I had no warts, unsavory blemishes or crime activity in my portfolio. Who could ask for more?"

More chuckles and murmurs from the crowd, a few of whom were somewhat tipsy. "Then tell us how you first entered politics," a well-known female producer asked.

"Of course. My parents decided an Iowa farm was as good a place as any to raise a child. At that point they wanted some isolation to do research and write books and papers on antiquity. Our house was loaded with books, many arcane volumes that I never opened, but also all the classics and current novels, which I did read."

"And you were a farm lad with chores, mowing the corn, rounding up the doggies," an air-head starlet tossed in. Her elderly escort attempted to shush her.

"For the most part, we grew weeds. There were a few chickens and some cats. I was home schooled until high school. The parents traded off as teachers, seven days a week, from dawn until the five o'clock cocktail hour. I was sent to church Sunday mornings. That was my social life."

"When did you start drinking?"

"Alcohol? I can't remember precisely. Probably when I was seven or eight years old. My Mom gave me what she called the French child's drink, half water and half red wine in a small glass. Only one a night except on Sunday when I was permitted two."

"Back to politics," someone tossed in.

"Ok. Let's skip to the second degree at Stanford, then graduation and home to the farm. I arrived, my parents left for New York and places of antiquity. So there I was on the farm, my farm, they had transferred the deed to my name. I had a trust fund, little to do with my time, still less ambition. I read, watched videos, got involved in local politics, eventually elected to the state legislature, then to the U.S. Senate. On the way I picked up a wife and fathered a son. The rest is history."

A riffle of applause and the party ended. Three hours later a final grand banquet, then back to Washington.

CHAPTER THIRTY

On the return trip to Washington, two things kept bobbing up in Brooking's mind. First, that he should be a better father to his son, Ben, who was rapidly growing into a man. There were two Secret Service agents assigned to keeping an eye on the boy, but he was painfully vulnerable to kidnapping, or even physical harm. On that plane, the seed of a plan emerged.

His second thought went out to Heidi Nilsen, the statuesque beauty from Scottsdale, Arizona. How could a single president have a love life, i.e. "sex life," and maintain decorum? Was there an answer? He struggled with that one.

He waited until he thought the boy would be home from school, then made his phone call, first talking to his mother-in-law. Both the in-laws were in fair shape, but they were well over eighty and dwindling.

"Molly, I want to thank you both for keeping Ben, but it's time I brought him home. I'll send someone to bring him to Washington."

"Home, Bruce? You call the White House home?"

"It is for now. I know you two are a little too old for child rearing. You did a great job with your daughter and we all miss her a bundle. Could you let me talk to Ben?"

So the arrangement had been made, the first phase of his plan. Earlier, he had asked Curtis German to step into his office.

"I want to plan a reception, Curt. It has to do with women. The Catholic Church at war with women. The job market. Women's rights. Whatever you can think of."

"How about breast feeding?"

"That would do."

"Any special time you want this reception?"

"Yes, three to four weeks from today. Of course in the White House."

"Of course. You have an invitation list in mind? Single mothers perhaps? Fresh young interns? Ex porn stars?"

"Now, Curt. You're reading things into this. There is one woman I'd like you to invite. Heidi Nilsen. I believe she lives in Scottsdale, Arizona."

"I believe she does. Isn't she the one who shared the limo with you?"

"She is. She's a strong advocate for women's rights. We had a fine chat."

"I saw her, Mr. President. She certainly looked chatworthy."

"Well, whatever you saw or didn't see and whatever you think, don't share it with anyone including, in fact most absolutely, your wife. We don't need a rumor mill around here."

"Of course not. This is Washington after all. The home of the tight lipped, land of the sphinx. I shall do your bidding."

"Oh, by the way. I'm bringing my son back to the White House. Could you have a private jet pick up him and his two agents. At my expense, of course." The chief of staff shrugged, nodded and left the office. What other things were happening that had escaped him?

That evening Brooking met with Tarot Jones in the exercise room.

"I've been reading about ninjas, Tarot. Most accounts say they work for the highest bidder, have no real loyalty."

"Yes, that was true in some cases. But Old Kaz, my Japanese father, taught me the code of Bushido, the way of the warrior, or samurai, absolute loyalty to one's master. In my case, you."

"I've thought that all along, and believe me it's a reciprocal situation. You and me against the world. I have a couple of jobs for you."

"I await your pleasure."

"First I'd like you to visit Scottsdale, a hip city just east of Phoenix. There's an attractive lady there who's shown an interest in me. Heidi Nilsen. She's a fairly recent widow, has money. I'd like to know if she's playing the field, sleeping around, or anything else that might be of interest. If you need money for extra help, I'll provide it."

"Sounds interesting. Any timetable?"

"Yes, I'd like to know something within two weeks. The second project is extremely delicate. I'm bringing my son back to the White House. Ben is sixteen and has been living with his Mom's folks in Iowa since just after her death. They're quite old, really too old to raise a boy of any age. Also the school system lacks sophistication as you might guess. Now he presents a target for terrorists, or simply some disgruntled psycho. What I want to do is send him to school in Switzerland."

Tarot rolled his eyes heavenward. "Sounds like out of the frying pan into the fire. How can you justify massive Secret Service protection in Europe?"

"There'll be no protection. I want you to give him a new identity, passport and all. I have a close college friend who I think will be a stand-in father. He will back up the claim that Ben is his son. We'll probably need a fake birth certificate for the passport. You can pick the school, I'll route the money through my friend. He will simply be another American boy getting cultured-up in Switzerland."

"Sounds solid. When do we move on this one?"

"As soon as you return from Phoenix. You're booked out of National at 0800 tomorrow. It's an e-ticket."

Three days later, Ben was back in the White House. Brooking was quite pleased because the boy had long hair and dreadlocks, a sloppy blue jean look and a wool hat. Of course there had been photographs of the lad. To arrive in Switzerland with short-cropped hair and dressed as a young gentleman would be a total change of appearance.

Brooking explained his plan to Ben on the first night, and the boy reluctantly agreed. By the following Day, Ben was sold on the plan.

Ben was asked, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. I did but she threw me over."

"Lover's quarrel?"

Ben laughed scornfully. "She was the cheerleader type, prettiest girl at the high school. She made a play for me. I suppose she thought we were both bound for the White House. When nothing happened she drifted off to the top jock, they make a nice pair of morons."

"So you are on the rebound and ready for Europe. An American in the land of the Swiss miss. Want to go outside and play catch?"

"On the White House lawn?"

"Yes."

"Next you'll be taking me to the circus. Really, Dad."

"You did live here when your Mom was alive. And we had a pretty good run for quite a few years. Things change and we adjust."

"I know, Dad. I'm cool with everything. I've got to check my e-mails. A couple of friends back in Iowa."

"Oops. I'd forgotten. We'll have to work out some plan. Maybe snail mail. You can claim security reasons. They write you here, I forward the letters and so on. We absolutely mustn't let your true identity slip out."

"Maybe I should simply stay here."

"It would be a mess, Ben. Secret Service everywhere. You couldn't have dates like a normal teen. I'll tell you what, you pick."

Ben hesitated for a moment, exhaled, then said, "Switzerland here I come."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When Tarot returned from Arizona he reported that Heidi might be likened to a hellcat cupcake.

"Quite a description," Brooking replied with a slight smile. "Any corroborating details?"

"If you wanted to do her you should have done her in the limo. She seems to have wandered off to Italy with a Spanish count."

"I've always wondered what a count might be. Where the title comes from."

"We have counties, Spain has counties. A count is the headman in a county, or was at one time. Those days are long gone, but minor royalty drags on, at least in inherited titles."

"So Heidi is lost to me forever?"

"It would seem so. You have regrets about that limo ride?"

"I think not. I'd be more apprehensive. No thanks for the buggy ride." Brooking paused, then switched gears. "Ben has made up his mind to go the Swiss route. So he's all yours. Do your best to impress upon him the need for secrecy. No whispering in the ear of a Swiss miss."

The following day during a regular briefing with his chief of staff he asked if arrangements had been made for the women's conference.

"Reception, Mr. President. You said reception."

Brooking rubbed his hand across his chin as if checking his shave. "Perhaps I misspoke. Incidentally that Heidi person I mentioned is out of touch. So you can forget her. But I do want you to assemble some knowledgeable women. I've done some reading on women's rights. Not that I wasn't aware of the problem. But it seemed more pronounced in places like Egypt, or Syria, or Saudi Arabia, maybe even Israel."

"Israel?"

"Yes. The Jewish religion seems to have some built-in notions about the inferiority of women."

"I think it's more separation, Mr. President. Each sex has its own role."

"Perhaps you're right. I'm no expert. But the Congress has struggled with legislation concerning abortion, equal pay, access to health care and domestic violence. Why certain members of those two bodies seem dead set on keeping women in their place, not a wonderful place, puzzles me."

German shrugged. "At least they have the vote."

"Very funny. Invite at least two or three members of the press, print and electronic media, plus at least one male newshound. The forum should last at least two hours, with an informal milling around with food and drink to follow."

"Finally, the reception."

"Yes, Curt, the reception." Brooking pondered a moment. "Invite a good cross section of the press to the reception. Maybe you could have them sign up, first come first served. You can work something out."

"I'll be firm, but fair. There've been requests to interview Ben."

Brooking wasn't expecting that, but he had a ready answer. "Many children have been reared in the White House, including Ben prior to the death of his mother. It's doable, but in my mind not ideal. At the moment we are looking at live-in prep schools along with the possibility of his returning to finish high school with the in-laws in Iowa. The least publicity the better. Just say no."

"Very good, Sir."

"And when we have the Women's Conference, I'll address the group, a short welcome, let them know I'm aware of the problems, then I'll sit in for a time. Maybe there could be a break for coffee or something, and I could steal away."

"If you're present, they'll be talking directly to you. Something like married life."

"I haven't been nagged for some time. It might feel good."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When the Women's Conference opened, Brooking made the usual welcome remarks and said he understood many of the snares and pitfalls facing today's women in America and globally.

He was immediately challenged by a woman identifying herself as Renee Camus, a women's rights magazine writer.

"Do you?" she questioned. "Do you really?" she added for emphasis. "Then why haven't you done something about it?"

"It was my idea to organize this meeting, Ms., Ms..."

"Camus," she interjected. "Renee Camus. It's rather late in the day, late in your administration to take up the issue that involves more than half of the population of this country. I'd like to hear what you have to say for yourself."

"I too would like to get a word in, possibly edgewise." This drew a few sniggers. "Women's issues have long been on my agenda. There are many diverse issues facing my administration. If a woman were president..."

"Ha, ha," Camus interrupted. "Fat chance."

Brooking gave her a look that seemed to quiet her. He wondered if she were on some sort of drug. "If a woman were president," he continued, "her administration would very likely look much like mine. Can you imagine a woman president devoting the bulk of her time to women's issues?" He looked directly at her, but she did not speak. He added, "Can you?"

"Of course not," she finally said. "Let's hear your views."

"I'll say a few words, but this meeting isn't about me preaching to you. The contrary is true. I'm always seeking new ideas, new approaches to old problems. There are problems that simply won't go away. But we can ameliorate them."

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 understand 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 there 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?"

"Didn't Curt tell you? He watched me like a hawk."

"Why in the world do you think I can idly stroll into a coffee shop when I'm supposed to be taking a nap?"

"You're just a man, you know. Nothing special."

"Remember what happened to Lincoln and a few other presidents. They were just men also."

Renee gave him a sarcastic twist of the lips. "So you think you're Abe Lincoln. You are just a man, but with a super ego."

They were huddled together whispering. "You're not enjoying this trip, are you? Maybe you should go back to Washington."

"I'll see it through." She moved swiftly away from him and the master of ceremonies called for the group to file in to the head table. Brooking would enter after a brief introduction. The small musical group that had been entertaining the crowd would strike up, Hail to the Chief.

After the dinner, after Brooking worked the crowd, he boarded a limo, and the rest of the party hurried aboard buses for the airport. They would fly to Buffalo, not too far away.

On board Air Force One, German asked Brooking if he should bring Renee into the presidential section.

"No. Maybe tomorrow. I have nothing against that woman, but when we first met she as well as accused me of hitting on her. How was her talk to the ladies?"

