1

HEGEMON
Y
by

MURRAY LEVINE

11060 Blue Coral Drive

Boca Raton, Florida 33498
561-883-6651
murlev@adelphia.net
 2
May 2, 2000
 3

THE BEGINNING
Two things occurred on Election Day, the election that gave Alexander Fortunatus a
second term. One good, one bad, very bad. The good one was the announcement – very
privately – that two new computer chips, the twelfth improvement since the turn of the
century, the Pentium 17 in three forms: MF, PC, and LT, and MicroSun’s Super Mega Chip,
which had been developed in coordination with it, were both in the first stages of production.
The bad was the bombing of the White House. Other than the tragic nature of the
event, the bombing had a kind of surreal nature to it, the way burning the flag in the sixties
was surreal.
The flag was just a symbol, the country was the thing. So burning the flag was
burning something without a reality in it – the reality was the country that remained no
matter how many flags were burnt. Or burning bras. No matter how many bras were burnt,
if a woman wanted some uplift to her breasts, some form of bra was required. All that
happened was that wired bras went out of style and soft bras came in. And for every flag
that was burnt, the flag manufacturers happily produced more.
The White House, for all its bricks and timber, was also only a symbol – the country
was the reality. So if the White House, like London Bridge, all fell down, the next stage of
the game was to shake up the place and rebuild it. Of course, half a dozen people were
killed in the explosions and in the fire that followed. And substantial amountof good china
was reduced to shards. And a collection of not very good portraits of old pols was reduced
to ashes. And some decent furniture was charred, as well as some draperies were scorched.
And the country was shamed. And a great many people cried.

* * *

The White House had been in various stages of renewal and reconstruction all
through President Fortunatus’ first term. The planning and funding had been a major effort
of the previous Republican administration under President Conniff, an effort spearheaded by
his first lady, Belinda Conniff. On his first inauguration, President Fortunatus had the choice
of taking the vice-presidential residence at Observatory Circle as a substitute White House
or of segmenting the reconstruction and renewal into small parts, allowing most of the
mansion and its extended wings to be used for normal purposes.
Each section to be renewed was separated from the whole by a complex set of
security devices with highly restricted entry – only those who were immediately required to
work were permitted in the area, and these people were subject to close search and
surveillance, the whole under the supervision of the FBI. This process caused the project to
be slowed down considerably, so that the effort, instead of being accomplished in two years,
was taking more than four.
Fortunatus did not want to be a president who performed the duties of his office
outside the White House. He had come too far in his search for position – and a place in the
history books – not to have the pleasure of sleeping where his predecessors had.
It was Election Day evening. The President and the First Lady, most of his cabinet
and many of the Democratic Party bigwigs were gathered in the temporary party
headquarters in downtown Washington. A telephone call for the President, presumably from
the Republican Party HQ, was shunted to the Democratic HQ. The caller was not the
Republican candidate.
“Listen to me, you fuck. This is Freedom America,” the caller said. “In ten minutes
there will be explosions in the White House. Get everybody out. We warn you once.”
“What kind of crank are you?” the President asked.
“Fuck you, Fortunatus. You don’t get them out, they’re all dead.”
 4
The disconnect buzz sounded in the President’s ear, but what he heard in the brain
was Dead. Dead reverberated in the President’s head. My God, it could be real. That
thought spurred him into action.
“Conrad,” he said, in a quiet voice, to the FBI director, who stood a step or two away
from him, “get everyone out of the White House. That was a bomb threat, and I don’t want
to take a chance. Now!”
Conrad Corbin turned away from the group, took the cell phone from his pocket and
murmured into it. He made four calls, then turned to the President. “They’ll all be out in
five minutes – except for a bomb expert who’ll check whether it’s real or not.”
Corbin and the President edged away from the milling crowds who were looking at
the big screens that gave results of early-closing election districts. Most of the East Coast,
except for major big cities, which had extended voting hours, was already sending in results.
Nothing predictable yet. The President and Corbin turned away from those about them.
Corbin signaled to three of his agents to keep enthusiastic pols away from the chief. He
waited quietly. The President, his attention abstracted, smiled at supporters who came from
moment to moment to report that this or that election district had voted for him or against
him. The President kept looking at his FBI chief. Then Corbin’s cell phone buzzed quietly.
He listened, grew pale, and turned to the President.
“It happened. A series of explosions, none of them very big, but enough it seems to
pretty much destroy the central building. You want to hear it yourself?”
The President nodded and took the cell phone from Corbin’s trembling hands.
“Fortunatus,” he said into the phone, and he listened intently for two minutes. “All right.
Cordon the whole area off, and pick up every one in the area. No matter who. Every one.”
Isabella Fortunatus, the First Lady had turned about to see where her husband was.
She was instantly aware of the lack of color in his face. The usual swarthy tone of his
Mediterranean complexion was gone; he was gray, dead gray.
“What’s wrong?” she said, pushing past the FBI agent who had been keeping people
away from Fortunatus and Corbin. “Alex, what’s with you?”
The President shook his head, and, putting his hand on Corbin’s back to steady
himself, he went to the microphones on the podium. The camera crews became instantly
attentive and went into action, as if they sensed that there was an announcement to come.
Fortunatus, holding on to the podium, spoke directly into the eyes of the cameras focussed
on him.
“My fellow Americans, I have a tragic announcement to make.” A hush, a wave of
silence flowed through the hall – first near the podium and then progressively through the
entire auditorium. Then the President spoke. “The White House has been bombed, and, as
far as I know, destroyed. We had a warning a few minutes ago, and everyone was
evacuated. I do not know if there were any casualties. We should have on the spot reports
in a short time. All I can tell you is this: whichever criminal and terrorist group or nation is
back of this dastardly act will be punished – punished severely and without mercy.
“In the meantime I ask you all, citizens of our great country, if you haven’t voted yet,
go out and do so. Whether you vote for me or for my Republican opponent is not important.
I want you all to let these terrorist murderers know that America takes its liberty, its
freedom, and its responsibility seriously. Go out and vote. Let them know that our White
House may be in rubble today, but it will rise again tomorrow.”
A deep sigh roughed its way through the President’s throat. He cried. A symbol had
died. The cameras caught every nuance of his action.
There was no applause. The shock was universal, and even as it sank in, and
questions came to mind of how was it possible that such a thing could happen, there was
nothing to say.

* * *
 5
All through the country, from one coast to the other, people poured out to the
polling places. In the East those who had not voted clamored that the polling places be
reopened. Election officials, unsure about such a procedure, almost uniformly acquiesced to
the demands of the crowds at the polls. Across the country, hushed lines of voters kept the
polling places open long after official closing times. Although the unusual crowds and extra
hours delayed the official count, exit polls determined quickly that a very substantial
majority was reelecting the President.
Over and over, through the night the President addressed the TV cameras, saying,
“Vote, vote, vote. It’s not important whom you vote for. Let these criminals know that
America is alive and well and protecting liberty. They may have bombed a building, a
building that is a monument to freedom, but they haven’t bombed the freedom that is in our
souls. The symbol that is the White House is alive. I want you to know that, you killers who
have tried to destroy what this country means, the White House will always be alive.”

* * *

The President did not sleep that night. When the telephone call from Rudy Michael,
the Republican candidate, acknowledging and conceding his defeat and Fortunatus’ election
for a second term came through, the President invited him to come and assess the damage
to the White House. The election, which according to the polls had been a tossup, turned
into a rout after the bombing. It was as if everyone in the election booths had said, We want
America to be America, just the way it is, and that the current occupant of the White House
was meant to stay there for another four years.
Rudy Michael, the President, and VIPs from both parties, together with the current
vice-president and the newly elected vice-president-to-be, went over – surrounded by the
tightest security Washington had ever seen – to see what had happened to the White House.
The White House area, from Pennsylvania Avenue to Constitution Avenue and from
Seventeenth to Fifteenth Streets, was cordoned off. Police and military forces surrounded
the whole zone. Fire fighting equipment kept coming up Pennsylvania Ave and into East and
West Executive Avenues. Other units came from E Street, past the Ellipse and into the
White House grounds.
Smoke billowed above the central White House complex. Strangely, neither the East
nor the West Wings seemed to be affected.
The politicos, including the President, were herded near the East Appointment Gate
and held there. Conrad Corbin, who had rushed to the site as soon as the President relayed
the message he had received, was there with Fire Chief Magnus Chalfont and Police Chief
Andy Washington.
“Casualties?” the President asked.
“Four or five we can’t account for,” Corbin replied. “It’s been a series of small blasts
and fires. They just stopped a few minutes ago. Looks like plastique and incendiaries set up
in sequence, mostly in the show-rooms. More to destroy the interior than to demolish the
building. I’ve sent in search groups in each of the rooms that have been damaged, but I
don’t want to risk sending them in to areas not yet touched. In case there are other
explosions and fires to come.”
“Right,” Fortunatus said. “We don’t risk lives to protect property. But is the fire
under control?”
“Pretty much. It’s mostly in the walls now, and the fire boys are trying to stop it
without breaking up the interior too much. This was well-planned sabotage. Very
sophisticated.”
Fucking Arabs,” said the President. “Has to be Libya or Iraq or Iran. One of those
fucking terrorist countries, getting back at us for voting pro-Israel at the UN. I’m sure of it.”
“Just don’t say anything in public,” Corbin said. “We’ll find out the truth soon
enough.”
 6
* * *

The President, leaning on his crutches, stood before the microphones, dozens of
them hungrily waiting for his words, cameras pointing at him, video and still, their single
eyes staring at his tear-streaked face, the reporters and officials standing still stunned, some
of them actually with their mouths open in disbelief. He remained silent for a long moment,
grasping the podium in front of him as if to support a sagging body. He looked weak and
indecisive. He looked beaten as if he had lost the election that so few hours ago had been
the most important event in his life up to that moment. Behind him was the White House,
smoke still rising in some places, black holes that had been windows stared blindly at the
cameras.
Then a shudder past through his long frame. Color, now gray and deathlike, slowly
came back to his face. The hands that gripped the podium stiffened and became fists. The
dull eyes sharpened to the usual glistening midnight that marked his Mediterranean
heritage. The muscles in his face quivered and became rigid. He drew in a long breath.
“We will not be attacked,” he said. He paused, as if to catch his breath. His hand
went to his eyes, to cover them from the stares of the lenses before him. Then he put his
hand down, opened his eyes and stared back into the cameras. “We will not be attacked
again. Ever. Whatever rogue country, whatever source of destruction, whatever creator of
terrorism and sabotage, they will not go unpunished. They will be destroyed. We will not be
attacked. The history of this planet, being what it has been, has made the United States the
sole military superpower, the protector of peace where that can be obtained, the punisher of
national crime where that exists among the peoples of the world. We have not asked to be
this power, but we are. And some nation, some source of terror, has seen fit to perform this
unspeakable act of sabotage and murder. That nation, that source, will be destroyed. We
will not be attacked again. Let the world know. To attack the United States is to ask for
destruction.”
He turned from the microphones and the cameras and walked to the still smoldering
building.
The fire had been contained, although the smoke still lay heavy in the walls. Little
gray tendrils, some backed by flickering red let him know that the destructive force still lay
within the building, held back only the force of water that tried to drown it into submission.
It was the strangest evidence of violence he had ever seen. Walls, cracked and fractured
still stood, but the contents of the rooms were ripped, torn, charred, burst, convulsed. The
portraits of the presidents in the Entrance and Cross Halls were seared, scorched, and
blackened – torn from their frames – as if some force had said, These memories will be
banished from the mind. Monroe’s 1817 pier table was shattered into kindling. The cut-
glass chandelier in the Cross Hall had exploded into a million sparkling fragments, while that
on the first landing of the Grand Staircase lay in a mound of crystal on the floor.
In the China Room, the glass in every case had been blown out, every piece of china
– every one, without exception – was in shards, shivered bits blown helter-skelter through
the room. Only the painting over the mantel, View on the Mississippi River Fifty-Seven Miles
Below St. Anthony Falls, Minneapolis, was undamaged.
Strangely, the Diplomatic Reception Room was mostly undamaged. The President
walked through the rooms, his eyes smarting from the smoke and his throat painfully dry,
until he came into the Library, perhaps his favorite room, where he had spent many an hour
in quiet reading, unwinding from the tension and care of office. He burst into tears. All that
was left was charred paper. Books had been rent from cover to cover. The Duncan Phyfe
chairs and tables were now only waste lumber. The gilt wood James Fenimore Cooper
chandelier still hung from the ceiling, but it was black.
“Take me out of here,” the President said, and Con Corbin led him to the untouched
East Wing.

* * *
 7

The truth concerning the crime was well hidden. Despite all the investigative efforts
of the FBI and the CIA, nothing came to the surface. Six bodies were discovered in various
parts of the building. Five, White House personnel who had not been able to evacuate the
building, had died of smoke inhalation. The sixth had been caught in one of the explosions.
The five bodies had the usual identification items on them: driver’s license, credit cards,
pictures of kids and loved ones, and so on. The sixth had nothing on it to identify it. The
body was that of a white male, mid-twenties, one hundred forty pounds, close-cropped blond
hair – almost skinhead, five foot eleven, dressed in black jeans, black tee shirt, black boots.
“He must have been caught in his own explosion,” Corbin told the President. “We
presume he’s the perp. Nothing on him to identify him at all. The only thing was the tee
shirt. There was some sort of name on it. I suppose the maker or a club or something like
that. All we could make out was Fr. Frank or Fred or Francis or whatever.”
“Or Freedom America,” the President said.
“We thought of that,” Corbin replied. “But it led nowhere. There’s no organization
we know of with that particular name. Lots of them with Freedom and, of course, more with
America. But no links to any subversive group, native or foreign.”
“It had to be foreign,” the President said. “It couldn’t be an American group, right
wing or skin head. These types always drape themselves in three hundred percent
patriotism. The White House is the last thing they would go after. They’d go after me, but
not the building. It has to be a foreign terrorist affair. I’m convinced of that.”
The President was convinced that an Arab or an Asian country was back of the
incident. He had more than once asked his Intelligence people to check out the possibility of
an Eastern Conspiracy. But they could never come up with anything.

* * *

Finally, fed up with the lack of positive work on the part of the CIA in this and other
foreign affairs situations, he lost his confidence in Intelligence operations and disbanded the
CIA altogether, revising the whole of American Intelligence work. It seemed to others that
this was done out of pique, but it actually had been part of Fortunatus’ plan for change in
Intelligence arrangements. Since the United States had become the single world power and,
in effect, the policeman of the world, he could not see any difference between Intelligence
work inside and outside the boundaries of the country. He put everything that had to do
with Intelligence on hold.
In addition, he refused to start work on rebuilding the White House until every
avenue of investigation had been exhausted. Instead, in the circle in front of the White
House, to be approached from the Southeast and Southwest Gates, he had a bomb-proof
windowless building built – a huge box with a facing of white marble and a single entry
opposite the front of the White House. It was nicknamed The Marble Box and it contained
presidential offices and the Executive Residence. Invisible from the ground was a wall on
the roof of the building, seamlessly joined to the façade, which acted as the terrace for the
residential area. There was a retractable clear cover over the terrace area so that the
presidential family could feel and see outside air.
A good part of the building was underground, joined to the subway system that
linked executive and legislative office areas.
 8

ONE: THE MEETING IN THE SECURE ROOM

It was two years into Fortunatus’ second term, and a meeting was about to begin.
“Why are we meeting here?” Terry Ortega asked in his usually querulous voice, in
wining tones that he knew annoyed the president. “And where the fuck are we?” I know
goddamn well where we are, but I’m not going to let on that I been hearing rumors about
this place. Somewhere along the line they’ll damn well realize that I’m the vice-president of
this country, and I damn well count. I’m tired of taking shit from that guinea wop out of New
York.
He looked in awed amazement at the room, allowing his astonishment to be public.
He let his face go red; it was a talent he had, that he could look hurt or pained by actions he
considered to be antagonistic while inside, logical and unemotional, he was thinking how to
get even.
The room was such that it made him feel small and somehow psychologically
unbalanced. Almost as if his five foot six small, narrowly shaped figure with its dark
Hispanic face and black eyes did not fit in this harsh, white, Anglo, North American
environment.
The room seemed to be a clear plastic box suspended inside a concrete container.
He could see through the transparent walls of the room to the solid white-painted concrete
that enveloped it. There was a space of about a yard between the clear walls and the
concrete enclosure. Everything was clear, transparent, plastic: the chairs, the conference
table, the individual desks, the computers with their works visible in plastic covers, the
telephones, fax machines, copiers. All of them encased in transparent covers.
It was as if he were looking by x-ray into the innards of everything around him. For a
moment he had the idea that that was just what he was doing. He looked at Lou Goldberg
thinking that he might be seeing the gray shadows of bones and viscera, but what he saw
was the Chief of Staff’s substantial and opaque layers of fat hiding Goldberg’s skeleton and
organs. That fucking Jew thinks he fits here, but he don’t, no more’n I do. Well, he can suck
up to Fortunatus, much good it’ll do him.
Only the white cushions on the clear plastic couches were solid looking, and they
appeared to be floating in air, although this too was a momentary vision. He allowed his red
to recede, and he sat – the first one to do so – in a chair just down from the head of the
table, where he anticipated the President would take his place.
As Vice-President, Terry Ortega attended all cabinet meetings and presided over the
Senate, but he had never been in the Secure Room, which he presumed was where he was,
near, or under the basement of The Marble Box. Officially he knew that there was a place
other than the underground offices of the administration. Those he had visited. They were
unused and had been closed for many years after the Cold War. But location of the place he
was in now was a mystery to him. In fact, he did not even officially know of its existence,
although he had heard rumors of the construction of a secret project handled discretely by
both the FSIA and the FBI.
The FSIA, the Federal Special Information Agency, was the successor to the defunct
Central Intelligence Agency.
No one told Terry Ortega anything. It pissed him off, but he could say nothing.
Whatever the President chose to let his Vice-President know, that he knew, but Alexander
Fortunatus was no friend of his Vice-President. Ortega knew why he had been chosen for his
office: he had a substantial following in the Hispanic communities in Florida, New York, and
the Southwest. Fortunatus had needed their votes to ensure his reelection two years ago.
Ortega knew also, mostly from the newspapers and the reporters that spoke to him
— mainly of the Spanish press — that the overhaul of the United States intelligence
community had been completed. Since the Cold War end and the series of failures and
 9
scandals at the CIA, the FBI had been the main source of intelligence information for the
federal government.
What convinced the President more and more that the bombers were international in
nature was the change in attitude toward the US in the UN. Countries in the Arab world
particularly, and those linked to them, had become snide in referring to The Super Power as
the policeman of the world. In the Iranian press mention was made frequently that the
Satanic Super Power was unable to police its own backyards. First-world powers friendly to
the Arabs, France and Russia especially, had little hesitance in opposing American positions
with regard to North Africa and the Middle East. Cartoons linking the English burning of
Washington in the War of 1812 to an attack on the capital two hundred years later appeared
in both France and Russia as well as in Arab media. Yet the CIA with an unlimited budget
could dig up nothing at all.
In the case of international intelligence, the individual armed forces intelligence
agencies and that of the State Department were not suited to provide information the
executive branch needed. So, at the same time that the President disbanded the CIA as an
intelligence agency, Fortunatus carefully winnowed out the agents he considered useful, and
these he sent to the FBI.
Not that he was so happy with the FBI, whose frequently sloppy investigations had
more than once precipitated a Beltway scandal. But the President in one of his first acts six
years ago had requested the resignation of the FBI chief and substituted Conrad Corbin as
director. Corbin at the time had no background in intelligence. He was a banker whose
expertise lay in two directions: downsizing to eliminate redundancy and poor performance
and knowing how to gather information by fair means or foul when he was involved in an
unfriendly takeover. Con Corbin was no one on whose wrong side an FBI agent wanted to
be. He was a big man. To Ortega he looked like a cheap Irish street fighter who would never
hit above the belt if he could collapse an opponent by hitting him in his most vulnerable
place. He’d kick me in the balls if he could, but I’m smart enough never to face him straight
on. He’s the kind of guy you shoot in the back. You don’t play John Wayne with him.
Corbin’s banking experience had resulted in a net worth of three hundred million dollars, a
socially prominent wife, a physically gorgeous mistress, and two spoiled kids. Ortega was
jealous of the FBI director.
In Corbin’s first two years of tenure the FBI’s role was expanded to include normal
foreign intelligence gathering. Reasonably effective agents not selected from the defunct
CIA for the FBI were delegated to the intelligence-related departments of other agencies or
to the armed forces to minimize loss of information. The deadwood was dismissed.
The president then instituted the Federal Special Information Agency. It had a secret
budget, as the old CIA had had, and it served as the President’s personal tool in international
negotiations, investigations, and planning. It had only a small cadre of permanent
employees. But there was a large contingent of part time agents, assistants, and
cooperative associates in national, local, and foreign agencies and corporations – all of them
employed in the private sector in medium level executive positions, many security sensitive
– who were fed information and assignments on a need-to know basis. These agents were
all joined in political — but not necessarily party — loyalty to the presidency and to the
ideological concept that America had to be a world leader for freedom and benevolent
capitalism.
Freedom had to do with reasonably unrestricted personal activity and the individual’s
responsibility to society, American and worldwide. Benevolent capitalism was defined as an
opposition to untrammeled greed and accumulation of commercial power, individual and
corporate. So far this method had proved reasonably successful, but the FSIA itself had not
in two years been able to crack the case of the White House destruction.

