The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker



  THE PRESIDENT’S NINJA

  Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

  Cover Image:

  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 a
nd 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.”
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  “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.”