"Great. First class. The Q&A session also went well. She's a pro."

"She's also a sarcastic bitch. I'm going to get some sleep."

"Better hurry. Short flight."

"Get me off last after everyone else has boarded the buses and headed for the hotel. No, belay that. I'll sleep on the plane tonight. Pick me up at the plane for the breakfast event tomorrow."

"You are acting a bit oddly, Mr. President. But I shall do your bidding."

"The word is sophomoric, Curt."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Brooking was up just after five the following morning. The first event of the day was not until noon. An odd thing had happened. The advance Secret Service had checked out his hotel room, then moved on to Cleveland for the evening event. The security traveling with the party assumed he was in his room and stationed a man outside.

The only people left with the plane were a pair of Marine guards. Even the cabin staff had gone to an airport motel.

Brooking walked to the front of the plane and surprised the guards who were half dressed and playing video games. Wide eyed, they snapped to attention.

"At ease, men. Are you the only two aboard?"

"Yes, Sir, we had no idea you were on board. Where's the Secret Service?"

Brooking laughed. "Judging by their past record, I wouldn't know. But they likely believe I'm at the hotel. I'm going into the terminal to have breakfast. Why don't you two get dressed and join me."

"Yes, Sir. Do you want to wait for us?"

"No. I'll be Ok. It'll be a surprise."

The marines opened the door and let him off the plane, then hurried to dress.

A security guard stopped Brooking just inside the terminal. "You been out on the tarmac, Buddy?"

"Yes, I'm with Air Force One, and I'd like to get some breakfast."

The guard eyed him with suspicion, but let him pass.

The Buffalo-Niagara International Airport is quite complicated, but Brooking eventually found a small coffee bar. He was inside the secure area because he had come from the tarmac.

Scanning the menu, he ordered a couple of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. The waitress gave him a good looking over and asked, "Are you famous?"

"You've probably seen me on TV."

"I thought so," she said, then hurried off to place his order. Returning with a glass of water, she added, "We get lots of famous folks here. Just last week there was a fat comedian sitting right where you're sitting."

Brooking wondered which plump comic she had in mind. Then there was a slight whispering and stirring among the nearby crowd. The two Marines in dress uniforms had entered, one a staff sergeant, the other a lance corporal. All eyes were on them and their array of medals.

"Have a seat men," Brooking said. They took stools on each side of him, offering him maximum protection.

"You two are the center of attention," he said with a laugh. "No one's recognized me. Order what you like, it's on me."

"Yes, Sir," the sergeant said. "Perhaps we should stand, Sir."

"No. We're just three men having breakfast. Nothing out of the way. Have you two ever been to Niagara Falls?"

Both replied in the negative.

"Splendid. Let's do away with breakfast, then catch a cab. It's not far away."

"Would that be safe, Sir?" the sergeant questioned.

"I'm certain it would. I have something of an ordinary look. If I were tall and thin and wore a stovepipe hat it might be a different matter." Both Marines seemed to relax.

After coffee they wandered through the terminal, out of security and found a cab. No one bothered Brooking with a well-turned-out Marine on either side.

The President sat in front with the driver while the Marines piled into the back seat. "We want to go to the falls. We want to look at the falls. Then we want you to drive us to a hotel in downtown Buffalo. OK?"

"Of course. What hotel?"

Brooking held up a finger for patience and said, "I'll find out." Pulling out his cell phone he flipped it on and speed dialed German."

"Mr. President," came German's voice. "I just arrived at the plane. It's locked."

Brooking laughed. "I got up and there were only two Marines on board. We had breakfast in the terminal and now we're in a cab heading for Niagara Falls. We'll be back in time for the noon event."

German made a sputtering sound, then said, "This is a joke, isn't it?"

"No, Curt. The Marines have never seen the falls. All that water. No one recognized me in the airport. Everyone seemed to go gaga over the Marines in their dress uniforms. We'll be back in plenty of time."

"I hope so. Renee Camus was looking for you again."

"Really. If you see her tell her she can ride with the select few if she minds her Ps and Qs. I need to give the cabby the name of the hotel."

German sounded weary. "I suppose that's why you called."

"Really."

Brooking was again unrecognized at the falls. The three of them stood on the American side watching the tremendous torrent of water, listening to the roar.

"Quite a sight and sound, isn't it, men? It's this sort of thing that makes me love America." He was almost shouting over the noise. "You know I lost my wife not long ago and I have a son, but I didn't think he should live in the White House. It's not normal. I appreciate you two coming here with me."

Then it was back to Buffalo.

On the short flight to Cleveland, Renee Camus managed to collar him and demanded to ride in the limo with him to the Terminal Tower.

"Fine, you me, Curtis German and the driver, a group of jolly companions."

During the long limo ride she said she wanted to know more about the trip. "Why did we go to Bangor? It's a small town, not even the largest in Maine."

"I'm not a one-man show. Curt here has more to do with trip planning than I do. But any appearance is like casting a stone into a body of water, it radiates activity. The national press, the local press, the state press, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and so forth. Bangor is small, but the population of Penobscot County along with it makes for a larger audience. And the University of Maine is just outside the city. We need to bring that young vote along."

"You mean this is all about reelection?" she said in an almost rueful manner.

"Not at all. It's to educate future voters, make them think about our country, what role they should play in the future. Twenty years from now some forty-year-old Maine graduate will look back and say, 'I remember the President's visit to Bangor.' He may look back in anger, but he will have some reaction and he will be a part of American politics, which fuels part of our economy."

That silenced her for a moment until she said, "And what about your running off to Niagara Falls? Was that part of your grand scheme?"

"I'm going to look out the window at the wonders of Cleveland. Please pepper Curt with your juvenile questions."

They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. When they were leaving the car, Brooking whispered into her ear, "You can leave the trip. I'll arrange transport."

Renee smiled sweetly. "I'm in for the duration. I have a job to do even if you don't."

Even though Cleveland had gone through a period of revitalization, the city seemed drab to him, slightly depressing.

Finally, they reached Des Moines and his spirits soared. The motorcade went directly to the fairgrounds for the event. Brooking loved the tall corn song, the excitement and the familiar fairgrounds.

"I feel I've come home," he told the cheering crowd. "You can bet as a boy growing up on an Iowa farm the state fair meant everything to me. It was like a fantasy world. As you know I still have a farm in Iowa and I always will. Some go to Washington and catch Potomac fever and are rooted there. Believe me, I've been inoculated against that."

He was buoyed up by the crowd and did an extended give-and-take from the press and public despite urgings from Curt. The plane was waiting to carry them to the final event of the day in Helena, Montana. Then noon tomorrow it would be Olympia, Washington, and then back to the District.

Someone in the crowd asked Brooking if he considered himself a liberal, obviously the wrong thing to ask according to German, because the President launched into a lengthy dialogue concerning liberals.

He said the stereotypical liberal seemed to have a death wish in that he romanticizes failure, that it is better to lose the entire loaf rather than gain half a loaf. "Today it's difficult to get anyone to admit that they are a liberal. It's been branded as a form of fascism, socialism, totalitarianism and over-mothering.

"The belief that liberals believe as fascists do that the state should control almost everything is simply not true. Liberals may favor bailouts for auto companies to keep them running with full employment, but they don't favor government-run auto companies."

The CNN reporter asked about health care.

"That's an exception. An overwhelming majority of Americans favor Medicare, including many classified as conservatives. Those conservatives are the ones who say government doesn't create jobs. My God, think of the military-industrial complex. You want to talk jobs."

This drew a stirring in the audience and eventually a tidal wave of applause.

Brooking hearkened back to FDR's militant and optimistic spirit, and cited some modern day liberals as in bondage to their corporate donors. But, he added, the work goes on.

At this point German insisted the party was over and Brooking exited to sustained applause. Iowa left him in fine spirits.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

After a few days back in Washington, Brooking used his cell phone to call his father.

"I wanted to check on Ben, whatever his name is now."

"He's doing great, Bruce. His name is Hans Bruger. He's serving as our intern and he's a great help. I don't know how we got along without him."

"What about his education?"

"We're taking care of that. We're teaching him German and so is a girl his age, Helga Berger. He's a quick study, and the four of us spend time chatting away in German, just like Rhinelanders. Sometimes we get together with Helga's parents and the six of us chatter in German, although they have a preference for English. It was hard for them to believe that a boy named Hans Bruger couldn't speak German. Incidentally, he's seventeen now, a strapping young man."

"Dad, I couldn't be happier by your report. Just keep his nose to the grindstone."

"No worry about that. He gets around the dig and increasingly brings us useful information. More now that his German's improving. Everyone seems to like him. Your Mom and I each spend 45 minutes a day on his studies, seven days a week. The Germans have a small chapel service on Sunday, and he attends that too. You know we're not far from that mountain where Noah's Ark was supposedly found, or where it landed as the water receded."

"You believe that, Dad?"

"Did you call to discuss theology?"

"I didn't."

"What's the state of the union?"

"Still afloat."

"We need you over here, Bruce. The two of us won't last forever. This is a lifetime task, more than a lifetime. You can carry on, you and young Hans, or Ben, or the two of them."

"Don't count me out."

Renee Camus seemed to do well at what she did, women's issues, but Brooking thought some of her actions, not actions really, but things she said, things that entered her mind, were peculiar. He asked Tarot to check up on her private life.

"I will do it, Mr. President. But that's not something that ninjas do best. If I can have a few bucks in cash for a private investigator, no one will ever know where it came from. We could work in tandem."

So it was done.

Brooking was struggling with accomplishing anything in an election year. Sure he had Sen. Joe John Conner secretly on his side, but there was little to work with. There had been a clamor for end-of-life legislation. The medical profession's ability to suspend life in a vegetable state had gotten on many nerves. The problem was that the minute such legislation was proposed the opposition raised the specter of "death squads." It was a ticklish business, and no one had found the silver bullet. Certainly the AMA was less than helpful.

Over the last few days he had wrestled with the problem with the help of Curtis German.

"Why not name a committee or commission to study the problem and come up with a solution?" German had suggested.

"Come on Curt. That solution is so hackneyed. First of all, there would be a majority and a minority report, then the whole thing would simply be shelved."

"Ok," German agreed. "Drop it into Renee Camus's lap, make it a woman's issue. Get the right legislation, get the women behind it, it might pass."

"Worth a try," the President agreed, "you talk to her."

"Not a chance. She resents the second string. She wants it from the horse's mouth. You have to handle it."

"There's another way. Ducote is simply sitting around on his vice presidential ass. Why not let him and Renee take it on as a project?"

"Might work. Again, you talk to the two of them. Both are prima donnas."

"I'll check with Jairo first. If he's agreeable, I'll check with Renee."

"Ok. What's next on the agenda?"

"Politics. The way the polls are going I'm tempted to drop out. I have other options, you know."

"Oh, my God, Mr. President. The entire administration, the Congress and your party, every last man and woman is counting on you to head the ticket. You're a popular person. You've looked at the polls."

"Yes, I have. They're not overwhelming. You know I could carry the popular vote and still lose the election."

"That's always a possibility. The damned Electoral College. If you carried the populous states with an overwhelming majority, you could lose if the opposition picked up enough electoral votes. If the race was close, that's true. Our job is to carry the country as a whole, swamp the opposition."

Brooking sat back in his chair and rubbed his head. "Easier said than done. We seem to be faced with a moving target."

German chuckled. "It would seem so. Whatever happened to the good old hard-core conservatives? Every time the presumptive candidate seems to take a stand the following day he waffles."

"Weasel words. And they can outspend us. Of course I'll stay to the end and do my best. I do have convictions. And I would like to see some sort of an end-of-life bill go through, but I have no idea what the final form might be. We need to get a few more doctors and clergymen on board, but maybe Jairo and Renee can handle that."

"Meanwhile," German said, "another big campaign trip in the making, this one to the solid South."

Brooking smiled. "What the Nixon White House used to call the Cotton South. Jimmy Carter, a true Southerner, always wondered what he meant by that. His was the Peanut South. For others it was the Soybean South. Then there was the Boll Weevil South."

