2030

by Albert Brooks

  When she knocked on the door and no one answered, she walked around the back and looked inside. Max was in his bedroom. He had not pulled the shades down completely, and the position of the sun allowed her to see in without him being able to see out. What she saw terrified her.

  Max had made an entire wall of Sam Mueller’s life. Pictures of his family, his parents, a flowchart of how he started Immunicate and all of the discoveries and patents he had been responsible for. He also had Mueller’s current speaking schedule and what he was planning for the future. The information covered the wall. If this were a graduate thesis on the man who cured cancer he would get an A, but Kathy had no idea what Max was doing. She decided to leave before he discovered her, but she knew she would have to bring this up at some appropriate time. Was he in love with the famous doctor? Did he want to become the famous doctor? Or was it something more sinister?

  When she got home she saw Max’s face on her screen. He had left a message. “Hey, honey, do you want to have dinner tonight? Let me know. I’m working on something but I’m going to be hungry later. I love you.”

  He picked her up and they went to a small café they both liked. Twelve tables, one waitress, dark lighting, and Cuban music, although the food was a combination of Mexican and Chinese. Tacos with duck meat, pot stickers with beef and cheese inside. The restaurant’s most famous dish was orange chicken enchiladas. When Max was hungry he could eat three of them.

  As they were having sake, Kathy asked him what he had done that day. For the first time Max wasn’t silent. He wanted to talk. “I’ve been thinking about how to make an impression. How Enough Is Enough can use their time and resources in a way that people will notice.”

  “What did you come up with?”

  “When we went to see Sam Mueller speak it hit me, but I couldn’t figure it out just then. When I couldn’t convince Walter Masters to join, I realized we needed someone even bigger and more ingrained in the establishment. We need Sam Mueller to join our movement.”

  Kathy was relieved that Max had brought up Mueller’s name, although she was still in the dark as to why someone would have to turn his bedroom into a shrine. “How would you get him to join? Why would he want to? He makes his living keeping people alive.”

  “That’s exactly right. Here is a genius focused on one thing, longevity. But if a man that smart could understand the damage that that’s doing, he could change. I just know it. I feel it in my bones. The bones, by the way, that now can live to be a hundred and twenty fucking years old, thanks to him.”

  At least Kathy knew that the man she loved wasn’t having an affair. But this idea sounded a bit crazy. Why would Sam Mueller all of a sudden denounce his life’s work? And what about the wall? She wanted to get it out in the open. Should she just bring it up? Oh, by the way, I was sneaking around your house and looked in the window and saw your Mueller wall. That wouldn’t work. Then she had an idea. “Can I stay at your place tonight?” Max was surprised. She had never really wanted to stay there before.

  “Why? You told me my place smells like socks.”

  “I just want to. I was sort of seeing my dad in everything today, and the house made me feel sad. I just want a change of scenery.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s take a drive and stay in a little motel. Just like an overnight vacation.”

  What could Kathy say to that? She tried one last time. “But maybe snuggling up in your place would be fun. I haven’t slept there in ages.”

  “My place is filthy. Let’s take a drive.”

  “Okay.” At least they would spend the night together. She would find another time to ask about the shrine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  To get Chen Biao, the premier of the People’s Republic of China, to come to Camp David without raising suspicion was a formidable task. Not that presidents and Chinese premiers didn’t meet—they did—but the meetings were always planned in advance and were always tied to a bigger trip, something to do with climate or trade or a general peace mission. To tell the press that the premier of China would be coming to Camp David in two weeks had to be couched in some way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. There had never been a visit by the head of China to Camp David, especially not one that came out of the blue.

  The President’s press secretary, Elizabeth Foreman, and John Van Dyke, along with several other aides, worked for days to come up with a story. Van Dyke thought maybe a side trip for Biao could be arranged to Mexico and Canada to make it a North American visit, but the Chinese didn’t like that. Then Van Dyke came up with another idea, one that might be difficult to pull off: Don’t tell anyone. The Chinese were a little hesitant at first, but realized it was workable, and really, they loved this kind of mystery.

  The one thing the Chinese premier would have to agree on was to be flown to the United States on an American craft. Surprisingly, there was no objection. The Chinese knew the plane couldn’t be Air Force One, but they wanted it to be special, which wasn’t a problem. The United States government had several smaller jets that were like flying penthouses. The one they sent to China was a pilotless Gulfstream, even newer and more advanced than what Sam Mueller flew, and certainly more opulent. And on this flight two Chinese pilots would ride along up front, even though there was nothing for them to do.

  The Air Force prepared the inside of the plane to the exact specifications sent by the premier’s office. They supplied the entertainment and food that he liked, special sheets for the bedroom, special accommodations for his wife and his dog, a specific color scheme, a masseuse, a psychic, a trainer, and a feng shui expert. When the plane was all prepared it looked as if it belonged in the Chinese Air Force. And when it landed in Washington, no one suspected a thing. Just another private jet.