* * *

“It’s the Secure Room,” said Maxim Crankshore, director of FSIA, in response to
 10
Ortega’s query. “Only the President, Con Corbin of the FBI, and I know about it. Even the
engineers and the construction people don’t know exactly where it is. Each had knowledge
only to the degree that it was necessary to inform them. They know it’s in the White House
and Government Complex, but they’ve worked here, having been delivered in a closed
automatic car on the Federal Government Subway and special elevators. None of my people
or Con Corbin’s know about it. That’s why we all came in the closed car.”
“To the elevator without marked stops?” Ortega said.
“Right.” Crankshore was Boston and Harvard, a doctorate in international affairs, a
handsome tall man with blond hair that looked bleached, but was not. His nails were always
manicured. His barber must have been kept constantly busy because Crankshore never
looked as if he needed a shave or a haircut. The faint odor of an expensive male cologne
followed him about. A fag if every I saw one. I don’t think he’d know what to do with pussy
if it was shoved in his mouth. Big shot spy. A horse’s ass is what he is. Ortega did not like
Crankshore either. Not that he knew how much money the Bostonian had. Crankshore had
no financial history. He was a full professor on leave from Brown University. He lived on a
scale that no academic could afford, but Ortega – although he had tried to find out – could
not identify his money sources. And Crankshore was obviously socially correct. He
entertained and was entertained by the Beltway elite. I always thought a fucking spy was
supposed to be fucking invisible, unless he’s the President’s boy. Wouldn’t that be a fucking
joke.
The Federal Government Subway system had been built at great expense, but with
bi-partisan support. Black humor in the rumor mill of Washington had suggested that the
Subway should have been named the Eric Stodman Subway in honor of the illegal militia
leader who had reputedly died in a shootout in Minnesota that cost the lives of twelve FBI
agents and twenty militia personnel, seven of them female. Up to the point of the shootout
the subway construction was slow and costly. After that it became frantic and more costly.
Most of Stodman’s henchmen – forty or more – had been killed, but Stodman himself
had actually escaped although the official news was that he was dead. Stodman was
apparently willing to let that governmental white lie to go undenied. The FBI had decided
not to put him on the Most Wanted List since they had no photograph or sketch of him.
There were those in the FBI who opined that Stodman never existed, that he was a figment
of the militia world’s imagination. But what was real was Stodman’s threat to blow up the
White House and the President with it.
Only a very few knew of the unarmed bomb that had been discovered in a waste can
in the President’s family quarters weeks before the explosions in the White House. A bomb
with a note attached: I could have put a real one here. ES. But Stodman, as far as any
investigation could show, was clean as March snow with regard to the White House crime.

* * *

The Secure Room was about thirty by fifty feet with a twelve-foot ceiling. Ceiling,
walls, and floor were made of plexagon, the new and almost impenetrable transparent
substance used on space vehicles. One wall was lined with computers, monitors, telephones,
fax machines, copiers, and shredders. A conference table in the center of the room had
twenty heavy plastic chairs about it. Every piece of furniture was made of clear plastic. The
room was lit through the ceiling cover. There was one visible door, but Ortega had the
feeling that there were secret entrances and invisible instruments present although hidden,
even though whatever was visible was transparent.
Then there was something that made Ortega even more uncomfortable than he
already was. He was dressed in a black pinstriped suit, conservative striped tie, white shirt,
black shoes. The others were all informal, and he realized as he looked at them that they
were all in light-colored clothing. The President, who had come in after the others and
waved informally at them, was wearing off-white jeans, a white cashmere sweater over a
light blue knit shirt with an open collar. The others were clothed similarly. Ortega looked
 11
and felt out of place. He was a stranger in a hostile environment. He hated the feeling.
He was as much American as the rest. He was vice-president — perhaps an unwanted one,
but vice-president nevertheless — of the United States of America. And yet he felt left out.
The President, standing behind his seat, balanced on his two arm crutches, waved his
officials to the seats. He closed his eyes for a moment as a recurring image appeared in his
brain: the China Room.
For whatever reason, it was the destruction in the China Room that had made the
profoundest impression on him, an impression that seemed to bond itself to his unconscious
memory. And now in the Secure Room – How secure was it, really? – the image came to the
fore again.
The President shook his head, a weary hand brushed against his closed eyes, and
finally he cleared his brain, saying, “Other than Marisa, Maxim, and Con no one has been
here before. I called them here half an hour ago about a message I’ve received, and now
you two. Terry, you and Lou are the first in the government to see this room. Nothing said
in this room goes out. No one takes notes. No leaks, no hints, no mentions anywhere of
what we discuss. Or even of the existence of this room. Do you understand me?” A nod of
heads let the President know that his words were taken as law. The President sat down,
saying, “All right, Maxim. Tell them.” Marisa Smith took the crutches and leaned them
against a chair near the doorway. The short lucite crutches with the steel arm supports
seemed made for the room. The President nodded his thanks to her and waited for Maxim
Crankshore to speak.
Well, at least I’m in the second group to know. Marisa’s the one the President fucks
when he needs some pussy, and Maxim – I’m sure he’s got something on the President that
puts him in contact with the top – unless he fucks his boss also. But I should’ve come first.
I’m the fucking vice-president. I hate that New York wop, and I know he hates me. And the
bastard’ll never let me be more than next in line. He’ll never let me be top dog. He’ll find
an ass-kisser he likes to follow him.
Ortega scowled and interrupted Maxim Crankshore, Director of the FSIA, before he
could speak. “Why don’t I know about this room? I’m second in command to the President,
and in an emergency — God forbid — I’m his successor.” He looked straight at the President.
He controlled his color and did not let the red come out.
“Thank you for the lesson in governance, Mr. Vice-President. Now, Maxim, if you will
proceed.” The President’s snub was obvious and embarrassing. No one said a word.
Avoiding Ortega’s glance as he glared at them all, the others looked expectantly at
the FSIA director. “We have a problem,” he said. “We’ve captured a major spy.”
“American?” asked Ortega. He refused to be left out of the conversation.
“No. It’s worse than that. She’s North Korean.”
“A woman?” said Ortega.
“That’s why I said she,” Crankshore replied. The tone of his voice expressed the lack
of respect he had for the Vice-President. To all those in the room Ortega had completed his
usefulness on the day of the election. His voters had clinched the election, and that was all
that the President wanted of him. Although the destruction of the White House and the
wave of immediate patriotism had turned the election into a rout, it was Ortega’s following
that had guaranteed a Fortunatus win. If there had been a way to convince Ortega to
resign, Fortunatus would have availed himself of it immediately.
“All right,” said Ortega. “I actually understood that. I did go to school — in English.
It was simply an expression of surprise. If you can cease with the sarcasm, I’d like to hear
the rest of what you have to say.”
The President tapped the table with his pen; it was his way of indicating displeasure
without saying a word. Both his subordinates heard the tap and retreated from their
positions.
“Children,” Marisa Smith muttered to herself. “God help us if we really have a
problem.” Marisa, who had been both with the CIA and the FSIA, was now the President’s
liaison with all Intelligence services.
 12
“Let me give it to you fast,” Crankshore said. “She’s Il Jung Tu’s lover.”
Who the fuck is Il Jung Tu? Ortega thought, but he said nothing. He was certainly not
going to let his ignorance become obvious. Somewhere along the line the conversation
would enlighten him.
“And he lets her be a spy?” asked Lou Goldberg. Goldberg was both Chief of Staff
and the President’s closest friend.
“You have to remember,” Crankshore said, “they were both brought up in North
Korea’s espionage community. He trained her.”
“But...”
“I know, he’s the party leader there, but she’s a powerful woman who didn’t want to
give up her career. Well, we’ve got her, and I almost wish we hadn’t.”
“Why?” The Chief of Staff’s query expressed surprise and disbelief.
“Because,” Crankshore said, “she may be more trouble than she’s worth — and she’s
worth a lot... Let me tell you... On the plus side she can probably give us enough
information to bring down the North Korean communist party and government. I believe
she’s almost willing to do that. She’s had it with Il Jung Tu. Spy or not, ideologue or not,
she’s a woman, and Il Jung Tu has taken on with a young movie star. At a minimum Il Jung
Tu will lose face, and that alone should cause him to fall.”
“But her training wouldn’t allow her to make an emotional decision when it comes to
her country’s safety… and pride, would it?” Goldberg asked.
“I would guess not — ordinarily — but... Well, it’s all going to come out anyway...
We’ve been using her for a long while, as our agent. You see, she works in the South Korean
embassy...”
“You mean, you didn’t know she was North Korean?”
“Not until recently. She was to be our tool into the works in South Korea... We
wanted to know what was going in Seoul. Actually, she told us about the North. She said
she had contact in the North, so we used her for that.”
“And the South Koreans?”
“They didn’t know either. They still don’t. For a while we fed her misinformation to
send to P’yongyang, but then we felt she was becoming suspicious. We had the feeling she
was double-agenting. A couple of bits of information going the wrong way convinced us, so
we picked her up. The North Koreans immediately...”
The Vice-President, who had been listening intently to this dialogue, interrupted.
“They knew you’d picked her up? How?” That must be the one… He closed his mind down.
For all he knew this room might have a brain wave machine that could tell either what he
was thinking or at least show that his mind was disturbed. Funny, I heard about spies being
taken up, and we… Something he couldn’t identify stirred in his memory.
Crankshore immediately showed uneasiness. He shifted in his seat and hemmed a
bit. “I don’t know. We have a leak somewhere.”
“Beautiful,” the VP said.
“The North Koreans have taken the initiative,” the President said, taking the lead in
the conversation. “They want her back.”
”A trade?” Goldberg said.
“No. They want her back without any trade or negotiations. Or else, they...”
“Or else,” Marisa Smith said very quietly, “or else, they will release a nuclear
warhead on some American interest area, probably in the Pacific. They don’t say where. It
could be an island, a base, Japan, the Philippines. We have no idea.”
“But they don’t have nuclear capability...”
“If they don’t, China does,” Smith said dryly, “and China sells to whoever will pay.”
Smith, sensually attractive, looked as if she could be the daughter of any of the men in the
room. But she was considerably older than her appearance would lead one to believe.
“It’s a threat. They’re trying to get us off balance,” Ortega said. He paused a
moment. “Aren’t they?”
 13
“We don’t think so,” President Fortunatus said. His face was dead serious. “We
think they mean it.” The room was utterly silent. This wasn’t the kind of cold war tactic the
Soviets years ago used to engage in.
“What are you going to do?” Ortega asked. All four, the determiners of American
military action — more than the military itself, turned to the chief executive.
Fortunatus put his hands to his face, covering his eyes. The image of the China Room
had changed to that of the White House Library. He shook his head. Then he put both
hands flat on the table; his eyes were closed, and, with them still closed, he said, “As a
political leader I can release the woman at the request of her government and call it a
humanitarian act. If they kill her when they get her back, that’s their problem, not mine. As
a leader of the free world, representing a government that caught her with her hands in the
cookie jar — no doubt, no question about it — I can bring her to trial and justice, face up to
the threat of North Korea, making the threat public, and call their bluff. If it is a bluff.”
“And if?” Louis Goldberg said.
“And if…” the President responded. “We face it standing up, or we fall on our faces as
the carpet unrolls.”
“But people die,” Ortega said. “Innocent people...”
The President refused to hear Ortega. In a firm voice he repeated, “We face it
standing up, or fall on our faces depending on how the carpet unrolls.”
“Red carpet,” Goldberg said wryly, twisting his face at the double entendre.
“Very funny,” the President said. “Meeting adjourned. We’ll see what turns up. Ears
open. For the leak.” The men left the room. Marisa Smith stopped at the door.
She turned to look at the President. “You haven’t already made your mind up, have
you?” She stared at the world’s most powerful man. “Alex, have you made your mind up?”
“No,” he said, and again he put his hands to his head. “Why do they make a
mountain out of that fucking molehill?”
“She was no mole,” Marisa Smith said, taking the President’s word literally. “Neither
a mole nor a molehill. She was active the moment she came into this country, and whether
she was a double agent or not, she worked for them. You have to decide whether making
the whole thing public and sending her home in disgrace so that they’ll punish her, or
bringing her to trial here and exposing North Korea’s perfidy is better foreign policy. But
then you’ll have to give that letter to the press. It’ll be your defense if something happens.”
The President rose from his chair. The tension was obvious. He held on to the desk.
Then without his crutches he stood upright; he was an imposing man, and for a moment he
looked as if he were about to make a speech. Then he sat down again; the instant of firm
decision had past.
“You know,” the President said, “animals spend almost all their time hunting food to
stay alive, whether it’s a bird or a tiger. Other than in the mating season when it’s a matter
of species survival, food is always number one on their minds. In the higher mammals
there’s also the fight for territoriality, but food always comes first. And animals kill only for
food.
“Now you take the North Koreans, they are the highest level of mammal, as we are.
Where we try to make life more livable, they’ve for the longest time had the problem of
food, and like other high mammals they scrounge for it wherever they can get it. If they can
bamboozle the United Nations – or us – to give them food, they take it. And give it not to the
neediest, but to the most powerful among them, the political ideologues and the armed
forces. And if that isn’t enough, they threaten force on whatever enemy they’ve chosen.
“This spy thing isn’t about the bitch we captured, whom either we or they will have to
condemn and punish. We’ll do it by jail, the chances are they will just disappear her. Which
is why she’ll talk to us and hope to end up in the luxury of one of our prisons. They’re using
her to make us bow to their ideological superiority. They know we don’t like war, we don’t
like sacrificing American lives to some theoretical ideal, so they expect us to give in: give
them the woman and also reparations for our misbehavior, their definition, in capturing her.
And the reparations will be continuous supplies of the food they need.
 14
“What they are trying to do, my dear Marisa, is to make a client nation of us. Since
the White House thing we’ve become a real paper tiger where the Far East is concerned.
And I will have nothing of it. I cannot let the United States be dictated to by a rogue
country,” the President said, his elbows now on the table, a quiver between his shoulder
blades showing the strain in his body as he thought of the potential consequences. “Oh,
God, I have such a pain in my neck and such a headache.”
In a momentary wrinkling of her eyebrows, Marisa Smith changed from the
President’s personal assistant and liaison with Intelligence, to his friend and off-and-on lover.
She locked the door, went over to the President’s seat, reached under the tabletop to feel
for the privacy button, and pressed it. Instantly opaque but white curtains unrolled from the
ceiling to the floor and covered all four walls.
Marisa leaned over to the President and put her hands to the back of his neck. Her
thumbs pressed and molded each side of his neck as if it were dough to be kneaded. Then
her fingers played rhythmically from neck to the top and sides of his head. Fortunatus’
hands relaxed. He moved his head into an erect position, but he kept his eyes closed.
Marisa’s fingers never stopped moving, firm, repetitive, but leisurely. The President sighed
contentedly as the knots in his neck loosened and the tension left him.
He opened his eyes and said, “I still don’t know what my answer will be, but I feel
better.”
“Good,” she said and kissed the top of his head.
“Not enough,” he replied, pushing his chair back and pulling her around and down to
him until she sat in his lap.
She laughed. “Now I’m the secretary in the boss’s lap?”
Instead of answering her, he lifted his face to her and kissed her. Without losing lip
contact, he stood up, took her around in an embrace. Half holding him up – he hadn’t picked
up his crutches – she responded to him, but he loosed himself quickly. She looked at him in
surprise. He leaned over to his position at the table and reached under where Marisa had
touched the privacy button and next to it, he pressed another control. “Tape recorder,” he
said, smiling.
“Ah,” she said with a short laugh. “No telltale huffs and puffs for posterity?”
They were practiced at the game. They walked over to the white couch with its
pillows floating on the clear plastic. The President leaned on Marisa for support and then sat
down while Marisa undressed quietly and efficiently, folding her clothing neatly and placing
it on a nearby chair.
When she was finished, she stood naked before the President. He embraced her
body, still lovely and yet to show evidence of age, and kissed her tenderly. Then he leaned
forward and allowed her to undress him, lifting his body with his arms as she removed his
trousers and undershorts. It was a ritual of many repetitions. She folded his clothing and
put it on another chair. Then, body-to-body, they played with each other. Arousal came
easily. Marisa was moist, the President was rigid, and intercourse proceeded as it had so
many times before, without words, with little sound, but with deep satisfaction. It was not
lust, nor was it simply physical love. She lay on top of him to avoid the strain on his legs.
He liked the feel of her firm thighs about his waist, the pressure on his chest of her ample
breasts, the short bursts of breath — his on her cheek, hers on his, and the deep open kiss
as they came to climax: all of it was a belonging, a gift each gave to the other, a very small
society of two lovers from which all others were excluded.
It was more an expression of a deep and warm intimacy and friendship that, because
they were man and woman, was manifested in coition. It would come and go as the
President had the need, and never did Marisa press her own needs. If Alexander wanted
her, she was there. There was no sense of ordinate and subordinate in their relationship. As
her mind was at the call of the nation in her official capacity, so was her body at the call of
the President both as man and as president.
With the same relaxed attitude, when they were finished, they cleaned themselves
and dressed, ready to leave the Secure Room to the FBI men whose job it was to cleanse
 15
and recheck the room for any aberrations in security that might have occurred: pencils,
notes, bugs, whatever.
“These damned legs.”
Marisa picked up the crutches she had placed on the chair, turned to the President
and said – both their minds back to the business at hand – “The North Koreans are one hell
of a lot more determined than the Soviets used to be, before or after the splitup. They work
from the premise that they have absolutely nothing to lose, no matter what they do. They
have nothing to protect the way we have. So, what do you propose?”
The trouble in his soul was reflected in his face. “Whatever we do we must come out
on top.” His mouth twisted in a wry grin.
She caught the expression instantly. “Like me on you?” His grin widened. “But,”
she said, “you’re still in control. You’re the boss.”
He took up his crutches. They went to the door and out.
 16

TWO: TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

Marisa did not have to be there to know how he would react to the latest problem in
his administration. It was always the same, especially if he was in his White House office. It
was always a relationship of present to past, in part to determine how the future might be
directed by his actions and in part to determine what part of the future he would have no
control over.
He looked out the window of the Oval Office on the cold, gray winter landscape and
thought of warmer times many years ago. Somehow when he thought of the past, it was
always a warmer time. Jones Beach in New York, the Catskills, Florida in the winter. He had
always associated peace and tranquility with a sunny sky, a light breeze and good
companions. Good golf weather, he would say. It was his way of creating a world in his
mind, a world in which he would never live. He’d never been to Jones Beach to swim, or to
the Catskills or to Florida to vacation. And he did not play golf, not only because of his legs,
but perhaps, more so, because he didn’t know how to relax. His was never a world of peace
and tranquility. Lou Goldberg was his closest friend, but they did not share a golf cart on
any of the courses in the DC area. They expressed their friendship over a bowl of Isabella’s
spaghetti and meat balls. The First Lady made the best pasta sauce Lou had ever tasted,
and he was an acknowledged expert in the judging of Italian cooking. And Chinese. And
Jewish. Lou gave the President the only moments of tranquility he had ever experienced,
the peace that came with long-term and loyal brotherhood.
The President, always a problem solver, did however have dreams. One of the early
dreams, long before he went into politics, was a world in which there was a new Roman
Empire, a world where there was one democratic government and where the entire earth
was at peace. Then, later on, when he began to realize that peace on earth, Christmas or
not, was a vacant dream, he thought again of his own idea of a modern Roman Empire and
realized that what he was thinking of was a united world empire led by the USA. And then,
when he experienced war, his concept changed to that of an American Empire. He thought
of 19th century Africa and compared it to 20th and 21st century Africa and, without too much
introspection, decided that the individual African, although he had no say in governance
during the 19th century, was at least living in reasonable peace, with war limited to minor
tribal upheavals. That African man and his family were leading a life outside of European
time and civilization as he and his progenitors had been doing for centuries in a timeless
world where his culture was immutable. All he had to do with regard to his European
conquerors was to remember to bow to power as he had always done and to learn enough
words in English or French or German or Afrikaans, or for some in Arabic, to get along with
his overlords. Of course, in the small African wars or tribal raids he had to avoid being
defeated or captured since that held the probability of being sold into slavery.
But the last week had not allowed the President to think about this dream. There had
been a leak, a serious one that went directly to the nation’s papers and television
broadcasters. Not only did the public know that a spy had been caught, but they knew of
the threat of a nuclear attack by North Korea. The Secure Room security had been
breached. The first leak was the capture of the spy. The second, and it had to have come
from the Secure Room, was the threat by North Korea on American sovereignty.
Was starving, weak North Korea with its fake façade of greatness and power, a North
Korea that was the needy recipient of American humanitarian assistance going to be allowed
to threaten the greatest country on earth? Was North Korea going to control what America
would do with a spy that had been sent to ferret out information dangerous to American
national interests, wherever they might be? North Korea, whose threats against South
Korea had always been judged to be a move to prevent its own disintegration, was now
playing the mouse-that-roared with the most powerful nation in the world. Should the threat
be shrugged off, or...
 17
Or, was the menace to be taken seriously and the spy returned to her government,
there probably to be executed for being caught in her clandestine activities. Was it worth
for the sake of American pride to risk American lives and property? Why did America not let
face be an Asian characteristic of behavior and behave in Western pragmatic terms? The
spy was not worth a damn; why not throw her back to the wolves that had spawned her?
But how would that play in the halls of a government where the United States had for
decades been considered a paper tiger. North Korea had a government that was not only
untrustworthy but was seeking to bait the US and demonstrate its power to its neighbors in
Asia?
The American public instantly broke down into two groups, both including members
of the two major political parties, one hawkish, the other dovish. The media had a field day,
and CNN’s ratings, long low because of a lack of major international developments, rose
spectacularly as its correspondents reported from all areas of the East as well as from
Europe. The whole world was frantic at the threat of nuclear war, and North Korea basked in
the limelight of a show where the tail, flagrantly and joyously, was wagging the dog. The
abnormally cold winter felt even colder in Washington.
In the Oval Office the President sat disturbed and unsure of his next step. He was
cold inside although the room was warm. He walked back and forth in the room, his canes
keeping his balance as he roamed. Then he leaned over and picked up the cashmere
cardigan that lay on the settee and put it on over his slipover.
The only place the threat had been revealed to anyone but him was in the Secure
Room. Only four people in Washington other than he knew of the threat. The threat in a
sealed envelope had been hand-delivered in Beijing to the American ambassador to China. It
had come from the Swedish embassy in P’yongyang and sent according to instructions to
their ambassador in Beijing. The Swedes had accepted the chore of acting as the interim
consular power for the government of the USA in North Korea. The ambassador had double
sealed the envelope, having no knowledge of its contents, in a second envelope and put it
into a diplomatic pouch that was opened by the American Secretary of State, according to
instructions, in the Oval Office, after the FBI had determined that there was no letter bomb
in it. Then the envelope with the message was given, outer and inner envelopes unopened
and seals unbroken, to the President.