Two days later Brooking visited his workout room before dawn. He had a hard time sleeping and was alone, save for Fancy, the tiger striped cat, who busied herself rubbing against his leg, then pawing his warm ups.

He was expecting Tarot for his usual workout. It was so much better when someone was there to egg him on. To his surprise, Renee Camus walked in, also in casual attire.

After a careful look at her, he asked, "What have you done with Tarot?"

"I told him you and I were going to have a conference."

"That's a surprise, but I did want to talk with you. I have a project that maybe you and the vice president can handle."

"Jairo Ducote?" she questioned.

"He's the only vice president I know of."

"He's a creepy womanizer. You should have shipped him back to the bayous."

"He had that name. But I convinced him to live with his wife and hopefully be true to her. He's a popular guy, good with the electorate and an able congressman. Can do. Gets things done."

"And a trail of broken hearts. He's damned lucky some of his exploits haven't come back to bite him in the ass."

"You know about the end-of-life legislation I've been struggling with."

Renee smiled and cocked her head to one side. "What legislation?"

"Exactly, there is none. But I thought you and Jairo might get together and come up with a solution. It's a natural woman's issue. We need some medical folks and a few clergymen on board. If you're in a coma and drooling at the mouth, life isn't all that sacred."

"I might give it a try, but not with that creepy VP. I'll do it as your partner."

"Partner. Sounds serious. You've seemed to put me down starting with our initial encounter. Brusque. You have a brusque way about you. Change of heart?"

"Loyal to the cause. I thought you might need female companionship. A guiding hand."

"Well that's hardly possible. I live in a fishbowl. You can have your men. You go home every night and can slime off hither and yon. My only escape was a brief outing to Niagara Falls along with two Marines in full dress. Needless to say, no one challenged us."

"Yet here we are. Alone together."

"That's a fact. But there is a rumor mill. This town thrives on it. It's known you have at least one male friend, maybe more."

Renee laughed. "You mean Percy."

"What is that short for, Percival? Sounds like a Brit."

"He is a Brit. Probably descended from those old Brits who painted themselves blue."

"Druid?"

"Possibly. But more likely a Smithsonian curator and my bridge partner. He lives with another man. Possibly a pair of Druids."

"I always thought they were solitary figures."

Renee laughed again. "They probably enjoy painting one another blue."

At that point in came Tarot. "If the conference is over, can we begin our workout?" He turned to Renee. "You up for some physical activity?"

"I was a moment ago, before you interrupted."

"I could leave," the ninja said.

"I need a workout," Brooking said. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

Renee gave him a look. "You need to relax."

"Call Penny and set a time so we can get together about that legislation. Also you might be checking for some model end-of-life legislation. Maybe one of the states have done something. Maybe you can think up another project to keep Ducote busy."

"Other than monitoring the YWCA?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Penny had brought his daily schedule and was arranging a pile of papers in the order they should be read, or at least looked at.

"Have you ever thought of just pitching it in and going to some safe place and enjoying life?"

"I need this job. I have two children and a husband who doesn't make too much money. One has to live. Anyway, what's safe?"

"I was thinking of Hawaii, but it's probably expensive. Maybe some remote island out there where you could live on fish and coconuts."

"That's living?"

"I suppose you're right. I have a theory that there are villages throughout Eastern Europe that despite wars and civil unrest through the centuries have remained untouched, that generation after generation has lived in perfect tranquility. Wouldn't that be something?"

"If true, it would be something," Penny agreed. "So here you are, the President. Why are you saying such things?"

"One thing. I know you won't repeat them. Let me mention a few things: Floods, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes, oil spills, great holes that open up in the earth swallowing houses, cars and school buses, economic downturns, greedy bankers, inside traders, evil politicians. I suppose I could go on if I sat here long enough. But I seem in some way to get blamed for all the aforementioned."

"You have broad shoulders." Penny never called the president either Sir, or Mr. President. Sometimes he felt that she and Tarot were his only true friends, although he relied on Curtis German on a daily basis. Then there were his parents in Turkey and of course, Ben. He didn't know Penny's husband and he was just as glad. He didn't really like getting involved.

When Penny retreated to her own private empire, she had a couple of assistants. Brooking decided to fire up the cell phone and call his Dad. The time was fairly early in Washington, which meant it would be late in the day in eastern Turkey.

His Dad answered in German on the third ring.

"Please, English."

"Bruce, how's it going? Decided to join us?"

"Not yet. How's the dig?"

"You wouldn't believe it, Bruce. More strange animal carvings. No sign yet of any tools used to carve these precise structures. Why the world hasn't beaten a path to Gobekli yet, I'll never know, but I love it. Just us and the Germans, a few Kurds and Turks. It's much like Iowa as far as the peace and quiet go."

"And Ben's getting along okay?"

"Never better. That boy is all cooperation. He's engaged in this thing. He acts as a go between for us and the Germans. Damn near fluent. And your Mom and I keep hammering information into that skull."

"Is he around? Maybe I should talk to him."

"He's out some place. He'll be back for dinner unless he eats with the Germans. We generally have our teaching sessions early in the morning. Your Mom and two or three German ladies are going to take a truck into Istanbul in a day or two for supplies. They stay over for one night, often in that hotel where Agatha Christie stayed, near the terminus of the old Orient Express."

"I'm guessing the Turks are still having trouble with the Kurds?"

"That's true, Bruce. But it's closer to the border. Our Turks and Kurds get along fine here. I don't know why folks can't get along."

"Beats me. It's been great talking to you. Glad everything's okay."

"Let's keep in touch and maybe you can at least visit soon. Did I tell you? Helga's pregnant."

A stunned silence on Brooking's end. Then, "Helga, Ben's girlfriend?"

"Yes," the old man said cheerily, "Pregnant, going to have a baby."

"And Ben's the father?"

"Of course."

"Dad, this is awful. It could ruin the boy's life."

"Nonsense. You're going to be a grandfather, I'm going to be a great grandfather. Generation follows generation."

Brooking remained incredulous. Why was his father taking this so lightly? "Will they be forced to marry?"

"Certainly not. They're too young. Not even ready for college yet. It's been taken care of."

"Taken care of? You mean an abortion?"

"No. I'm afraid you don't understand the culture. The Germans are much more earthy than us, they are also a more pragmatic people. This is a natural thing. I mean, really, what did you expect? Helga's parents are pleased. They will adopt the child and rear it as Helga's sibling. Your Mom and I will be godparents."

"I see." A long pause, then a question. "Have I failed as a parent?"

"No, Son, you haven't failed. Now get back to taking care of your country."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

As it happened, Renee took the bull by the horns, or the bit in her teeth, and scheduled a major address for Brooking. The topic: end of life. She did have the grace to give him a week's warning. Fortunately, he had already been reading up on the topic.

The event was in the ballroom of the Washington Hilton. Congressmen from both parties were asked to attend, as were administration officials. Major newsmen and women were given seats of honor. The event would be heavily televised, which insured attendance of almost l00 percent.

Members of the medical community and highly visible clergy would also attend. High-powered business leaders, mayors, governors and state assembly leaders had been invited. Renee Camus had gone to extraordinary lengths to insure the right crowd would be on hand to mark a medical milestone. She considered it her crowning achievement and hoped that Brooking was properly impressed.

The President was definitely impressed. Staggered might be a better term. He was also well pleased. He would not be casting his pearls before swine.

After dignitaries had been introduced and the minimum small talk gotten out of the way, the President rose to address the crowd in the midst of polite applause.

"Crisis is no novelty in this town," he began. "But I rise tonight to tell you of something many of us are keenly aware of, a tragedy that stalks the lives of many of you seated here. But we have yet to even seek a solution. The heart of the problem lies with the many members of the medical profession. Over the years they have unlocked the secret to long life, yet the quality of life has been largely ignored."

He paused briefly for effect, and then continued. "The number of older people living as vegetables, some as babbling idiots, most with their short-term memory erased, many reduced to the status of confused animals, in lucid moments longing for death, burning up the wealth of the government and their children, the scope of the problem is a national disaster, a national shame."

There was a stirring in the crowd, some small outbursts of protest, but by and large a civil audience.

"If you are shocked by the blunt words, then my work is half done. I am not seeking to please you. I am not seeking to win an election. I am dealing in hard facts here. Each one of us tonight might be headed in this dismal, despicable, disgusting end-of-life direction. Heavy smokers who die of lung cancer, the obese person with a sudden heart attack, the stroke victim who dies in his or her sleep – these might be the lucky few."

Renee Camus who was seated near the back of the room, thought, "Oh, my God, what have I done?" Curtis German, seated not far from her was enjoying it thoroughly. Brooking's enemies, out for his scalp in the coming election, were beginning to smile. The conventional wisdom was growing that he was shooting himself in both feet.

Renee watched to see if anyone would walk out, but no one did. Obviously he was leading up to suicide at best, but more likely death squads. Kervorkian. Something the clergy and the AMA had trouble dealing with. Yet many doctors quietly slip hopeless patients lethal drugs. We don't talk about that.

"The rate of hospitalization for those over 65 is soaring. Those dealing with their parents' decline are confused. No outcome is even fair. Major surgery is performed on confused folks in their eighties, bordering on the criminal. Doctors are pleased they can keep a person in deep dementia alive into the nineties." Brooking paused and examined the audience. Dead silence, apprehension. The media seemed entranced.

"In 1990 just over 3 million Americans were 85 or older. That figure has doubled, and by 2050 there will be 19 million. The longer one lives the longer it takes to die. By medically promoting longevity we have created a no-death status that endures longer and longer, often a demented state that unlike death requires constant service, the slavery of offspring and vanishing resources. The burden is not only on the individual, but also upon the taxpayer. And this is not the exception, it is the norm.

"The better and healthier you have lived, the worse you may die. Exercise, diet, medical check-ups – one postpones one's affair with death, but is a long distance from being in robust health. Seventy percent of those past 80 have a chronic disability. If you want to fund pain, misery and human suffering, please purchase long-term care insurance.

"The number of oldsters suffering dementia continues to climb at a rapid pace. In coming years it will overwhelm us. Some European countries have taken a close look at the problem. When I was young I heard certain Eskimos put old folks on ice floes and set them adrift. Some American Indian tribes had similar solutions. I'd like to announce here and now that I don't have the answer."

This drew scattered applause.

"But I would like to get the Congress, the AMA, the clergy and anyone else who has a nimble brain, working on the problem. I will now turn the meeting over to Renee Camus who works in the White House on women's issues and who planned and is responsible for this meeting. Please step forward, Renee."

With supreme calm, considering her surprise, Renee threaded her way through the audience, assumed the rostrum, and announced, "The problem the President outlined is a holocaust. All hope, comfort and dignity has been taken from the individuals of whom he speaks. It is also a problem most of us are conversant with, a problem we know exists, a problem to trigger our worst fears, our darkest dreams and dread. I will now open the meeting for comments. Not questions because I have no answers. Please stand, give your name and occupation if you like."

A man in clerical garb who identified himself as a Catholic bishop stated: "Whether a child is killed in the womb through abortion, or a mindless old person who can neither feed himself or use the toilet is executed, it's still murder. It is a sin against God."

A woman then stood and said, "A group of old men who claim to have led a celibate life are trying to tell us what is right and what is wrong. What garbage."

An old man stood and said, "Ronald Reagan, who was in la-la land most of his adult life, finally became totally mindless and incapacitated, he not only cost millions in watchful medical care, but had the Secret Service clowns watching over him. What a waste of money."

And so it went for a good 45 minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Renee Camus was waiting two days later when Brooking entered the exercise room for his morning workout. "You're late. You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago."

He tossed her a questioning glance, and then sat down on the bench beside her. "You must have the Indian sign on Tarot. How does he know you're not a terrorist?"

"Tarot's smarter than you might think."

"If you only knew."

She ignored the nuance, but filed it away in her mind. Maybe there was something she didn't know. "He did say you were always prompt. What happened?"

"Oh, come on now. It could be anything. I might have lingered over coffee. Read something of interest on the web, overslept, fell in the shower."

"Well, you're unshowered and very likely haven't had coffee or checked the web, so what was it?"

"The usual. I had trouble sleeping, and then fell asleep when it was time to get up. Nothing very spectacular. And I'm not always prompt. Why are you here? You have access to Penny and my appointment book?"

