by James Phelan
“Mr President, with Jackson’s appointment it was like Tom Fullop has been handed a co-presidency. This has gone beyond a red state or blue state issue. Next week the American public will want to know that you have control over the power of this office and they know it’s now more in the hands of Fullop. Fair enough he takes on more of the daily tasks of government to help you through what you’ve got ahead of you—but, well, he’s not the one who was elected, co-presidency of his office be damned. People elected you to lead, for you to decide on the policy and direction of this administration. If Fullop gets more of the driving seat, well…”
“Tom’s got good morals,” the President said. “Likeable or not, he’s got his convictions. I was comfortable with him helping make decisions in this administration when we started here, and I still am.”
McCorkell rolled that one around. Yeah, Tom Fullop had conviction, but he also wanted to ensure that his political party stayed in office for the next term. Be that under this president, or, as McCorkell suspected, under a President Jackson.
“I’m not saying that I think you two have to play nice,” the President said, putting his coffee down and picking up his daily timesheet. “It’s just I want it out of view from the rest of the senior staff. I need him, I need you, and I need all my guys including Jackson playing their A Game. This office is only as strong as the team around me.”
McCorkell nodded.
“I’ll speak to Tom some more about all this after my op,” the President said. “Now, why don’t you ask me the question that’s really on your mind.”
The President knew him as well as anyone, so it didn’t surprise McCorkell that his Commander-in-Chief knew there was an underlying uncertainty to all this.
“Next Monday you’re announcing to the American people, two days after your operation, that you have cancer,” McCorkell said. “You’ll keep them informed of your health and it’s up to them come the next election what they choose. I get all that. But I—I want to know, what if it’s not an easy ride? What if this becomes—what if your health turns for the worse?”
He didn’t have to say: What if we’re left with Jackson as President.
“You don’t think I’ve thought about that?” the President said. “You don’t think I’ve had that discussion with my wife and kids?”
“I’m sure you have, Mr President,” McCorkell said. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to have an answer ready for the rest of us.”
He didn’t need to go on. The President knew what McCorkell was talking about. His staff, the American people, would want to know what their President would do if faced with ongoing treatment. The same worries had surrounded Reagan’s prostate cancer in eighty-seven. They would all need to know what would happen with the executive office if things got worse.
“You’ll be the first to know,” the President said. A small measure of a smile showed in his eyes. “You remember when we were freshmen? The debating club?”
“Yeah,” McCorkell said. Both men shared a smile. “Kicked some Ivy League butt in our time. We did good.”
“Me, I did okay. You did good,” the President said, taking his seat again. “You’re a natural. Smart as they come, except on sports, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. You’re good on your feet. Good in a crisis. You should have run for senate. It should have been you on this side of the desk.”
4
NEW YORK CITY
Lachlan Fox jogged across the grey granite plaza at 375 Park Avenue, between 52nd and 53rd streets. The place was packed with morning commuters, moving fast in every direction.
The Mies van der Rohe designed Seagram Building towered as an example of the best modernist architecture of the twentieth century. Morning sun glinted a brilliant orange off the amber glass, making the bronze column monolith seem alive.
Gammaldi arrived twenty seconds behind Fox, panting, puffing, sweating—they’d been working hard.
“Getting slow, old man,” Fox jibed.
“Who you calling old?” Gammaldi said. “Plus, I ran to your place from Park Slope.”
“And still you could only do the one circuit through the park. Anyway, you’re six months older than me,” Fox said, punching his mate on the arm, and started walking for the entry. “And I owe you thirty-one more of those.”
“What?”
“Your birthday, dumb ass,” Fox said. He led them into the entry foyer and waved at the guards on the desk. “Don’t try telling me that your momma didn’t call you this morning.”
“Yeah, she did,” Gammaldi said through a smile. “Woke me up at four, still can’t work out the time difference from Sydney.”
Fox walked past the elevators and made for the fire door, holding it open for the birthday boy.
“Really?” Gammaldi said, walking past his friend. Both their offices were on the thirty-seventh floor of the thirty-eight-storey building.
“Come on, fat boy, or we’ll be late for senior staff,” Fox said, dashing past him and running up the stairs.
“There’d better be cake,” Gammaldi said, his shorter legs taking two stairs at a time to Fox’s three.
The morning senior staff meeting ended at 9.30 am. Each of the nine bureau heads had outlined the activities of their sections. Investigations were discussed, collaborations were made, ideas spitballed and fleshed out. More often than not, investigative reports were halted when those in charge of them were informed by someone else present that it was an area being covered by someone at another news agency or outlet. As individual investigative reporters, these staff were good. The team they formed was even better.
As the others filed out, Gammaldi stayed behind in the room, eating what was left of his birthday box of Krispy Kremes.
“Sounds like the magazine awards was a good night,” Faith Williams said.
“It was all right, as far as award things go,” Fox replied. “Although our boss here lampooned me with a writer, she’s wanting to do a profile piece on me for The New Yorker.”
“Actually, you can blame me for that,” Faith said.
