The Obama Identity

by Edward Klein

  “Hey, Jeremiah,” a voice called out, “come on up here to the head of the line.”

  “Hey, Duke,” the Reverend called back.

  He motioned for us to follow him. At the door, the Reverend and Duke exchanged a soul brother handshake.

  “Duke’s been the doorman at Queen Bee’s forever,” the Reverend told us. “Bee’s the last of the old Chicago jazz clubs. How’s it hanging, Duke?”

  “Life’s sweet, Jeremiah. Except, we don’t call it Queen Bee’s no mo’. It’s Lee’s Unleaded Blues now.”

  “Whatever,” the Reverend said.

  He tipped Duke, and led Vangie and me behind the velvet rope and inside the club. It was a small, oddly shaped room, dark and thick with smoke. I smelled more pot than Pall Malls. There were mirrors and deep red carpeting everywhere. The painted walls were covered with old black and white head-shots of great blues musicians, and framed 45 and 33 rpm vinyl records.

  As we made our way along a red-leather bar with padded vinyl stools, circa 1970, the Reverend Wright stopped several times to exchange hugs with people who recognized him. Sitting at the far end of the bar was a man with a wireless microphone in his hand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man said over the public-address system, “I’m your host, Stan Davis, and I’m pleased to welcome to Lee’s Unleaded Blues an honored guest—the Reverend Jeremiah…”—a long pause for effect—“WRIGHT!… pastor of Trinity United Church.”

  Several patrons let out loud whoops. When the noise subsided, Stan Davis went on:

  “Pastor Wright, taught me this saying hisself: At Sunday church, everyone gets their lesson, but at Lee’s Unleaded, it’s time for their blessin’.”

  “Stan,” the Reverend Wright said, “meet my friends, Vangie Roll and Alfie Douglas.

  “Any friend of the Rev’s.”

  “Stan’s a retired police cop,” the Reverend told us. “He’s done some bodyguardin’ for the Rolling Stones. Nobody messes with Stan.”

  Stan got up and escorted us to a table to the left, near the corner stage, which was called The Draw and where the acts performed. A pretty waitress, who introduced herself as Cookie, took our drink orders. I asked for club soda, and Vangie ordered a glass of white wine.

  “Sweetness,” the Reverend said to Cookie, “bring me a bottle of forty-year-old Glenfiddich. No ice, no soda, just a tall glass.”

  “I apologize, Reverend,” Cookie said, “but Mr. Davis has given us strict instructions to inform customers how much certain drinks cost. And what you’re ordering costs”—Cookie consulted a little pad that she held in her hand—” the forty-year-old Glenfiddich costs $3,813.99 a bottle.”

  “Don’t worry your little head ‘bout that, sweetness,” the Reverend said. “Bring it on, bring it on!”

  With that, he fished out a black American Express Centurion credit card and flipped it onto the table. I noted the raised lettering on the card: JEREMIAH WRIGHT, TRINITY UNITED CORPORATE EXPENSE ACCOUNT. It seemed he was spending on Barack Obama’s credit a little early.

  When the bottle of Glenfiddich came, the Reverend downed a full highball glass of the single-malt Scotch. He then refilled the glass, and downed that in a chugalug.

  Before he had drained the last drop, a petite black woman approached our table. She wore an ornamental snood hairnet over the back of her head, fishnet stockings, and a clingy Diane von Furstenberg tie-front dress.

  “Hi, Jerry,” she said.

  “Nailah Fonseca!” the Reverend said, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Nailah took a seat at our table just as Stan Davis appeared on The Draw and tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to our Tribute to Muddy Night.”

  There was some applause.

  “That’s right. We have three acts, and all of ‘em are playin’ nuthin’ but Muddy Waters tonight! First up is the Boogie Booker Quartet! Bring it on, Boogie!”

  Four well-dressed young musicians—a drummer, bass player, guitar player and a pianist—took the stage. Boogie Booker, the lead singer, began the first song—“Hoochie Coochie Man.”

  The gypsy woman told my mother

  Before I was born.