"You lack something."

"I lack a lot of something. I'm trying to hide it from the voters. Do you have an inventory?"

"You shouldn't be alone."

"Alone? I just said good morning to a guard outside my door. I'm never alone. I have a thing to push on my cell phone that will summon up demons from the depths of the earth."

"But will they come?"

"I've not tried it. Never cry wolf."

"How about havoc."

"That too."

"I can be your friend."

"You are my friend. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. But I believe you are my friend now."

"Tina Geer was your friend."

"She was the vice president. I don't know what else you mean."

"There were rumors."

"Of course, there are rumors about everything. And you are right, she was my good friend. I mourn her death."

"Still?"

"Of course. There was no closure."

"Tell me when you met her."

"Why not." He checked his watch. "Tarot is late this morning."

"I told him to stay away until I called."

"My God, you're already running the show."

"Someone has to. Now tell me."

"It was one of those funny incidents. A graduate school pool party. There was a pool on campus and we were drinking some odd colored punch loaded with vodka, from plastic cups of course."

"Of course. You were by the pool."

"Anyway, I had been introduced to Tina and I said something to offend her, but I didn't know what. A few minutes later I was aware of her stalking me."

"Stalking? Isn't that illegal."

"In one sense, but this was like a hunter would stalk game. Like the deerstalker. She was positioning herself in order to push me into the pool. We were both fully clothed."

"You sensed that?"

"Oh, yes. It came perfectly clear, even with my muddled head. So I waited and when she made her move I dodged, rather artfully I might add, and she plunged into the drink. She came up sputtering much like a wet hen. Rather amusing."

"To you."

"Also to others around poolside. It certainly injected some life into the party. There were boos, catcalls, assorted remarks, many of them tasteless."

"So a good time was had by all at Tina's expense."

"She mellowed in a twinkling of an eye, all smiles. I reached down to help her out of the pool and she yanked me in on top of her. For her size, she had remarkable strength."

"So, another round of boos, catcalls and tasteless remarks."

"Exactly. But my dorm was nearby and the two of us staggered off to get out of our wet things..."

"And into a dry martini."

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"You set me up."

"I did that. Anyway, we went to my room, she got into a pair of my pajamas. I donned a robe, scurried down the hall to the laundry room and pushed our stuff into the dryer."

"How did you occupy your time waiting for the dryer?"

"There was a lapse there. But you asked how we met. What did happen is we both got our second degree. She and I married different people. I had a fairly long happy marriage. Hers' ended in divorce. We had both gone into politics to one degree or another. She was a brilliant person, and geographically we balanced out right. I skillfully steered the party chieftains into picking her as my running mate. The rest is history."

At that point Tarot entered the exercise room. "I can only stay away so long," he said to Renee. "The country needs a helmsman."

"You want to work out, Renee?" Brooking asked.

"Why not. I might as well do something constructive."

They rose and faced Tarot. Renee too was wearing sweats. The President hadn't noticed before.

"Incidentally, I think I've got a solution to that end-of-life legislation. I'll have Penny schedule you and German in so I can explain it. It's quite simple."

Renee laughed. "Simple. Of course. Just as easy as turning lead into gold."

"Come on, you two," Tarot ordered.

CHAPTER FORTY

Brooking had assembled the group in the Oval office. Camus, German, Jairo Ducote and the president pro tem of the Senate, Adam Coll. He reminded them that the goal of the meeting was to explain and lead to the passage of end-of-life legislation.

"That's been tried before," Jairo said with a negative twist. Coll voiced agreement. Camus and German sat quietly by.

"You've all heard of starter wives," the President began.

"Damn right," Jairo interrupted. "No man is infallible. You might pick a wife and let some emotion like fleeting love get in the way. Anything could happen. But the experience is a wholesome one. It teaches a man to be more careful on the second try, seasons him so to speak."

Renee Camus made a sudden movement and seemed about to speak. Brooking anticipated that she would say something unpleasant to Jairo that might cast a pall over the session. So he spoke first. "The legislation I have in mind might be called starter legislation. It will be quite simple. It will be difficult, but not impossible to get through the two houses, that's the challenge for Jairo and Coll, both with impressive records. If it gets to my desk, I sign it, and it faces possibly years of battle through our system of courts."

"Well, tell us what you have in mind," German said.

"Simplicity. Probably the only possible method to lead to a good death after a good life. At least the only one I could think of. Please feel free to add or detract. The fight begins here."

"And ends in the Supreme Court," Camus said.

"Very likely," Brooking agreed. "If it gets that far."

"I'm sure they'll wrangle over this in committee, but here goes. A person growing older, looking toward a feeble old age, would be able to have what amounts to a living will. That simple document would state that if they reach a point where they cannot communicate effectively, where they need assistance in eating or going to the bathroom, that they be euthanized."

"Killed," Camus said.

"Exactly," the President agreed. "This document must be signed by the person involved and also by either a doctor or a nurse plus a lawyer. All three signatures must be notarized by an independent party. That is, not one associated with the law firm. This document must be filed in a courthouse with the clerk of courts, plus copies to the individual family members if they exist. Also with the lawyer."

Brooking paused and said, "I'm sorry, I'm not too well organized on this. But these are my thoughts. Now, if the time comes for the execution of the will, and it would be hoped before that time comes the individual would die of natural causes, three medical people, including at least one doctor and one nurse, must sign, plus one lawyer. And this paper must also be filed with the clerk of court."

Ducote said, "That sounds similar to other proposals I've heard of."

Brooking agreed. "It is along the same line. But the problem is growing more intense each year. Through diet, exercise, better medical treatment, health care, we're causing our population to live much longer and thus become more vulnerable to the tragic snares that stalk old age. And there is no federal remedy."

"Many people would not class euthanasia as a desirable remedy," Coll tossed in.

"Of course," Brooking said. "This is just an option not a mandate. No one will be forced to go this route. It's simply there if you want it. On that basis I think the bill might squeeze through. Do the four of you agree?"

There were nods of assent. "Then, Curt, do you think you can have such a bill drawn up and present it to the Congress?"

"I can. But is that the way to go? Might it not be better to quietly solicit several co-sponsors from both houses and have them introduce it?"

"It's a chicken or egg thing," Brooking said. "Everyone would learn at some point that the bill originated in the White House. So let's be up front about it. This is a bill from the administration and the President is asking that it be approved."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The meeting was breaking up and Renee Camus lingered behind. Sidling up to the President, she said, "I'd like a private word with you."

"Anytime," he replied. "Let's have coffee."

A few minutes later they were settled in a couple of comfortable chairs away from the impressive desk. Brooking remarked, "One nice thing about being President, you can get a cup of coffee anytime, day or night."

"How many people have you bothered at midnight?"

"It's just a theory. What if I asked for an anchovy pizza or lamb roast at 3 a.m.?"

"I think you'd soon be the talk of the town. Do you mind if I call you Bruce?"

"No. That's my name. What's bugging you?"

"Bugging is a somewhat crude expression. What's on my keen mind might be more appropriate. I've made hints that I'd like to be your partner, so it comes out."

"My quick come back is scraping the bottom of the barrel. You want the second spot on the ticket this November? The convention's just around the corner."

"You know damn well what I mean." She wasn't angry.

He pretended to be thoughtful, yet he did know exactly what she meant. "You might say I'm a lonely person. You might also say it's lonely at the top. But I have a lot at stake in this presidency. I don't want it to blow up in my face."

"I know that. We both work in the White House. We see each other. We're alone at the moment even. I'm talking discretion. There were rumors about you and Tina and for good reason, your college days. You're a healthy man in his prime. Such rumors offer you a certain cachet. They illustrate that you're a man of the world, a man of affairs. Yet there's no proof. They remain saucy, spicy rumors. The best kind."

Brooking laughed out loud. "Perhaps we should simply plant the rumors without foundation."

"I'd prefer the foundation. You need a partner and so do I. Let's do it."

"Okay."

Renee's turn to hesitate. "Okay. Is that all you have to say. Just Okay."

"Well, yes. I thought you could set up the assignation."

"Another crude term. There could be a soulful joining, or something like that. A little something made in Heaven."

"Without benefit of clergy."

"Of course. Like the dawn of time, a man and a woman, cast together on the beach of life."

"Any ideas?" Brooking questioned.

"I have a wardrobe in my office. So I can actually spend the night and pop up in my office in fresh attire."

"Far better than looking wrinkled, wasted and strung out."

"I'd say so. Your input?"

"Tarot is a confidante. I'd trust him with my life. We bring him in on the plan and he will figure how to get you from hither to yon with minimum interference. You know this is really a wild and lunatic scheme."

"I know." Renee was full of smiles. "I've also suspected Tarot and you of some sort of conspiracy. I suppose you don't want to tell me about it."

"You suppose right. Care for more coffee?"

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The President had flown to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York. He was reviewed the long gray line and addressing a convocation. What to say had puzzled him, how to address and encourage our future military leaders.

They were mostly men with a scattering of women. He mentioned the plight of man given to pain and elation. A creative, destructive and restless creature. He asked the question: Does man seek happiness?

"Some," he continued, "might prefer a police state, electrified fences, barbed wire, secret police, where happiness means to do the right thing. The right thing being what the state dictates.

"Yet our heroes are those who have fought the good fight, stood against repression. The Kennedys, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesus Christ, Galileo, Socrates – - martyrs all, defenders of the good.

"But what is evil and what is right and wrong? At war with Japan it would be wrong, in fact criminal, to be friendly with a Japanese enemy. Yet now it's the right thing to do."

He spoke without notes and, he soon realized, without adequate preparation. He was right about one thing, the corps of cadets were eager for his speech to end. He brought it to a quick conclusion, ending with, "God bless our military, God bless America."

Stirring applause.

A day or two later Tarot spirited Renee into the residential quarters on one of her regular visits.

"I've been thinking of ratcheting up our social life," she said. They were finishing up plates of fried chicken and slaw, drinking sweetened iced tea instead of wine.

"You mean you're going to move in with me?" Brooking said.

"No, silly. I thought we could have someone over for bridge. It wouldn't be back street like this, but openly social. You do play?"

"In college. We'd be partners?"

"No. I would have Percy, but I have a woman in mind, Mona. She's a real estate agent about our age, divorced. What do you think?"

"We'd play here?"

"Yes, seems easiest. No messy Secret Service dogging our footsteps."

"You know I play a simple game, no code words. If I bid one club it means I have a few clubs and maybe twelve points. I make no attempt to hide the strength."

"You seem to know what those things are."

"I know something. I know there are forty points in the deck, and if me and my partner have thirty of them we're likely to win."

"I could instruct you in the finer points."

"I don't want to know them. Good cards win, bad cards lose."

She rolled her eyes. "There is distribution and there is skill."

"I'll skillfully try to remain sober during the game."

"We're on then?"

"Why not."

They played on a weekend. Mina was an attractive, sophisticated lady. Percy, to Brooking's surprise, was a burly, strapping fellow with a head like a bowling bowl almost totally devoid of hair.

Renee had told him that Percy worked as a curator at the Smithsonian and that he was a Brit.

"You know of course that the Smithsonian was founded by a grant from another British subject, James Smithson."

"I do," Percy replied. He was a jolly fellow and seemed at ease with the President.

"I must thank you and your nation. I believe that was in the mid-1830s and we now have almost twenty museums and several research centers, to name just a few of the benefits."

The four of them enjoyed their game, each pair winning a game and Renee and Percy finally taking the rubber, much to Renee's satisfaction, although Percy didn't seem to care and the loss didn't depress Mona.

They feasted on lamb, rice and a salad, plus three bottles of a California red wine.

Brooking was relaxed and slept like a sated duck. For appearances sake, Renee had to leave the White House with the other two.

Brooking woke up early, pre-dawn, feeling better than he had for some time. The weather was wonderful; he could hear birdsong through an open window. The weather in Washington could be fine year round, maybe sweltering in mid-summer, but still good. There was very little snow. If snow covered the streets the city virtually shut down. It took only a few deep South drivers to spin out and screw up the entire traffic grid.

Penny, who grew up in Washington, told the President that her Mom told her if she were sitting in the school room and saw two flakes of snow falling to grab her books, get up and come on home, regardless of what the teacher said.

