The Obama Identity

by Edward Klein

  “There-there, Nance, it’s OK,” Vangie said. “You’ll be fine. We’ve got a first-aid kit. Let’s go find a Band-Aid.”

  “Where’s the White House physician?” I asked Pop as we trudged through the sand back to the rented house.

  “With Renegade,” he said.

  At the house, Vangie opened a white metal box with a Red Cross on the side and rummaged around until she found a Band-Aid. She tore it open and was about to apply it to Nancy’s cut finger.

  “No!” Nancy shouted, pulling her hand away. “I want a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid! I want Mickey!”

  “What’ll we do?” Vangie asked Pop.

  “Let me try something,” Pop said.

  He keyed his walkie-talkie. “Detail Leader, this is Beach,” he said. “We have a situation. The First Dog has bitten one of the First Daughters’ friends. I want to repeat—this is not one of the First Daughters but one of their friends. She insists on a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid. Can you contact the White House physician? Copy.”

  “Ten-four,” Detail Leader said. “Stand by. Copy”

  A minute later, Detail Leader came back on.

  “Beach, this is Detail Leader. Renegade and his entire party have stopped playing golf and are convoying to you right now. Copy.”

  “Come again?” Pop said. “Renegade is on his way back to the house? Copy.”

  “That’s a big ten-four,” Detail Leader said.

  “Why?” Pop said. “Copy.”

  “To locate a Band-Aid for his daughter’s friend,” Detail Leader said.

  I looked at Pop, who was shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “The President won’t stop playing golf after a terrorist attack,” he said, “but he drops everything and rushes back here to find a Band-Aid?”

  “Not just any Band-Aid, Pop,” Vangie said. “A Mickey Mouse Band-Aid.”

  Ten minutes later, sirens alerted us to the arrival of the presidential motorcade. Barack Obama, dressed in a blue golf hat, white shirt, khaki golf shorts, and golf shoes, clattered into the house with the White House physician on his heels. The doctor examined the girl’s cut finger.

  “Honey,” he told Nancy, “this isn’t a very deep wound. But we’ve got to put a Band-Aid on it.”

  “I only want a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid,” she said.

  The doctor looked up at Barack Obama.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t carry Mickey Mouse Band-Aids.”

  “Then we’ll just have to go find one, won’t we?” the President said. “C’mon, girls. Vangie, you come, too.”

  He looked at me, and a flash of recognition crossed his face. “Bring John along, too. You can’t have too much tactical planning.”

  “His name’s Higgy,” Vangie said.

  We all piled into the presidential limousine. I sat up front with the Secret Service driver. The girls and Vangie sat on the jump seats in the back with the President.

  “Mr. President,” the driver asked, “where to?”

  “The nearest Rite Aid drug store,” the President said.

  The motorcade zoomed out the driveway, followed by several cars carrying members of the print and TV media. We headed to a nearby strip mall and skidded to a stop in front of a Rite Aid store. As a team of Secret Service agents fanned out to keep curiosity seekers back at a safe distance, the president, Vangie, the four girls, four more agents, and I—a total of eleven people—strode into the store. TV cameramen rushed in after us, knocking several customers aside.

  “Do you carry Mickey Mouse Band-Aids?” the president asked the pharmacist.

  “N-n-no, M-Mr. Obama,” the pharmacist stuttered, practically struck dumb by the presence of the president of the United States. “But w-w-we do have Hannah Montana Band-Aids.”

  “Nancy,” the President said, “how does Hannah Montana grab you?”

  “I only want Mickey!” Nancy cried.

  “She only wants Mickey,” the president repeated. “Okay then,” he barked in full commander-in-chief mode, “everybody back to the car. Let’s try a Duane Reed.”

  And so it went for the next hour and a half—a presidential chase at breakneck speed, with sirens blasting away and the media in hot pursuit. Local motorcycle cops joined the convoy, adding their sirens to the cacophony. We visited Duane Reeds, Walmarts, Kmarts Targets, and a Drug Store Inc.—until we found a box of Mickey Mouse Band-Aids in an Overstock Drug Store.

