The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker

  “Partner. Sounds serious. You’ve seemed to put me down starting with our initial encounter. Brusque. You have a brusque way about you. Change of heart?”

  “Loyal to the cause. I thought you might need female companionship. A guiding hand.”

  “Well that’s hardly possible. I live in a fishbowl. You can have your men. You go home every night and can slime off hither and yon. My only escape was a brief outing to Niagara Falls along with two Marines in full dress. Needless to say, no one challenged us.”

  “Yet here we are. Alone together.”

  “That’s a fact. But there is a rumor mill. This town thrives on it. It’s known you have at least one male friend, maybe more.”

  Renee laughed. “You mean Percy.”

  “What is that short for, Percival? Sounds like a Brit.”

  “He is a Brit. Probably descended from those old Brits who painted themselves blue.”

  “Druid?”

  “Possibly. But more likely a Smithsonian curator and my bridge partner. He lives with another man. Possibly a pair of Druids.”

  “I always thought they were solitary figures.”

  Renee laughed again. “They probably enjoy painting one another blue.”

  At that point in came Tarot. “If the conference is over, can we begin our workout?” He turned to Renee. “You up for some physical activity?”

  “I was a moment ago, before you interrupted.”

  “I could leave,” the ninja said.

  “I need a workout,” Brooking said. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

  Renee gave him a look. “You need to relax.”

  “Call Penny and set a time so we can get together about that legislation. Also you might be checking for some model end-of-life legislation. Maybe one of the states have done something. Maybe you can think up another project to keep Ducote busy.”

  “Other than monitoring the YWCA?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Penny had brought his daily schedule and was arranging a pile of papers in the order they should be read, or at least looked at.

  “Have you ever thought of just pitching it in and going to some safe place and enjoying life?”

  “I need this job. I have two children and a husband who doesn’t make too much money. One has to live. Anyway, what’s safe?”

  “I was thinking of Hawaii, but it’s probably expensive. Maybe some remote island out there where you could live on fish and coconuts.”

  “That’s living?”

  “I suppose you’re right. I have a theory that there are villages throughout Eastern Europe that despite wars and civil unrest through the centuries have remained untouched, that generation after generation has lived in perfect tranquility. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “If true, it would be something,” Penny agreed. “So here you are, the President. Why are you saying such things?”

  “One thing. I know you won’t repeat them. Let me mention a few things: Floods, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes, oil spills, great holes that open up in the earth swallowing houses, cars and school buses, economic downturns, greedy bankers, inside traders, evil politicians. I suppose I could go on if I sat here long enough. But I seem in some way to get blamed for all the aforementioned.”

  “You have broad shoulders.” Penny never called the president either Sir, or Mr. President. Sometimes he felt that she and Tarot were his only true friends, although he relied on Curtis German on a daily basis. Then there were his parents in Turkey and of course, Ben. He didn’t know Penny’s husband and he was just as glad. He didn’t really like getting involved.

  When Penny retreated to her own private empire, she had a couple of assistants. Brooking decided to fire up the cell phone and call his Dad. The time was fairly early in Washington, which meant it would be late in the day in eastern Turkey.

  His Dad answered in German on the third ring.

  “Please, English.”

  “Bruce, how’s it going? Decided to join us?”

  “Not yet. How’s the dig?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Bruce. More strange animal carvings. No sign yet of any tools used to carve these precise structures. Why the world hasn’t beaten a path to Gobekli yet, I’ll never know, but I love it. Just us and the Germans, a few Kurds and Turks. It’s much like Iowa as far as the peace and quiet go.”

  “And Ben’s getting along okay?”

  “Never better. That boy is all cooperation. He’s engaged in this thing. He acts as a go between for us and the Germans. Damn near fluent. And your Mom and I keep hammering information into that skull.”

  “Is he around? Maybe I should talk to him.”

  “He’s out some place. He’ll be back for dinner unless he eats with the Germans. We generally have our teaching sessions early in the morning. Your Mom and two or three German ladies are going to take a truck into Istanbul in a day or two for supplies. They stay over for one night, often in that hotel where Agatha Christie stayed, near the terminus of the old Orient Express.”

  “I’m guessing the Turks are still having trouble with the Kurds?”

  “That’s true, Bruce. But it’s closer to the border. Our Turks and Kurds get along fine here. I don’t know why folks can’t get along.”

  “Beats me. It’s been great talking to you. Glad everything’s okay.”

  “Let’s keep in touch and maybe you can at least visit soon. Did I tell you? Helga’s pregnant.”

  A stunned silence on Brooking’s end. Then, “Helga, Ben’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” the old man said cheerily, “Pregnant, going to have a baby.”

  “And Ben’s the father?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dad, this is awful. It could ruin the boy’s life.”

  “Nonsense. You’re going to be a grandfather, I’m going to be a great grandfather. Generation follows generation.”

  Brooking remained incredulous. Why was his father taking this so lightly? “Will they be forced to marry?”

  “Certainly not. They’re too young. Not even ready for college yet. It’s been taken care of.”