On this morning Brooking called Tarot and suggested the two of them go jogging. Tarot cautioned against it, but the President insisted.

They fled the White House grounds to Pennsylvania Avenue, waving to a startled guard, and headed for Georgetown. The President was feeling great – free at last. He felt he could run to the Beltway, but slowed down a bit near Foggy Bottom.

He was walking by the time they neared the White House on the return trip. Several early risers greeted the President, and he stopped to shake hands and spend a few minutes chatting. About that time a pair of Secret Service agents, who had been alerted by the guards on the gate, came fast-stepping along. Nearing the President they slowed down and assumed their nonchalant protection mode.

"Do your job," one well wisher suggested, "Lower taxes, protect social security, bolster the armed forces. I fought for this country and you have my vote."

"God bless you," Brooking said and moved on toward the gate. He whispered to Tarot. "This is great campaigning, let's do it every day."

At his desk, after a light breakfast of uncooked oatmeal and bran sopped in half and half, Brooking addressed the problems of the day with German. "Inequality, the gap between the rich and the poor, accelerating for at least three decades, and how to fix it. Solution?"

"No silver bullet. Just keep preaching and plugging along."

"We have to promise the voters something. Something they don't have now. But I guess that would be simply plugging along. There are still many roads and bridges that need to be repaired or replaced. Yet some state legislatures are actively attempting to reduce their state's gasoline tax, which would take funds away from needed highway repairs. Schools and colleges have slipped over recent decades. They need more than a quick fix."

"Our economic history tends to run in cycles and we're on the upswing now," German said. "This trend toward happy days will create the political will to do better, to tweak the tax structure and place the money where it's most needed while eliminating waste."

Brooking smiled. "Well said, Curt. Spoken like a true politician. But how can our economy grow more rapidly and more sustainably while being fair to all levels of society. The economic gap between those at the top and those in the middle has been growing for years. And why is this?

"For one thing American schools have failed to turn out the people with the advanced technology and skills to meet the demands. Adding to this, our immigrants are largely unskilled. Then there is a growing anti-worker, anti-poor feeling among our more conservative politicians. The conservative movement cannot be ignored."

"Truth to tell," German said, "we've been heading in the wrong direction for some time in view of the division between the rich and the poor. If there comes a time that the country accepts that division as normal, we will be in deep trouble."

"We've been talking on the negative side," the President said. "Of course it does exist, but we'd better walk on the sunny side between now and the election."

During the next few days the routine hummed along, campaign fundraisers were planned, campaign ads were developed, and some discarded as too negative. Brookings attended a fundraiser in Philadelphia coupled with a conference on the plight of rust belt cities.

It seemed that former northern manufacturing centers that had lost their industrial base were short on college graduates. Graduates who had been raised in those cities were leaving them like rats deserting a sinking ship, leaving for greener pastures. College graduates, like birds of a feather, seemed to flock together. The education deficit was hurtful.

The only answer seemed to be self-help – those metro communities in trouble needed to buckle down and help themselves. Brooking offered federal guidance. He would make certain departments aware of the problem and, working with the cities, attempt to get them pointed in the right direction.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Brooking had just enjoyed a lunch of a toasted cheese and bacon sandwich at his desk when Renee Camus burst in unannounced. Judging by her appearance, she seemed to be in a bit of a huff.

"Do you read the social columns in the Post?" she demanded.

"Not usually."

"Well you are featured in social column in the Post," she fumed, walking around his desk to confront him toe to toe.

"Is this some sort of sin, or shameful thing?" he questioned.

"You were at a dinner party in Mona's Georgetown townhouse, weren't you?"

"I was indeed. Mona called and suggested I get out in society. You know, since my wife's death I haven't done much along that line. She was trying to help."

"Help my ass. You were her partner."

"I suppose that's true. There were three other couples, eight people in all. Mona said she would have included you but there was no place for a single woman. Although I mentioned that you could have brought Percy."

"She knows damn well Percy's gay. And she knows exactly what she was doing. So what do you have to say for yourself?" Renee was still steaming.

"I think what you're getting at is that you and I are a couple and that I might be considered untrue by attending such an innocent party as Mona's companion. Of course that's foolish on several levels. First, I am the President and should attend Washington social functions. It would seem odd if I didn't. Secondly, Mona would have no idea that you and I are more than colleagues. So I think that lays that to rest." Brooking was pleased with himself at the simplicity of his explanation, much like he was dealing with a child.

But his explanation simply seemed to fuel Renee's outrage. "She's a woman, isn't she? She knows fucking well what's going on. And you're just a dumb fish who fell for it."

"Really, Renee, I'm not a fish. I'm aware of what's going on in the world."

"Well, what do you think I am? Your bitch? That you can enjoy sex with me in secret, then go out and charm your Georgetown beauties?"

He was taken aback by the violence of her speech, delivered a few inches from his nose. "On reflection, perhaps I am a fish. Do you think I fell for something hook, line and sinker?"

Renee calmed down and said, "Perhaps you did."

"What's to become of me?"

"Repent and sin no more."

"Mona said she has a friend who owns a fairly large sailing vessel. She suggested I might want to join her on a weekend cruise on the Chesapeake. What do you think?"

Renee seemed delighted by the prospect. "You go on that sailing trip and you'll never smile again."

"Quite a persuasive argument."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Brooking's end-of-life speech had drawn heavy media coverage resulting in an onslaught of opinions from across the nation and abroad. E-mails, faxes, snail mail, overnight deliveries and even petitions brought to the White House gate crammed the office tasked with responding to such pleas.

The pro opinions far outnumbered the con. But there were death threats from a few wild-eyed constituents, duly handed over to the FBI for reaction. The President spent at least half an hour daily reading a selection of the communications. Some he personally answered. Of course his staffers attempted to answer each and every one.

Meanwhile his end-of-life bill was the subject of committee hearings and should soon work its way through the Congress. It offered strictly the option of euthanasia to the individual who had lost cognitive faculties as well as the ability to care for himself, and only if prearranged when the individual was mentally and physically stable.

The pro-lifers who opposed abortion, certain Christians and others who felt deeply about the sanctity of life, were the major opponents.

But the horror stories that flooded in that supported the bill caused the President to feel he stood on solid ground - stories of families that had emptied their savings accounts and depleted their energies caring for a once robust individual now reduced to less than zombie status. And there were mixed feelings about the value of a person in a vegetative state.

Many such missives contrasted the difference between life and existence. Some expressed guilt about keeping a totally debilitated loved one alive. And there were black marks for the medical community, skilled in keeping a person alive in a society that fails to understand the wrenching cost to the surviving family members.

Some said their parents died long ago, but lingered on to take a terrible toll on their children. Speak of the undead!

And there was a person who was told by the doctor that his father had made a miraculous recovery. He felt like striking down the doctor on the spot. What member of the medical profession would perform major surgery on a person who is unable to feed or go to the bathroom by themselves and who cannot recognize their own children?

Some of those who lived through what they described as agony and torture caring for a gravely ill person with dementia had devised their own suicide plans to cleanse themselves and the world of at least one future mishap.

Of course Brooking knew through his own research and the input of others that the problem would grow far worse in years to come as the nation aged and as life spans increased even more. Read the obituaries. Then consider a hundred years ago. Does one believe there would be such a batch of people in their late 80s and early nineties?

The death threats, some of them anyway, were taken seriously. Brooking had planted his signature firmly on the legislation. Abortion clinics had been bombed in the past and doctors murdered. Sadly, some of those making such threats were not uneducated snake handlers. Some were respected members of their communities who carried their own ideas to the extreme. Of course, those who valued life in any form were not crackpots. But where to draw the line?

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

At times Brooking fell into what had once been called a purple funk, a type of mild depression. Things happen. His wife dead, Tina dead, he had not heard much from Renee recently. He relied on Tarot, often thinking out loud during their workout sessions.

On this day he had received a petition with an impressive number of influential names affixed thereon. It demanded effective environmental legislation to protect entire ecosystems. There seemed to be 20,000 species of animals and plants on this globe that were candidates for extinction.

The petition made a strong case that these plants, animals, reptiles, fish and so forth were of great value to the environment, if not vital.

Brooking did not know the exact number of folks employed in the White House. He guessed about three hundred. But the late President Harry Truman had the placard on his desk: The Buck Stops Here. And that was still the case.

The petition did not totally surprise him. He was aware that the International Union for Conservation of Nature kept a list of those species at risk, and that the United Nations had taken steps to provide scientific background for possible solutions.

He was surprised at the number of species known to have gone extinct since the year 1500. The list included 136 birds, 68 fish and 79 mammals. And for every known species there might be as many as two more still undiscovered.

In his present state, the petition puzzled him. Why was it on his desk? What should be done about it? Who should he hand it off to? Obviously the buck didn't stop here. He had to pass the buck off to some lesser official, along with a demand for a solid attempt at a resolution – obviously impossible in the short term, not too hopeful in the long.

While he pondered the possibilities, his secretary, Penny, entered his office and silently approached his desk. Aware of her presence, he eventually said, "What is it, Penny?"

"A rumor, Sir. Something that might interest you."

"Gossip?"

"More than that, Sir. Much more substantial."

"Well, let's have it."

"It seems that the vice president's secretary walked into his office unannounced and found him in an oral sex situation with an intern."

Brooking tried to remain calm. This was not good, yet it bore out something he had suspected. Old dogs cannot be taught new tricks. His reply to Penny consisted of three words, "In flagrante delicto."

The words puzzled Penny. "What does that mean, Sir?"

"Caught in the act of illicit sex. Perhaps it's out of fashion. It also means a pile of trouble. How good is your information?"

"Very likely one hundred percent correct. We secretaries network."

"Ring up Jairo Ducote, the pride of the bayous, and have him visit me as soon as possible."

"Will do, Sir."

"And try not to spread the rumor. Also, I assume the intern in question is female, and it is my fervent hope that she has reached the age of consent."

"I believe you are right on both counts, Sir." Exit Penny.

Derek Park, arguably the top lobbyist in Washington, dropped by to discuss several subjects. They had become great and good friends and were in the business of helping one another.

At one point in the conversation the President asked Derek for his rags to riches story.

"You mean riches to fabulous riches. My Dad headed a prosperous law firm. He was a multimillionaire when I entered college. Never any worry about college fees. So I became a legacy lawyer – the kind that steps from law school into the family's established firm. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of poor fish emerge from law school saddled with college debt and have to scramble to find even an entry-level job. No wonder so many lawyers enter politics. Look at Abe Lincoln."

"But you didn't."

"Not as such, but in reality, yes. I went for the big bucks."

"Conservatives?"

"Of course. Someone asked Willie Sutton why he robbed banks. He said that's where the money is. So it goes with conservatives, big firms and so forth. You're looking at millions, not thousands."

"But you did need brains, Derek. If you weren't aligned with the wrong party, I'd suggest you as vice president."

"If that were the only hurdle, I'd be eligible, Mr. President. We share the same party. I even voted for you in the primary and the general."

A pregnant pause on Brooking's part, then, "You damn traitor."

"If I'm a traitor and a turncoat, I'm a very rich one. I still share your values. A job's a job. Anyway, you have a vice president."

"Tina was my vice president. I now have a bad boy, a very gregarious, popular, hale fellow well met bad boy. Not VP timber."

"Your suggestion interests me." If anything, Derek could be frank when he sensed an opportunity.

"Let me do some checking. I'll get back to you soon. Very soon. Promise."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Shortly after lunch Vice President Jairo Ducote came to the Oval office. "What can I do for you, Mr. President? Penny had some time running me down. You know, busy, busy, busy."

Brooking grinned. He had recovered his good humor after an early morning downer. Derek Park had cheered him considerably. There was a man who could be trusted. He felt it in his heart. "Jairo, do you know the meaning of 'in flagrante delicto?'"

"I can't say that I do. It sounds like Latin."

"Right on target. For some reason I enjoy the phrase, although it's old fashioned. It means getting caught in the act of illicit sexual activity, just as you were with that intern. You know, I thought those days were over."

"Now, I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. President. I think you've fallen victim to some rumor mill."