  While the TV cameras recorded the event, the White House physician bandaged Nancy’s finger. A few minutes later, the presidential motorcade dropped us back at the rented house.

  “Okay,” the President announced, “off to the golf course. We’ll pick up where we were—on the sixth green. I’m laying three there.”

  And his motorcade roared off.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  On orders from Whitney Nutwing, I flew overnight on a MITT jet from Honolulu to the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor to be present when Attorney General Eric Holder Jr. personally interrogated Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, otherwise known as “The Underwear Bomber.”

  I walked into a secure wing of the hospital and was escorted to a heavily guarded room. Inside was a young man lying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires attached to various parts of his body. Sitting next to him was the attorney general in a sweater and without a necktie. Holder had an earpiece in his right ear and a remotely controlled video camera hung from the ceiling.

  “Mr. Abdulmutallab,” Holder said to the man in the bed, “this interview is being tape recorded. After consulting with the FBI, the CIA, the Director of National Intelligence, and the Secretary of Homeland Security, I decided you should be read your Miranda rights. Here in America, you don’t have to say anything that might incriminate you.”

  “But …I… want… to…talk,” Abdulmutallab said in halting English. “I…have…much…to…say…”

  Holder put his hand up to his ear and adjusted his earpiece. He appeared to be listening to an invisible observer.

  “If this fellow wants to talk,” I told Holder, “don’t you want to hear what he has to say?”

  “Depends,” Holder said.

  “There…are…others…in Yemen…others who…” Abdulmutallab began.

  “Hold your horses!” Holder shouted.

  Again, he paused to listen to someone talk to him through the earpiece.

  “Don’t you want the information that this guy can provide?” I asked.

  “Only if it is obtained through proper legal procedure,” Holder said.

  “This is proper legal procedure,” I said. “He wants to talk.”

  Holder looked up at the camera and nodded his head.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said. “A judge might say he was under the influence of pain medications and thus the”—and he made quotation marks with the fingers of each hand—“admissibility of his answers would be called into question.”

  “Eric, maybe you should be representing this guy as his defense attorney,” I said. “You’re doing a better job of stopping him from talking than Johnnie Cochran did for O.J. Simpson!”

  Holder listened to the voice in his earpiece and then said, “It’s all about procedure. The letter of the law.”

  “What if there are others in Yemen with Umar here?” I asked. “What if they’re about to attack the United States? Any information he can give us might prevent thousands of casualties, now or in the future.”

  “There…are…others!” Abdulmutallab said. “Please … tell… him… to… let… me… talk. I…have…information…”

  “Stop!” Holder shouted. “Stop at once! You haven’t waived your right to speak.”

  “Yes…yes…there…is…a…wave…of…other…suicide… bombers… coming…from…Yemen…” Abdulmutallab said.

  “We don’t want to hear this!” Holder said. ‘This session is over. I hope he hasn’t said too much.”

  “Thanks to you, he hasn’t said anything!” I protested.

  “Hi
gginbothem,” Holder said, “someone wants to talk to you.”

  Holder yanked the earpiece out of his ear and handed it to me.

  I stuck it into my right ear and heard a familiar voice.

  “John, I thought you were my Baptist.” It was President Barack Obama. “Some John the Baptist you’ve turned out to be.”

  All my constructive thinking suddenly left me.

  “Mr. President,” I said, “I thought I was representing you. This Underwear Bomber has information about other imminent attacks that we may be able to prevent if we allow him to talk.”

  Suddenly, I heard the voice of Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel. He screamed into my earpiece.

  “How dare you question the judgment of President Obama? Who the fuck do you think you are? Barack Obama knows more than ten other men put together. You’re done! Through! Out! I told that Fat Fuck Nutwing that he’ll be out on his gigantic fucking ass, too, if he doesn’t cut you loose! So good fucking goodbye, you motherfucking asshole. You’re fucking fired!”