  The place started going crazy. Feet were stomping and heads were bobbing and people were dancing and women were shimmying and everybody was having a great time. I looked over at the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, and he was having a great time, too. He and Nailah Fonseca were in a mean lip-lock.

  “Come on, Jerry,” Nailah Fonseca whispered. “Let’s go to my place.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “There’s still plenty left in that bottle.”

  He emptied another four fingers’ worth of Scotch into his glass. As he lifted the glass to his lips, though, it slipped from his fingers and spilled all over Nailah Fonseca’s Diane von Furstenberg.

  “Oh shee-it!” she cried. “I just bought this dress.”

  She jumped up and ran toward the ladies room.

  “I’m shorry,” the Reverend called after her. He was slurring his words.

  This was the moment I had been waiting for.

  “Reverend Wright,” I said, “I was impressed by the way you handled that meeting at the church. And, frankly, I was surprised that you think Barack Obama can be elected president. Do you really think he’s got a chance?”

  The Reverend looked at me glassy-eyed, as though he hadn’t understood what I said. I began to rephrase my question, but he raised his hand to stop me.

  “If…if…if…he follows what I tell him—hell yes!” Wright replied. “It’s all teed up for him. All’s he got to do is follow the master plan.”

  He looked longingly at the bottle of Glenfiddich.

  “Isn’t the Clinton machine going to be tough to beat?” I asked. “After all, they basically own the Democrat Party.”

  “Alfie, before this thing…before it’s over, the Clintons’ll be yesterday’s news. You’ll see. Barack is The One.”

  The Boogie Booker Quartet was now singing “I’m Ready,” and the room began to rock again. “Now I’m ready for you, I hope you’re ready for me.…”

  As soon as the song ended, the Reverend took another drink and turned to me and asked, “So, Alfie, can I count on you?”

  “Count on me for what?”

  “To get CLIT to donate $250,000 to Trinity United?”

  He sure had no problem being bold. I was starting to think I was in the wrong business. “Reverend, from what I saw earlier tonight, your operation is a money-generating machine. What do you need CLIT for?”

  Jeremiah Wright clapped me on the shoulder. “Boy, there ain’t ever enough money in this world.”

  Just then the Boogie Booker Quartet started playing another Muddy Waters song—” I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

  I don’t want you to be my slave

  I don’t want you to work all day

  When the song was over, the Reverend Wright picked up where he had left off.

  “Alfie, you asked about Barack. Lemme tell you somethin’. He came to me….oh…almost twenty years ago. He was Barry Obama back then. Can you believe that? Callin’ himself Barry when he possessed such a distinguished African name as Barack?”

  I had to agree, Barry did sound goofy, but Barack? What kind of name was that? To my way of thinking, the child had more sense than the man.

  “First thing I did was size the boy up,” Wright continued. “Tall….nice lookin’…good teeth…datin’ a nice woman…said he wanted to run for office…but he didn’t have a clue about who he was! Alfie, that boy was lost! And he needed guidance…fatherly guidance. Most of all, Barry was searchin’ for a father…and for a faith…and I gave both to him.”

  “Why was he looking for faith?” Vangie asked.

  “I always suspected he was hidin’ something’ from me,” the Reverend said. “His momma was an atheist, you know, and he never knew his real father, Barack Hussein Obama Sr., who was an African Muslim. So h
is stepfather, another Muslim fella named Lolo Soetero, raised him in Indonesia.”

  “Reverend,” Vangie said, “are you saying that Barack Obama was a Muslim when he first came to see you?”

  “Vangie,” he said expansively, “I’m a Christian. I really don’t care what he was before he stepped into Trinity United. Once he came to us, our job was to bring him to Christ.”

  “So how devout has he become?” Vangie asked.

  The Reverend Wright chuckled. “Like other politicians. He uses the church as a prop. Makes a token financial contribution, and then makes sure the media knows about it. Shows up for a photo-op when the press is sniffin’ around.”

  I felt it was time for me to jump into the conversation.