"Not at all. She was giving you a blowjob. With a young intern, it's a no no."

"Young is a matter of how you look at it. I'll admit I'm her senior, but things happen. I assure you it won't happen again. I'll be Simon Pure from here on out."

"Once is too much, Jairo. This would be certain to come out if you were my running mate. It might cripple our campaign. It might make you popular with some good old boy sexual predators, but that minority is quite small. I think if you resign right away you might have a chance to get your old house seat back. How about it?"

"God, this is a blow. And I'm not trying to be funny. But you're right. I'd have to double cross an old friend who I've endorsed for the seat. But that's life, isn't it? If you want a friend in this town, buy a dog. I better get on this right away."

Brooking stood and extended his hand. "Good luck, Jairo. You helped me in the House. And you've done your best to be a good vice president. I won't forget you. I wish I had an intern or two like that."

"I'll give you her name, Mr. President."

Brooking guffawed. "Thanks, but no thanks. The best of luck."

Ducote seemed the happiest of men as he left the Oval office.

Brooking guessed he would remain a jolly person even if he were back in his home district peddling used cars and hitting on clients. His next step was to ask Penny to set up an early evening cocktail meeting with Chief of Staff German and Party Chair Peggy Rains.

In the late afternoon he huddled with political schedulers to work out a fundraiser in Martha's Vineyard. Two large contributors were hosting gatherings, and both had substantial dwellings. To his disappointment he learned that Renee Camus had opted out. He had seen very little of her of late, but these were busy times, and she was consumed with activities in the East Wing.

Curtis German and Perry Rains arrived in his residential quarters sharply at six. Snacks and the makings of drinks had been set out by his underemployed chef, an Asian who hailed from Taiwan and had been schooled in Lyon.

Brooking and German had scotch and water while Rains sipped a birdbath martini, gin not vodka, and no Vermouth.

The President engaged the two in small talk until the initial drinks were nearly drained. Then he sprung his surprise.

"Ducote has been caught in a possibly scandalous situation and he will be resigning in hopes of getting back his House seat." Both guests seemed properly surprised, but not overly startled. "I'm thinking of asking Derek Park to be my running mate."

German's mouth gaped open and Rains sputtered a spray of martini before she could find voice to shout a string of obscenities. Her point being that he had been a great aide to the opposition for many years.

Brooking let them blow off steam for a few minutes and then said that Park had voted for him in the primary and general election, shared his views, had developed into a good friend and he would be the running mate if they could find nothing wrong with him in four days and if he would accept.

On contemplation, German allowed, "Park might bring a few conservatives from the other party plus independents into the fold. It's not really such a nasty idea as it seemed at first blush."

"That right-wing son of a bitch," Rains said. "Okay, I'll get on it. Four days. Not a lifetime, but should do." She gave the President a long evil stare and said, "You may live to regret this, Bruce."

"No I won't," he replied. An exact plan had formed in his head. "Try a few of the snacks and have some more alcohol. It's okay to get pleasantly drunk up here. I do it all the time."

"I'll bet you do," Rains acknowledged.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Despite his invitation the two remained only briefly and then said their goodbyes, both in something of a shocked state by the twin announcements. Both would have coffee, discuss the issue and then go off to brood and seek the counsel of confidantes, plus beginning the vetting process.

Once again Brooking was left alone in his spacious, even luxurious, quarters. If he had the choice of where to be alone he would have preferred the Iowa farm. He called Tarot and said, "What's up?"

"Reading my magazines."

"Come up and have a drink and a snack with me. I too am alone and bored with magazines and the nightly news. Maybe we can drum up a conversation."

They were both hungry and finished off most of the snack plate, mainly crackers, Brie, other cheeses, a few boiled shrimp and some sort of pepperoni. Both drank beer.

"You'd think the president could eat a little better than this," Brooking said, finishing off the final shrimp.

"You could if you wanted too," Tarot replied. "I'm in with the chef and I get a lot of good stuff."

"Partly raised in Japan, Tarot, I suppose you're a great fan of sushi, raw fish."

"Overrated," the ninja replied. "Sashimi is also raw fish. Sushi has a lot of rice. But the two go together. Many supermarkets in the U.S. have sushi chefs preparing it for take-away. A few are Japanese, some Chinese, maybe Burmese, or Asians of one sort or another. Some are even Mexicans or Latinos. It was once said it took years to become a journeyman sushi chef, almost as hard as becoming a ninja, but not true. Weeks would be more like it."

"I suppose there are many odd Japanese dishes, I once tried that sticky breakfast food that even most Japanese avoid."

"That fermenting soy bean stuff. I suppose it's edible, but old fashioned. Old Kaz never touched it. And that Kobe beef, some of it's so fat it looks yellow, that's also something of an urban legend." Tarot killed his beer and opened another, then fetched one for Brooking.

"Old Kaz had a bit of money. I was afraid to ask where he got it. He took me to Kenya once. We went with a friend of his to the highlands, a few miles out of Nairobi and had fresh goat meat grilled. Delicious. Now that's something you can get nowhere else because of the soil, which is sandy with lots of minerals. Also thorny bushes. The goats eat the leaves of the bushes, never grass. The meat is salty and tender. I look back on that with great pleasure. I was underage, but we drank cold Tusker beer for most of the afternoon. Sure beats supermarket sushi."

Before Tarot departed for his own digs, Brooking told him he wanted Derek Park for his running mate. The convention was late this year and would run headlong into the final days of the campaign. So there wasn't much time. He asked Tarot to do what he could to check Park out. He couldn't afford another Ducote.

After working out the following morning, Brooking sat in his office trying to untwist the puzzle of demographics versus economics, if that's what the election was all about. The economy was in a slight slump, and the opposition was promising to create jobs by the bucketful. They hummed away on the same old tune – tax cuts for the job creators, a sleight-of-hand theme. The election might hang in the balance of swing states – Ohio, North Carolina, Virginia and Iowa. The President thought Iowa was in the bag, but he also felt he could sew up Florida with a hand-shaking and fund raising trip only days away.

Then his ad campaign would hammer on the possibility that the opposition would deny women contraceptive services and perhaps criminalize abortion. Of course the far right wing was hell bent against gay marriage. So, if you're young, Hispanic, a woman, Brooking is your man. The opposition would take the nation back to a place it's been, a place it found distasteful. So hop on the bandwagon. A cheerful Brooking was eager to revive and claim the title of the Happy Warrior.

The President buzzed Penny and asked her to get Renee on the phone. He told her he didn't understand why she seemed to be avoiding him.

Penny wondered if she would always be the courier of bad news. Perhaps Brooking would decide to kill the messenger. "Mr. President," she began, well knowing the romantic link between the two, "Renee's name has been linked with that of the Marine captain in charge of the White House guard. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

Silence. And then, "I'm generally the last to know these things. I live a rather insular life. You'd think with all my advisors, all the assets at my fingertips, there would be very little I didn't know. But, au contraire. I suppose they are what you might refer to as an item."

"That's one way of expressing it, Sir."

"Superb. Do not repeat that you have told me what you have told me, but ask Curtis German to join me in my office."

"Certainly, Sir."

"Oh, by the way, are any of the other Marines involved with anyone on the White House staff?"

"Why, yes, there is. A lance corporal hanging out with a secretary in Wilbert Lyn's office. That's all that I know of. These hook ups come and go."

"Yes, don't they ever. Nothing seems to endure anymore. I suppose it's the same in Iowa. When I was a kid, I thought things were different. Youthful dreams."

"Of course, Sir."

When German joined him, he got right to the point. "I understand Renee is going around with a Marine captain on the staff here, and a lance corporal is seeing a secretary in Lyn's office. I feel this mixture of work and social activity is unwholesome. I'd like you to call the Marine commandant and have the two of them transferred and establish a policy against that sort of thing."

"Mr. President everyone seems to know you and Renee had some romantic involvement. It might seem spiteful of you to have these two marines transferred."

"Spiteful, vindictive, whatever. I have gained very little personally by being president. I have lost my wife, lost my vice president, felt unable to have my son live with me, seem to have the worries of the world dropped on my shoulders. I have not complained. My head may be bloodied, but it remains unbowed. I believe I am entitled to something. One little dab of humanity. So do my bidding. Return with your shield on."

A cabinet meeting was scheduled later in the day and Brooking intended to take up the topic of tobacco, which had become a nationwide and worldwide menace, users dropping at a rate far outstripping the non-smoker. But what to do? Almost linked to that problem was marijuana, the cause of many young people being confined to prison, the majority of them black

At one time New York City had a stop-and-frisk ordinance that had sent many young blacks found with trifling amounts of marijuana to prison, perhaps setting them on a life of crime. Maybe not. But now the city had slacked off. So what to do nationwide? Legalize the stuff? The easy way out was to dismiss it as a state and city problem. Americans like to mount their soapboxes and orate on the delights of states' rights.

The President decided simply to throw out these problems for open discussion and possible study. Sitting around a huge table with every cabinet member and surrounded by their aides didn't make for intimate conversation, not even a cheerful give and take situation.

Even before the cabinet meeting, German returned to the Oval office to say the Marine commandant had refused to have the two men transferred. "He's an old man, set in his ways," the chief of staff explained. "You know, Sempre Fi and all."

"Ah yes, Sempre Fi, or Semper Fidelis. I had a friend who served in the Marines. He said Sempre Fi meant 'Hooray for me, fuck you.'"

"An interesting deviation, Sir."

"Yes it is. You mentioned this old man set in his ways. I've been told our military is heavy with brass and gold. Too many overage admirals and generals. Some of them in the early stages of dementia. I think that needs to be attended to. It shouldn't take long."

Brooking's words were of some concern to German. Whatever the President was hinting at didn't sound overly compelling. "What must I do, Sir?"

"Not a thing. Is everything set for the cabinet meeting?"

"Yes, Sir. Everything laid out. Pens, pads, carafes of water. We could even have soft music if you like."

"That would be innovative. Toss in a couple of pole dancers and a spotted bull pup and we can charge admission."

"One way to balance the budget."

"Let the people know we're trying."

When German was gone, Brooking asked Penny to get the Secretary of Defense on the phone. While he was waiting he popped open a can and fed Fancy her daily rations. She had been purring and rubbing his legs.

Penny buzzed back. "Elliot Dansker on the line, Sir."

"Elliot, how are you this fine day?" The President was in a cheery mood.

"Fine, Sir. I didn't think I'd see you before the cabinet meeting."

"Something's come up. You know there's been complaints now and again that our military's become top heavy, loaded with aging generals and admirals, a few of them showing definite signs of senility."

"Honor the aged, Mr. President."

"Honor them and let them lead our young men into battle? Hardly the same thing. I think we should thin the ranks. I'd like a list of all generals and admirals from the four services who have served for thirty-five or more years. Should be simple to get from your records. Have it on my desk early tomorrow afternoon."

A brief pause and Dansker asked, "What are your plans, Sir?"

"Depends on the list. We can both have a look. See you at cabinet meeting."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The list of generals and admirals who had served more than thirty-five years startled Brooking. Of course it was a life of luxury with all its perks, plus everyone jumping at their command. He checked off twenty-five names, including the Marine commandant. He attempted to avoid well-known commanders and favored cutting loose the very old. When he was done he had Penny type up the list and then jotted a handwritten note at the top: "I want these officers retired in two days. No use dragging it out. BB."

Penny was then instructed to have the list hand delivered to Elliot. For his eyes only.

Brooking sat back and waited for the waste matter to hit the ventilating system. Being president could be fun.

He didn't have long to wait. Penny buzzed and said both Elliot and German were at her desk and wished to see him.

"Tell them to wait. Tell them I'm feeding the cat."

"Yes, Sir."

After five minutes he invited them into the Oval office. Both looked around for the cat, but saw nothing. "I have this list and your note," Elliot said, holding up the sheet of paper.

"You recognized my childish handwriting?"

"Of course."

"But you didn't understand the message?"

"I understand it completely, Sir. But these are honored officers; some of them could be classed as heroes. They can't simply be dismissed, cast aside."