  And with that rather unceremonial dismissal, my career at the CIA came to a rather sudden and unexpected end.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  One week later, Taitsie and I stood on the snowy dock of the Yacht Club overlooking Provincetown Harbor. The Pilgrims had briefly dropped anchor here in 1620. This was where the first English settlers had signed the Mayflower Compact before setting sail again for Plymouth Rock. And this, I thought, was a fitting place for Taitsie and me to reaffirm the marriage compact that we had signed almost twenty-five years before.

  The Deuce and Vier stood next to me, while Taitsie’s parents, Elizabeth and “Ducky” Millard, stood next to her. Vangie, Russ, Sydney Michael Green, and Elvira—who had flown in overnight from Chicago—were also in attendance.

  Just as we were assembling for the ceremony, the Desert Girls showed up. They walked onto the dock, arm-in-arm, in matching full-length fur coats. Before taking their places, they gave Taitsie a buss on the cheek and shook my hand. I greeted them with a warm smile. Maybe my chance with them wasn’t over, after all.

  Taitsie had rounded up a female minister from a local women’s commune, and asked her to preside over our recommitment ceremony.

  “Everyone, please gather around and take the hand of the person next to you,” the minister said as she took my left hand and Taitsie’s right hand in hers. “We are here to re-affirm the solemn vows taken here in Provincetown by Theodore and Elizabeth back in 1986.

  “Do you both vow to remain loyal and true to each other until the day you die?” she continued.

  “Yes,” Taitsie said.

  “Yes,” I said. “And I can vow one more thing. There will be no more secrets between us.”

  This time around I wasn’t going to do anything to endanger our marriage. No more drinking and no more CIA. God had given me this second chance, and I wasn’t going to blow it.

  The minister then said, “Congratulations on your mutual wisdom to realize that you belong with each other.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope and handed it to Taitsie.

  “This is your Re-Affirmation Certificate,” the minister said. “Keep it where you both can see it often, and it will serve as a reminder of your devotion to each other.”

  As the guests applauded, a large yacht came around the point and headed toward our dock. The manager of the yacht club emerged from his office and approached our group.

  “This just arrived for you,” he said.

  He handed me a large manila envelope with my name printed on the front in Cyrillic script.

  I opened it and found a short, hand-written note.

  Dear Comrade Higgy,

  Congratulations on the recommitment of your wedding vows—and on your departure from our profession. As a sign of my affection for you, I enclose the deed to my special gift to you and Mrs. Higgy.

  With affection,

  Yurik Maligin

  Attached was a three-page legal document giving me ownership of Maligin’s yacht, The Escape.

  Just then, The Escape’s horn sounded with a series of three long, festive, celebratory blasts—VROOM… VROOM… VROOM— followed by a round of fireworks launched from the deck.

  The Escape—with its two helicopters, two swimming pools, a mini-submarine, an anti-missile system, an anti-paparazzi shield, and a crew of sixty—came to a stop right behind us.

  The Escape was the perfect name for our honeymoon ship. Taitsie and I climbed the walkway, and were greeted by the same tall, beautiful Russian blonde ship’s officer, Yelena, who had welcomed me aboard almost five years ago in Mombasa Harbor.

  “Congratulations to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Higginbothem,” she said. “Welcome aboard. I have the delivery you ordered.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Hier bin ich—Here I am,” said the Countess Gladys of Thurn und Taxis as she emerged from the pilothouse. “And vere ist Meester Sydney?”

  Standing by the rail, I called down to Sydney Michael Green. I no longer cared if Syd had tried to undercut me. He was no longer my problem. I had forgiven him for—well, for everything.

  “Syd,” I said, “I’m sending you the countess. I know how you two feel about each other, and I hope you will be as happy as Taitsie and I.”

  The countess ran down the gangplank and into the waiting arms of Sydney Michael Green. I knew she would keep him happy and living the high life in Europe.

  On the yacht, we waved to our family and friends on the dock below. Our son stood next to The Deuce, who was going to keep Vier on his west Texas farm. The Deuce intended to home-school Vier in the craft of espionage.

  As it turned out, Vier wanted to be the next Theodore J. Higginbothem and join the CIA. Given my current persona non grata status, it remained to be seen whether the CIA would have him. But it was my guess that by the time Vier was old enough to join the CIA, the Obama/Rahm Emanuel grudge against the Higginbothems would be a thing of the past.