* * *

Alexander Fortunatus was six feet tall, ruggedly handsome, his color Mediterranean.
His hair and eyes were black and shiny. In conference his eyes frequently seemed sleepy,
even droopy. Sometimes his subordinates thought he was falling asleep — like Ronny
Reagan some would say. But it was all a pose. He was aware of every person, every
movement, every bit of body language in a meeting. Over and beyond the words that were
being said. He allowed his black eyes to seem to blank out, but he used the apparently
unfocused eyes and his ears in tandem to explore the nuances of every phrase uttered. If
his eyes were closed — or drooping — his ears would be at full attention.
He had always worn his hair a bit longer than fashion dictated, and it was always
tousled because of his habit of running his hands through his thick black mane when he was
thinking or discussing. His hands were large, and he used them for communicative effect.
He could hold the whole country in his hands when he spoke to the nation on television. He
was good there, and he had a histrionic ability that had stood him in good stead all through
his political career. Sometimes his acting ability became a useful substitute for an intellect
that he himself recognized not to be of the highest order. His hands could pound on the
table to express anger or indignation and hide indecision while his mind tried to catch up on
a problem of national or international importance and come to judgment as he declaimed,
“We have to find an equitable and forceful solution to this.”
The President had an old healed cut on his right cheek and two false front teeth,
slightly whiter than the others. His walk was firm, almost stiff. It was not a natural walk. It
 18
had been originally rather a learned one; he had to cultivate that walk to drop the
informal, sloppy posture of a boy from Little Italy in New York. Early on he learned not to
scuff his shoes as he walked. He had to change from an amble, even a fast one, to a
precise, measured step. But that walk had changed some when he’d had his legs broken and
knee cap smashed by a Mafioso enforcer when he was a member of the City Council in New
York. It was a bad move on the part of the Mob. Because it made Councilman Fortunatus
into a lifelong enemy of the criminal organizations in New York. More than one county
prosecutor was forced into action by the neophyte politician whose well publicized injuries
brought him an unending series of bits of information, tips, and evidence against the evil-
doers in the City. All the apologies by one capo after another, including the services of a
Park Avenue surgeon, could not stop Fortunatus’ zeal.
It was an honest hate. His legs had been so smashed that no surgery, bone implant,
prosthesis, or therapy program could ever bring him back to he walk he had had. Nor could
the treatments ever cause the pain to cease. But he persevered. He learned to walk –
albeit with a cane – and he learned to sublimate the pain.
He was what he was -- basically an Italian street-smart boy. He had always been hard
working and personally honest. But he was not above using mob money, which always
came easy to him, for his party. He sex drive had always been under control. He had many
acquaintances, very few friends. It was all of the above that made him into an expert
politician.
Fortunatus could never sit still. When he’d be working at his desk, he would get up
every few minutes to walk about the room. He did most of his thinking standing rigidly
erect, just slightly leaning forward on his canes. Just before he’d come to a conclusion, he
would stop walking and rock a bit from side to side. It was what Marcia Bloom, his first vice-
president, used to call the President's davening.
Recalling his early years, Fortunatus made sure that in public he was always dressed
smartly. He wore only striped ties. But at home he discarded his clothing and wore jeans
and a tee shirt. And he loved sweaters. He had a collection of cashmere slipovers and
cardigans in every color that was made. At home his shiny black shoes changed to
sneakers, not famous make, but the kind you get in a discount store. He’d work in the Oval
Office in informal dress, but if there were to be a photo opportunity planned, his pinstriped
suit would replace sweater and jeans. The President wore his college ring proudly, having
had one made of platinum with a diamond instead of a ruby insert.
Although few were aware of it, Fortunatus had developed a cultural expertise by an
intense study of the humanities and history that began in his first year at City College and
continued through an abortive attempt at law school and into the years of political growth.
He would tell Marisa that his years of reading had made him into an Anglophile, but his
admiration of the English stopped at the late nineteenth century. Similarly his love of
French art reached from realism to the Post Impressionists and ceased at the beginning of
the twentieth century. He had a passion for the Golden Age of Greece and for the Italian
Renaissance. And although he told no one but Marisa, he thought little of American
intellectual activity. “We make money,” he said, “and we do that well, but we don’t make
original thinking. We are a first class second rate nation, but don’t quote me. I don’t want
to lose the next election.”
He took no regular exercise. An occasional walk on the grounds sufficed. And on
these walks would almost always be in the company of a government official with whom he
wished to speak away from the ubiquitous tape recorders that infested all the federal
offices. He’d keep in line with whomever he was walking, doing a bit of a hop-skip with cane
and legs if he were to be momentarily out of synch. It was his way of keeping in step with
the people — or at least, one of his ways. Sometimes he’d have a swim in the pool, but laps
bored him although the swim eased the pain in the knees. He’d like occasionally to go to a
club for a couple of easy sparring rounds with a boxer. Not much motion because he could
easily lose his balance without his canes. He was, of course, always with protection around
him. The necessity of which he resented but gave in to.
 19
He was and would be to the end of his life a New Yorker. His speech tones were
that of the Italian East Side, and he didn't try to hide them. But somehow his sincerity made
the New York accent acceptable.
He was at ease with the elderly and with children of all ages. Although, as he often
said, he was not a great father, he always got along well with children. He used one simple
rule; he talked to kids the same way he talked to their parents — one on one, equal to equal.
About the only group of people with whom he was uncomfortable were the academics and
intellectuals of his own age. This would show up from the fact that he had no law degree,
sometimes making him a bit diffident when it came to arguing constitutionality. But his
political know-how overcame this lack in him. If an actor or a peanut farmer could become
president, why not a political hack? And in argument he would hide rather than disclose his
self-taught cultural depth.
Never close to the earth — virtual or real, being neither an actor nor a farmer — he
still liked to putter around the White House garden occasionally with his wife Isabella. Since
it was difficult for him to bend, he supervised and she became the gardener of the family. It
was she who had pushed the White House staff to develop and expand a garden that grew
herbs and flowers for the presidential residence – a garden that had a distinct flavor of Sicily.
Fortunatus would go out with her and play farmer for a bit, cutting and pruning those
branches he could reach from a standing position, but he made sure his nails were cleaned
before he did anything else. He’d have Isabella's beautician buff and polish his nails at least
once a week.
He was a fastidious man and would not appear in public unless he was bathed and
clean-shaven. He had a heavy beard, which showed on television, and he constantly
reminded himself of Nixon and the crook-look. He shaved, or had his barber do it, at least
twice a day, except on private weekends when he would skip a day or two, but then he lived
in fear of cameras. The press were on notice that no pictures of him needing a shave were
to be taken. Any photographer who dared to break the rule would never be allowed close to
the President again.
He loved junk food, and whenever the opportunity arose, he would indulge in
hamburgers, hot dogs, French- fries, or root beer. Country-made root beer which he found
on one of his first electioneering forays into West Virginia became a passion with him, and,
as a result, a never-ending supply found its way to the White House. But Fortunatus never
touched candy. He found out years ago that chocolate or too much sugar seemed to give
him headaches, so he stayed away from them, compulsively.
Once each month — sometimes more often — he would have lunch with an ordinary
person. Someone who was having lunch in a MacDonald’s or at a bar or a restaurant. He
would go up to a man or a woman alone or a couple and say, "Do you mind if I have lunch
with you?" And he'd keep them in conversation for perhaps a half hour. From these lunch
breaks, as he called them, he got a good idea of what ordinary people did and thought
about. Wherever possible these lunches were not in the Capital but in a town in which he
happened to be. He was known to fly 500 miles away from Washington to a town or city he
hadn't been to yet to find a lunch partner or two, then fly back to the capital for the rest of
the day. He never wasted time. All the travel time in an instance like that would be used as
work time.
He hated stretch limos, especially the presidential limousines. He would only ride in
American-made cars. He didn't like Cadillacs or Lincolns, but he had little choice. He adored
sports cars, but wouldn't buy one, lest he be considered trying to act younger than his years.
He was always conscious of the importance of both the people and events around
him — if it happened near the president, it was significant, no matter what — so when the
spy issue came up, he thought and thought, and as usual these thoughts came to him at
different levels and in no logical sequence.
I will not let a nothing-country like North Korea decide what I will do or will not do. I
don't give a shit about Terry Ortega. The only reason he's my vice-president is that I
needed the Latino vote, and he brought it in... Marcia Bloom was head and shoulders
 20
above him in quality and capacity, and I'm sorry to this day that I had to dump her, but it
was more important that I remained as president... She could never have been elected
after my second term. Her husband's too rich, and they're both too Jewish, although I doubt
that they often go to a synagogue… too Jewish to appeal to the midsection of the country...
He continued his march around the office, the North Korean letter in his hand. He
looked at it again and again as if his stare would change the words. Then, despite the fact
that he realized emotion should not be a part of the decision-making process, he became
angry.
If I have to drop a nuclear missile and kill a million North Koreans, I will... I'd rather
see them all go to hell than to lose one fucking American, not matter what his color or who
he is... As far as I'm concerned, the only super power there is on Planet Earth is the USA.
And it's going to remain that way. There is nothing in the history of man that says a nation
should share with others its good fortune, its power, its land, its wealth... We're king of the
hill, and I'll be damned if I'll let anyone or anything pull us down. If they want to call this the
American Century, let them go ahead. If they want to say that we're the New Roman
Empire, fine. We are...
He sat down in a chair near the window, he stood up, he turned the chair so it faced
the window. He noticed that the upholstery looked a bit worn. He frowned. His mind
switched course.
When I fuck Marisa I have no feeling that I'm being unfaithful to Isabella... Isabella
was with me from the beginning. My father picked her out as my wife because her family
had good money, and she was a way I could get into New York politics. We grew to love
each other in the old fashioned Italian way — by habit and custom. We had the requisite two
kids, and Alex, Junior and Debby are OK. They lead their own lives. I've never been much of
a father to them... It was Isabella who raised them. On the other hand, I've never required
them to live my way or do life the way their father has... Alex on the stage and Debby
teaching... I’ve put enough money away for them to have a cushion as they go on — they
don't even know it and I leave them alone... I love my kids. But I can't say I'm a devoted
father; I’m not close... Actually, when I come to think of it, I have thousands of
acquaintances, but no one I'd call a friend. I’m not close. No bosomy pal. No one to be
intimate with. Not even Lou… and yet I love Lou as a brother. Even Marisa Smith, who
comes closest to being my confidant — my sort-of mistress, although neither of us think of
her that way — there's always a distance between us... She doesn't know what I think
unless I want her to... I don't know about her life outside of her connection with me. Maybe
the FBI does, but I don't know, and I don't care if she has another lover. All I want is her
loyalty, and that I have… Now that really is odd. I love the feel of her flesh when I need it. I
love the idea that she is as totally mine as I want her to be, but only so long as she doesn’t
break faith with me, I guess I don’t give a shit if she has an emotional life in which I don’t
play a part… That is yery strange. Does it mean that I am lacking when it comes to love?
Or caring? No, I care for her. I care for all of them. Do I love them? Her? I don’t think I
know. Would I miss them – her – if she were gone? God almighty, I am thinking about the
future of the world, and I find I don’t even know if I love the ones who are closest to me.
Alex Fortunatus, you are a shmuck. Keep your mind on the problem at hand.
Alexander Fortunatus, President of the Unites States, had been a poor Italian street-
smart boy in New York City who, instead of playing money games with the dope-peddlers
and gangsters, went into local politics. He had the same desire for money and power many
of his contemporaries did, but a sharp look around in the small immigrant world he had been
born into in post World War II America, decided him to go a different way. He was fortunate
— more than most — in his parents. Hard working, trying to make a seven day a week
green-grocer shop in the Riverdale section of the Bronx provide a bit more than a meager
living, they insisted that their only child — a difficult birth and its subsequent problems had
prevented Antoinette Fortunatus from bearing any other children — do well in school, help
out in the store, but more important: set his sights high, higher than they would ever reach.
There were numerous exemplars of what the boy’s parents wanted of him: the comfortable
 21
middle class who lived on the heights and came down to Broadway, to the elevated train
tracks that ran above the street, to seek the best buys from the Vietnamese and the Italians
who supplied their tables with fresh fruit and vegetables.
When he was graduated from high school, Alexander, who had begun to learn the joy
of politics — by claiming the class presidency three years in a row and by being voted most
likeable and most likely to succeed — joined the local Democratic Club as a runner and
gopher. And by the time he’d worked his way to a Bachelor of Arts in political science at
NYU, earning scholarships and waiting on table in Greenwich Village restaurants on
weekends and working in Macy’s each Christmas, he’d already earned small jobs with the
party. Then, as a party regular in elective politics, he progressed from Manhattan Borough
Council to the City Council to the State Assembly to the State Senate to the House of
Representatives in Washington.
Most important to the Democratic National Committee was the fact that in addition to
his legislative work he was always an indefatigable fundraiser. In doing this work for his
party, he took money wherever it hid: legitimate money, pale green money, as well as mob-
laundered money. But he always made sure that money from criminal sources was properly
laundered and impossible to paper-trail to him or to be a detriment to the party.
It was the mob money for political purposes that was the root cause of the “accident”
to his legs. A sub-capo solicited for a political contribution had acceded to the request. This
generous crook assumed that the contribution entitled him to Fortunatus’ service for life.
When the young politico informed the mafioso that the money was not a payment for
services to be rendered, that individual became so hostile that he sent a henchman to teach
Fortunatus a permanent lesson. He succeeded, but not in the way he had anticipated.
When he returned home from the hospital, the Councilman summoned the sub-capo’s
superior to his home. That worthy found Fortunatus in close conference with the godfather,
a situation sufficiently serious to make him acquiesce to the request the future president
made. The offending mobsters were to be excommunicated, and the family was to consider
itself an ally of the politician from that point forward. With no promise on Fortunatus part
that he would ever do anything to assist the family. It worked out well for both sides to the
agreement. Money and assistance were instantly forthcoming when Fortunatus needed
them, and when he could – assuming that the help requested was within reason – he would
intercede with the law within reason.
Strangely enough, personally he was always excruciatingly honest. He was careful
about all his contacts, and even when he went underground, as he had at times in the past,
he covered his trail very expertly. He avoided female contact that could cause him trouble.
His wife Isabella was a typical New York Italian mama — she was born in Sicily and, now with
her husband the most powerful man in the world, she still liked to cook pasta her own way,
often getting in the way of the White House chefs.
The President’s only forays into recreational sex were almost always performed
overseas — except for Marisa Smith. If in a foreign country he had the desire to experiment
with an extra-marital partner, it was Marisa Smith, his Intelligence liaison, who arranged his
brief encounters. Always safely, always anonymously. Not one of the women who ever
graced a bed with him – it was never his own bed – knew that she was having sex with the
president of the United States.
Marisa first met Fortunatus when he was a state senator and she was a security
person. She was ten years younger than he. They met at a party function at the Waldorf in
New York. She was as strictly a Westchester WASP as he was a Manhattan Catholic. She
approached him at the end of the meeting, during which he had given a talk on the value of
discipline in politics.
“You said something about learning,” she said. “It sounded like a quote.”
He smiled at her, saying, “’A little learning is a dang’rous thing;/Drink deep or taste
not the Pierian spring:/There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,/And drinking largely
sobers us again.’”
“I don’t get it,” she said.
 22
“Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Criticism. You’re college, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” she said.
“English Lit.” She gave him a blank stare. “Eighteenth century. Neo-classicism. You
can’t have forgotten it so soon.” She shook her head. “What was your major?” he said.
“Computer Science and Business Administration. With a minor in Political Science.”
“I see. You’ve had the normal non-education. You probably don’t know the color of
Sherman’s white horse.”
At this, the girl turned beet-red. “I don’t need this,” she said. “I was trying to
compliment you, and all I get is an insult in return. You’re what they say you are: a New
York City pol on the make.” With this, she turned about, showed him her back, and walked
briskly toward the rear of the hall.
He looked at the sway of her hips. Her anger was expressed in the movement of her
body. Fortunatus half smiled and followed her quickly down the aisle. He caught up with
her at the doorway.
“Wait. I committed an error. I wasn’t talking to you. Really. I was talking to the
damned idiots in our educational system that take bright young people like you and train
them instead of educating them. You took Computer Science and learned how to use a
computer. You don’t give a damn about how the computer works so long as it does the job
you want it to do. You took Business Administration, and I’ll wager you you’ll never have a
job in business. And if you do, you’ll learn more in the first week you’re on the job than in
your four years in college. And your Political Science, did it ever tell you what local politics is
really about? Did it? Did it? Did you ever learn anything about the world, its history, its
cultures, its beliefs, its values? Did you? Did you? Do you know anything about the
Continental Divide? Do you know anything about growing crops in a desert environment?
Do you know anything about the applicability of the Monroe Doctrine in the current world?
Don’t you realize how much you have to learn that they never bothered to teach you –
despite president after president and administration after administration that pretend to
care about education?”
His words had come wave after wave, bursting forth like the foam as water reaches
the shore, and then the water recedes, leaving rivulets to sink into the sand. His voice
softened, but his ideas did not. He poked his finger at her, almost touching her. And in a
hoarse whisper he said, “Do you understand what I’m driving at?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t. And who the hell is Sherman anyway. And what do I care
about his white horse? And who cares about any old doctrine today?”
Fortunatus broke into a hearty laugh. “Oh, I have to buy you a coffee. Come on in to
the coffee shop. I have to talk to you.”
They walked to the coffee shop and started a conversation that lasted far into the
night. First there was the identification of Sherman and his March to the Sea. Then the
placing of Alexander Pope in the lexicon of English poets. He preached education at her, not
college courses, but cultural development, the search for ideas, the importance of
independent thinking, the refusal to accept intellectual authority or political correctness.
Finally they were alone in the coffee shop. “I’ve got to have a drink. Where are you
staying?”
“Here,” she said.
“Me, too. I’ve got some good bourbon upstairs. I’ll buy you a drink.”
They went up to his room. She sat in the armchair. He pulled the chair from the
desk and turned it to face her.
“Pierian Spring,” he said. “In Macedonia. Greece. Where the Muses were supposed
to be worshipped. Goddesses of the arts: music, dance, poetry, and so on. Greek
mythology.”
“I never heard of them.”
“I know.”
She suddenly broke down into tears. Fortunatus was overwhelmed by the abrupt
change in her demeanor. She sobbed. He had no idea of what to say.
 23
“Please, Marisa. Please. Why are you crying? Did I do anything.”
“It’s not you,” she sobbed. “It’s me. I knew all along what I was doing was a waste
of time. I ended up with a 3.8 cume. My family was happy. My father is rich. He gave me
what was supposed to be a good education. I believed it until tonight. And yet all along I
couldn’t figure out why I didn’t like what I was doing. Oh, God,” she sobbed. “I’m twenty-
three and I’m no place. I’m no one. I don’t know where I belong.”
Fortunatus stood up. He drew the girl up from the chair and took her in his arms.
“‘Know thyself.’ It’s another quote. From the temple at Delphi – ancient Greece also.
You’re beginning to do just that. Know yourself. You’re young. You’ve got a long way to
go.”
She flowed into him and, without active effort on the part of either, they kissed. “I
think I kind of love you,” she said. “I should hate you for what you’ve done to me, but
you’re the first one in years who makes sense. Maybe I love you intellectually, but I think I
love you the…” She looked up at him.
The image of her swaying hips as she had walked away from him in the meeting hall
came full force into his mind. His hands went to her hips and cupped her. She pulled into
him as he hardened.
The two canes and the still awkward walk that had been so obvious to her when she
first noticed him receded to the background. She had first thought Cripple. Now she looked
inside him. She found him beautiful. A profound, masculine, jagged beauty. Flawed by the
injury he had suffered, but somehow rendered more powerful – perhaps because of the story
he had told her about the accident. What he told her was the truth – but not by any means
the whole truth. He did not reveal the cause, or the result, of the incident.
They spent the night together. She was not a virgin. He had not been totally faithful
to Isabella, but mostly so. In the morning she left. They made no promises to each other,
but there was an understanding that needed no words. On occasion they would meet,
mostly at party functions, and if Isabella were not present, as normally she was not, Marisa
would spend the night with Alexander.
She went to Washington before he did. She did a master’s in Foreign Affairs and on
the basis of her father’s money and influence she was placed in the New York senior
senator’s office. But her interests were in foreign involvements and Intelligence. At the
time when Fortunatus went into national politics, she was recruited by the CIA, and then
when he became president she went to the FSIA.
They had a brief and torrid affair during his first year in office, mostly as they said, to
get the sex thing out of the way. Then they cooled it down and remained comfortable with
each other ever since. Their sexual convergences were therapeutic rather than the
gratification of lust.
Marisa turned out to be a favorite of Isabella, who long ago intuited that Alexander
needed an American woman by his side on occasion, and she preferred having that woman
close at hand. Alexander and Marisa still occasionally had sex, but always in his own home
— in the spare room. And that meant in the White House also, but Isabella was always at
home, so that anyone who knew that Marisa was there also knew that Isabella was in
attendance. The sexual experience in the Secure Room was, perhaps, a reaction to and a
sign of the unsettling seriousness of the message from North Korea.
The relationship of Isabella and Marisa was more complex than that of the President
with the two women in his life. It was unusual to say the least. Three days after the first
inauguration, Isabella had called Marisa in. The younger woman, just appointed Presidential
Liaison with Intelligence, was at the point of becoming a power in Washington, and it was
well known that she was a favorite of the new president. Isabella ushered Marisa into her
own office in the Residence at the White House. “You are his lover,” she said, the trace of
her Sicilian accent becoming stronger than usual as she spoke. “Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not denying it, Mrs. President,” Marisa said. “I love him.”
“And it’s been going on a long time.”
“Yes, it has.”
 24
“And he loves you?”
“I think so.”
“You would die for him?” There was no answer. Isabella continued. “I would die for
him. Even knowing he takes you to my bed.”
“Never in your bed, Mrs. President.”
“Don’t mix words with me. Any bed Alexander gets into is my bed. And you been
there.” Isabella’s voice never went beyond the pitch of a normal speech tone and never
rose in volume. “I asked you, would you die for him?”
There were tears now in Marisa’s eyes. As calm as Isabella was, was Marisa upset.
“Yes, I would die for him. Even if I didn’t love him, I would die for him. He has made my life
into something it never was. He has given me meaning. I would die for him and I love him.”
“Good.”
The word floated in the air. Marisa shook her head in bewilderment.
“Good.” Isabella repeated the word. She took Marisa’s hand in hers and said, “He is
a powerful man. He has needs. Even if he was Pope, he would have to have a woman at his
side. To bed with her. A young, strong, beautiful woman. To express his physical and his
mind. That I cannot give him. I am a good Italian wife. Our fathers arranged our marriage,
and we love each other, as we should. We always have. You are not the first he has had,
but you will be the last. Because I can tell he does love you, and you satisfy what he needs.
And you satisfy me for exactly the same reason. But you will be faithful to him. You will
never…”
“I will never marry.” Marisa finished the sentence for the President’s wife. “The first
night we ever had…”
“In the Waldorf Astoria,” Isabella said. “I could tell when he came home.”
“It was as if. As if I were….”
“As if you were a nun and you were marrying the Church,” Isabella said.
“Yes, exactly that. Somehow I knew he would become great. But how could you
tell?”
Isabella smiled. “Do you think I did not know who this man was the day I married
him. We are both nuns married to the Church.” She smiled broadly this time and said, “But
we are allowed the sex.”
“I don’t understand you, Mrs. President…” She did not understand the words, nor
could she see why the First Lady smiled at the idea of sex with her husband. She could not
understand her unbelievable acceptance of what to Marisa would have been an intolerable
situation
“Dear girl, let me be Isabella to you and you Marisa to me, and in some way we are
becoming sisters.” It began to make sense to the younger woman.
Marisa came over to the President’s wife, took her face into her hands, caressing the
First Lady’s cheeks, and then, backing away a bit, she took Isabella’s hand and kissed it.
“You are my mother superior, Isabella, and I think in some way I will come to love you, too.”
There were tears in the eyes of both women.
They became good friends.