"Elliot, I've always thought of heroes as those who have given their lives for this country. Not those who live in country club comfort with all the trappings of affluence. These men, and as you say the list is all men, no women oddly enough, are crowding the top of our service rolls and they are long past making a contribution. Let us make way for younger men. Let us inspire younger men to achieve these proud posts. Let us have some sort of service at Arlington. Play Taps perhaps, or the Last Post." He looked at German. "Do you have anything to add, Curt?"

"No, Sir."

"Well make certain each and every man on that list is informed, then have Conlon announce it to the press. Make some appropriate statement about the services becoming top heavy. Thank you, gentlemen."

The news caused a press flurry in Washington that rippled across the continent. Twenty-five senior officers cashiered, as one opponent of the administration put it.

Brooking put his press secretary up to hinting that there might be more to come, which tended to quiet criticism from the senior ranks of the military. You might say they closed ranks in a show of loyalty to their commander in chief.

Meanwhile, Vice President Jairo Ducote resigned, issuing a self-serving statement that he wished to spend more time with his family and more time in his home district. He even suggested he might want to pick up where he left off with his old House seat.

After a week, Brooking called his secretary of defense and told him to tell the new Marine commandant to transfer the two White House Marines. There was no problem this time.

There came a time when a homely little senator from the far west accused the administration of leaking sensitive military information for political gain. After all, it was an election year, the conventions were at hand, and the general election soon to follow, Senator Alvin Keppel said.

Brooking believed this might be a two-edged sword.

Keppel called for a special prosecutor with unlimited boundaries.

Many in Washington had nightmare memories of such a prosecutor some years ago. He moved through the Capitol like a wrecking ball, laying waste to everything in his path, carving out a horror story and a niche for himself in the halls of ignominy.

This time there definitely was a leak, and some of it might have been coming from the White House. Keppel's theory was that the administration wished the public to know what stealth measures it was taking against shadowy foreign enemies. Material thought to be classified had been in the print media and reported on TV. Conventional wisdom seemed to be that the FBI could track down the source. But so far, no luck.

Senator Keppel was a member of a bipartisan committee who was privy to classified material. He continued to rise on the senate floor as often as possible and demand a special prosecutor. The senator had aged in office and had crossed the threshold of senility, well on the road to total memory loss and other faculty impairments.

With the FBI seemingly stymied, Brooking called on his ninja to look into the matter.

After a general assessment of the situation, Tarot spent time checking out Senator Keppel. He found the old man paranoid to the extent that he didn't trust the Capitol Hill mail totally. He kept a postal box in a Washington substation. Also, the only staff member he totally trusted was his daughter, Emily, who acted as his administrative assistant with a handsome salary.

One of her duties was to check the postal box from time to time. This box drew Tarot's attention. While he couldn't spend time following Emily, or keeping tabs on the box, he did contrive to place an inconspicuous camera in the substation, keeping an eye on the box 24/7.

Remarkably, he found that Emily took very little out of the box, but more often placed something in the box. Late in the evening, according to his electronic surveillance, someone, usually a woman, would take something out of the box. There seemed to be multiple keys. So why not one more? He bribed a locksmith to make him a key.

It took Tarot a couple of weeks to identify everyone involved in the game and make copies of the information that was being transferred. He then presented his case to Brooking. A day later the President summoned the head of the FBI plus the agents in charge of the investigation to his office.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I'd like to know how your investigation is going regarding the leaks of classified material."

The FBI director spoke for the group. "Because this is a sensitive matter involving the White House, I think it's best not to give you all the details."

Brooking was expecting that sort of a cover-up. "Gentlemen, I assume you want to continue to be employed by the U.S. government. If so, I'd suggest following the instructions of your President to the letter."

"You're threatening to have us dismissed?" the director demanded.

"Fired. Instantly fired. Before you even leave this building. All of you. If that's what you want, you can get the hell out of my office immediately. I'll have the Secret Service confiscate your badges and weapons."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. Perhaps I spoke too soon. You are the President after all. You have every right to be in on the investigation. What would you like to know?"

"Everything. A list of the White House staff who are leaking. I'll get rid of them and name them publicly. I'll ask the attorney general to prosecute. Now give me their names."

"We do have names," the director said.

"Give me the list."

"The information they've shared with the press isn't classified."

"You mean it's the general give and take between government officials and the press?"

"Yes, Sir. That's about it so far."

"Why did you seek to withhold this from me?"

"Our investigation is continuing, Sir. We are determined to find the leaks."

"I assume the starting point would be a list of those who are privy to such classified information."

"Yes. We have that list throughout the administration. The various departments, Pentagon and so forth."

"But you seem to have concentrated on the White House. Why is that?"

"Senator Keppel made the charges. He cited the White House was seeking political gain."

"Would you say Keppel is a friend of this administration?"

"Why, no, Sir," the director said. "He hates your administration."

"Then wouldn't he be a bit suspect?"

"Well, yes. But we've had no reason to doubt his word."

"His word. His political word. He and the other members of the bipartisan committee. Do they have access to this sensitive data?"

"Of course, Sir. That's well known."

"So you've checked them out?"

The director looked to the several FBI agents seated around the room. "Which one of you has been working on that angle?"

General silence.

"We'll look into it, Mr. President. No stone will be left unturned."

Brooking laughed. "So many unturned stones. So many FBI agents. Gentlemen, Keppel is your man. He keeps a substation postal box. His daughter, who is also his AA, places the material in the box and various others remove it. Such a simple process."

"How could this be?" the director questioned.

Brooking shrugged. "I conducted my own investigation. My secretary has a box with all my findings, including photographic evidence, copies of the material Keppel passed along, dates, times and so forth. Incidentally, I've kept a copy too. So don't lose any of the evidence. I suggest once you've examined it you turn it over to the attorney general. Please, gentlemen, pick it up on your way out."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Derek Park had accepted Brooking's offer to name him as running mate with some enthusiasm.

They huddled over breakfast with German and party chair Rains. The four of them agreed that people vote for the top of the ticket, but the vice president should be well qualified to step in as president. They also agreed that Park rose to that level and went considerably beyond. It would have been difficult to find anyone with more knowledge of the inner workings of the system. And, yes, how to manipulate it.

The next step was for Brooking and Park to make a casual trip to the pressroom, stand side by side, and have the President announce that he had picked Park as his running mate. The few reporters in the room at that early hour were too startled to even ask a question.

The President and his newfound cohort turned and strolled back into the safety of the depths of the White House and the Oval office.

"You might start measuring the windows for drapes," Brooking said. "There's a chance I won't serve out a second term. Of course, if we lose it's a certainty."

Park indicated surprise. "You have some horrible disease?"

"No. Simply tired. Hard to believe, but I'm not a political creature. My folks raised me to be an academic, a student of ancient life, perhaps a type of archeologist. That's likely where I belong. I just drifted into politics, and the party picked me rather than the other way around. I had no serious flaws because I had done very little. The thought of a presidential library or of leaving footprints in the sands of time holds no glamor for me. So, let's just leave it at that. A word to the wise. A word to be prepared. I'll speak no more about it."

Washington is a totally political town, and the word that a lobbyist, perhaps the most successful and famous lobbyist , would be Brooking's running mate stirred up the animals and fueled the gossip mills for days, as well as Sunday talk shows and late night comics. The butcher, the baker, everybody put their oar in the water. It took several news cycles and a few days for the excitement to die.

Few things surprised Brooking, but his mind was jarred a bit by a couple of items Penny told him. For one thing the marine captain had been transferred all right, but only across the river to the Pentagon where he was promoted to major. It seemed he was the scion of a very rich, very military family, and the old boys' network had taken him under its wing.

The second item was that he had thrown Renee over in favor of a New York society chick who had a long-term lease on his marital horizon.

Brooking immediately asked Penny to get the secretary of defense on the phone.

"Is it true," he asked, "that the Marine captain in question has been promoted to major and posted to the Pentagon?"

"Why, yes it is, Mr. President. Why do you ask?"

"Was he in line for promotion?"

"Not really. I know about it because it was unusual. The military is like a club. Particularly the Marines. They have an almost incestuous relationship with the British Royal Marines. You'll find bars around Quantico that look like English pubs. But it's a splendid branch and, unlike the army, both the officers and men are trained to think for themselves."

"And what might our good major be doing at the Pentagon?"

"Probably not much of anything. Maybe shuffling papers."

"Does he have a strong record of field service? Combat training? Bivouac antics?"

"Certainly he has training, but I'm guessing he's probably spent most of his time around Washington and Virginia. Maybe California once. Most Marines aren't stationed overseas."

"There are exceptions. I'd like you to have him transferred to Okinawa. But keep my name out of it."

A chuckle on the other end of the line. "He will be on a plane within a week, or else resign his commission."

As Brooking hung up, a thought crossed his mind: "I'm finally getting my way without back talk."

The President was in high spirits when he huddled with his speechwriters as a prelude to his southern campaign trip and fundraiser. It would be a full day. Breakfast in Augusta, Georgia, lunch in Jacksonville, Florida, and a reception and banquet in Miami. He asked the speechwriters to let him end his final speech in Miami with a few lines of Spanish. He could not understand Spanish, but he knew the pronunciations and he thought he could do a creditable job. South Florida was jammed with Spanish speakers from all parts of South and Central America, as well as Mexico, Cuba and various islands.

German called him and said Renee that wanted to go on the Florida campaign trip. Brooking had barred her from the West Wing, so she could not appear in his office in person.

"Tell her she can't go."

"But she's insistent. She's demanding to go. I believe a 'no' would upset her further. What should I tell her?"

Brooking thought a moment and then said, "Tell her she's fired."

"You're joking."

"I'm not. Send two security men over there. Have her turn in her White House pass, clean out her desk and have them escort her from the property. Inform payroll to cut her a final check."

"Okay. You're the boss."

The southern trip was quite a success. First was Augusta, Georgia's second oldest and second largest city nestled on the Savannah River. Antebellum mansions, fried chicken and catfish, and, of course, the Masters tournament with its coveted green jacket.

Then on to Jacksonville, not only on the banks of the St. Johns River, but also pushed up against the Atlantic surf. The city boasts one of the largest downtown historic districts in the South, but also a jumping riverside area.

Miami was the crown jewel of the trip, both in campaign dollars brought in and downright fun. Brooking found the gathering with its heavy Hispanic flavor to be a jolly lot. He enjoyed the cocktail reception and treated himself to half a drink.

Something odd happened at the windup banquet. After his usual campaign address, plus sops to what he had done and would do for South Florida, he reached the few lines of Spanish written out for him. The first few sentences were what one might expect. The wonderful contributions Hispanics had made to American life, their work ethic and love of family and so forth.

As he read the fourth sentence, there was a noted sea change in the crowd; a peculiar silence seemed to sweep the hall. As he read the fifth and last sentence the crowd burst out laughing. He was dazed. What had he said?

Later he was to learn that the sentence that quieted the crowd was: Arroz hervido que se ha enfriado no me apetece. This translates into English: Cold boiled rice is not appetizing.

The last sentence was: Prometo que todos los gatos sin hogar recibirán mangos gratis. This translates as a promise of free mangos for homeless cats.

He was aware someone had slipped something into his speech, but didn't know what. He attempted to recover by saying, "Perhaps I'll go into comedy once I improve my Spanish. I'm sure you all realize by my accent that I didn't know what I was saying, but obviously you caught the meaning, whatever it was.

"I'd like to end the speech by simply saying in English that it's great to be in Miami with all you wonderful people, wherever you come from. Good night, God bless you and God bless America. Both continents, the middle and all the islands."

Sustained applause.

Back in Washington the following day, he asked Penny to track down who had done the Spanish job on his speech.

A half hour later, Penny reported. "The culprit is here. Shall I send her in?"

"Certainly."

In flounced a Latin looking female, with large bosoms almost falling out of her off-the-shoulder dress. She was making small noises, like, "oooh, oooh, oooh," as she approached his desk. Bending over so he could get a good look of her upper extremities, she chortled, "Mr. President, I knew I could meet you if I played all my cards."

With that she cake walked around his desk and kissed him on the lips. "Mr. President, I'm 23, do you think that's old?"

He managed to disentangle himself and said. "No, not at all, Miss..., Miss..., it is miss isn't it?"

"Of course." She almost giggled. "You know what that means." She had managed to boost herself up so she was seated on his desk, him staring at her knees, this time her lower extremities.

