As he thought about it, Tripp realized he’d be damn glad when the next election was over and Samantha could get out of that rat race. Maybe then he could talk her into slowing down a bit and even consider moving in with him. As for marrying her, he’d think about that later.
“Uh, father-in-law?” Tripp said in an offhand way. “Not sure if I’m ready to call him that. We brought him on board because he’s one of the best in the business. You know that.”
“Sure,” Godfrey said. “Just seems it won’t hurt to really get to know the guy, and you’ll be spending a whole lot of time with him on this one. You could learn a lot.”
“I guess,” Tripp answered. “Gotta be careful though talking about this father-in-law stuff. Samantha’s great. But she’s so damned busy all the time, and worried all the time …”
“You’d be worried too if you had her job. I know I would be.”
“Maybe. It’s kind of a drag though with her being on call 24/7, having to work late almost every night and never having a life.”
“And you think your life is much better?” Godfrey asked.
“At least I get out for dinner. And even golf sometimes.” Tripp checked his watch and reached over to pick up his phone. “And that reminds me, I’ve got to give her a call and see if she can break free tonight. I promised I’d let her know when we had our travel plans lined up.”
“So you only want to see her to talk about an itinerary?” Godfrey said. “Fat chance.”
“Mr. Princeton is on line two,” Joan said. The efficient administrative assistant had worked for Samantha since coming to the White House and she was glad to have the young woman on board. She not only managed Samantha’s calendar, arranged inter-agency meetings, coordinated sensitive documents and was able to make sense out of the hordes of paperwork that circulated through the office, she had turned out to be a very loyal friend as well. And in a competitive place like the White House where the old adage, “If you want loyalty, get a dog” usually applies, she was a god-send.
Samantha picked up the phone. “Hi Tripp. How’s it going?”
“Usual routine over here and I know, I know, I don’t even have to ask how your day is going, now do I?” he said with a chuckle.
She sat back in her chair and wound the cord around her finger. She loved to hear his deep voice whenever he called. She conjured up his image and could picture him leaning back in his leather chair with his feet propped up on the desk, drinking cup after cup of Starbucks. “You’re right. It’s been non-stop over here,” she said. “I talked to dad this morning. He said he’s arranging for his neighbor to take the dog while he’s gone and for the housekeeper to come in twice a week and water the plants. It sounds like you guys are talking about a pretty long trip. He said he didn’t know yet how long he’d be gone. So what’s the plan?”
“He’s right. We’re not sure yet because we don’t know exactly how long these negotiations will take. Sometimes the government types want to wine and dine you and do the whole show-and-tell thing about how great their country is before they get down to signing anything. But this time, I figure it could go much quicker than that because we already have one team over there, and this will be kind of an add-on to that contract. Anyway, I’m thinking a couple of days for the formalities and then we’re going to take some of our people out into the field and do some investigating.”
“Will they let you do that? I mean, just wander around on their land?”
“Why not?” Tripp asked nonchalantly. “We’ve drilled in one particular area. Now we’re starting a whole new field, and if we extend some leases and have the talent on board, I see no reason why we can’t go check them out.”
“That all sounds a little fast to me,” she said. “I mean, I thought you had to sign leases, finish all kinds of paperwork, have it go through their various energy committees and all that bureaucratic nonsense. Even here it takes an age for leases to get the okay. And then, there’s usually some environmental group filing lawsuits that delay everything.”
“I know, sweetheart. Boy, do I know! But we’re not dealing with the US Department of Energy or Interior or Bureau of Land Management or any of them. We’re going to Kazakhstan where there are only a few guys in charge. Of course, they’ve made a fortune by being in charge. Talk about the Russian oligarchs. These guys learned from the best. I hear that some of them have followed the Russians to the French Riviera to buy up a few mansions.”
“So how do you handle that? We talked a bit about the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, but you must have to work awfully hard to compete for the best leases, especially against the Chinese and Indians, right?”
“Not to worry, my dear. We get local partners and we work it out. Tell you what. Can you get away tonight for dinner? I wanted to tell you some more about the trip, the schedule and all of that.”
Samantha looked down at her computer and clicked on her calendar. She still had two more meetings that afternoon and the last one could go long. “Uh, let me think.” She paused for a moment. She really did want to see him. She always wanted to see him. And she certainly wanted to find out more about this Kazakhstan place he was taking her father. “I’ve got a late meeting, but what about 7:30? I may not get home in time to cook much of anything. Could we go out somewhere?”
“No problem. I didn’t mean for you to fix dinner. I’ll swing by, and we’ll hit someplace casual.” He added almost in a whisper. “And then … let’s plan on some private time.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN
The crowd gathered around their president on the edge of the Green Bazaar in the central city. The usually raucous atmosphere was interrupted by calls to quiet down from a dozen aides fanning out into the throngs of well-wishers. President Surleimenov stepped up onto a makeshift stage and held up his dombra, the traditional two-stringed lute. He began to strum an old folk tune describing the Golden Steppe. A well-dressed woman carrying a shopping bag stopped to listen. A small boy, his black hair ruffled by the warm breeze stared as reporters flocked around and photographers took pictures of the performing candidate.