* * *

A swarthy six footer, ruggedly Mediterranean handsome, the President had the look
of someone who had made his own future as, to a large degree, he had. A long healed cut
on his right cheek was witness to the fight that had emancipated young Alex from the drug
dealers and hoodlums of his youth. His teeth were all his own, with the exception of two on
the left front of his mouth that were slightly whiter than the others. These were
replacements for the ones he lost in a mugging in 1974. But it was, in its way, a fortunate
mugging. That incident turned him to politics in New York City. “I’ve got to do something to
make this city safer.” He hadn’t succeeded in his efforts, but he did learn how to be a
successful politician. He often said that he owed his Presidency to his two front teeth. The
 25
crushing of his legs he never spoke of. He knew that gossip spoke of the possibility – as
with FDR – of childhood polio. His doctor knew differently, but even he did not know the
source of the injury to the President’s limbs. As it happened, none of the people involved
with national politics, even those closest to him in the administration, knew of the mob
related incident. He had told Marisa, but she had no knowledge of his ongoing relationship
with underworld New York. Only he knew that he could at any time command the
disappearance of his vice-president.
Fortunatus had certain quirks in his nature that even in the exigencies of presidential
behavior came out spontaneously: he could not stand stupidity and he hated opposition for
the sake of opposing. Conversely, he had no stomach for self-proclaimed or publicly
acknowledged geniuses — especially economics and foreign affair types — and sycophants,
particularly the hangers-on at the White House or those in the halls of Congress. He
understood the old pols whose life was government, but he detested lobbyists because their
interests were neither the people’s nor even their own, but those of the ones who hired
them.
Fortunatus was a stubborn man. Once he made up his mind about something or
someone, it stayed made up. Such was his attitude toward the Vice-President for whom he
had had an instant distaste. He looked at himself as a guinea-wop who had worked his way
out of his ethnicity, but to him Ortega was a through and through spic who used his blood to
create a coterie of political support and a mob of followers.
He had liked Brenda Loomis-Ortega. She was a friend of Marcia Gordon, who later
married Kenny Bloom, and as Marcia Bloom, backed by her husband’s millions, she
conquered California and became another in the succession of that state’s woman senators.
Then, balancing Fortunatus’ ticket, she became his first vice-president. In the years when
he was in New York politics, he had met Marcia Bloom as a volunteer worker. At this time
Kenny Bloom was making his fortune in New York real estate and shopping centers. The
Gordons, and after Marcia’s marriage, the Blooms, and the Loomises spent winter vacations
on the North Carolina shore, and Fortunatus was on occasion a guest of the Gordons.
Brenda was a class woman in his eyes who was diminished in his opinion when she fell for
the slick good looks that distinguished Terry Ortega. Brenda Loomis had married the Florida
manufacturer, and led him up the political ladder, starting with his involvement in Hispanic
politics in Miami-Dade County. She worked him up and through the party machinery in
Tallahassee into a national political position.
Fortunatus first came into contact with Ortega when they were both freshmen
representatives. Both were Democrats, Fortunatus representing a district in a big city with a
mixed population, Ortega taking a racist pro-Hispanic position from the beginning. “Ortega
reminds me of the World-War-Two Jews in Jew York,” Fortunatus said. “They’d vote on an
issue: ‘If it’s good for the Jews, it’s where we vote.’” And, until the Reagan years, that had
sufficed to create bloc action, regardless of the wealth of the individual Jewish voter. As
times changed, Jews voted their economic interest, and they found that they could get Israel
supporters on both sides of the Congressional aisle. “With Ortega it’s what’s good — as he
sees it and they see it — for the Hispanics,” Fortunatus had said to his political handlers
when he was nominated for the second term presidency and they were trying to get him to
give up on Marcia Bloom. California, they said, was in the bag. The Democrats needed the
Florida and Southwest vote — and there the Hispanics counted.
What the President had said about Ortega, who used his swarthy smooth movie star
looks to move him step by step up the ladder, was quite true. As the junior senator from
Florida, he was prepared for the call to be a running mate. He accepted instantly the offer
was made, saying to the committee that called on him, “I ain’t going to be a one-term VP. I
want the big chair next.”
The committee, who needed a southern candidate, chose not to hear anything
beyond the acceptance, but the remark was repeated to Fortunatus who said, “If that little
spic thinks I’m going to back him four years from now, he’d better look into another crystal
 26
ball.” In turn, Ortega heard of the President’s words, and the two were off on an uneasy
footing from the word Go.
 27
THREE:THE LEAK
One of the four in the Secure Room meeting the previous week had allowed the
information to be screamed across newspaper headlines and television news programs
worldwide. Yet there wasn’t one who could even be suspected of... of... of the
unmentionable.
The President had very little affirmative sentiment for any of the colleagues he had
met with. Lou Goldberg was his best friend, but it was an emotion free relationship. Only
for Marisa could he be said to have any positive affection. And she was more habit by now –
like Isabella – than emotion. He was Isabella’s husband and Marisa’s occasional lover; they
were part of his life, each accepting her position in his particular world, neither jealous of the
other, neither jealous of the President’s power, both well taken care of for the future. Each
could be trusted without question.
The President had accumulated a fair amount of wealth in his years of public service,
half legally; the other half not exactly illegally, but cutting corners. None of the latter was
traceable, and none of it had ever been in his name. Actually, nothing he had was in his
name. His legitimate wealth was all in Isabella’s name; the slightly soiled was in Marisa’s. It
was his legacy to her, kept for her by Albert O’Reilly, publicly a casual acquaintance from
Fortunatus’ early years in New York, and, not quite so publicly, a man who happened to have
certain connections. He was not Italian – he was Irish, red headed, handsome, and
trustworthy to the death. Politically and financially, O’Reilly was a long-term friend.
Although they met infrequently – neither O’Reilly nor O’Reilly’s friends were White House
guest material – there were frequent telephone calls, never monitored or taped, from the
President’s private line to O’Reilly’s on Long Island. Fortunatus had no doubts about the
security of Marisa’s inheritance; it would be doled out to her as she needed or wanted it.
There was no doubt in the President’s mind that none of the four was a traitor. But
how did the information get out?

* * *

Marisa and he sat on the sofa in the Presidential Office, coffee and doughnuts on the
cocktail table in front of them. The President’s love of the cake with the hole in it, plain, no
chocolate, no jelly, nothing but the indigestible circle of delight was well known. He liked
crullers also. Maxim Crankshore sat opposite them.
The President looked at the FSIA chief. The discussion had already raised the
President’s temperature. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone – not the North Koreans, not
anyone – get away with pushing us around. You know they don’t have any nuclear bomb or
any missile they can use at this distance. Even if the message came through Beijing.”
His mind switched to another thought. “Now that we got rid of the most favored
nation idea and only restrict the terrorist nations – and China is not one – we owe almost as
much money to China as we do to Japan.” He got up and began pacing, as he always did
when his mind was working hard. “Thank God, they hate each other. If Japan and China
ever both got together to sell American paper, we’d really be up shit’s creek, and Wall
Street’d collapse. I know the Chinese have nuclear tipped missiles, but North Korea is not
China, even if they do suck up to Beijing. They don’t even have food for breakfast, let alone
weapons to attack us.”
The fallout of the leak had already sparked lively talk of the possibility of a war. And
of course there was recall of the events of the Persian Gulf War and the Vietnam War.
Political armchair generals argued these wars over and over again; doves and hawks
changing sides frequently, and one point or another would be brought up. Would a bomb on
an American or American-interest target be the catalyst for a Third World War? Could a
limited war be fought, or would that lead to a second Vietnam. Should there be an all-or-
nothing approach to war with any country, large or small? That is, no stop until total
 28
victory? Should it be missiles or tanks or ships or planes that lead the fight? And over all,
the cry: How dare any country threaten the United States of America?
A calm voice put the real issue on the table. “Should we make a war about that
bitch?” Marisa asked. “Can’t we do something to defuse the situation? What about just
giving her back?”
The vein in the President’s neck throbbed. Marisa saw it and knew what it meant.
She used to call it his back-to-the-wall vein. It signified that he would not move from the
position he had decided on.
“You’re beginning to sound like Ortega. This is not Miami politics. This is the real
world. I’m not giving up that woman till I’m damned ready to!” Fortunatus said. “It’s not
who she is. What the hell is she worth, anyway? All she is is a fucked-up spy. I can
understand her appeal to Il Jung Tu. She’s got a body anybody would give his ass to walk
over, but she sure isn’t young any more.”
He pointed a finger at the spymaster. “Maxim, how the fuck she ever got into your
FSIA is something I’ll never understand. Those spooks of yours must have ants in their
pants when it comes to trusting a babe with a body. Or did she fuck her way to the top? Did
you ever boff her?”
The President looked hard at his FSIA chief, a man he’d personally chosen for the
spot, mainly because he had no experience in field espionage and owed no one any fealty.
He was the President’s man and to the President he gave his loyalty. He owed nothing to
any one in the spook business; rather he was indebted for everything to the President who
had pulled him out of a dead-end desk job in the defunct CIA and put him where his
imaginative and complex brain could be put to good use.
“No sir, I didn’t,” said the FSIA numero uno, “but I have a distinct idea I know who.”
“Bring him in. Stat.”

* * *

The unfortunate young FSIA operative who had been caught with his pants down –
although after the fact – came to the Oval Office surrounded by the bureaucratic heads of
American Intelligence and easily admitted he’d been having a torrid affair with The Body.
“That’s what we call her, sir.” Arthur Mattingly, blond, handsome and young as well
as less than a year in the FSIA, was convinced now, as he stood, awkward and
uncomfortable, before the leaders of his country, that it was he who had been seduced by
Mimaji Jae-Hyo – for her own political purposes. “We thought – we were convinced – she
worked for China. You see it was Mary Elizabeth Li. We never gave a thought to North
Korea, but she was also working for us. I mean, you see...”
Mattingly stumbled over his words incoherently, but he bravely went on with a lame
excuse for his behavior. As he spoke he realized his days with FSIA were numbered. “We
needed an oriental at the time, and we asked Mary Elizabeth Li – she was in the FSIA full
time then. Mary Elizabeth didn’t warrant her as perfect, thought she was probably tied to
China in some way... Well, we knew she’s not Chinese. We figured South Korean. And if
she was linked to China, that’s exactly what we wanted, some one we could turn. We
double-agented her, and we checked everything she brought us. It was all kosher. And I
think she deliberately got herself caught this time so she could bring you a message from
North Korea, the one I read about in the papers, I guess.” His tongue stumbled a bit, his
face was beet red.
Fortunatus smiled internally. The boy’s color doesn’t coordinate with his blond hair.
And he’s in such a desperate situation – up the creek without a paddle. A bright cliché that.
How many men a Mata Hari has sacrificed. How lucky those of us who haven’t been caught
are… Marisa. We’re always careful. But I bet Isabella really knows, and Isabella knows that
I think she knows. He turned his attention back to what the boy was saying.
“I shouldn’t speak, sir...”
“Go ahead,” the President said. “What do you want to say?”
 29
“I think,” Mattingly stuttered, “I think the message originated in Beijing and there
has to be some credibility in it. She knows she’s only a symbol, that her return to the East
would be a sign that the Chinese tail is wagging our dog.” Apparently Mattingly thought that
Mimaji Jae-Hyo knew about the message. Fortunatus had made sure that no one but Maxim
Crankshore and he knew that the message had come via the Swedes.
The President winced at the dog and tail cliché that had been used over and over,
whether with regard to China or to North Korea, in every newscast that mentioned the story.
“Then you knew about the message?”
“Yes, sir. Not the contents, but the fact that it existed. Actually she mentioned to us
before it was delivered, that we’d be hearing from her country. But she never told us about
what was in it or whether that was what she was talking about.”
“But,” the President said, “the message is definitely not from China. It’s from North
Korea.”
“Look, Mr. President,” Maxim Crankshore said, “the whole East knows who the power
is there. This is more than a message from North Korea. The NK’s are just pawns. Sure, the
woman belongs to Il Jung Tu, which I didn’t know at the time, but the message isn’t from
Mimaji Jae-hyo, it’s from a group, a conspiracy, and a terrorist campaign. Where the hell do
you think they’re getting the missile? If they’re getting it. Or the plane to deliver it? North
Korea doesn’t have it. It has to take off somewhere, and it has to be able to go back to that
same somewhere… or the equivalent. Figure out yourself. How many places are there in
that area of the Pacific that we control? Hawaii’s too far, unless they come on a carrier and a
ship can be spotted days away from its destination. Hell, we know where every keel in the
Pacific is. And the Chinese have no subs capable of delivering what they say they’re going
to. But a one-way plane taking off from North Korea could reach almost anywhere in the
Pacific. All they need is a makeover plane borrowed from China that will crash down in the
ocean, and then a Chinese sub picks up the pilot. The People’s Republic of China is back of
this whole thing. And my guess is Guam is where they’ll be aiming at.”
“But, why the fuck will they go so far for what’s only a piece of tail?” President
Fortunatus asked. He slammed his fist on his desk. Then he stood up, rummaged in his desk
until he found what he needed: a big, thick cigar. Crankshore went into his pocket, pulled
out a lighter, and lit the cigar.
Mattingly stood, almost marching in place as he shifted his weight from side to side.
The President noticed his discomfort. “You can go, son,” he said. “You committed a boo-
boo, but I don’t think it was a major crime. We’re not going to ask for your head, but from
here on in, I’d suggest you know exactly whose bed you’re going into when the opportunity
arises.”
“Thank you, sir,” the agent said and removed himself awkwardly from the room.
“Do you think we should smoke in here?” Crankshore asked Fortunatus as the
President began to fill the air with fragrant tobacco smoke. “Terry might...’
“Fuck Ortega. The Vice-President has not been invited,” the President said. “Besides,
I have an air cleaner installed here. The smoke’ll be out of the air in less than ten minutes. I
don’t want Ortega involved in what I might have to do. Besides which, I can’t stand his
clean-air phoniness. I don’t think he gives a shit about air quality. It’s his way to attract the
environmentalists. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he likes a cigar the way I do.
Anyhow, I’m the fucking president, and if I feel like a smoke, I’m going to have it – whether
or not it’s politically correct. And if that woman…”
“You’re not... You’re not thinking of refusing to release her? Are you? She’s not
worth making a federal case out of.” Crankshore looked at the President, whose anger had
turned into a picture of self-satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair and blew a thick fog of
Havana smoke into the air.
“They’d remember me,” Alexander Fortunatus said. “They’d remember me.” He
paused for a moment, took the cigar away from his face. “Oh, would they remember me.
Harry Truman and me. But I’d be the one who made it a real American century.” He smiled
to himself.
 30
He had a look on his face Crankshore couldn’t interpret, and the President, who
saw Crankshore’s quizzical and bewildered response to his remark, did not say a word to
clarify it. Instead he turned to the FSIA chief and asked, “Those new Pentium chips. Are
they operational yet?”
“Well, in the lab, yes. But we haven’t tried the field yet.” Crankshore wondered why
the conversation had changed focus.
The President didn’t answer, but said, “Let me know the next results.”
Crankshore frowned. The President wasn’t usually personally interested in new
scientific developments. But Fortunatus did not clarify the situation. He seemed to have an
unusual curiosity in the new chip, or so it appeared to Crankshore.
Alexander the Great had no new worlds to conquer, but Alexander Fortunatus did. If
what he had in mind were to eventuate, America would create a 21 st American Century, and
more than Bill Clinton, who finished what Nixon had started with China, Alexander
Fortunatus would be the President who made China sit up and beg.
“Let me see that paper again,” he said. Crankshore handed the copy of the demand
to his chief.
“They are threatening us,” the President said, “with something they don’t have.”
“Something China has,” responded Crankshore. “Will China give it to them? Will
they use it?”
“I won’t give in to threats,” the President said. “We either are, or we are not, a great
power, a super-power.”