  The plan was that it would land, taxi into a hangar, and, after the hangar door was closed, the Premier and his party would deplane. They would be transferred to a waiting helicopter and then take the short trip to Camp David. Since helicopters routinely made that run, bringing staff or friends of the president for a weekend stay, nothing would be made of it.

  And so, without raising any suspicion, the head of China and the head of the United States would now be in the same secluded location with no press and no fanfare. The President was pleased. Though he felt his position was weak, needing so much money as quickly as he did, he felt that he regained a small bit of power simply by having this meeting on his own turf. And by keeping it secret he wouldn’t have to face the press afterward in case things did not go well, which was also a relief.

  The Chinese delegation, which came in a separate American aircraft not nearly as luxurious, arrived two days ahead of the Premier. Susanna Colbert flew up Friday morning with John Van Dyke and Commerce Secretary James Gilford. Normally the Secretary of State, Bob Nugent, would be there, but he was in Korea at a trade summit and they thought that bringing him home would arouse suspicion.

  Friday night, without the President or the Premier in attendance, there was a barbecue for the thirty-plus delegates attending the summit, and the two countries mingled over roasted pork, chicken, steaks, and vegetables. There was drinking and much laughter and a very good vibe. Nothing, absolutely nothing political, was discussed that night; it was just about setting a tone. A few of the Chinese got very drunk and told bawdy stories that made everyone laugh, even though the Americans did not always understand the punch lines. The Chinese had great stories about the former North Korea, as if it were the black sheep in the family. They had Kim Jong Il short jokes, and Dalai Lama fasting jokes, and even a couple of laundry jokes, thinking the Americans would still laugh at that.

  By the end of the evening people felt quite friendly and ready to hear what the leaders had on their minds the following day. The Americans understood that the Chinese were as tough a group of negotiators as there were, and even though in their hearts they knew the barbecue would mean nothing once the dealing started, it still felt good to pretend everybody liked one another.

&
nbsp; Bernstein and the First Lady arrived by helicopter on Saturday morning. Elizabeth Foreman told the press it was a simple weekend rest and that nothing but relaxation was on the schedule. The President was concerned that eventually the truth would get out, but he felt confident that if it did he could tell the press that it had had to be kept secret or else the complicated financial negotiations could fall apart, though when he thought of that excuse he had no idea what those negotiations were going to be. Then again, there might be a chance this would never leak, at least not while Bernstein was in office. The Chinese were the best secret keepers in the world, and if the American delegation took their secrecy oaths seriously, this could possibly remain private.

  * * *

  The night of the barbecue was also the night of the fourth act of terrorism against the olds. At eight o’clock on that Friday evening a bomb went off in a San Diego retirement community, killing twenty seniors and wounding a hundred more, including younger staff. What had started several years earlier as an isolated incident was now intensifying in frequency and magnitude. Paul Prescott was on the phone with Jack Willman as soon as he heard.

  “What the fuck is going on out there?”

  “This one I don’t know about. It was a suicide event.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “They’ve recovered the body, which will tell us something, but we had no warning of it and we don’t even think it was connected to the others.”

  “Jesus,” Paul said. “How vast is this?”

  “I don’t know. This one was scary. Maybe someone who lived there did it.”

  “Why? Someone was pissed because they never won at bingo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a relative or someone who expected an inheritance. When I get more information I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re being really great here, Jack. I feel like this is one-way. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have seats to the Redskins?”

  “Are you a football fan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gimme a week. I’ll get you seats on the bench.”

  “Listen, Paul, if you did nothing I would still give you whatever information I have. This is scary shit. Did you see that some of the younger staff were also killed?”

  “I saw that. What’s that all about?”

  “It just means whoever did this isn’t particular. As long as enough elderly get it, whoever is nearby gets it, too. That’s a bad guy.”

  “I appreciate whatever info you can get me.”

  “I appreciate the tickets.”

  * * *

  “Did you hear?” Kathy asked.

  “I heard.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at an art supply house,” Max said.

  Kathy still hadn’t mentioned the wall. What is he doing at an art supply house? “Who do you think did this?”

  “Someone with passionate enough feelings to take their own life. I sure would like to know who it was and what that’s all about.”

  Kathy was on Max’s side, of course, but she didn’t condone a suicide bomber. “You don’t think that was a good thing, do you?”

  “Baby, I don’t think killing indiscriminately is ever a good thing. And I understand that some young people died, too. But I have to admire the passion that went into this. If it was for the same reasons that we’re fighting for, then the idea was right, though the action was probably wrong.”

  “Probably?”