  The Escape’s engines thrummed beneath us, and we were off. As we rounded the point and headed out to sea, Taitsie turned to me.

  “Well, Bottom,” she said, “I think it’s time for some Sie müssen aufhören!”

  “What’s that?” I asked with a wink.

  She gave my hand a loving squeeze. “Let’s go below and I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  For the next two months, Taitsie and I enjoyed a second honeymoon aboard our new yacht. As The Escape crisscrossed the warm waters of the South Atlantic Ocean, we settled into a pleasant, unvarying routine. Soon, it became hard to tell one day from another.

  We converted the main lounge into Taitsie’s sculpture studio. There, dressed in a smock over her bikini, she worked with tools and clay that we purchased on a brief provisioning stopover in Huelva, Spain. As for me, I spent most of the daylight hours toiling over the manuscript of this book, banging out the chapters on my old Smith Corona Sterling 12 manual typewriter. Because of the CIA’s Publications Review Board’s prohibition against revealing classified material, I found two complete losers—Edward Klein and John LeBoutillier—and convinced them to put their names on this book.

  Without fail, my GlobalStar GSP 1600 satellite phone would begin beeping during the evening cocktail hour. It was always The Deuce, calling us on an encrypted line. He would say a few words and then put Vier on the phone. Hearing our son’s voice, we were reassured he was safe and sound.

  After dinner, Taitsie and I read out loud to each other (usually something from Dickens or Trollope) until our eyes grew heavy. Then, if we felt like it, which we usually did, we would make love. Afterward, spent and happy, we had a little ritual. I would turn out the lights, take Taitsie in my arms, kiss her softly on the lips, and repeat the same words every night.

  “Darling girl,” I said, “I’ve never been happier in my life. I love you.”

  “Bottom,” came Taitsie’s invariable reply, “me, too!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN<
br />
  On a late March Sunday morning, 440 nautical miles north-northeast of Tierra del Fuego, Taitsie and I were sunbathing on the foredeck when Yelena, the blonde ship’s officer, came running toward us in a state of high anxiety.

  “Mr. Higgy! Mr. Higgy! We have a visitor!”

  She pointed off to the starboard side of The Escape. No more than a hundred yards away, emerging from the deep like some giant orca whale, was the USS Annapolis, a Los Angeles-class long-range nuclear attack submarine.

  Four sailors appeared on deck and carefully lowered a corpulent figure into a small inflatable Zodiac rubber boat. They motored over to The Escape, and several of our crewmembers helped Whitney Nutwing climb aboard.

  He looked terrible. His face had a greenish pallor and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was even heavier than the last time I had seen him, and he had trouble catching his breath.

  “Higgy…Taitsie…” he said, gasping for air. “How are you?”

  “Fine—until now,” I said. “In view of your lack of support for me when I was fired by Rahm Emanuel, you’ll pardon me if I don’t pretend that I’m overjoyed to see you.”

  “I understand,” Nutwing said. “So let me get straight to the point. Since you left the CIA, Higgy, things have gone to hell in a handbasket. President Obama has squandered his popularity and has negative poll numbers. He’s become desperate. At his insistence, the White House has commissioned a top-secret study by the Army Corps of Engineers, codenamed Operation facelift.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For Obama,” Nutwing said. “They want to carve President Obama’s face on Mount Rushmore, right next to Abe Lincoln’s.”

  “So what’s the big problem?”

  “Obama’s ears don’t fit on the side of the mountain.“

  “What’s all that have to do with Taitsie and me?” I asked.

  “Higgy,” Nutwing said, “as Obama loses his mojo, he’s been getting some really strange ideas! Maligin has him over a barrel. The United States is naked unto its enemies, if you’ll excuse the biblical reference. For example, Obama’s back schmoozing those crazy mullahs in Iran while they’re furiously racing to build nukes. He’s caved into Russia on a missile-reduction treaty. He’s going wobbly on China, afraid to confront them because they hold all our debt. And he even wants to open relations with the Castro brothers!”