* * *

Mimaji Jae-Hyo had been spirited away for safe keeping until the issue of North Korea
was settled, but the issue refused to be settled. More and more of the President’s time was
occupied with the problem. FBI Director Con Corbin felt that the spy should be expelled and
returned to North Korea. Maxim Crankshore said she should be brought to trial, not that it
made much difference which choice was made; she was a useless pawn in the chess game
at this point. It was a matter of face for the US. Giving in to the North Koreans meant also
giving in to the Chinese although that thought had not yet been publicly stated.
“Let’s look at it logically,” the Vice-President said. “The Democratic People’s Republic
of Korea, is controlled by the Korean Workers Party, the KWP. We have no diplomatic
relations with them. As far as we’re concerned, they’re a non-government. We don’t have to
do business with them. Deliver the bitch to the Swedish embassy in P’yongyang, and forget
about her. The Swedes will give her to Tai Wan Ting. It’s the Korean president’s concern
from then on.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ortega, you are simplifying past the limit of logic,” the President
said. He turned to Maxim Crankshore, whose job it was to destroy the dove’s argument and
pointed a finger at him.
“All right,” said Crankshore, “I know I’m a hawk when it comes to protecting
American prestige, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to support any position that gives the
Chinese an advantage in Asia or in any part of the East.
“It’s not the Chinese we have to worry about at all,” the Vice-President insisted,
despite the scowl on Fortunatus’ face, “it’s the question of a North Korean collapse. We
worried about that since the days of Kim Il Sung. Now that his brat, Kim Jong Il, their fucking
Dear Leader, is fully in control, our military’s third choice scenario, a war by the North on
South Korea seems more likely than it has in the past. And the military’s scenarios of a
negotiated reunification of the Korean peninsula or a total passive collapse of the North
seem very unlikely. They’ll save face by trying to defeat the South and taking over their
productivity and agriculture. I don’t want to see us involved in another little war in the Far
East. Vietnam and the first Korean conflagration were enough.”
“OK,” said Crankshore. “What you say makes sense, but can we afford to lose face,
as you say it, in the Pacific? The North Koreans have buttered up to the Japanese, and the
 31
Japanese have responded by allowing Japanese married to Koreans in residence there to
visit Japan. And even allowed some of them to change domiciles. And we’ve been
snookered into humanitarian food assistance, and we’re well aware that precious little of this
has gotten into the bellies of the hungry. But now we know that large, but quiet, relief has
come from China. It’s possible that Kim Jong Il, not nearly the powerful figure his father was,
has become a client of the Chinese regime. On this basis we have to look at the Pacific in
altogether different way.”
Marisa Smith entered the argument, trying to find some middle ground. “I think the
President wants to find a truly rational approach, something between knuckling down and
starting a war. On the basis that the North Koreans are becoming Chinese clients, the
boldness of the North Korean attitude can be understood. If the Chinese are using the North
Koreans as a stalking horse to provoke the American administration into an act that will
antagonize the whole world, and China, taking the leadership of the Asian continent, will
oppose the USA, taking the position of a new super-power, they’ll talk with billions of Asians
at their command. I think we have to avoid that.”
“Of course,” the President said, “we also have the possibility that if the USA backs
down, the next step will be a North Korean invasion of South Korea. And Chinese challenge
to Japan as the dominant Far Eastern power. That will be really sweet. And instead of a
Korean police action we’ll have a full-fledged war on the Korean peninsula. Sucked in and
fucked up. Oh, we are up shit’s creek, aren’t we?”. Again that cliché
 32
Four: Tommy Kwo
“Tell Maxim to get me Tommy Kwo,” the President said. “Quietly.”
At her boss’s orders Marisa saw the FSIA chief at home. “You remember that
youngish police lieutenant the Boss had around whenever he went to New York?”
“Yo. Tommy Kwo, I think his name was.”
“Right. He wants you to get him indefinite leave, bring him quietly to Washington, give
him complete security clearance, and entry to the White House.”
“Yo. Any special reason?”
“He’s oriental. Father Korean, mother Chinese, born in New York, streetwise, knows
the underworld, keeps his mouth shut, and is totally trustworthy. Besides the President likes
him. I like him, too.”
The President knew Kwo from the time he was a young man who had just entered the
police department and was assigned to the City Council. The President, then in politics in
New York had arranged through unidentified friends for him to go through college, watched
him work nights to get a law degree, and seen him work his way up in the department.
It took Maxim only a couple of discrete telephone calls to arrange for Tommy Kwo to
come to Washington. He had him met at the airport, as planned, by an FSIA operative and
escorted, in a discretely unobtrusive three-year-old Toyota to a usually hidden entrance of
The Marble Box, and then to the President.
“Ever been in The Marble Box before?”
“No, Mr. President. I heard about this. Seen pictures in the papers and on TV. Never
figured it was like this. Big, too.” He waved at Marisa who sat in a chair a bit away from the
presidential desk.
“Any bugs here?”
Kwo knew what the President wanted: a test of competence. Surely the Secret
Service kept the office electronically clean. But if the President wanted him to do a once-
over, he would. Carefully and systematically, the New York cop did his job. He spent the
better part of half an hour checking the room. All the telephones, the television set, the
VCR, the lamps, backs of all the pictures, the vases and pieces of sculpture, the furniture,
the President’s desk and chair. He pointed at Marisa, and she got out of her chair to let him
examine it.
Finally he stopped, sat down in a chair facing the presidential desk, smiled a bit, and
said, “You’re testing me. There’s only one and it’s in that Chinese porcelain sculpture on
your desk. It’s very new, probably just been put in. There also used to be one in the
paperweight in front of you.”
“O.K.” the President said. “Yes, I was testing you. It was just put in yesterday. I
wanted to see if you’d lost your touch. Tommy, I have a problem.”
“Yes sir,” Kwo said, “whatever you say, Boss. I figured you had something going that
you couldn’t use your regular people. So, I’m on vacation in Vermont, I’m told, and no one
in New York knows I’m here. They put me on a plane to Vermont. “Your people, I guess...”
“FSIA,” the President responded. “Sorry you had to make a cockeyed trip out of it.”
“Well, I got driven from the airport there to Boston and got put on the Shuttle from
Beantown, and here I am. What do you want me to do?”
“You are Thomas Kwo, an attorney, on leave from your firm here in Washington, to
act as special presidential aide with regard to relations with North Korea.”
“O.K., sir, but I don’t know a thing about Washington. If I’m supposed to be an
attorney from here.”
The President leaned forward on his desk and picked up a large packet of papers and
folders. He put them into an oversized attaché case, already engraved with a TK on it. It
had a leather address label strung on the handle that said, Thomas Kwo/Magid & Korngold,
Attorneys at Law/3344 NW 9th St./Washington, D.C. The President got up from behind his
desk, walked over to Tommy, gave him the attaché case, and sat down beside him.
“You’ve read about the leak in the spy case?”
 33
“Of course, sir. As soon as I got the call, I went to the library at 42 nd Street and
read every paper I could on the story. I presumed it was for this that you wanted me.
Anything to do with blowing up the White House?”
“No,” said the President. “At least we don’t think so. This is about the leak.”
“Internal, then?”
“Exactly,” Fortunatus said. “This attaché has all the information I can give you now.
So far as I know the leak came from one of four people, all of whom I trust, not one of whom
could ever be considered a traitor. Even in the mildest sense.”
“I don’t think you can have a traitor in a mild sense,” Kwo said. “Loyalty is either
total or nonexistent.”
“I agree,” the President said, “but, damn it, there were only four people beside me in
the room when I showed them the message.”
“Do you have the original letter and envelope or whatever, Mr. President?”
“Yes. I’ll get it for you.” The President went back to his desk. He unlocked a drawer
and from it took a small, locked portfolio. He brought it back to Kwo, took a key on his
chain, and unlocked the portfolio. From it he withdrew the original package that had been
given him by the Swedish ambassador.
“It’s been dusted?” Kwo said
“I presume so,” the President replied, reserving in his mind the question Kwo had
asked and thinking that he would have to check with Crankshore.
“I can tell. There’s residue. Not too careful.”
The President put the matter in the Recycle Bin of his mind. But the word careful
stuck in his memory. Not only the tech that had dusted the message package, but someone
else had not been careful.
The New York cop examined the double envelope, read the message, examined the
paper. Then he looked up at the nation’s president, as the most powerful man in the world
paced back and forth, leaning heavily on his crutches, from his desk to the chair where Kwo
was sitting, without a pause, his crutches preceding and following his steps, back and forth,
back and forth. Finally, Kwo looked up. “This is clean, Chief. Envelopes were only opened
once, nothing to indicate any irregularity. Your leak didn’t occur from these.” He gave the
message back to the President.
“All right,” the President said. “So where’s the leak?”
“From the four people you trust and who couldn’t be disloyal.”
“I can’t believe that, no matter what anyone says. There’s no traitor there.” The
President’s face grew troubled and black. “What kind of answer can you make, Tommy?”
“A slip, an error, something uncontrolled, something without the knowledge or
consent of the person involved.”
“Like what?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, sir. All I can do is look.”
“We have no time for that, Tommy. I have decisions to make. Decisions that will
affect the whole country. But I’ll have Marisa fill you in on the meetings we had and on what
the FSIA agent who was screwing the spy told us.”
Marisa told the New York cop about every thing that had occurred in the meetings
with the President’s people and then the one in which Mattingly had told of his affair with
the spy.
“You’re sure it isn’t that agent?”
“We’ve had the whole incident gone over. And vetted the agent and everyone he
might have had contact with. It was just plain sex,” Marisa said. “He’s clean.”
Kwo sat silent for a moment, digesting everything the President’s Intelligence Liaison
had told him. Then he said, “Give me over night, Mr. President. I’ve got to think about this.
And I presume I can’t talk to any of the four people – and they are the only ones who could
give me information I could use. Also, I take it you don’t want me to go behind their backs
and dig about for dirt?”
“I’m one of the four,” Marisa said. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
 34
“No,” said the President. “He knows you, Marisa, but I don’t want him talking to
you about it. I want him totally unbiased and uninfluenced. And I don’t want a break in
security. I can’t allow it. It all has to be done quietly. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Marisa said. “I understand. I’ll stay away from him.”
“Fine.” The President turned away. His head bent down, almost as if he were
praying. Then he turned to the two, his face firm and rigid, and said to Tommy Kwo, “I’m
going to give you some very sensitive material. Read it all. Tell me what you come up with.
Any hunch, any conclusion, any best guess.” He gave the policeman the heavy attaché
case. “Your brief case.” He smiled a quick smile.
“Of course,” Kwo replied. “Ready for the courts tomorrow. All right, overnight. I’ll
see what I can come up with. What about the spy?”
“She’s hidden away until we decide what to do with her. And what decisions I have
to make. We have a room for you at the Morrison Clark. It’s a quiet place, outside the
political area. You are here as a lawyer on the North Korea issue, so when it comes time,
you’ll be able to ask questions. I’ll see you in the morning. A car will bring you here.”
Tommy Kwo tilted his head to the side. Marisa caught the movement. She had seen
it before. It was a sign that something untoward had clicked in Tommy’s brain. The
President saw the movement also. He looked at Tommy and said, “Yes, I do think there’s
some link between the spy and what happened.” He said nothing more than, “A car will pick
you up in the morning.”
Kwo, like all the President’s people, was used to Fortunatus’s abrupt dismissals. He
had faced those a number of times when the President, and before that when he was in
Congress, came to New York City. He had first been simply a patrolman assigned as
bodyguard to Fortunatus, and as time went on, his status had improved, but Fortunatus
insisted on his services. And when the ever more successful politician made it possible for
him to go to law school – which Kwo, a very good detective, had found out – the policeman
became a loyal supporter. They were not friends. Kwo recognized himself as a temporary
tool his benefactor could use from time to time. And Kwo suspected that there were times
when he delivered confidential material from Fortunatus to Albert O’Reilly that he was being
used as a bagman. It was a way of the world, and the cop was not that idealistic that he
looked to be a whistle blower. It was none of his business. If the President now needed his
help, he was there to help.
The Toyota was waiting for him as he left. The entry to the Marble Box was so
unobtrusive that he felt it must be used for only the most private purposes. He had the
feeling that the entrance disappeared into the wall when it was not used. But, he shrugged
his shoulders, that was the problem of the tenant of the dwelling. The driver saluted him,
opened the door to the rear of the car and closed it after Kwo seated himself. It was an
ordinary Toyota, until Tommy looked a bit more closely. The windows were bulletproof
glass. The almost silent engine, from what he could hear, was far more powerful than the
one that must have been original issue. There were air bags at each seat.
“Are you FBI?” Tommy asked the driver.
“I’ll be your driver for your stay,” the man replied. “I’ll take you to your hotel, and I’ll
be there in the morning for you. If you should need me at any time before, this number will
reach me.” He handed the NY cop a business card: DC Transportation/555-6400, no
address.
This, Tommy thought, means no communication. I come, I do my job, I go home.
Nobody knows who, what, where I am. Good.
When he approached the Reception at the hotel, the driver carrying his bag but the
attaché case in his own hand, he was greeted with, “You must be Mr. Kwo. Your
accommodations are ready. When you are ready for dinner, will you please telephone? Just
give us fifteen minutes.”
That meant he wasn’t to eat in the dining room.
 35
“The blue telephone for outside calls has a separate fax line. The fax machine is on
the desk we put in for your convenience. Use the regular hotel phone for anything you want
otherwise.”
Then telephones to the Boss were to go through the blue phone. And he should
discourage himself from any calls except within the hotel for service.
His driver led the way to his room, a floor above street level. Kwo carried the attaché
case, having refused the desk clerk’s offer to carry it up for him. It was a substantial bit of
luggage, and quite obviously heavy. The driver, nameless so far, examined the room,
checking it for bugs, no doubt, and, satisfied that privacy had not been violated, opened
Tommy’s bag, hung up his clothes, and put the toiletries in the bathroom. Next he examined
the gun Tommy had packed in an X-ray proof container that gave the airport machine the
image of a small camera, checked it and the box of cartridges it contained, and handed that
to the cop, who put it into his waistband. The driver turned to leave, then backtracked to
the television set, pulled it from the wall, and poked a small flashlight into its innards. When
he was satisfied, he again made as if to depart.
“You have a name?” Kwo said.
“Colucci, sir.”
“Thank you,” Kwo replied, and the driver left.
Tommy took his coat and jacket off, loosened his tie, and pulled the plastic gun from
his trouser waist. He’d seen a movie years ago where a terrorist had made a gun from
plastics, the only metal in it was the firing pin and the case head, rim, and primer of the
slug, which last were made essentially from a reworked Lincoln penny. One of Tommy’s
personal contacts in the world of felony public and felony private happened to be a crack
gunsmith. In exchange for a cop to crook favor he had produced the gun and the bullets. It
was Tommy’s backup.
Tommy sat down with a sigh and relaxed for a moment. The tension of his meet with
the President, he realized, would stay with him until the problem was solved. He looked
around him, and the first thing he saw on the chest was a bottle of Haig and Haig Pinch
scotch. Next to it a pitcher of ice and a bottle of spring water.
The President had laughed at him when they we were having a drink together in New
York. “If you were a Southern politician, you’d drink bourbon and branch. A Long Island or
Westchester one would probably stick to vodka martinis. A Western pol might still be taking
Canadian Club. Washingtonians and New Yorkers stick to straight vodka or wine, white or
red, depending on the fashion of the moment. And you’d be knowledgeable about vintages.
In Washington, American wines ones for the people back home. In the East, you’d know all
the good French wines. But you’re a cop, so you drink scotch and water with a little ice.
You’ll never be president, Tommy.”
To himself, Tommy had said, Thank God. Who’d ever want that job? The President
at that time was years away from the White House.
His mind shook himself from past to present; he had little time to lose. But it still
amazed him that the President would have remembered that he was a scotch drinker. When
he took up his sample case and looked inside the contents of the first one that came to
hand, he learned a bit more about the President’s memory.
The first file was that of Arthur Mattingly. The file was not particularly thick. After all,
the young man had not had enough years in government service to have been so
compromised that he would have been subject to an investigation. But there was enough to
show that he had resisted a sting operation to test his sexual preferences. Kwo smiled.
Mattingly’s picture in the file indicated that he was very blond and very handsome – with the
kind of looks that would have attracted a gay to him. But the file indicated that Mattingly
had rejected, vigorously, such offers in the past. Interestingly enough, the file also indicated
Mattingly’s preferences for food and drink. He detested junk food and liked fine restaurants
he couldn’t afford. For entertainment he liked sci-fi movies and had a collection of old Star
Trek videotapes, and rather than any intellectual pursuits, he would go to a gym and work
out. He had few female acquaintances and was both shy and tended to be tongue-tied in
 36
the presence of sexually attractive women. Obviously, Mattingly had considered Mimaji
Jae-hyo, the North Korean spy, a safe sexual partner. She was, as far as he knew, on his
side of the Intelligence world.
I’d guess that this was a seduction, Korean to American. Lucky he didn’t seem to
have anything to give away. I hope they get him a good job away from Intelligence. Not the
type to carry heavy loads.
The New York police lieutenant assumed that there could be a file similar to the one
he was reading on himself, and from that file, if it existed, the President’s minions could
determine his pleasures in the area of alcoholic beverages. What he didn’t know was
whether the man who was now president would have bothered to keep a file on his favorite
cop. When Fortunatus had shown interest in his career and had smoothed his way,
academically and financially, into law school, was he already keeping a file on the cop for
future use? Or was it the FBI who had compiled information on him? He was curious to
know whether his folder included the night he and Fortunatus had gone out catting in the
dark streets of New York. But that was for another day. Somewhere along the line he’d find
out.
Before he went to the other files, he put in a call for room-service dinner. While he
waited for the meal to come up, he picked up the blue phone and called the White House.
When he identified himself to the operator, the President immediately came to the phone.
“I don’t feel comfortable with these files in an unprotected room, Mr. President.”
“I knew that would bother you, Tommy. Look outside your window and outside your
door.”
The car he had come in from the airport was there, parked in a No Parking zone. The
driver who stood next to it, leaning on the hood, was not Colucci, but he presumed an FBI or
FSIA agent. Through the peep hole in his door he could see another man, sitting on a chair
tilted against the wall just opposite his room.
He went back to the phone and told the President he had seen his protection.
“You’re just a lawyer,” the President said. “No one knows you’re here. Relax. Come
up with an answer.”
“Yessir,” he replied, and listened to the quick click on the White House phone.
He put the thoughts about lax security and his probable own file away and went into
the other files: Lou Goldberg, Maxim Crankshore, Terry Ortega, and Marisa Smith. They
were the only ones in the meeting the President spoke of, and the President had assured
Tommy Kwo that there was no possibility of the meeting having been bugged or its security
having been violated in any way. He’d have to take the President’s word for that.
At that point a knock on his door heralded the arrival of his dinner.
“Your host ordered this for you instead of what you wanted,” the waiter said as he
laid out the meal on a wheeled table. Escargot, Caesar salad, lobster thermidor, two bottles
of good dark beer and a big pot of coffee. It was a duplicate of a meal he, the President, and
Marisa had had the last time they ate alone in New York City. This couldn't be in his file.
Good, it restored his faith in the President’s memory. He smiled as he sat down to eat.
Unless, it was Marisa who remembered it. He would have to check on that.
He remembered what the President had said to him on that occasion. “If you want to
think sharp, you can’t do it on an empty stomach, nor on an overfilled one. Eat well, relax
for ten or fifteen minutes, light up a cigar, clear your mind and then you can begin to think.”
Kwo followed the Boss’s orders, and when he was ready, relaxed, and willing to face
a long night of reading and thinking, he went to the files.
The first file he opened was that of Lou Goldberg, the President’s Chief of Staff.
Goldberg was a New Yorker, as was the President, but Goldberg had come, the vita in his
folder outlined, from wealthy parents. His family was a large stockholder in Federated and
several other super-conglomerates. Goldberg was a lawyer, Harvard all the way through,
and in addition to his law degree, Law Review editor. He had gone on in his studies to arrive
at a Ph. D. in History, which was simply a cover for foreign affairs, in which he was deeply
interested. More than Secretary of State Franklin Steiner, Goldberg was the President’s
 37
specialist in dealings with other countries. According to the FBI documentation much of
Goldberg’s work was done under the cover of preparing for some presidential visitation or
conference or summit meeting.
He must be a workaholic, Kwo thought, as he leafed through the Goldberg pages. He
seems to be both at the White House and overseas at the same time. How he can get his
White House office work done is more than I can see, but apparently he does.
There was nothing in Goldberg’s folder that could indicate even the remotest
possibility of the man selling out his country. He was not married, and it had to cross Kwo’s
mind that Goldberg might be a homosexual. But further on, the cop discovered that
Goldberg had been married. He had three children, aged six to fourteen, and he’d had an
ugly divorce. He had married a Catholic woman against his family and her family’s wishes,
but that was not the problem. The problem was money.
Stella Goldberg, born Joarean, wanted out of the marriage and she wanted money.
Never much of a mother, she was willing to give up her children for a princely ransom. A
thousand dollars a week and a million dollars in cash. Goldberg, who insisted on living on
his own salary, had refused her request. Even when he discovered that she had a lover, and
had one – or another – all through the years, he refused to go to his parents for help. Stella
then herself went to the senior Goldbergs and made her demands known to them. Andrew
Goldberg knew a tramp when he saw one, and rather than throw her out, he bargained with
her and cut her down to a quarter of her demand. In addition he made her sign all her rights
away and required her to move from New York so that she would be out of contact with
either her former husband or her children. The two children, now in their twenties, had been
well educated. The boy was an attorney and the girl a teacher.
This failed marriage was the single hole in Goldberg’s life, but it only ended in a
closed wound. Stella Goldberg, her account paid in full, could not be a lead to a leak.
Tommy Kwo crossed Goldberg off his list.
Maxim Crankshore was next on the list. Would his folder show anything? Would the
FSIA be open about its own chief? Tommy doubted it. He knew how the cops closed ranks
when one was in trouble. Even a rogue cop. But he read on, assuming that all he would find
would be a white wash.
But what he found out made him sit up. Maxim Crankshore had been a cop. After
college, Harvard, where he had been Phi Beta Kappa. In Chicago of all places. And he had
not been a model police officer. He had been caught carrying political money from an
Illinois union leader to the Democratic Party HQ and then from a Chicago bank to the
Republican Party HQ. This expression of bipartisanship would have passed muster
ordinarily, but this was all cash and unreported, and possibly of Chicago gangland origin.
His wife Frances was related in a distant way to Con Corbin, already at that time on
the way up in the FBI hierarchy. Frances called Con Corbin who in turn called Alexander
Fortunatus, a New York politico with his hands in all phases of New York government, both
state and city.
Within a month, with out any loss of pension or seniority Maxim Crankshore
transferred from the police department in Chicago to that of New York City. Then, after a
time, he became the Chief of Police in Phoenix, then in Denver. In each case Alexander
Fortunatus had made a telephone call to arrange for an interview. Strangely enough, each
locale to which Crankshore had been recommended found that he did a superlative job.
Each city recommended him highly, especially for his impeccable honesty and ability to
ferret out malfeasance and duplicity.
Then, for no apparent reason, Crankshore left the law enforcement career and went
back to school. He enrolled in a Ph. D. program at Yale, and in three years – competing with
students, in some cases twenty years his junior – he earned a degree in political science. He
entered the academic field, quickly rose in rank, and retired again from a professorship at
Brown University. His lifestyle was far above that he could have earned as a police chief or
a professor, but nowhere in the dossier could Kwo find out where his money came from.
 38
The New York cop shook his head in disbelief. Who was Maxim Crankshore? What
were his values? Could he be trusted? All those cities said so. The President said so. Well,
if they all certified to Crankshore’s trustworthiness, perhaps the negatives were a
momentary blip and the man was what he seemed to be.
Or, Kwo, thought, something in the Chicago thing. Some link with where that money
he was carrying came from. But the President seems to have been connected with
Crankshore all along. The way he’s been with me. Except Kwo didn’t have money. Well, it’s
beyond me, but if the Boss thinks he’s OK, it’s OK with me. I’ll have to find out where he gets
his spending-money from. No, it’s not OK with me. Money is too important a lead not to
follow. I’ll ask the Boss.
Next in line was Marisa Smith. Her folder was slim and straightforward. She was
brilliant, it said, a Summa Cum Laude from New York University, Phi Beta Kappa, a Ph. D. a
significant number of years later in literature from the University of Pennsylvania, several
publications on Walter Savage Landor, whoever he was, and then employment with the CIA
and after that with FSIA. Why, Kwo wondered, had she turned from computers and business
administration that she went into after her baccalaureate to literature? And why after so
long a time? Never out in the field, she had held several good desk jobs with each
intelligence agency. Then appointment as the President’s liaison with Intelligence. No
known involvements. No marriages. Links with liberal organizations, but only on a
membership basis. Apparently no activity beyond payment of dues. Strong evidence of
intimacy with President Fortunatus both before his presidency and currently. Apparently no
strain existed with the presidential family. She was treated as a family friend, and Mrs.
Fortunatus frequently invited her to dinner, sometimes even when the President was eating
elsewhere. Apparently Mrs. Fortunatus accepted her relationship with the President. She
was aware that Smith would use the private entrance to the Presidential Residence area, but
the First Lady was always home when Smith visited. Apparently these visits were frequently
at the President’s instigation, particularly when he seemed to be at the point of decision-
making. After the explosions at the White House and the construction of The Marble Box,
relations seemed to continue.
Kwo smiled to himself as he read the folder. The number of times apparently was
used indicated to him that the officer in charge of producing this information was avoiding
any statement that could be directly challenged. Tommy was well aware of the liaison
between the Boss and Marisa Smith. More than once, when Fortunatus was in New York,
Tommy had picked her up and delivered her to her friend’s suite or to his hotel room or to
his home when he was in residence in New York. It was, Tommy thought, his knowledge of
this relationship and Tommy’s own long association with Alexander Fortunatus that brought
him to Washington and this long night of reading.
At this point, there was only one more folder to peruse. The cop put Smith’s folder
back into the sample case and pulled out the Vice President’s. But he didn’t open it
immediately. With it on his lap, he reached over to the table on which his half-finished
scotch and branch lay. He took the drink, swallowed it, and leaned back in his chair. He put
his mind into policeman mode. He was about to make a decision without reading the folder,
and he wanted to follow the logic of that decision before he committed his mind to it.
Somewhere in the back of his memory he heard Sherlock Holmes telling his ever-
present companion, Dr. Watson, that when there is a finite series of possible solutions to a
problem, and when all the possibilities save one have been eliminated, then the last, no
matter how improbable it seems, is the solution.
There had been four people in the room with the President. The letter had never
been opened before the President had read it. Although a substantial number of
governmental officials knew of the capture of the North Korean spy, only the four in the
room in addition to the President knew of the military threat. Until the leak to the press.
There were five possibilities. Three folders indicated that the subjects discussed in
the folders were beyond suspicion – even considering the odd career and unanswered
financial status of the FSIA chief. The President himself could not be considered since he
 39
and his political well being were hurt by the disclosure. That made four eliminations. If
Sherlock Holmes was correct in his logic, the Vice-President was the guilty one.
But that would not hold water in a court of law, nor would the President accept a
conclusion without any supporting evidence. Would he find some in Ortega’s folder? He
opened it and began to read, looking at each phrase, each word, even each punctuation
mark.
He could tell almost immediately that Terry Ortega was a man who was always
looking for the main chance. From his biography, Kwo could tell that Ortega’s ambition was
not fulfilled by his election to the vice-presidency. Well, if that were the case, he certainly
would not be looking to hurt Fortunatus’ presidency. As vice-president he was intimately
involved in the current administration, certainly in the eyes of the public. And if the
President did not like his vice-president, the public was not aware of this, so Ortega would
be a political nincompoop to hurt the administration in any way. Score one for him. Well,
Sherlock Holmes? And Ortega’s financial interests were aligned to Central and South
America as well as to the States. It would be a financial disaster to him to destroy his
relationship with his markets, which meant quietly lobbying or having lobbying done for him
in Congress with regard to trade treaties and relationships with the American continents.
His need for a profitable supply of fabrics from the Far East for his factories was limited to
China, not to a belligerent North Korea – a China who could easily upset his commercial
apple carts. Score two for Terry Ortega. Sherlock Holmes, where are you?
He was certainly no Latin lover. He had been utterly faithful to a wife, the former
Brenda Loomis, who had brought him into proper society and who was his bulwark against
all incertitude throughout her life. She was the American anchor to his Hispanic soul. And
after her death just after his election, he was quite certainly distraught. He sold his big
house in Bethesda. The folder said, complete. And that, the cop thought, meant with all
furniture and decorations. If that were the case, then he was closing a chapter in his life.
Was he entering a new one?
Apparently the VP and his wife had never resided as a family in the Vice-President’s
mansion on Observation Circle. Perhaps only for state occasions or important social
entertainment.
He read on in the report. After Ortega sold his home, he first rented, then bought a
condominium in the Watergate area. There were copies of the bills for the condo and for the
reconstruction work. This gave Kwo a pause. The building was quite new. What
reconstruction work would there have to be? A copy of the new title and notes from the
contractor, with a handwritten memo, made that clear. Ortega had bought a three-bedroom
apartment. Then he purchased half of the adjoining apartment, the half that contained a
third bedroom, a bath and a walk-in closet. This left the adjoining apartment as a two-
bedroom, two-bath arrangement. Nothing unusual in that. The VP wanted a four bedroom,
four-bath place for his kids according to an interview held with the condominium sales
manager. Very nice, a thoughtful father, Kwo thought.
But there was a memo and notes from the contractor. The memo had to do with
providing a doorframe and door between the two apartments. This entry was covered over
with wallboard and wallpaper on both sides. The note had to do with instructions for
removing the wallboard and the wallpaper with minimum damage to the wall. It also told of
a roll of wallpaper that was left in the space between the apartments to repair any minor
injury to the entry whenever it was desired to connect the two apartments.
This now became a horse of a different color. Kwo supposed that the VP might at
some time consider buying the abbreviated apartment and expanding his home. Or?
There was a list of the condo holders in the building. No politicos whose names stood
out. Not significant, since the New York cop didn’t know much about politicians in the
hinterland of the country. Everything west of the Hudson in his mind was Indian Country.
Nor were there any national figures whose names he might recognize, but as he said this to
himself, he passed the name of Mary Elizabeth Li. He had heard that name just recently.
From whom?
 40
The Boss! Marisa! Mattingly and Mimaji Jae-hyo. Mattingly and others knew Mimaji
Jae-hyo as a likely candidate to be a double agent. Who had recommended the North
Korean spy? Mary Elizabeth Li.
Well, now. What apartment did Mary Elizabeth Li have? Of course: the truncated
apartment next to Terry Ortega. That was that.
But there’s still the element of Crankshore’s money. Must check on that.
It was four o’clock in the morning. Tommy took another scotch and branch, went in
for a quick very hot shower, wiped himself dry, stripped his bed and went to sleep. Soundly
and dreamless.
At eight o’clock a knock on the door and Colucci’s voice awakened him.
“The President is waiting for you.”
Wrapping a sheet around himself, he went to the door, looked through the peephole
and recognized the driver. He opened the door and said, “Come in. Order up some room
service while I shower and shave.”
Colucci came in, muttering, “Now I’m his butler. For this I joined the service.
Chauffeur, watch him all night, order breakfast. This I need.”
Kwo turned to him as he entered the bathroom. “Look, I came down here because
the President wanted me. I’m doing my job. Why don’t you? And we’re on expense
account, so why not order a decent breakfast, on the house, and when we get done, then
we’ll go on our way. Be a good guy, Colucci. I didn’t have much sleep either.”
“Sorry,” said the agent. “I’m just tired, real tired. That chair in the hall is no
Beautyrest mattress.”
“Right. Now order us up something good, and I’ll be as fast as I can.”
He had showered only a few hours before, but he needed the first splash of hot
water, then a long spray of icy cold to awaken him to what he knew would be a long,
grinding day. He showered, shaved, dressed, and by that time the food was delivered. He
knew he was tired: he should have put all his papers together before he slept. Well, Colucci
seemed OK.
“The waiter didn’t touch anything, did he, Colucci?”
“No.”
“I was stupid. Should have put everything together before I went to sleep. Stupid.”
“Yup.”
Tommy gathered all his papers together and put them in the oversized attaché case.
The two men sat down at the table, on which the waiter had placed their breakfast and
quietly ate their bacon and eggs, toasted English muffins and several cups of coffee.
“Got to move,” Colucci said. “He said he wanted you pronto, and I don’t propose to
get my head in a noose because you’re taking your time.”
“OK. OK,” Kwo replied, and before Colucci could pick up the case, Kwo took it and
walked out the door.
“Must be very important stuff in there,” the operative said.
Kwo did not answer. His police training made him look up and down the corridor
before he entered the hall. Colucci was doing the same. The two walked to the elevator
went down and out the hotel doors. The car, with another driver, was waiting. Colucci got in
the front with the other agency man, and Kwo with his precious case entered the rear. A
noise down the street made the two agents leap out of the car and examine the
surroundings. Satisfied that all was in order, they got in, and the driver took off with a roar.
They went a roundabout, zigzag way to the Old Executive Office Building and deposited the
New Yorker at the back entrance. Another agent awaited Tommy there and he led him up to
the Presidential Office. There the officer at the entrance to the office made as if to look into
Kwo’s case.
“Sorry,” Tommy said. “Private.”
The two scowling agents, annoyed that he had frustrated their security procedure,
did not insist, and instead took him to an adjoining room and told him to wait, which he did,
sitting in a comfortable armchair with the case tight between his legs. He was sleepy and
 41
closed his eyes while he waited for permission to enter the President’s office. He actually
did nod and was almost asleep when he felt a slight pressure on his leg. A rapid upward
thrust of his knee caught the agent, the one who had been at the Presidential Office door in
the groin. With a grunt of pain the agent lurched backward, almost losing his balance.
“I said, private, asshole,” the cop whispered to the man, “and I meant it.”
“I check everyone I don’t know,” the FBI man said. “Everyone I don’t know has to
have clearance.”
“I have clearance,” Tommy said. “Check it out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t go sneaking around at me any more.”
“No, sir.”
A few minutes later the other operative came in to escort Kwo to the President’s
office. The one at the door scowled at the cop, but Tommy returned the frown with a broad
grin. When he came in to the Presidential Office, he saw there were several people there.
He recognized Marisa Smith and the Vice President, but not the others. He nodded to
Marisa, went over to President Fortunatus to greet him and as he said his good-mornings, he
shook his head negatively ever so slightly. The President nodded and indicated a chair in
the rear next to the wall.
“Tommy Kwo is my new special attorney. I’ve brought him in from New York to do
some personal work for me. He’ll probably be around a bit, and any cooperation he asks of
you, I’d like you to extend it to him.”
The others all nodded in acquiescence, and the conversation that had obviously been
going on continued. After half an hour the President called the meeting over, and all but
Tommy, Smith, and the President left. The President looked at his investigator. The
question was all over his face.
Tommy nodded. “Ortega.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“It’s a matter of probabilities. He’s the only one left after I eliminated the others.
Even Crankshore with his crazy history. I have to know where he gets his money.”
The President smiled. “They haven’t been able to find out, have they?”
“No, sir. He certainly doesn’t live on his income.”
“No, he doesn’t. Did you ever hear about a mythical uncle in Australia who leaves a
person a bundle, someone that person never knew?”
“Yup, but mine never left me nothing.”
“Well, his did.”
“You mean, for real?”
“Eight million dollars. Which he put in a blind trust to prevent any conflict of
interest.”
“You confirmed this?”
The President smiled again. “When I approached Crankshore, the first thing out of
his mouth was this uncle thing, which he didn’t want public. I checked myself. It only took
half a dozen calls to Down Under. We agreed to a blind trust, and then he took the job. He’s
clean, squeaky clean.” The President looked at Tommy, who doubt showed in his face.
“Including Chicago,” the President said.
“OK, on your sayso.”
“Now, about Ortega.”
“Ortega lives next door to Mary Elizabeth Li.”
“I know Li,” the President said. “She has high clearance. She’s still with FSIA. She’s
one of our smartest.”
“Yes, sir. But there’s an adjoining door between their apartments.”
“He’s banging her?”
 42
“I don’t know. I have to find out. I have to get a positive bit of evidence. It’s not a
case I’d bring to court.”
“Well,” the President said, “what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to create a document with regard to the North Korean situation to be
given to each of the people you had in your original Secure Room conversation. I guess
except for Ms. Smith. It’s a draft document that you are giving them for perusal, and you’ll
have a meeting after to discuss. The ones to the Chief of Staff and the Director of FSIA are
the same. Their document favors a very hard approach, threatening the North Koreans with
immediate consequences. The one you give the VP calls for a soft approach, asking for
negotiations with the North Koreans and suggesting that you are amenable to returning the
spy so long as there is a face-saving element to the deal. If he’s the one, as I’m pretty sure
he is, there should be a response from North Korea almost immediately without your
sending any thing at all to them. The only thing, the documents, at least the opening page,
should look very similar, actually totally alike, so if one of your people gets a glance at one
of the others, they won’t be suspicious. Come to think of it, Ms. Smith should get one, too.
That way there’ll be nothing suspicious about the documents.
“That’s not hard to do. I’ll call Frank Steiner in and have his people at State make up
drafts each way, with half a dozen copies of each for discussion. Then I’ll distribute them,
each to the proper person, and I’ll say I haven’t made my mind up which way I’m going to
go.”
“Fine,” Kwo said. Then he changed his mind. “No, no one should know that there are
different versions. You make it up yourself. I can type them, and I’ll photocopy them here.”
“Not to worry,” Marisa said. “I’ll do them. I can imitate the way Frank Steiner
writes.”
“O.K.” Fortunatus said. He turned to Kwo, his eyebrows raised in question.
“O.K. by me,” the cop said.
The President turned to Smith. “If we get a response from North Korea, we’ll know
whether or not Tommy’s suspicion is correct.” Marisa nodded and the President asked his
new attorney, “Any thing else you want?”
“Yeah.” The cop lapsed into New Yorkese. “Y’ain’t gonna like this. I wan’ Ortega’s
flat bugged up to its ears, and I don’t want no bugs any mechanic kin pick up. Y’get?”
The President laughed. “Playing street-wise, are you?” Then he turned deadly
serious. “What’s the reason, because it better be good. If he catches on to this, there’s
going to be hell to pay. He knows I don’t like him, and if he figures the FBI is investigating
him, he’ll go public. He wants to be president, but he’d give that up if he could get me
where it hurts. He knows I won’t support him at the Convention, so he has nothing to lose if
he denounces me. He might even switch parties if he gets a good enough offer. And it
would sure cost us control of Congress. This is high-risk tactics.”
“I didn’t know that,” Kwo replied. “I didn’t realize your relationship with him was not
cozy. But let me make a suggestion. I have a guy in New York who can put in bugs the FBI
or the FSIA will never pick up. And he’ll use devices our Intelligence agencies don’t use,
some they have never heard about.”
The President frowned. “I don’t like using private contractors for government work.
It’s like having the Mafia do you a favor. And it creates another possible source of leak, or
trouble inside the government itself. And it’ll take too much time.”
“You brought me down to do a job?” Kwo said. “Let me do it. And it can be done
tonight. Just have the VP here or somewhere in a meeting where he can’t get out. Done?”
“Done,” the President said. But he shook his head doubtfully.
“You’ve done it before, Boss. It’s no big deal.”
Marisa Smith looked at the two men, her brows furrowed. What had Fortunatus done
before? Used a contract agent to bug someone’s privacy?

