by Doug Walker
“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 w
orked 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 presidenti
al 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.”