  “Taken care of? You mean an abortion?”

  “No. I’m afraid you don’t understand the culture. The Germans are much more earthy than us, they are also a more pragmatic people. This is a natural thing. I mean, really, what did you expect? Helga’s parents are pleased. They will adopt the child and rear it as Helga’s sibling. Your Mom and I will be godparents.”

  “I see.” A long pause, then a question. “Have I failed as a parent?”

  “No, Son, you haven’t failed. Now get back to taking care of your country.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  As it happened, Renee took the bull by the horns, or the bit in her teeth, and scheduled a major address for Brooking. The topic: end of life. She did have the grace to give him a week’s warning. Fortunately, he had already been reading up on the topic.

  The event was in the ballroom of the Washington Hilton. Congressmen from both parties were asked to attend, as were administration officials. Major newsmen and women were given seats of honor. The event would be heavily televised, which insured attendance of almost l00 percent.

  Members of the medical community and highly visible clergy would also attend. High-powered business leaders, mayors, governors and state assembly leaders had been invited. Renee Camus had gone to extraordinary lengths to insure the right crowd would be on hand to mark a medical milestone. She considered it her crowning achievement and hoped that Brooking was properly impressed.

  The President was definitely impressed. Staggered might be a better term. He was also well pleased. He would not be casting his pearls before swine.

  After dignitaries had been introduced and the minimum small talk gotten out of the way, the President rose to address the crowd in the midst of polite applause.

  “Crisis is no novelty in this town,” he began. “But I rise tonight to tell you of something many of us are keenly aware of, a tragedy t
hat stalks the lives of many of you seated here. But we have yet to even seek a solution. The heart of the problem lies with the many members of the medical profession. Over the years they have unlocked the secret to long life, yet the quality of life has been largely ignored.”

  He paused briefly for effect, and then continued. “The number of older people living as vegetables, some as babbling idiots, most with their short-term memory erased, many reduced to the status of confused animals, in lucid moments longing for death, burning up the wealth of the government and their children, the scope of the problem is a national disaster, a national shame.”

  There was a stirring in the crowd, some small outbursts of protest, but by and large a civil audience.

  “If you are shocked by the blunt words, then my work is half done. I am not seeking to please you. I am not seeking to win an election. I am dealing in hard facts here. Each one of us tonight might be headed in this dismal, despicable, disgusting end-of-life direction. Heavy smokers who die of lung cancer, the obese person with a sudden heart attack, the stroke victim who dies in his or her sleep – these might be the lucky few.”

  Renee Camus who was seated near the back of the room, thought, “Oh, my God, what have I done?” Curtis German, seated not far from her was enjoying it thoroughly. Brooking’s enemies, out for his scalp in the coming election, were beginning to smile. The conventional wisdom was growing that he was shooting himself in both feet.

  Renee watched to see if anyone would walk out, but no one did. Obviously he was leading up to suicide at best, but more likely death squads. Kervorkian. Something the clergy and the AMA had trouble dealing with. Yet many doctors quietly slip hopeless patients lethal drugs. We don’t talk about that.

  “The rate of hospitalization for those over 65 is soaring. Those dealing with their parents’ decline are confused. No outcome is even fair. Major surgery is performed on confused folks in their eighties, bordering on the criminal. Doctors are pleased they can keep a person in deep dementia alive into the nineties.” Brooking paused and examined the audience. Dead silence, apprehension. The media seemed entranced.

  “In 1990 just over 3 million Americans were 85 or older. That figure has doubled, and by 2050 there will be 19 million. The longer one lives the longer it takes to die. By medically promoting longevity we have created a no-death status that endures longer and longer, often a demented state that unlike death requires constant service, the slavery of offspring and vanishing resources. The burden is not only on the individual, but also upon the taxpayer. And this is not the exception, it is the norm.

  “The better and healthier you have lived, the worse you may die. Exercise, diet, medical check-ups – one postpones one’s affair with death, but is a long distance from being in robust health. Seventy percent of those past 80 have a chronic disability. If you want to fund pain, misery and human suffering, please purchase long-term care insurance.

  “The number of oldsters suffering dementia continues to climb at a rapid pace. In coming years it will overwhelm us. Some European countries have taken a close look at the problem. When I was young I heard certain Eskimos put old folks on ice floes and set them adrift. Some American Indian tribes had similar solutions. I’d like to announce here and now that I don’t have the answer.”

  This drew scattered applause.

  “But I would like to get the Congress, the AMA, the clergy and anyone else who has a nimble brain, working on the problem. I will now turn the meeting over to Renee Camus who works in the White House on women’s issues and who planned and is responsible for this meeting. Please step forward, Renee.”

  With supreme calm, considering her surprise, Renee threaded her way through the audience, assumed the rostrum, and announced, “The problem the President outlined is a holocaust. All hope, comfort and dignity has been taken from the individuals of whom he speaks. It is also a problem most of us are conversant with, a problem we know exists, a problem to trigger our worst fears, our darkest dreams and dread. I will now open the meeting for comments. Not questions because I have no answers. Please stand, give your name and occupation if you like.”