* * *
 43
That evening while the President was having a long meeting with various Cabinet
members and Congressional leaders, with the Vice-President in the center as coordinator of
the discussion, a position he found much to his liking, a bit of constructive espionage work
was being done in the VP’s condominium apartment.
It was a powerful group of people who were meeting in the Secure Room. All had
been transported to the Room in the covered, special car along the secret route of the
government subway. It took them close to half an hour to get used to the Room. They
marveled at the technology and the approach to secrecy and security, and mostly they
wondered where they actually were.
“The rules,” the President said, “are no notes, nothing said in this room goes out of
the room. You are free to speak your minds, whether or not they agree with mine or with
the leaders of your party. Everyone will take an oath to divulge nothing that goes on here,
not a breath to anyone, not your wife, not your girl friend. And nothing will be written down,
not anything given to any of the media, not even on background. As far as anyone outside
this room, this meeting never took place. Will you all rise, raise your right hand and swear
to these restrictions and rules.”
They all rose.
“I want to hear it out loud, and I want the persons on your left and right to hear it, so
there’s no question that a leak means a spy in our midst.”
Awkwardly and uncomfortably, they all said, “I swear.”
This was all taking more time than necessary, but the President wanted to make sure
that the work Kwo was having done in Ortega’s apartment would be completed before the
meeting was over. Finally, the President gave the Vice-President a signal to start the
discussion.
In addition to Goldberg, Crankshore, and Marisa Smith who were at the first meeting
in the Secure Room; Con Corbin, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Franklin
Steiner, Secretary of State; Ambruster Coolidge, Secretary of Defense; Denver Morgan,
Secretary of the Treasury; Gordon Jamison, Attorney General; Seymour Lane, Senator from
Illinois, a Democrat and Majority Leader; James McAllister III, Senator from Louisiana, a
Republican and Minority Leader; Melvin Tor, Representative from Massachusets, a Democrat
and Speaker of the House; Nora Norwich, Representative from Michigan, a Democrat and
House Majority Leader; and Oliver Partik, Representative from New York, a Republican and
House Minority Leader, made up the group.
“You’ve all read the papers about the North Korean situation,” the President said. “I
have to make up my mind which direction the United States will take in this issue. I want
and value your opinions, and I want those to be expressed freely. This is not a matter of
party or position or power. This is something that vitally concerns the United States. I will,
therefore, not participate in your discussion, which will be led by my partner and friend,
Terry Ortega. The room is yours, ladies and gentlemen. The future of the United States
may well be in your hands.”
He had to give Ortega credit. The VP led a good meeting. It was noisy and from time
to time it threatened to get out of hand, but the VP brought it into control and he kept the
discussion close to the topic at hand. There was no consensus. A group of doves, headed
by Ortega himself, although he said little, was in favor of giving the spy back to North Korea
and calling the whole thing a fiasco. Opposite them, the hawks, with Secretary of Defense
Coolidge leading and Senators Lane and McAllister supporting, claimed that the reputation
of the United States was at stake. The term Paper Tiger came up more than once. The
hawks and their supporters said that the experience of Vietnam, still strong in their minds,
militated against being soft with Asians. Some of them had served there. That experience,
together with the series of UN fiascoes in Bosnia, in Africa, and in the Middle East made
them conclude that the United States, the only super-power in the world, had to make its
strength known once and for all.
It was long past midnight when the meeting broke up. There had been a break for
coffee and pastry, but no liquor and no smoking. The President thanked them all for their
 44
participation, particularly his partner the Vice-President, and sent them home. The FBI had
made sure that there were no reporters in the vicinity and that there were sufficient
limousines at the ready to ferry them home. Their own cars were to be left in the legislative
garages, and they would be picked up on call in the morning.
When the President returned to the residence, he found Tommy Kwo waiting for him,
a small attaché case on the chair next to the one in which he was sitting.
“All done?” the President asked.
“Ready,” the cop replied.
“He must be home now.”
“I’ll put it on.”
Kwo put the small case on a table. He opened it, pressed a couple of control buttons
and listened. Nothing. He and Fortunatus waited. Silently. Three or four minutes. They
heard a sound.
“Door,” said Tommy.
A kind of muffled, scratchy sound. A scruffy sound.
“He’s taking his jacket and tie off.” Another door sound and the sound of a door latch.
“He’s going into the john.” Water sounds, a couple of huffs and puffs. More water sounds.
“He’s having a shit.” Scruffy sounds. “He’s walking across the floor. Sighs. Then the sound of
a door opening and closing. And a faint snapping click.
“That’s strange,” Kwo said. “This thing indicates which microphone is picking up the
sounds. According to this, the sound comes from the party wall between this and the
neighboring apartment.”
There were no further sounds coming from the Vice-President’s apartment. “Why from
that wall area?” Kwo asked himself. He pondered. He reviewed in his mind everything he had
read in the Ortega report. Then it hit him. Of course! The door between the apartments. It
was installed and operating, but it had no doorknob. A magnetic latch, with a hidden control.
The wallpaper had been done so well that it hid the door. And Kwo’s mechanic, who was
looking for the obvious, never noticed the door. In that case, he had to go a second time into
the apartments. But when? The President couldn’t control Mary Elizabeth Li’s movements. Or
could he?
“Well, from what Crankshore tells me, she’s still on FSIA listing. They use her when
they need someone of her type. He could, since she was the one who recommended Mimaji
Jae-hyo to the spooks, see to it that she be asked to do some fast work at the FSIA, where
Crankshore could keep an eye on her.” The President had no doubt that Crankshore could
keep her busy.
“Great,” Tommy replied. “Tomorrow morning. I can’t keep my guy here more than
that. He promised his wife he’d be home tomorrow. I don’t want him around anyway. I’ll go
over and get him set. I have him in my hotel. This’ll cost, you know, and he doesn’t take
MasterCard or Visa.”
“I realize that,” the President said. “The cash will be in your hands at seven in the
morning.”
“You’d better add another five grand to the total. I just hope Sam has enough bugs to
do the job right.”

* * *

Early on the following morning, Mary Elizabeth Li received an urgent call from Maxim
Crankshore. He rarely called agents himself, but this, he said, was important. He told her to
take a personal two days from her position at The Armament Association of America. He
needed her immediately with regard to the Mimaji Jae-hyo case. Actually, it was a good call.
It was important to know whatever could be known about the North Korean spy, and if Mary
Elizabeth Li was herself involved in espionage, questioning her about another person might
bring out some leads that had not been thought of.
 45
Li left her apartment at nine in the morning, having made a call to her employers.
Her phone had been tapped during the night. She simply told the operator to tell her
supervisor that she had been called by the FSIA and would be busy there no more than two
days. It was an innocuous call. Had it been another person, telling a company that she was
being summoned by an Intelligence agency might have been a faux pas, but Armament
Association knew that she had worked for FSIA before and was still supposed to make
herself available as needed. Her telephone was not used the rest of the day, and no sound
came from her apartment all the time she was gone.
Sam Harvey, his work done, left the apartment by the early afternoon.