  “Reverend,” I said, “excuse me if I’m blunt, but if Senator Obama becomes President Obama, he’ll be the front man, the salesman, the draw for Trinity United Church of Christ. The presence in your front pew of the President of the United States on Sundays will catapult your church onto the international stage. Your fundraising will go through the roof!”

  The Reverend was nodding his head vigorously.

  “So what else is new?” he said. “Why all the meetins? Why all the scripting of every word comin’ out that boy’s mouth? Hell, I even had to coach him on how to use a TelePrompTer from a podium. I’ve invested two decades in this project. Barack Obama isn’t just like a son to me; he is my creation. You talk about that TV show, Extreme Makeover. Hell, I made over this future president. And I’ll tell you one more thing. If there was any Muslim in that boy, I washed it all away.”

  The Reverend picked up Vangie’s half-full glass of wine and downed it.

  “Now, where’s Nailah at?” he asked. “These women always disappearin’ on me.”

  “She’s over there at the bar,” I said.

  He stood up. He was unsteady on his feet and almost lost his balance. He grabbed the side of the table.

  “Been a pleasure, Vangie. And Alfie, nice meetin’ you, too. Please do your best getting’ me that grant from CLIT.”

  With that, he stumbled over to the bar, gathered Nailah Fonseca, and the two of them disappeared into the smoky alcove leading to the front door.

  Vangie and I remained silent for a moment.

  Finally she said, “Higgy, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Vangie, if Obama was once a Muslim—and if we can prove it—he’s through. Finished. He isn’t going to be president of anything.”

  She nodded her head in agreement.

  “But how do we prove it?” she asked.

  I stood up. “I’m taking our whole team—you, me, Russ, and Sydney Michael Green—to Indonesia.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  During our grueling twenty-one-hour flight, Vangie Roll curled up next to me and slept with her head nestled on my shoulder. I tried that naval trick again, but she had a scoop neck that didn’t give away nearly enough. Instead I watched Sidney Michael Green across the aisle, furiously pounding away on his laptop. From his occasional pointed looks at me, I was sure he was writing some slanderous report about my co-opting a fellow agent.

  Our airplane touched down in the small port town of Banda Aceh (pronounced BAN-da AH-chay) on the tip of Sumatra, the westernmost island of the Indonesian archipelago. We had traveled halfway around the globe to the most devoutly Muslim city in the most populous Muslim country in the world to find a man none of us had ever heard of. Thanks to the ever-resourceful Russ Slanover, I had phone records proving that Barack Obama had recently been in touch with a mysterious Indonesian by the name of Badung Sabang.

  I kept repeating the name in my mind. Compared to that, Barack Obama actually sound okay. What was it with all the kooky names, anyway?

  After we landed, I tried to get some shuteye. But no sooner had I placed my head on the pillow than I heard my name being called.

  “Higgy…Higgy…wake up!” Russ said. “There’s been a massive earthquake deep under the Indian Ocean, one hundred miles from here. The energy it released is the equivalent of 23,000 Hiroshima-sized atomic bombs. It’s uplifted the seabed, displacing vast amounts of seawater, and created a gigantic tsunami. The tsunami’s headed…here!”

  I threw on some clothes and went outside to the terrace of our CIA safe house, which was located on a hill high above Banda Aceh. Vangie Roll was already there, taking in the morning sunshine. She looked fresh and alluring in a short khaki skirt, a form-fitting white camisole, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

  “Hi, Higgy,” she said, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing her tall, lean body against mine. “Give us a good-morning kiss.”

  I tried to avoid it, but her lips homed in on mine like a heat-seeking missile. And they were definitely giving off heat. If I wasn’t…well, who I am…we’d be running right back inside.

  Sydney Michael Green was at the other end of the balcony. He glanced over in our direction just in time to catch me trying to disentangle myself from Vangie’s clinch. Oh, great, another item for his report. Then he averted his gaze and peered through a Celestron Astromaster 114 EQ Reflector Telescope that was pointed down at the town of Banda Aceh.

  “What’s going on down there?” I asked him, panting, finally breaking free.