These are my people, the president thought to himself as he finished the song and accepted their applause. He gave a slight bow and then reached out to grab the microphone offered by his chief assistant. “Patriots. I stand before you today not only as your president, but as your candidate in the upcoming election.” He paused while several men in front clapped loudly. Must be members of my re-election committee. “I come here to this city of shimmering buildings in the foothills of the Zhailiskii Alatau Mountains, home to one and a half million hard working people to tell you how hard I am working on your behalf … how we are continuing to grow our economy, invest our oil riches, and build the new Silk Road that runs through our great country connecting China to Western Europe. Yes, with all of this, we are developing new sources of income for all Kazak citizens.
“Now you know our history. A history of brutal Soviet oppression.” He heard mumblings of ascent in the group and continued. “Yes, we all know that many of you are descendants of the thousands of Chechens the Soviets sent here during World War II. One quarter of those poor people died of starvation and freezing temperatures within five years. Others, the ones who were too old to travel, what happened to them?” More grumbling from the back rows of onlookers. “Yes, you remember. If you were too old, you were simply shot! And years before that, well you know the story of how the famous Dostoyevsky was exiled to this country after being thrown into a Russian prison. And for what? I’ll tell you. For being a member of a fellowship club that the Czar didn’t like. But we know that compared to the Russian prison, he preferred our country. Even back in those days.
“We all prefer our country now, don’t we?” The comment elicited a roar of approval. The crowd was warming up to him now. He could feel it. “We prefer it because it is independent. We are the masters of our own fate. Never again will we allow the Russians to rule our country, will we?” Sh
outs of “No, never” permeated the late afternoon rally. “And yet there is a candidate who might allow just that.” He paused for effect. “An opposition candidate who is cozying up to our former Russian masters. A candidate so corrupt he has amassed millions that he has stashed in a bank far away in San Francisco. A candidate who has bought a penthouse in that city in a most appropriate place called Russian Hill. A candidate who has also bought a villa on the French Riviera where seventeen of the twenty most expensive villas are owned by Russians. It’s obvious he likes his neighbors over there better than his neighbors right here. Right here in Kazakhstan! Now he may like the Russians, but many of our compatriots do not.
“This weekend, this very weekend, there will be a series of demonstrations by the brave Semipalatinsk survivors and their families. They will be highlighting the atrocities committed by the Soviets during their devastating nuclear testing program some years ago—a program that still affects our people and their children today. I want to welcome them to all of our cities and encourage you to give them your support as they publicize their plight to the world.
“So, finally, my message to you today is just this: I am working for you! I am fighting for you! I will keep the Russian imperialists away from you! And on that note, I will have a special announcement soon, very soon, about a new project that will serve to protect us not only from Russian expansion, but from any others who would wish harm to this great nation. Now I ask you for your vote so I can keep working. Working for YOU!”
The crowd erupted with shouts of “Sergei! Our way! Sergei! Our way!” The president waved, took a slight bow and stepped off the platform. He motioned to his chief aide to walk toward his limousine, climbed inside and barked to the driver, “Take us to the corner of Satpaev and Furmanov.”
His aide grinned. “Sounds like you want to stop at the Vogue Bar over there. Do we have time?”
“Absolutely. I need a Snow Queen.”
“Ah yes,” the aide said, gazing out of the window at the crowds returning to the Bazaar. “Purest vodka in all of Kazakhstan!” He leaned forward to close the window between them and the driver, then shifted on the leather seat to face his boss. “Mr. President, you referred to a special announcement. Do you mean the new nuclear testing program by the Caspian?”
“Of course that’s what I mean. The head of our nuclear facility informs me that they have hired several new computer experts along with additional scientists. They believe they’ll be ready for a test soon, very soon indeed.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
“That’s a 420-yard par four with a slight dog-leg to the right,” the Caddy said to Tripp as he handed over the driver. Tripp looked out and saw the small pond called Loch Lemon, named for a former member of the prestigious Burning Tree Club, a male bastion since the 1920’s. He was hitting from the back tees and knew he needed to aim for that pond on the left side of the fairway, about 275 yards away. There were trees to the right and left and a dry creek extending from the pond across the fairway.
Tripp took his time with his backswing, hit the ball and followed through, but he pulled it slightly to the left into the rough, leaving him about 190 yards to the pin. “Damn. Thought I had that one aimed perfectly,” he said to his partner.
“Let’s see if I can do better than that,” Godfrey said, teeing up his own ball. He took a strong swing and sent the ball 240 yards straight down the fairway toward the pond. “Now how come your handicap is eight and mine’s a fourteen?” Godfrey asked with a grin.