* * *

The newspapers, as well as the TV and cable media, were still full of the North Korean
slap in the face, as they called it, and were quite provoked at the administration and
Congress for not bringing the issue to the fore. It was almost as if the media were anxious
for a crisis to occur so that they could make more headlines and create more head to head
TV interviews. But for once the politicos were silent. Every one realized that a rogue state
was also a loose canon, and the wrong word could set the fuse to a shell that might start a
real conflagration. Neither Republicans nor Democrats cottoned to the idea of a war seven
thousand miles across an ocean in an area where America had few friends. Japan might
have approved of an American war on the Korean peninsula, but it would do nothing to
tempt the North Koreans to include Japan in its hate list.
But China was different. China, of course, loved all the big multinational corporations
that groveled before its huge market of potential consumers. And China loved the
multinationals that took advantage of the availability of its cheap labor and filled its coffers
with foreign funds. But China counted no one as its friend. As the historically self-
proclaimed center of the world, it needed no one’s friendship. Its huge population protected
it from disaster the way the monster corporations in the US protected themselves from
bankruptcy: they were too big to be allowed to fail. No war was so destructive that China’s
population could not afford to take it in its stride. A loss of even a hundred million workers
and families was quite acceptable to China’s masters. Not like the USA, where the loss of
even a single American life in a terrorist act was sufficient to cause public turmoil.
But the President waited before he made his decision about a go-ahead concerning
North Korea. He had, in accordance with the advice that the New York cop had given him,
provided Ortega with a draft of a potential decision different from that given the other
presidential intimates. It was too soon to expect any action from that sphere. And being a
good Boy Scout with faith in those about him, he hoped against hope that Kwo was wrong in
claiming that Ortega was the source of the leak.
“I can’t think of him being a spy,” he told Marisa Smith. “I may not like him, and I
don’t want him to be my successor, but he’s truly American: loyal, and trustworthy.”
“I agree,” she said, and they dropped the subject, waiting for the next step to be
taken. But he did insist on her waiting around to witness whatever Tommy Kwo’s bugs
might show that night.
Ortega arrived home at about nine. He had eaten in a popular Washington
restaurant with some of his cronies from South Florida. Mary Elizabeth Li had arrived at
seven, made herself a cocktail or some other alcoholic drink. The bugs picked up the sound
of a liquid, then fizz water and ice cubes dropping into a glass. Fortunatus was amazed at
Kwo’s ability to label the source of the sounds that the bugs picked up. Then Li made
herself some dinner, watching CNN as she ate. At ten o’clock sharp, as if on appointment,
Ortega rose from the chair in which he had been reclining and reading some material.
He walked to the wall with the almost-hidden door. He opened the door, same
sounds as the night before, and then the microphones in the adjoining apartment picked his
movements. There was no conversation. The television set was shut off. There were
sounds of bodies, clothed, close together. Hugs and kisses? Then movement to the
 46
bedroom, the unmistakable sounds of clothing being taken off, followed by bedcovers
being moved, and bodies lying down. A period of comparative silence – foreplay? – followed
by the again unmistakable sounds of sex, good and satisfying sex, to judge from the grunts
and groans and Ah-yes’s and Do-it-to-me’s that came from the bed area.
Then the sound of a cigarette lighter and the satisfaction of an exhalation of breath.
Kwo and the President could almost see the smoke from the cigarette. It had to be Li’s; the
VP did not smoke, and he objected to others smoking. Mary Elizabeth was obviously an
exception. If the eavesdropping were not in the interest of the republic, it would have been
embarrassing. What followed was the rustle of paper.
“Oh, Christ,” Kwo said, “here comes the shit hitting the fan.”
“I need to talk to you about something,” the Vice-President said. “The President
wants my response to a proposed message to the North Koreans. He is thinking about
negotiating if we can save face. I kind of think the same way. I don’t want to get us
involved in another Vietnam. We have no interest in either Korea, and certainly less in the
North than in the South. I want you to read this and let me know what you think. He wants
an answer in the morning.”
Marisa sobbed at that point. She looked at Fortunatus. There were tears in the
President’s eyes as he heard the damning words. “Why, why, why?” Kwo looked at his
Boss’s anguished face, surprised that he took the evidence of treason so emotionally. As if
he were sorry to find out the truth.
Finally the President said, “I know what’s going on, and it’s not really treason. When
Brenda was alive, she was still a Loomis, bright as could be. She had the best genes that
could be imagined. A super woman. Why she ever married Ortega I could never figure out.
She had ten times his mind. And he recognized it. So whenever he had something to think
about, a decision to make, a course to set, a plan to make, he’d bring it home to Brenda and
they’d pillow talk for hours, sometimes all through the night, and in the morning Terry, as
sharp as if he had had a great night’s sleep would know exactly what he should do. Mary
Elizabeth Li is a very bright and attractive person. I don’t know when this started, but it’s
the same pattern he used with Brenda. I know he did it, because she told me. It was as
much that he had her for her brains as for his Hispanic support that made me pick him as
my vice-president. It’s not him. It’s Mary Elizabeth Li. I’m sure of it.”
“On the other hand,” Marisa said, “everyone swore openly not to say anything to
anyone – anyone at all, not family, not friend, not the press. He couldn’t have forgotten
that. Even if Brenda was a pattern, Mary Elizabeth Li is not. He’s broken his oath, a public
oath. You made sure of it being public by everyone saying it aloud. If it’s not treason, it’s
malfeasance of office. You can’t let it go. And it’s twice, once at the small meeting and now
at this one.”
“I won’t let it go,” Fortunatus said, ”but I’ll wait.
“We’ll know if we get a response from North Korea,” Tommy Kwo added.
The President sat silently for a while. His whole world had been shaken. What could
he do with a second-in-command who was not trustworthy? “We have to get those bugs out
of both apartments,” he said. “There’s nothing more to be gained. We have all the
evidence we need. On tape. We keep the tapes. Get your man back from New York.”
“Oh, Sheri’s going to love this,” Kwo said.
“Sheri?”
“Sam’s wife. My electronics man.”
“Bring them both down,” the President said. They’ll be special presidential
assistants. I have enough budget to cover them. Since Li has links with the FSIA, it’s
necessary to use outside mechanics."
“If they’ll come,” Kwo said. “They’re very fussy.”
“You’ll make them come. This is urgent and important.” The President thought for a
moment. “Anything in their backgrounds I ought to know?”
“Well, they’re nutty. They’ve belonged to the wrong kind of organizations. They’ve
been arrested for demonstrating against this and that…”
 47
“Convictions?”
“No, sir. They’re too smart for that, but they do have yellow sheets in New York.”
“Bring them down. Just tell them never to get caught. I won’t be able to defend
them.”
“Understood. I’ll get them. They might just like the idea of being out in the cold. To
them it would be exciting.”

* * *

They came. Ortega and Li were kept out of the way until all the bugs were cleared.
Then came the waiting. Would there be a leak? Would it be from Terry Ortega’s corner?
Would the President be faced with the problem of a possible traitor in the Vice-President’s
seat? Or a more probable one in his bed.
They did not have long to wait. The President got a call from the Swedish
ambassador in P’yongyang. “Mr. President, I have another letter for you, sealed, of course.”
“Wait there, Mr. Ambassador. I will call you on a secure phone.” It took only a few
minutes and the connection was made to North Korea via Stockholm. The President heard a
voice he was familiar with and said, “Mr. Ambassador, will you open the letter and read it to
me. It may be very important.”
“This is most irregular, Mr. President. I know your voice, but I could be mistaken.”
“Lars Engestrom, you have known me from the time you were in the Swedish
consulate in New York.”
“I know, Mr. President, but…”
“Ask me a question that only I… Only the President would know.”
“Where did we eat the last time I was…”
“The last time we ate together in New York was in Levy’s Kosher Deli on East Thirty-
eighth Street. I taught you how to eat a delicatessen sandwich on rye bread with mustard.”
There was a long laugh on the telephone line that stretched – with detours – from
North Korea to Washington, D. C.
“All right, Mr. President, I’ll open the letter.” There was the sound of ripping paper,
then a wrinkling sound as the paper was unfolded, and then the voice of Lars Engestrom
came through strong and clear as he read, “The peace-loving North Korean democratic
government will await any proposals the American government has to offer for the release
of one Mimaji Jae-hyo whom the American government is holding illegally and against her
will. The American proposals may be made through the Swedish Embassy.”
“That’s it, Lars?”
“Yes, Mr. President. You are going to give in to them?”
“Not… I can’t say yet what I am going to do, Lars. But thank you for your help. It
has been most valuable. Please put it all in an envelope and send it here by your diplomatic
courier.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, and I will see you in New York, the next time you come
there. I expect I will be back at the UN.”
After the connection was broken, the President turned to Tommy Kwo and said,
“Well, that’s that, isn’t it? I guess your Sherlock Holmes thinking was correct. Now what the
hell do I do?”
“I don’t think I’m the proper one to answer that question, Mr. President,” Kwo said.
“I’m just a cop. I’m no politician. I think I should maybe go back to New York where I
belong.”
The President thought for a moment. It was obvious that he was much disturbed.
Discovering that his vice-president was a source of information for a foreign enemy was
more than he could swallow easily. But Tommy Kwo was right. He was not the one to ask or
to even discuss with about the situation.
 48
“Look, sir,” Tommy said. “You had four people. Three are true blue. Why not talk
with them. They’re your people. They owe you. They’re loyal to you. That’s what the
country needs at the moment.”
“Right, Tommy. But I don’t want you going back to New York just yet, and the same
goes for your confederates. I want them here, at least until I make up my mind what to do
about what to do. Have them disappear into the woodwork for a bit… You, too. I’ll call you.
And thank you for the work. I hate the results, but I’m glad I found out.”
Dismissed, Tommy left the White House. He felt for the President. It was a terrifying
responsibility that man had. The most powerful political figure in the world, yet he could not
do whatever he was going to do easily. He was no Stalin who could order millions killed
without giving a thought to it. He was the president of a republic, the head of one of three
parts of a government, and even though he was commander-in-chief of the armed forces
and chief executive of the country, he could not sentence a single person to death – or even
to jail – without other parts of the government being involved.

* * *

“Con, I need some very quiet investigation done. With no one to know except you,
Marisa, and me.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Con Corbin sat uneasily on the edge of his seat. It was not often that the President
called him in for consultation. He was a holdover from the previous administration, a
Republican, and strait-laced. There was no question of his patriotism or loyalty, but there
was one of his judgment. He had sat through the dismantling of the CIA without a comment.
The President, at the time, thought he should have at least contributed to the discussion
concerning the offshore intelligence agency. But Corbin kept his mouth shut. He was an
administrator who worked by the book. When it came to budget discussions of the FBI, he
was on top of the matter, aggressive and hard-nosed. But when it came to the armed
forces, each of which had an intelligence element, he said nothing. Similarly talk about
State Department intelligence left him silent. The FBI was part of Justice, and that is where
Corbin’s interest ended.
From Corbin’s point of view the FBI, as the largest investigative agency of the federal
government, was responsible for conducting investigations where a federal interest was
concerned, except where another agency of the federal government was specifically
delegated that duty by statute or executive fiat. Therefore, the bureau gathered facts and
reported the results of its investigations to the attorney general of the United States. Its
interests were limited to the borders of the country, except for its liaison posts in major
foreign cities established to facilitate the exchange of information with foreign agencies on
matters relating to international crime and criminals. Corbin’s 7000 special agents, the
majority of whom had ten years or more of service with the bureau, usually had either a
legal or an accounting education. He did not consider his force a police department. And
considering the demise of the CIA, he was very careful not to step on toes that were
attached to feet that might kick. He had strong support in the Republican minority in the
Senate.
And so, the lean, balding man, his blue eyes concentrated on the President who had
called him in for a one-on-one conference… with Marisa Smith in the background, waited for
the Chief to speak. The President knew that Corbin did not like him. But he also knew that
Corbin and he shared a hard-line point of view with regard to crime. Not once during his first
term had the President issued a pardon, a stay of execution, a remission of a sentence.
What he did not know was the depth of Corbin’s allegiance to his supporters in the
legislative branch. Would Corbin’s conservative attitude toward governmental authority
apply to his relationship with the President? Was the President gambling by bringing Corbin
in to the Ortega problem? On the other hand, could he dare not bring in the prime
 49
investigative person in the country? Could he trust Corbin not to divulge what the
President was going to ask him to do to Gordon Jamison, the Attorney General?
“Con, what we say here has to stay strictly between us. Not another person, not one,
is to know anything about what I’m about to ask you to do. If you are going to feel
uncomfortable about that, I’ll understand, and that will be the end of it. Marisa here is simply
witness to what I want you to do, but not another one. Not one. Not Gordon either.”
“If it is legal, Mr. President, I will do anything you ask.”
“It’s legal, but it has to totally under wraps. Any publicity, like this idiotic problem
with North Korea, could destroy us.”
“I’m your man, sir. You know how I feel about that situation.”
“Yes, I do, Con. And I respect you for your point of view.”
“Have you decided what to do?’
“Not quite yet. And the not quite yet has to do with it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let me put it to you straight. There is something in and around the vice-president
that is involved with the North Korean problem.”
The FBI Director gave a start. “The VP?” He had been sitting on the edge of his seat,
and now he pulled himself even farther forward. “He’s involved?”
“No, no. Terry is absolutely innocent of any wrongdoing of any sort. There is nothing
about him that can be questioned in any way. He is as staunch a patriot as you or I are. It’s
just that I feel – those who have been involved in this international fiasco feel – that
someone in the VP’s environment may – we’re not sure – may be collaterally involved.”
The Director sat up much straighter. He sat back in his seat, cleared his throat, and
said firmly, “Mr. President, you’re talking around the bush. You wouldn’t have called me in –
alone with you, with only Ms. Smith here and your tape recorder going – unless you had
something in mind, something very specific, very specific.” He put his right hand out, palm
up, as if to say, Put something in it. “And, since this is international in scope, then the FSIA
and State and whoever-else are already in on it.”
The President did not reply directly. Corbin had him absolutely on target, and
Fortunatus had to determine how many people were to be involved. Ortega was guilty of
gross malfeasance of office. He had betrayed the trust given him. Not to do harm, but to
clarify his own mind. But a betrayal, nevertheless. And the administration was politically
endangered. If the Republicans should get hold of this, he would be powerless for the rest of
his term, and government would become unfocused. Political wrangling would occupy
Congress for the next two years, and the election would undoubtedly go to the party of the
right. More important, the publicity would endanger the country. There would be no
possibility of rational decision. Everything would be partisan and emotional. And if the
material about Ortega came out, the President’s handling of the issue could even be
considered cause for impeachment, not only of Ortega, but also of the President himself.
The President stood up and reached across the desk to take the Director’s
outstretched hand. Signaling the Director with his other hand, he motioned him to stand up
and then led him to the far window.
“I think we’re out of reach of the microphones here.” He spoke very softly. “You
want it straight. Here it is. The Vice-President has unwittingly passed top secret information
to the enemy – to the North Koreans.”
Corbin let out a long whistle.
The President smiled a bit. “That will be caught by the microphones… Ortega himself
doesn’t know he’s done it, and we’re not sure how and to whom – although we have
suspicions. And that’s where you come in, Con. As far as you can, without arousing any
suspicion, I want to know everything you can get for me on Terry Ortega, past, present, and
future. Yes, I have others working on it, and a good deal of what you may get will be
redundant, but we’re hoping to pick up some vital missing facts. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able
to contain this until my term – and Ortega’s – is over, and the country will be spared a major
scandal.”
 50
Conrad Corbin frowned. His spare, narrow boned face, blue eyes or not, seemed to
darken, almost as if the President’s words had taken the blood from his head, leaving it a
pasty gray with dark shadows. He was not a colorful man, but deep. Hard to figure out his
motivation. He’d given up a promising banking career for the law, had been a formidable
corporate attorney and after that state’s attorney for Idaho.
There he had been remarkably successful in prosecuting militant gun-toting groups
who claimed they were independent of the American government. His success after
numerous botch-handlings of militias and other militants made him a national reputation,
especially with moderate Republicans. Right-wing Republicans were torn between their
loyalty to the National Rifle Association and their creed of law and order. When the last
Republican president sought a candidate as Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
with whom the Democrats would find little fault, the nomination of Con Corbin was handed
him on a platter. He was strict interpretation of justice personified, and so had he conducted
his department. But now the President was asking him to perform a delicate investigation –
which did not disturb him at all, but also to hush up the results if they turned out negatively.
And he knew they could well turn out negatively. The President had certainly not told him
everything he knew.
The answer came to him in a flash. There was no statute of limitations on treason. If
Ortega was a traitor, he could just as soon get him after his term of office as before. And if
Fortunatus was involved in a conspiracy to prevent justice from being achieved for the
moment, so be it. And if he himself was to be involved in a conspiracy, so long as it was
good for the country, he would make the sacrifice.
“All right, Mr. President. I’ll do what you wish, and mum’s the word. But there’s one
thing. If this thing works out OK, and everything is quiet… Then Ortega can run for the
presidency. If he’s involved in whatever…”
“Never,” the President said. “He will never run for the presidency. Either way. I
promise you that.”
To Fortunatus, Corbin’s Mum’s the word was a weak phrase to describe the secrecy
that would be necessary, but in Conrad Corbin’s vocabulary, it was powerful. Mum meant
compete and utter silence.

* * *

Lou Goldberg and Maxim Crankshore were individually given similar briefings, and
each was to find out more about the doings or undoings of Terry Ortega, Vice-President of
the United States of America. And Smith was to coordinate all the efforts being made.
Then the President decided that the bugs had better be put back.
Tommy Kwo told him that the situation had already been taken care of. The
President was momentarily angry, but Kwo told him he had a made a policeman’s decision.
Taking them out had been essentially a political step and a personal one. The President
didn’t want to get caught, but since the bugs were partly of Chinese manufacture with some
parts from the erstwhile East Germany and others from an unidentifiable Asian source, not
China, there would be no way in which the President would be in the middle of a nasty set of
accusations.
“Then,” said Tommy, “now that we know where most of the information is given to
Li, I had bugs placed only in strategic places, and they have been hidden in walls, floors, and
ceilings. The way the Soviets used to do it. The bugs are activated only by the sound prints
of Ortega and Li.”
The President himself went to the files of the Democratic Party. He also had the IRS
files of his second-in-command checked. He found nothing in either source that would even
put the slightest smudge on the Vice-President’s white summer suit.
He then called in a newspaperwoman, Maureen Douglass of the Washington Post, to
do a bit of snooping on her own. She had the reputation of being the sharpest investigative
 51
reporter in DC. He told her only that he had come across a rumor concerning the VP, and
he wanted to squelch it. Assuming the rumor was foundationless.
“If you find a Deep Throat of any kind. No, of any serious kind. No, I was right the
first time. Of any kind, bring it to me. I can’t tell you what, Maureen, but there might be a
big story. It may well have to do with other factors. And I can’t even tell you if you’d be
able to publish it. And you can’t tell your editors. Absolutely not. Total secrecy. But I can
promise you first crack at the story if it ever can be released.”
 52
FIVE: ORTEGA
One thing the President’s various investigators did find out about Terry Ortega was
that he left trails wherever he went. Either he was so sure of himself or he was so clean that
he didn’t give a thought to cover up. Whatever Vice-President Ortega did was either in the
open or so close to the surface that you had to be an investigative idiot not to see it. He hid
nothing.
He was the first Hispanic — Miami born Cuban, with a modicum of black in his blood,
left to him by his maternal grandfather – that was ever first in line for the Presidency.
Fortunatus himself was a New York Italian who got into the Presidency the first time
because of a deadlocked convention that refused the usual Southern candidates who were
in line for the nomination. The Democratic Party feared that no Southern candidate could
break into the Republican stranglehold on the fundamentalist Bible belt South. And so he
was a compromise.
As a running mate for Fortunatus’s second term the Democrats accepted a native
Floridian of Cuban heritage, not a red neck, rather a sophisticated Miami industrialist, a
manufacturer of sportswear who was active in local and state politics, and a great fund
raiser. Ortega had served as a member of Congress from Miami-Dade County for two terms
and had been elected senator at the same time that Alex Fortunatus had been elected to his
first term as president.
Alex’s first VP, Marcia Bloom, was a California born and bred third generation
American-Jewish woman, who turned down a half-offered bid for the second term when a
late life pregnancy interfered. The fact that party bigwigs felt that they needed a
nomination that would appeal to Hispanics may also have been a factor in her decision – or
theirs. But she was actually pregnant. Unfortunately, the pregnancy ended up in a stillborn
child.
Alex felt that a double minority choice, as in his first term, would work again, and it
did, but by the skin of a sliver of a fraction of a percentage point. That fraction of a point
probably came from Marcia Bloom’s indefatigable campaigning – swollen pregnant belly
notwithstanding – for the Fortunatus-Ortega ticket. However the election empowered
Democratic control of both houses of Congress, although by paper-thin majorities. Terry
Ortega became vice-president, but he was not the executive powerhouse that his
predecessor had been.
There was no question that Ortega’s forays into politics had cost him a great deal of
money. Without his supervision, and with its stock held by a blind trust, his business
suffered, and the trust was ultimately forced to put it on the market. It was sold, but the
price it brought the VP had little relationship to the cash flow he had been accustomed to.
And he began to hurt – even before he took his seat as the President of the Senate.
The financial situation never became critical, but it came more and more to the fore
when he decided to make his daughter Lorna the kind of wedding that would please her
dying mother. Lorna, from whom Ortega had been estranged for years, didn’t particularly
want it, nor did her fiancé, Professor Benjamin Johnson, but her mother did, and so did the
Johnson parents. So, Ortega went way out on a limb to make the social wedding of the DC
year, but it put him into individual personal debt, at least temporarily.
Brenda Loomis Ortega died, and he was left very considerably richer by virtue of his
inheritance of his wife’s share of the Loomis family money, but he was alone and very lonely
in a big house. He and Brenda had never liked the Vice-Presidential Mansion on Observatory
Circle. A lonely widower, he sold the gracious home the Ortegas had lived in and rented a
small apartment in Georgetown.
Other than the Secret Service, no one cared where the Vice-President bedded down.
But the question of guarding the next in line to the presidency was significant to the security
people. They raised Cain, but it did no good. Ortega said he simply could not live in the VP
Mansion or in the big house he had owned. He had no objections to security people
 53
watching the door to the apartment building, the door to his apartment, the basement
door. But he would only sleep where he was comfortable.
It was at this point that Ortega apparently met Mary Elizabeth Li, or, from the
material that surfaced, that Li discovered the Vice-President. Never a stickler for public
virtue in others, Terry Ortega was straight arrow. He was not a prude; Fortunatus had more
than once heard him tell off-color jokes. But a strange characteristic to find in a twenty-first
century man, Ortega was a one-woman male. He had been so close to his wife that it never
occurred to him to stray. She had been the lodestar of his life, directing the way he
navigated through the political waters, and the way Brenda wanted her husband to sail, so
had he steered his political ship.
But she was gone, and he was lonesome. Not unusual to discover in an uxorious
man, he was a ship adrift, so when this very attractive, slightly oriental woman met him
casually at a black-tie Washington affair for corporate CEOs, he was willing to speak to her –
at some length. His married life with Brenda Loomis had been one long conversation. He
had shared his whole work life with her; she in turn gave her husband the product of her
very intelligent mind.
Sympathetic Mary Elizabeth Li turned out to be an expert conversationalist. She
made no overt attempt to appear sexually attractive. Her seductive body made any such
effort on her part unnecessary. Her conversation always seemed to blend in with Ortega’s
current thoughts – whether they were about his marital loss or his political situation.
Mary Elizabeth was a person whom it would be hard to forget. She had dark red hair
and black eyes that somehow had an emerald tint to them. The hair was bold in color –
most probably dyed -- but conservative in cut. Her features were slightly oriental. Her high
cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips opening on regular and glossy teeth made her face
memorable. Small in stature, her presence was such that she would stand out in any room,
in any company.
All that Ortega found out about her business life was that she worked at that time for
Millar Communications, a service for commercial and financial corporations and that she also
worked as a temp at other places that had business in the Washington area. Later she had
a part time position at The Armament Associates of America. Both companies were parts of
a conglomerate controlled by Horace V. Jellinson, a major American financial and industrial
figure.
Mary Elizabeth could talk in a way that pleased Ortega greatly. He never realized
that what she did was to pick up on a word or phrase he had used and make that the topic
of her chat. Totally unused to the way of women – he was the reverse of the cliché of Latin
men as perpetual and persistent lovers – he slowly discovered that he liked being in her
company. From that he progressed to wanting to be in her company, and then gradually to
needing to be in her company. It was an easy step to falling into what seemed to be a
casual affair, not a serious involvement, only because of his loneliness. Subtly and
imperceptibly, she came to fill the emptiness of the hole left by the demise of Brenda
Loomis Ortega.