“It’s true, she sold you out for the sake of the company,” Wallace called over his shoulder as he led the way up the single flight of stairs to his top-floor office. He put on a mock J.Jonah Jameson voice: “Aussie reporter becomes superstar!”
“It will do you good to have more of a public profile,” Faith said, taking the stairs in her Manolo Blahniks like she was born in stiletto heels. It was company speculation that the GSR Chief of Staff had a black belt in shopping. “I think you should do it.”
“And when you say do me good having more of a public profile, you mean GSR?” Fox asked, going through the doorway that Wallace held open.
“Something like that,” Faith replied.
“Can’t you pimp out Al instead?”
“You wrote the rendition stuff that’s getting all the traction,” Faith said, taking a seat opposite Wallace in his office. “I thought you’d enjoy the moment in the spotlight.”
“It’s not something I’m after. Besides, my work wouldn’t have been possible without having Al always stuffing his face in the background,” Fox said. He sat in the chair next to Faith and could see this meant a lot to her. “All right, I’ll talk to this Jane Clay some more about it, see if she can get it over with quick.”
“That’s the spirit,” Wallace said. “So, where are you headed first for your OPEC pieces?”
“Nigeria,” Fox said. “They literally just had a bombing in Port Harcourt and that’s the final nail in the coffin for a lot of foreign oil workers. All their airport departure lounges are full of passengers with one-way tickets.”
“If you’re headed there I want you to take some of our security team with you,” Faith said. “I’m serious. And you have to be cleared by the psych—”
“Yeah, I’m seeing him today,” Fox cut in. He had no intention of taking any of GSR’s security team with him, but that was an argument they c
ould have over the phone when he was safely in Nigeria.
“Anyone claimed the bombing?” Wallace asked.
“It happened overnight our time, which is like a second in Nigerian time,” Fox said. “No groups have claimed it but the Nigerian government immediately pointed the finger at a couple of local militant groups.”
“And you don’t think it was them?”
“They’re a grass-roots militia force and not in the business of killing their own civilians to get their message across,” Fox said. “They just want a better deal. I’m trying every avenue I can to get access to the area to check out the bombing site and then to speak with government and militant leaders.”
“Seems I’ve had calls on this,” Wallace said, checking the messages piled on his desk. “The Post, Times, Guardian, CNN—none of them can get access to Port Harcourt right now.”
“That was predictable,” Fox said. “I’ll get in the country and get access.”
“What’s your plan?” Faith asked.
“I think we need to go straight to the top,” Fox explained. “Contact the Nigerian President and senior ministers to offer to do a major international profile piece on them, a Time cover, man of the year or some such bullshit, and then when I’m in their face I squeeze them for access to Port Harcourt.”
“Squeeze them how?”
“We pick someone known for corruption,” Fox said. “The energy minister, Brutus Achebe, would be my first choice, he’s in charge of all the oil business.”
“It’s worth a try,” Wallace said. “I’ll see what I can do to get you access to the ministers, get some arms twisted by Bill McCorkell.”
“Thanks,” Fox said. “And I know how to get access to some militant leadership too.”
“How’s that?” Faith asked. “They’ve been burned by Western media before, they turned us down a couple of months back for an Esquire piece.”
“Michael Rollins spent a few years in Nigeria,” Fox said. “I know he has good contacts there. I was thinking you could twist his arm to do a quick intro for me? I’ve spoken to him about it but he’s a bit hesitant, and that was before this bombing.”
“I don’t think he’d be up to it,” Faith said. “And I don’t blame him. The guy should stay home.”
“In and out, twenty-four hours,” Fox said. “Won’t do Rollins much good to stay holed-up in his house forever. He needs to get his mind outside his head for a bit.”
“I’ll make a call and speak to him about it,” Wallace said. “Let’s meet about this again this afternoon. Faith, can you brief the security team, get them ready to go to Nigeria?”
“I’ll be fine,” Fox said. “I’ll take my lucky charm in Al. Won’t take me more than a few days to get what I need.”
Wallace weighed it up.
“What’s it like on the ground?”
“Nowhere near as tough as our crew in the Middle East and East Africa are getting it,” Fox explained. “Leave the security guys with them.”
There was a final weigh-up. Fox wasn’t GSR’s average reporter, he could handle himself.
“All right, see if you can get some local help,” Wallace said, making notes. “Driver, bodyguards, whatever it takes to make sure you guys are safe. I don’t ever want to lose another reporter in the field.”
5
THE WHITE HOUSE
McCorkell picked up his internal phone.
“Yeah, I’m watching it,” he said to his deputy NSA for African Affairs. One of his office television screens showed BBC coverage, not from the bombing site but archive footage of the building and some file footage of balaclava-wearing militants. The anchor crossed to a crew on the ground in Lagos where the energy minister had held a press conference. “We got anything to add to this…? No threats out there…? Government’s blaming MEND…? Seems knee-jerk to me too.”
McCorkell tapped his fingers on his desk.