  “Kathy, stop taking me literally. We’re in a war. It can’t always be bloodless. I would like to see things change without any violence, but that’s obviously impossible. In any case, I think the killing here was bad. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Kathy needed to at least hear him say that. “By the way, why are you in an art store?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Call me when you get home. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The bombing was the talk of Camp David. The President was informed early Saturday morning and the rest of the delegation, both American and Chinese, heard about it at breakfast.

  A decade earlier the Chinese had experienced similar problems, but they put them down quickly. There was no mercy in China for killing the olds. Though over the decades respect for the elderly had been dwindling in Asian countries, its origin was still there, and respect for elders was ingrained into the Asian culture, even if it was not practiced as it once was. And besides, the Politburo had so many old members there was just no tolerance for those kinds of actions.

  Thousands of Chinese soldiers had been sent to put down this revolution before it ever got started. Young people were put in jail for life or killed or tortured, and it was shown to every schoolchild in the country. China was big on “this could happen to you,” and, for all intents and purposes, it worked.

  On Saturday morning, at a head-of-state breakfast before any negotiations started, the Premier mentioned to the President that his country had also experienced the younger generations “getting jealous,” as he called it. He warned the President that in his humble opinion it was a bad idea to let this fester. Bernstein thanked him for his thoughts, and for a moment he was tempted to get into the discussion with the Premier about older people living too long. But Chen Biao was going to be eighty-eight in January, so the President decided to let that conversation go.

  They had a nice breakfast, chitchatting about meaningless things like the weather and soccer and food, and then at noon everyone went into a large conference room and the real purpose of the weekend got started. Chen Biao spoke sufficient English, but he liked to mix the languages, starting a sentence in one language and finishing it in another. The Nextrons were out in full force, so that when he chose to speak to the President in English his own delegation could understand what he was saying.

  The meeting started with Biao telling the President, “There is no way we can loan you twenty trillion dollars.” Bernstein was a little taken aback at how quickly everything began, but he wasted no time, either.

  “Well, Mr. Premier, we don’t need that amount at this point. We are actually looking to borrow three trillion, which would be enough to get the massive Los Angeles project started.”

  “But what happens after that?”

  “I don’t know,” the President said. “That would be enough for several years, I would imagine.”

  “But don’t you see?” Biao answered. “You will come back to us for another seventeen trillion at some point and we will not be able to accommodate you.” The President thought a moment.

  “Maybe we won’t have to come back for more.”

  “How would that occur?”

  “We could issue bonds or borrow elsewhere; we would have a few years to figure it out.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. President, you cannot borrow elsewhere. No one has these sums. And what you have borrowed already is putting an overwhelming debt load on your economy, as you know. To borrow another three trillion at this point, even if we could accommodate that, would be too much for you to bear. Am I wrong?”

  He wasn’t wrong, but the President did not appreciate being spoken to like a child. But, like a child, when someone needs more allowance he has to take the lecture his parents give him. And China certainly was the parent in this meeting. “Without the loan, Mr. Premier, we will see one of the great cities of the world go into severe decay. Imagine if Beijing was struck with a nuclear weapon?” As soon as the President said that, he realized it was a bad example. It sounded hostile and he didn’t mean it that way. Chen Biao was gracious.

  “I understand. One of your primary cities has been wiped out. The difference is, Mr. President, that in this time in history, if Beijing was in the same place, we have the funds to rebuild it. We would not be borrowing from you.”

  “That is true,” the President said. “And I wish things were different, but at this time they’re not.”

  “We will not be able to loan you the t
hree trillion dollars. The most we could loan you, as we told your Madame Secretary, is several hundred billion. We feel, as I’m sure you do, too, that your debt is already too high, certainly regarding money you have borrowed from us.” Before the President could reply, Biao continued, trying to be respectful but needing to say something that hadn’t been said at this level ever before. “You are the most important country to us. You buy our goods and services and we try to supply you with reasonable labor and quality materials. We have always felt that loaning you large amounts of money was workable because that money was coming back to us. But this is a new day. You need more money than you have ever borrowed before to rebuild your city. Not to buy our clothes or cars or machines, but to make whole one of your biggest metropolitan areas. To simply take the money from our treasury and give it to you, no matter what the interest rate, would not generate enough for our country to make up for depleting our own reserves.”

  The President and the rest of the U.S. delegation were quiet. Bernstein thought to himself, Why the hell did you come here, just to just say no in person? But he forced a smile. “So there is no reason to even talk about an interest rate? Perhaps we could agree on a number that would make this worthwhile.”

  “We have never loaned money based on interest alone. We have loaned you money because your reasons for borrowing have improved our way of life in many areas, far beyond what interest could do by itself.”

  At that point the vibe in the room, at least from the American side, was that the meeting was over. Susanna Colbert had mixed feelings. She was upset that there didn’t seem a way in, but at the same time she felt vindicated that even the President could not get China to budge. Then the Premier dropped the bombshell.