  A man in clerical garb who identified himself as a Catholic bishop stated: “Whether a child is killed in the womb through abortion, or a mindless old person who can neither feed himself or use the toilet is executed, it’s still murder. It is a sin against God.”

  A woman then stood and said, “A group of old men who claim to have led a celibate life are trying to tell us what is right and what is wrong. What garbage.”

  An old man stood and said, “Ronald Reagan, who was in la-la land most of his adult life, finally became totally mindless and incapacitated, he not only cost millions in watchful medical care, but had the Secret Service clowns watching over him. What a waste of money.”

  And so it went for a good 45 minutes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Renee Camus was waiting two days later when Brooking entered the exercise room for his morning workout. “You’re late. You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

  He tossed her a questioning glance, and then sat down on the bench beside her. “You must have the Indian sign on Tarot. How does he know you’re not a terrorist?”

  “Tarot’s smarter than you might think.”

  “If you only knew.”

  She ignored the nuance, but filed it away in her mind. Maybe there was something she didn’t know. “He did say you were always prompt. What happened?”

  “Oh, come on now. It could be anything. I might have lingered over coffee. Read something of interest on the web, overslept, fell in the shower.”

  “Well, you’re unshowered and very likely haven’t had coffee or checked the web, so what was it?”

  “The usual. I had trouble sleeping, and then fell asleep when it was time to get up. Nothing very spectacular. And I’m not always prompt. Why are you here? You have access to Penny and my appointment book?”

  “You lack something.”

  “I lack a lot of something. I’m trying to hide it from the voters. Do you have an inventory?”

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Alone? I just said good morning to a guard outside my door. I’m never alone. I have a thing to push on my cell phone that will summon up demons from the depths of the earth.”

  “But will they come?”

  “I’ve not tried it. Never cry wolf.”

  “How about havoc.”

  “That too.”

  “I can be your friend.”

  “You are my friend. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. But I believe you are my friend now.”

  “Tina Geer was your friend.”

  “She was the vice president. I don’t know what else you mean.”

  “There were rumors.”

  “Of course, there are rumors about everything. And you are right, she was my good friend. I mourn her death.”

  “Still?”

  “Of course. There was no closure.”

  “Tell me when you met her.”

  “Why not.” He checked his watch. “Tarot is late this morning.”

  “I told him to stay away until I called.”

  “My God, you’re already running the show.”

  “Someone has to. Now tell me.”

  “It was one of those funny incidents. A graduate school pool party. There was a pool on campus and we were drinking some odd colored punch loaded with vodka, from plastic cups of course.”

  “Of course. You were by the pool.”

  “Anyway, I had been introduced to Tina and I said something to offend her, but I didn’t know what. A few minutes later I was aware of her stalking me.”

  “Stalking? Isn’t that illegal.”

  “In one sense, but this was like a hunter would stalk game. Like the deerstalker. She was positioning herself in order to push me into the pool. We were both fully clothed.”

  “You sensed that?”

  “Oh, yes. It came perfectly clear, even with my muddled
head. So I waited and when she made her move I dodged, rather artfully I might add, and she plunged into the drink. She came up sputtering much like a wet hen. Rather amusing.”

  “To you.”

  “Also to others around poolside. It certainly injected some life into the party. There were boos, catcalls, assorted remarks, many of them tasteless.”

  “So a good time was had by all at Tina’s expense.”

  “She mellowed in a twinkling of an eye, all smiles. I reached down to help her out of the pool and she yanked me in on top of her. For her size, she had remarkable strength.”

  “So, another round of boos, catcalls and tasteless remarks.”

  “Exactly. But my dorm was nearby and the two of us staggered off to get out of our wet things…”

  “And into a dry martini.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “You set me up.”

  “I did that. Anyway, we went to my room, she got into a pair of my pajamas. I donned a robe, scurried down the hall to the laundry room and pushed our stuff into the dryer.”

  “How did you occupy your time waiting for the dryer?”

  “There was a lapse there. But you asked how we met. What did happen is we both got our second degree. She and I married different people. I had a fairly long happy marriage. Hers’ ended in divorce. We had both gone into politics to one degree or another. She was a brilliant person, and geographically we balanced out right. I skillfully steered the party chieftains into picking her as my running mate. The rest is history.”

  At that point Tarot entered the exercise room. “I can only stay away so long,” he said to Renee. “The country needs a helmsman.”

  “You want to work out, Renee?” Brooking asked.

  “Why not. I might as well do something constructive.”

  They rose and faced Tarot. Renee too was wearing sweats. The President hadn’t noticed before.

  “Incidentally, I think I’ve got a solution to that end-of-life legislation. I’ll have Penny schedule you and German in so I can explain it. It’s quite simple.”

  Renee laughed. “Simple. Of course. Just as easy as turning lead into gold.”

  “Come on, you two,” Tarot ordered.