"I suppose it could mean you're looking for a mate. Someone to marry. How did you get to Washington and what do you do here?"

"My Dad, he's the ambassador from Argentina. Have you been there? Cape Horn and the pampas. Very romantic. You find me attractive?"

"Of course. You're a very attractive woman. Your English is excellent."

She smiled broadly and tried to slip down in his lap, but he pushed her away. "I was educated by the nuns. They are very strict. But now I'm on my own, a servant to the White House and a slave to you, Mr. President. You own me. "Do you have a bedroom upstairs?"

"Yes, I live in this building."

"And alcohol, yes? We go up there, drink, take off our clothing and do crazy things. You like?"

"This is so sudden." He got up and led her to a chair and pushed her into it. She attempted to drag him in on top of her. "What's your name?"

"Dolores Delgado. Do you think I'm sweet?"

She attempted to rise, but he pushed her back and went for the phone and shouted, "Penny, get in here."

A wide-eyed Penny entered, and he asked her to stay near Ms. Delgado and attempt to restrain her maternal urges. Then he resumed his seat behind his historic desk. It had belonged to a long-dead president, but he couldn't remember who. In fact the entire White House seemed to be jammed with historic artifacts and memories.

"Ms. Delgado played a little joke on me by inserting some Spanish nonsense into my Miami speech. I'll say this, everyone seemed to enjoy it. I wish you had been there Dolores. May I call you Dolores?"

"Of course you may." She was all smiles. "I feel this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship. We'll have our ups and downs, and if I'm bad you can beat me. But after that, romantic moments. I would like to suffer with you. In Argentina everyone suffers. It is a wonderful feeling." She turned to Penny. "What do you think? Don't we make a fine pair?"

"Your temperament might not be on the same page. Maybe not even in the same book. But it would be awesome to watch."

"That's kind of kinky, you watching us. Maybe the three of us could climb in bed together. How would that be?"

"My husband might object."

Brooking broke into the conversation. "Penny, why don't you take Dolores to the canteen and have refreshments. Then, if you can find a lone Marine or Secret Service agent, you might have him show her around the rest of the building. I'm assuming she's an East Wing intern."

"You assume right, Sir. I'll be happy to see that she's properly protected."

Quick as a wink, Dolores was around his desk again kissing him goodbye on the lips, breathing heavily. He managed to push her away and into Penny's arms. "Adios, Dolores."

She smiled, waved and danced out of the office, making that little oooh, oooh, oooh noise.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Penny had mentioned a day or two before that a friend from Iowa was attempting to get in touch with him. Brooking recognized the name of a high school acquaintance. The man, Jerry Jennings, had said his son was getting married in Baltimore to the offspring of another high school chum and might he attend the service.

Baltimore was just beyond the Beltway. Why not spend a few hours with the old high school crowd? He asked Penny to get the details, possibly have an invitation faxed over.

Later Penny entered his office, invitation in hand, with a quirky smile on her face. "The invitation to your friend's union," she announced.

Brooking looked at the paper in her hand and examined her features. "Am I missing something?"

"No, Sir. Here's the invitation you asked for. But it's not a regular wedding. More of a civil union. Both groom and groom are male."

The President laughed. "A gay wedding from rural Iowa. How unconventional. And I really don't mean unconventional broadly speaking. What I mean is unconventional for rural Iowa. Or so it would seem the last time I looked. What am I supposed to do?"

"Be the guest of honor at a gay wedding. Possibly the first president to do such a thing."

"Do you think I should do such a thing?"

This time Penny laughed. "Thank God I'm not on your advisory team. You're all alone on this one."

"And stranded in leftfield. I'm going to bounce this off German and Rains and do so as quickly as possible. Round them up and try to get them in my office."

The two of them would show up at lunchtime. Penny confirmed the session and Brooking asked her to get something simple in the way of food, maybe with tonic water. "I'm tired of those lunchmeat and lettuce sandwiches. Sandwiches are okay, but get something unusual."

Lunchtime came and she brought in broiled chicken liver and sautéed onion sandwiches, served on heavy flat bread. Certainly unusual, as requested.

Of course Peggy Rains became highly excited when the President told her he had been invited to a gay wedding in Baltimore. German munched away on his sandwich and withheld judgment. When Brooking explained that both parties were the sons of former high school chums in Iowa, Rains calmed down.

She sipped tonic water, ignoring her sandwich, and acknowledged, "Might not be a total disaster."

"Good," Brooking said, "because I'm going. These are home folks. It would be worse if I refused. But I'm not doing it for that reason. These are my home folks. I'm just a Hawkeye at heart." The President dug into his sandwich, the best he had had for some days.

German took the opportunity to suggest they set up a live video chat system in the residential quarters.

"I don't think so," Brooking smiled. "I'd have to get fixed up, tarted up, before using the thing."

"I think the good outweighs the bad," Rains tossed in. "You could have early morning or late night chats with leaders in Europe and Asia. Remember the time zones."

"True, but we'd be face to face. Suppose I got up, had a cup of coffee and there was a call. My head looks like a hayrack, I'm wearing an undershirt, unshaven, not really ready for prime time."

"Okay," German agreed. "So we do it in your office?"

"Fine. With proper screening. Adequate warning about who I'm going to talk with and possibly why. I'd like to be prepared."

"We'll do it."

Although the President and Derek Park had their own election staff and generally their own campaign events they frequently huddled for talks. At many levels they had bonded, sharing the identical political philosophy.

At times Park would attempt to point out flaws in the liberal approach to political life. On this night they had worked out and talked strategy in the exercise room with Tarot listening in.

"We spend too much time attacking and poking fun at conservative scoundrels, which often serves the purpose of those very scoundrels by spreading their propaganda," Park said. "Morally, ecologically and economically the world is out of whack. We assume a defensive posture that does damage to our liberal agenda. We are blamed for a government crisis created by Wall Street and spend time defending ourselves. I know how these conservative lobbies work, funded by big bucks thanks to our Supreme Court, formerly the people's Supreme Court. The powerful and the superrich have found a staunch ally in the right wing, many of whose members vote against their own self-interest for God knows what reason."

Brooking jumped in, saying, "There was once, not many years ago, a belief that government was a force of good in the lives of the downtrodden. The right wing propaganda mill has sought to destroy that belief, painting government as an evil force standing in the way of progress."

"Yes," Park agreed, "And by progress they mean larger and larger profits for the already affluent. Fewer and fewer social programs to eat up tax dollars. Plus an almost fanatical religious approach to put women in their so-called place and keep them there. If they could, they would deny women the vote. Speaking of denying the vote, that force in government has been successful in denying the vote to certain minorities either through poll cleansing, making it difficult to register, or frightening certain folks into staying home during elections."

"This is a great country, there's enough of everything to go around," Brooking said. "It shouldn't be all that difficult to find common ground. Our first priority should be to work together to strengthen our country and our community. And I'm not talking militarily here. We spend far too much on the military and its expensive toys."

"So much for solving all the problems of the world in one night," Park yawned. "I think I'll go home and go to bed."

"I'm off to the showers," Brooking said, rising. Then to Tarot. "If you stick around we might find something to drink."

"Stick around," Tarot said gesturing with his arms, "this is my home."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Derek Park proved a tough campaigner. A good speaker, he could think on his feet, he knew every nook and cranny of Washington life, he was well aware that figures don't lie, but liars can figure, and with a computer-like brain he could set the record straight. And he was a gifted fundraiser, even drawing money from the right wing, possibly because he was feared by some.

Occasionally he would compare ExxonMobile to the great companies of history that sent their own navies and armies into the field, even minted their own coins. A couple of these were the British East India Company and the Dutch East India Company. These firms established their own foreign policy.

ExxonMobile would switch a few of its top lobbyists from right to left and back again with the change of administrations. Profits far in excess of $20 billion a year were not uncommon. One chief executive garnered a retirement package of almost $400 million.

Park was adept at tossing many statistics into his talks while always pushing the liberal agenda, pointing out that recent conservative administrations pulled the country out of recession by adding government jobs. The exact opposite of the agenda of the new hard-core right.

Brooking and Park, along with an army of surrogates and campaign workers, kept up their election drum roll up to and through the party's convention where Park was anointed as the running mate.

With the election at hand, Brooking met with Tarot one bleak October morning and told him he was seriously considering leaving office.

"If we lose the election, of course, I'm out. I'll stay through the transition period and until the new man is sworn in, then I'm off to Turkey, my son and my folks. Perhaps there will be a niche for me.

"If I win, I'll announce my resignation with the State of the Union message. Two weeks later, I'll be out of here."

"I'm surprised, yet not surprised, Sir. Not to be selfish, but what's to become of me?"

Brooking looked solemn when he said, "I want you to go with me. You've been there. You delivered my son to his grandparents. You've become my best friend, the person I lean on. How about it?"

"Best news I've had all week. I knew something was cooking in that mind of yours. I'll keep my bag packed with my passport lying right on top."

So the exit plan was complete. The election was held and Brooking's party eked out enough electoral votes, although some irregularities in Florida held up the final tally for two days. At one point it seemed the election might be thrown into the Supreme Court. Brooking had anticipated problems in that quarter and had sent Tarot to Tallahassee to keep an eye on things. He had infiltrated the opposition camp and managed to expose its grand scheme.

Ohio had been in play, but the large northern cities – Cleveland, Youngstown, Toledo, Akron – managed to overcome the conservative vote centered in Cincinnati.

House and Senate seats had been won and lost. On Capitol Hill the lame ducks were quacking like so many wounded birds and deadlock reigned. Nothing would be accomplished until after a new Congress had been sworn in. Those elected, but not yet sworn, swarmed the Capitol looking for favorable offices, using every ounce of influence at their disposal.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Brooking was sworn in for a second term and pledged to uphold the honor of the country in a brief speech. Park was sworn in as vice president. Cabinet members offered their resignations, some sincere, most hoping for praise and refusal. Brooking held them all in abeyance, pending his State of the Union message. He did not waiver from his desire to leave Washington behind for the beckoning wastelands of Turkey. His step was light, his spirit soared. Whatever it was, he had done it.

Mounting the platform for his State of the Union report, flanked by the House and Senate leaders, the President received enthusiastic applause from his party, mild applause from the opposition and little notice from Supreme Court majority members who were still wondering why they didn't get to decide the election.

"Fellow Americans," the President began, he had decided to keep it simple and not recognize every Tom, Dick and Harry. "I stand before you tonight a happy man. During my first term I feel I fought the good fight. There were accomplishments, but much remains to be done.

"I feel I have already hit one long ball for our country to kick off my second term. That is the selection of Derek Park as vice president. He turned and gestured toward Park who received applause from both parties." Just as he thought, the opposition feared the former lobbyist.

"Most of you know that during my first term I lost my wife to cancer. She had been a stout-hearted helpmate for many years and bore me a fine son. Later I lost my vice president to a terrorist attack. Tina Geer and I had been friends in graduate school. She had a keen mind and had risen to the top in the academic world. Both these losses were terrible blows, but in fact gave me the determination and stability to soldier on for the good of our country.

"Let me inject a personal note about Tina. I recruited her and persuaded her to run as vice president. She came to Washington unencumbered by the baggage most politicians drag along. I thought of her as my gift to the nation. A brilliant woman with good common sense, balance and unprejudiced in any way. I brought her along to be the first female president after I had served eight years. That was my dream, only a dream. She died a brutal death in a terrorist attack meant for me. Consider if the terrorists hadn't been halfwits and hit the right target, me. Tonight Tina might be standing here making this address to the nation. Would the country be better off? Go figure.

"To me, the tragedy of my first four years lacks only a Greek chorus. But I resolved to go forward with hope in my heart. With the start of my second term I admit I have lost that resolve."

The last sentence caused a stir among the audience, seatmates asking one another what would come next.

"But, believe me, I am not abandoning this great country to the bone yard of history. I have made adequate and bold preparation with the selection of Vice President Park. If you know my history, you will know that I never set out on the trail to high office. I more or less drifted into it. This might sound absurd because you must also know that I struggled hard, worked day and night, visited a zillion campaign events and always tried to do the best I was capable of."

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.

Connect with Me Online

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