  “A lot of topless babes on the beach,” Sydney Michael Green said. “All sizes, shapes, and colors.”

  “Oh, Syd, you’re such an adolescent!” Vangie said.

  “If you’d give me a chance, Vangie, I’d just as soon look through the telescope at you,” Sydney Michael Green said. “Even with your clothes on, you’re a lot sexier than those babes on the beach. But you’re too busy making goo-goo eyes at Higgy….”

  The early morning sky was a deeper and darker shade of blue than any sky I had never seen. There was a gentle, warm breeze coming off the Indian Ocean, but it was already stifling hot. Dozens of colorful birds were flying around in erratic patterns, making an unholy racket.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Sydney Michael Green said.

  He was still looking through the telescope, and I assumed he had spotted more topless women.

  “Will you look at that!” he said.

  “Syd….” Vangie said.

  But I detected a different tone in Sydney Michael Green’s voice—one of shock and panic.

  “What in God’s name!” he shouted.

  I walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked out to sea. A towering wave—nearly one hundred feet high—was sweeping toward the shore. At first, the people on the beach seemed awestruck. They stood there, hugging each other, staring wordlessly at the tsunami. Then, all at once, they grabbed their children and belongings and began running—back toward the tree line and the hills, desperately trying to reach higher ground.

  But it was a race they could not win. The tsunami crashed over the beach, crushing everything in its path. The buildings near the beach were instantly obliterated. Then the wave kept moving into the more heavily forested areas. Huge trees snapped in half. The onrushing tsunami picked up a five-ton truck, tossed it against a two-story cinder-block building, and carried both truck and building away.

  I was in a quandary what to do. Should I go down there and try to rescue some of the victims of the tsunami? Or should I use the disaster as “cover” for our mission—the hunt for Barack Obama’s mysterious friend, Badung Sabang?

  The wave stopped advancing. For a moment the water appeared to be still, and then it began receding with a great sucking sound. From our perch, we had a perfect view of the devastation that it left behind. We could see areas where man-made structures had stood five minutes ago. They were now completely swept clean. Only one building remained standing: a mosque in the middle of the town.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” I said. “Sydney Michael Green and I are going down there to see what we can do to help. Vangie, you and Russ go inland, pose as relief workers, and start looking for Badung Sabang. I have a hunch this disaster will flush him out.”

  Sydney Michael Gr
een and I headed down the steep, winding road. We immediately ran into a mass of panicked survivors trudging up the hill. The tsunami had ripped off most of their clothing and left many of them seriously injured. Wails of anguish rose from the ranks of men, women, children, and old people.

  We arrived at the village—or the place where the village had once stood—and stared in utter disbelief at the heaps of corpses washed up against building foundations and wedged between rocks. The few survivors stared at us in silence. There was almost no sound at all.

  Then I heard a soft moan. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Kennedy!… Kennedy!….”

  I stopped to listen and heard it again.

  “Kennedy!…”

  Above me, in the crook of a leafless tree, was a naked blonde. Her left leg was bent and twisted. I climbed up the tree and tried to dislodge her body. She cried out in pain.

  “I’m here to help,” I explained. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  “Sie müssen aufhören!” she said.

  Hearing that familiar German phrase—“You must cease!”—startled me. It brought back memories of making love to Taitsie in the lavatory of a flight from Frankfurt, while a German stewardess pounded on the door shouting “Sie müssen aufhören!”

  As I lowered the naked blonde into the arms of Sydney Michael Green, she groaned in pain again. Her broken leg was already changing color to a light shade of purple.

  Sydney Michael Green laid her on the ground. Her skin, which was deeply tanned except for the white outline of her missing bikini, was covered with pieces of seaweed. She was quite beautiful, tall and thin as a fashion model.

  In the presence of so much beauty, Sydney Michael Green was uncharacteristically silent. There were no misogynistic wisecracks, no macho posturing. Instead, he looked down at the unfortunate woman with what could only be described as an expression of sorrow and compassion. Then he took off his shirt and wrapped it around her shoulders.