“All right, call me when anything decent comes up. Run it through State, AFRICOM, the agencies. Someone must have heard something,” McCorkell said, about to hang up, but then he added an afterthought: “Hey, CIA are almost done doing a new National Intelligence Estimate on Nigeria … Good, let me know.”
He hung up the phone. Picked up his blue rubber squeeze ball. Absently worked it in his hand to relieve the arthritis.
He scanned Intellipedia; more links were being created by the minute. He clicked the National Intelligence Estimate tab, scanned through the headlining links, the Nigerian page still very light on info. Just the country demographic and political details, economic briefings and indicators, key personnel files on the major political players, military capabilities and ongoing security operations.
His personal secretary entered and passed over some notes to read prior to the meeting with the National Security Council. A thick file in which the Department of Defense had mapped out some contingencies to intervention forces in the affected OPEC countries. That would take more NSC meeting time to go through. He checked his watch—the meeting with the Saudi ambassador would be straight after the NSC. Prep time was now.
He picked up his phone; the White House operator answered.
“Put me through to CIA,” McCorkell said. “Langley, Saudi Arabia desk.”
6
SOKOTO CITY, NORTHERN NIGERIA
Brutus Achebe went about the afternoon prayer as the Iqama prompted. His uncle knelt next to him, his cousin on the other side. They were but a few among the many faithful amassed in the Shehu Mosque. The afternoon sun spilled through the open archways, across the brick floor, illuminating the faces of the front row of dignitaries. Behind them were devoted followers, not only of the ideals of Sunni Islam but of his uncle, the Sultan. Soon, when he was President of Nigeria, they would be loyally devoted followers of his, too.
When the prayer was over, Achebe followed his uncle out to an office in the annex to the mosque.
“You are looking well,” his uncle said to him. “But you’re eating too much. Too much good life.”
“Allah has been good to me,” Achebe said. “And you, you look well.”
“Do not lie to me, Brutus, not here, not in this life,” the Sultan said. The old man shifted with stiffness. His own son came into the room, along with Achebe’s advisor, Steve Mendes.
“Soon, your cousin will have to take my place,” the Sultan said. “And he, with you, will lead Nigeria in its next phase. You two will find peace in your time. You will bring a better life to our people.”
His cousin nodded. He had that same smile that spoke to Achebe of a life he would never enjoy. Yes, he’d obtained much material wealth, he had his own following of supporters, but he would never know what it was like to have that following of true believers. There was a massive leap in the difference of the public support he and his cousin were destined to have. They’d grown up in its influence under the shadow of their fathers, and now their destinies were close to being realised—the Nigerian presidency for Achebe, and the position of Sultan of Sokoto for his cousin. Achebe found no familial friendship in this smile of his cousin. In fact, when in his presence, he could still taste the blood in his mouth from a lesson his bigger cousin had once taught him the hard way. It was a long time from that incident, more than thirty years, but Achebe still thought of it whenever he saw the heir to the Sultanate. He was sure his cousin was reminded of it too. That lesson given through fists when Achebe had argued that his own father, a state governor, was more powerful than his uncle. Of the power of religion over politics. Of his place in the family.
“Of course, Uncle. Of course.”
Steve Mendes rode in the back of the Chevy Suburban next to Achebe. He turned the air-conditioning up, and instinctively checked the other vehicles. Two Suburbans were ahead of them, two Toyota pick-ups trailed behind. The convoy wove its way back to Abuja, another monthly pilgrimage to the holy city could be cleared from their calendar. Ordinarily the American would also have an armed helicop
ter for added security, but they were being readied for use in the delta.
“He looks unwell, your uncle,” Mendes said, his gaze out the window not taking the slightest interest in the civilians who flashed past.
“My cousin will carry on his work,” Achebe said. “Their house will continue their strong rule.”
Mendes looked across at him. The forty-three-year-old minister was dressed in a grey three-piece London suit. Surreal in the chaos of colourful poverty that flashed by the window like a time-delay photo.
“Why not you?” Mendes said.
Achebe faced his vizier.
“You are a natural leader, Brutus,” Mendes said. “A born leader. Gifted.”
“I wish to be president,” Achebe said. He turned his attention forward. The driver and bodyguard were preoccupied with the way ahead. “Only the president has more power than the Sultan. Maybe it is not seen like that here in the north, but in the south, over the oil, the president is like a god. That’s the power I want.”
“Yes, and you will be a good president,” Mendes said. He turned to look out his own window again, shifted a little in his seat as his H&K UCP pistol dug in at the holster in the small of his back. When he spoke again, it was soft, as if feigning indifference. As if just putting the thought out there, to linger in the air. As if it were something that the minister would later think back on as his own idea. “There’s no reason you can’t be both.”
Mendes let it hang in the air for a while, then said: “President, and leader of the Muslim faith.”
“My cousin is to become Sultan.”
“True,” Mendes said, facing him. Meeting his eyes and holding them in his stare. “But why be Sultan, when you can be the Caliph.”
“It—it cannot be so,” Achebe said. His eyes showed his mind was thinking it over, searching for an answer that would be otherwise.
“Look at what happened in Port Harcourt this morning,” Mendes said.