“Tough game,” Tripp said as he started to walk to where his ball was lying in the rough. The caddy pulled out his five iron and handed it to him. As Tripp gazed out at the pond, the trees and the dry creek, he said, “You know, this is as pretty as anything you’ll see at Augusta.”
“You got that one right,” the caddy said.
Tripp hit his ball but it rolled into the bunker to the left of the green. Godfrey hit a great five iron to the lower left of the green. “Guess this just isn’t my day,” Tripp said. “I feel a little off-kilter.”
“I always wondered, what’s a kilter?” Godfrey chuckled. “But just wait until you get to the green. You can putt better than anyone else around here.”
Tripp then hit with his sixty-degree wedge from the bunker to the mound on the right side of the green, hoping his ball would roll back toward the hole. It actually went in.
“Nice work! You got a birdie after all,” Godfrey said with a tip of his hat.
“I’m amazed I made that one,” Tripp said.
Godfrey finished the hole with a par and they started to walk. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this trip with Jake,” Tripp said. “There’s so much riding on this one, I have to admit it’s kind of hard to concentrate.”
“You think the Kazaks will stiff you on these negotiations?” Godfrey asked as they walked to the next hole.
“Not sure. It’s getting more complicated by the day. Kind of like commercial jujitsu. I got an email just before we left the office saying that their authorities want a bigger slice of the pie. We keep telling them how much we’re all going to have to invest in this project. I mean this Kashagan field is in the Caspian Sea. That sucker ices over in the winter and the oil is under a ton of pressure. It’s much more complicated than the wells we’ve got in the Middle East. Well, you know all about that.”
“Yeah, sure. So is there any chance you’ll walk away from this one?”
“No way. We’ve got a whole consortium going in there. Besides, once we get that field up and running, we figure it could be the world’s biggest producer after Ghawar in Saudi Arabia. So I’ve got to get this deal together.”
“Wish our Congress would let us drill more on our own continental shelf. We’ve got a ton of new safety measures in place since that BP spill and at least we wouldn’t be sharing all that oil with a bunch of foreigners,” Godfrey said. “You heard that Russia is getting ready to drill off Cuba?”
“Sure. But that’s your bailiwick. Keep the pressure on.”
They continued the game and when they got to the 14th hole, Tripp remarked, “You know, this is where I had that hole-in-one last year.”
“It’s a 150-yard par 3,” the caddy said handing Tripp his 8 iron.
Tripp knew it was a pretty narrow outlook off the tee with a large bank of trees all along the right side. That would force him to drive from the left side of the tee. He had seen a lot of his buddies hit it into the trees. Tripp swung and his ball hit the green but rolled six feet over the back edge into the rough. Godfrey’s ball went into the back right bunker. Tripp chipped back onto the green and then made the short putt for his par. Godfrey used his sand wedge to get out of the bunker and onto the green, but it rolled down twenty feet past the hole and he two-putted for a bogey.
“Guess that’s what separates the men from the boys,” Godfrey muttered. “Trying to beat you is always a quixotic move, to sort of coin a phrase.”
They finished the game, tipped the caddy and sauntered into the locker room to change their shoes and clean up. The flags hanging from the ceiling always gave Tripp a feeling that he was in some State Department briefing room. There were state flags, military flags, even weird flags that various members had donated.
They ambled into the so-called 19th Hole, the bar and card room, and stood at the long classic wooden bar that extended across one end of the room. They ordered their drinks and took them to one of the square card tables with a green felt cover. Over in the northwest corner of the room, they saw a couple of men playing gin rummy, an ambassador and former congressman. Tripp waved and thought about how it didn’t make a hill of beans what your title was. Not here anyway. In fact, this was one of the few places in Washington where nobody gave a damn about your job description or what your resume said about you. As the inscription painted in gold on the lintel over the entrance between the locker room and the 19th Hole declared, “Here the robes of office are set aside and every man is king.” A qu
ote from Justice Samuel Whitaker. Here it was just golf. Well, golf and the latest political gossip. Couldn’t get away from that.
He glanced at the caricature drawings of long time members lining the wood paneled walls. His picture wasn’t up there yet. He figured he’d have to be a member for at least ten years to be granted that honor. Maybe someday.
As they sat down, Tripp said, “You know, I really love this place.”
“Even though the women bitch about it a lot?”
“Yes, well Samantha says she doesn’t care if I play here. In fact, she says that she’d rather have me out here than at some family club where a lot of other attractive women are floating around.” Tripp sipped his martini and then added with a grin, “She did ask me once if the word golf really stands for Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden.”
Godfrey burst out laughing. “You’re seeing her tonight, right?”
“A little later. She usually works late. But you know, this will be the last time I’ll see her before heading out, and I’m afraid she’s going to complain again about my taking Jake overseas.”
“But I thought he asked you to take him.”
“He did, but she’s worried about his heart, the pacemaker, the long flight. She’s pretty protective of the guy. Always has been.”
“You mentioned that. But Jake’s a pretty tough guy. He can take care of himself, don’t you think?”
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