* * *

Mary Elizabeth Li was the widow of Gordon Li, a Chinese American CIA and later FSIA
agent who died in Hong Kong during a clandestine operation two years previously. His
widow had a pension from the FSIA. In addition to her private sector jobs, she also did
occasional specialized work for the FSIA.
“They give me work,” she said to Ortega, “just to keep an eye on me. I’ve been in
and around the FSIA, and the CIA before that, almost for ever.”
She said it with such a bewitching smile that Ortega, had he been the Director, would
have hired her for full and overtime. He also liked the idea that she was frank with him, and
on more than one occasion, she had said to him, “I don’t think you ought to tell me that.
After all, I work for companies that deal with the government.” This openness on her part
 54
made Ortega feel that she was absolutely trustworthy. And so he gradually lost any sense
that his conversation with her should be limited in any way. Almost as if she were a new
Brenda.
Mary Elizabeth Li was American born, but she had one Chinese grandfather. Her
father and mother, Frank and Elizabeth Curry, were born in the USA. Mrs. Curry’s father was
a Chinese who married an American missionary in Shanghai. Frank Curry was a senior
executive for some vaguely identified oil company in the Far East. Ortega never thought to
inquire further. Both Gordon Li’s parents were American born, but of pure Chinese blood.
The Veep never checked Gordon Li’s standing with the FSIA, nor did he betray any curiosity
about Mary Elizabeth Li’s involvement with Intelligence or with the companies for whom she
worked, or why it seemed she only worked part-time.
Instead Ortega’s feelings for Mary Elizabeth matured, and he began to fall in love
with her. A hardened businessman and an experienced politician, he allowed himself to be
molded by a slip of a potter as she turned him on her wheel. As Maureen Douglass reported
it, it was Li who convinced Ortega to buy the condo apartment. She said that the small
rental in which he lived after Brenda’s death was not befitting a man of his station. However
he felt he could never live in the vice-president’s mansion on Observatory Circle, with the
exception, of course, when he was the host of a social or political occasion that demanded it.
So eventually, Douglass reported, he bought a condo, actually a condo and a half, the half
coming from the holdings of a corporation – a corporation that turned out to be a subsidiary
of Millar Communications. And the reason for the extra purchase, she discovered, was that
he wanted to be able to have his daughter and her new husband visit him when they came
down from Cambridge. What Douglass could not understand about that idea was that the
VP and his daughter were not even on proper speaking terms. They had not seen each
other since the daughter’s wedding.
The Secret Service as always did their duty, and they protected the VP as well as
they could, complaining that the cost in man-hours was greater than it would be if he were
in residence at Observatory Circle.
Then, surprise, surprise: Douglass eventually discovered that after not even three
months, Ortega’s friend Mary Elizabeth Li bought that smaller condo next door. Hers was a
two bedroom, two bath; the remainder of the larger apartment from which one bedroom and
bath had been cut and pasted on to Terry Ortega’s apartment.
Mary Elizabeth Li told Maureen that she got the money for the down payment on the
condo by begging for and receiving an advance on her FSIA remittance.
In the reconstruction of the condos, Ortega arranged for a potential cut through of a
door. But he was smart enough not to have the door made – it was an If ever I want to buy
the other half of the condo thing. He arranged that sufficient lumber, two doors, wall paper,
and so on was left in the wall area between the two apartments in case he wanted to make
a double door from his living room to the library that the bedroom in the adjoining
department would become. This never eventuated.
What he did was to have a handyman he knew from Miami cut out a single opening,
put in the two doors in that opening, so that the two apartments were linked by back to back
doors as adjoining hotel rooms often are. And this was done to avoid suspicion, should
anyone ever discover the arrangement. The handyman was so good at his job that the
doors with their magnetic locks and beautifully installed wallpaper were quite invisible to the
casual eye.
All this Maureen found out as she became friendly with Mary Elizabeth.
The President was surprised when he read Maureen Douglass’ report to find how
close to the truth she had been able to come. He himself knew that Ortega couldn’t have
done the carpentry because the VP often said he couldn’t put a nail in a board, let alone
hang a picture on the wall, a fact Brenda had confirmed more than once to the President
himself.
But now Ortega was no longer lonely. Actually he found himself more and more
dependent on his slightly oriental friend for love, sex, and stability. He began to talk more
 55
and more with her as if she were actually his wife, the wife he had always discussed every
phase of business and politics with.
Maureen Douglass had gone beyond the efforts of the politicos and the investigators.
She arranged a short-term lease of an apartment in the same building where Ortega and Li
had their apartments. Douglass knew a professor at the Kogod School of Business
Administration at American University who was about to start a sabbatical leave.
Fortunately for Maureen’s expedition into spying, his apartment was directly overhead Mary
Elizabeth Li’s, and he was more than willing to lease it to Maureen for the period of his
sabbatical.
She moved in very noisily, banging around, and dropping boxes on the floor late at
night, making certain that her neighbors on the floor below heard her arrival. The following
morning, when she was sure that Li was alone, Maureen went downstairs and rang the
doorbell. A few moments later Li answered.
“I came up to apologize for all the noise last night. I’m sure I disturbed your rest.
Why don’t you come up to my place and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. I don’t have much
else.”
“Oh, come in here,” Mary Elizabeth replied. “I’ve got everything.”
Since she was angling for just such an invitation, Maureen willingly went in. The Li
apartment was fixed up in best Rooms-To-Go or Levitz-Furniture style. It looked as if it had
been chosen, bought, and delivered in one day. It gave Maureen the idea that Ms. Li was
only intending a temporary stay. And, not only was she a poor decorator, she was a worse
cook. Her coffee was undrinkable. Maureen had one sip and left the cup almost full.
“Don’t like my coffee, do you?”
“Well,” temporized Douglass.
“I tell you what,” Li said. “If it’s not too early for you, a bourbon and water or a good
merlot might be better than my lousy coffee.”
It was much too early for alcohol, but Douglass accepted a glass of wine. It turned
out to be a smart move. For someone who walked on the dark side of the street, Li had one
bad habit: she became talkative after a couple of drinks. Well, after three or four. Douglass,
who liked a drink, but who preferred to start with or after dinner, kept allowing Li to fill her
glass, and of course Li had to follow suit. The two women quickly became drinking buddies
and bosom friends.
Maureen made Mary Elizabeth howl when she told how she had bamboozled a well-
known stock broker who thought he was about to bed her into giving her some inside
information, after which he found himself out on the street with pants on, but having left
behind his under-shorts and socks. The underwear was his loss, but the stock movement
was Maureen’s gain, a good number of thousands of dollars.
Mary Elizabeth countered with a tale of a boy friend that was aging a bit and thought
he was going over the hill. He couldn’t get it to where he wanted, she said, and so she
helped him to have an erection after he discovered he was losing his virility. She decried
the efficacy of Viagra suggested acupuncture, which worked moderately in such cases.
Then she suggested a more effective short cut. Three acupuncture-needles which she knew
how and where to insert in addition to a bit of hypnotism. He agreed to it. It worked very
well, but the sex occurred while he was under hypnosis. When he didn’t believe it had
occurred, she showed him semen on her belly. He wanted sex when he was conscious.
She suggested post-hypnotic suggestion. He was so anxious to have the excitement
of a complete erotic experience, he agreed, and she hypnotized him. She not only gave him
the sex he wanted, but also, while still under hypnosis, she’d gossip with him about his
affairs — this he didn’t remember when he came out. She was able to produce hypnotic
effect by the use of a key word or action – like a kiss on his ear or a phrase or a touch on his
groin. She had done the same thing with another friend – this time a girl – who was having
difficulty coming to orgasm. And it worked.
“How could you be sure it worked?” Maureen asked.
 56
“Well,” laughed Mary Elizabeth, “we became lovers. I told her we’d have to test it
first before she went back to her husband.”
“Was she a lesbian?” Maureen asked.
“She wasn’t then, but she is now. I guess you could call her AC-DC. When I prime
her up, she can’t be stopped. Hot, randy, raunchy. She can go for an hour without let up.
Want to try it?”
Was this all hogwash, Maureen wondered, and was the executive this woman was
talking about the vice-president of the United States? It certainly didn’t sound like the Terry
Ortega she had interviewed and spoken to numbers of times. Of course it was possible that
he was losing his virility, or that it took more stimulus to make him perform. Douglass was
aware of hypnosis therapy. As a matter of fact, somewhere in the back of her mind she
remembered something about the VP being a heavy cigar smoker and trying to give up
smoking when he became a political bigwig. Something about being allergic to nicotine pill
treatment and trying hypnosis. Ortega did not smoke now. Could have been. And if he’d
tried hypnosis before, would he be susceptible to it now? Could be? And who would the
woman Li referred to be? She noted that Mary Elizabeth did not speak of gossiping about
the man’s business, but about his affairs. Public affairs?
She took the information to the President. He thanked her most kindly, but he
couldn’t say if what she had was pertinent to what he wanted. And would she keep up with
her little investigation. Douglass knew she was being dismissed, but she also felt she had
picked up something that would ultimately be useful.

* * *

The North Korean problem still hung fire. The President, preferring not to have the
international kettle get so hot that it boiled over, temporized and allowed another letter to go
out to the Asians, not quite indicating that the United States was willing to discuss the
situation, but not quite rejecting the idea of – at some time – releasing the person being held in
return for something, not specified – whenever. A State Department type of letter.
Then another issue arose – more spy stuff. Ordinarily the President would not be
directly involved in Intelligence issues, but the North Korean situation was so fraught with
possible danger in every area that might involve espionage or leaks that he insisted on being
made aware of all matters that might have even collateral links with Mimaji Jae-hyo. For these
matters he set aside a small private office in the presidential residence area of The Marble Box
that was protected by Intelligence against eavesdropping.
The day after Douglass had given her report, the deputy director of the FSIA, Ron
Stoller, called a meeting. Fortunatus, Ortega, Crankshore, and Goldberg were joined by
General Brian Rose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“Ugly room,” said the President. It was. The furniture was undistinguished. It was new
and cheap, as if it had been put together at a moment’s notice – it had been.
“Dear Lord, how I miss the White House,” the President said. “This God damn Marble
Box is safe enough, but so fucking ugly." There was the sound of hemming and hawing.
Obviously the others wanted the meeting started and over with. “All right, Ron, get going.”
Stoller said, “We’ve finally got a lead on Maillol.”
Maillol was the spy who wouldn’t get caught. It was a name that cropped up
whenever a particularly significant set of information was discovered to be missing. It
always had to do with munitions, armament, or secret patent data. Neither the FSIA nor the
FBI had been able to pin anyone down who might know who or what Maillol was: singular or
plural, male or female, American or alien. Apparently, during questioning, on some other
subject with regard to Maillol, Mimaji Jae-hyo had used the word she.
Mimaji Jae-hyo claimed to know nothing about her, and her use of she was simply
that she thought of people as feminine the way men thought of people as male. This, her
interrogators simply took as cover-up. They pursued the issue with her, and they eventually
got her to admit that she had some information – she had never seen or had to do with
 57
Maillol, but this she knew: there was a birthmark, a blemish, a scar, something on her
body linked with that name. She had no knowledge of the French sculptor, or what the
identifying mark was.
“Was it like the sculptures of Maillol?” Stoller had asked.
“I suppose so; it could have been. I never saw those sculptures. All I know is the
name and the identifying mark,” the North Korean replied. “But that’s all I know. Is she
American, this Maillol?”
When asked to write the name, she put down My Ole. Intense interrogation gave up
no further information.
“OK,” said the President lazily when Stoller was finished. He appeared to have been
only half–listening. “Let me know of any further development.” As the others started to
leave, the President said, “I never liked this room.” They all turned around to look about.
“Looks like furniture that couldn’t find any other home.”
The others wondered why the President hadn’t been paying attention to the meeting.
When all were gone except Lou Goldberg, Fortunatus turned the Chief of Staff and said,
“Lou, you know Ortega nearly as long as I do. Did you see what I saw?”
“You mean how the VP got white all of a sudden. Yes, I saw it. Should I find out?”
“No,” the President said. “I’ll call him.”

* * *

Later in the evening, when he knew that Ortega would have arrived home, he called
and spoke to the Floridian. “Terry, are you ill?” He put just the right amount of solicitude in
his voice.
“Me. No. Why do you ask?”
“At the meeting today, you suddenly went white. Only for a moment, but I thought
maybe…”
“No, Alex, it must have been my diabetes. I’m finding it hard to control lately.
Especially later in the day. I took some orange juice as soon as I got back to my office. I’m
OK, Alex. Thanks for being concerned.”
“I should hope so. Don’t ever forget you’re next in line. Plus the fact I don’t want the
Democrats feeling we’ve got a sick sister in line for the next election. Terry, I want you to
see your doctor right away, and I want him to call me up about your condition.”
There was just the slightest, the most insignificant pause. “ Alex, I’m perfectly OK.”
When the President spoke to his Chief of Staff about the response Ortega had made,
Goldberg, said, “He’s got no big case of diabetes. He uses my cousin Abram, and Abram
says his diabetes is barely clinical. He’ll live a hundred years.” Goldberg paused for a
moment. Then looking the President straight in the eye, he said, “That sudden whiteness
was in reaction to the mention of Maillol.”
The President said, “I feel the same way. That was a serious catch in his behavior. I
think we’d better have a look in Terry’s closets. How long is his wife gone? Two years, I
think. Check him, Lou. But do a good one. Money, investments, overseas accounts,
women. Women particularly. Use the FBI. Stay away from the FSIA. I want to know what’s
cooking with my friend Terry. The liberals – the progressives – want him as the next
nominee, but I won’t go along unless I’m sure he’s not got any skeletons.”
Now there was another one added to the in-group with regard to suspicions about the
vice-president. Each knew some of the information, but no one but the President had it all in
one hand. Lou Goldberg pondered what action he might take.

* * *

After the meeting in the ugly room, the Vice-President went to his apartment. He
called his favorite Chinese restaurant and had them deliver a take-out dinner for him. By
the time the Secret Service men had checked the driver and looked into the containers of
 58
food, the meal was cold. Each time something like this occurred, Ortega wondered if he
should go to the vice-presidential mansion. But the loneliness kept him away from the place
altogether. And then the development of his affair with Mary Elizabeth changed his attitude
toward domicile. He had so quickly become accustomed to her being with him at night,
talking with him about his day, discussing points of view that he might take, recommending
what his behavior should be whether in the Senate or in the President’s presence – all these
made her bedroom his home, his base of operations, his port in the storm of political life.
This would not be possible in a home of his own. In the apartment building he had more
privacy than he ever would in a house protected by the Secret Service. Thank God for that
private door. Was that ever a great idea.
And so he put the cold Chinese food in the microwave, having first taken off the
metal handles on the containers. While waiting for the food to warm, he took a pull at a
bottle of tequila, dispensing with the use of a glass. There being no one present to watch,
he did not even take the chopsticks from their red paper wrapper and ate with fork and
spoon. He always made a point when in a Chinese restaurant to eat with chopsticks. But,
like most westerners, he preferred fork, knife, and spoon.
He heated some water in the coffee maker and put in the tea bags that had come
with his meal. He licked off the spoon he had used for the egg drop soup and for digging
around in the containers after his fork had done its work and stirred the two servings of
sugar he put into the tea.
When Mary Elizabeth came home late that night, she knocked lightly on the VP’s
door. He did not answer, but he had left the door between their apartments slightly ajar.
Mary Elizabeth opened the door and walked into the adjoining apartment. The lights were
all off, save one in the hallway to the bedroom area. She walked through the darkened
living room, carefully lest she bump into a piece of furniture or knock over one of Brenda’s
highly treasured knick-knacks. They always frightened her. She hated them, but she knew
that the VP put great store in his wife’s decorative selections, and she was fearful that if she
made a wrong move with anything that had to do with Brenda Ortega, she might jeopardize
her own standing with the Vice-President. She opened the door to the master bedroom.
Ortega was in bed, not sleeping but sitting up with a drink in hand, a corked bottle on the
night table.
As she started to come closer to him, Terry raised his hand to stop her. She paused
in her steps and looked at him, wonder in her face. He gave the wave of hand that signaled
a private behavior they both enjoyed. He wanted her to undress and stand before him
naked. He often enjoyed seeing her free of clothing; it gave him a sense of erotic pleasure
to have her walk about the room unclothed while he still had covering on him. When she was
naked, he circled the air with his forefinger, indicating that she was to turn around. She
performed for him, and then he motioned her forward. Not a word had been spoken. He
motioned her to lie down in the bed. As she did so, he raised his glass to his mouth,
swallowed the liquor, arose from the bed, and moved to her so that he was poised over her
body. He looked at her body carefully; then he spread her legs so that he could see the
inside of her thighs. On the left leg there was what appeared to be a birthmark. It needed
no expert to see that the mark could be the outline of a Maillol torso.
The VP’s face turned hard red. He took in a large mouthful of air and exhaled with a
rasp. He raised his right arm and brought it hard across Mary Elizabeth’s face. But he had
his hand open. The shock of the blow – the open hand had turned what would have been a
smashing punch into a hard slap – caused the woman to gasp and move away from him.
She opened her mouth in amazement. The mark of his open hand was red on her cheek. A
sound came from her mouth that was almost a growl. She flexed her knees, lifted herself
up, and catapulted herself against him, her lips drawn back, teeth showing, her eyes livid
with anger. But he caught her and pulled her arms back, throwing her back on the bed.
“I was at a secret meeting today,” he said, his voice hoarse and tension laden. “They
spoke of a spy who was known to have the code name of Maillol.” He put his hand on the
birthmark and squeezed it – hard.
 59
Mary Elizabeth first gasped with the pain of the squeeze, and then her anger fled,
and in a coarse exhalation of breath she burst into laughter. “I caught them! I caught
them! Those bastards. I caught them!”
The VP’s eyes opened in wonderment. This was a reaction he could not have
expected. “What on earth are you talking about? Are you the spy? Do I call the FBI?” The
Vice-President’s voice was hard and angry. But there was an element of perplexity and
bewilderment in it.
“Oh, for crissake, Terry darling. It was a joke. Don’t be mad with me.”
“What kind of joke? There was this meeting with all the heat in DC there. What kind
of joke?”
“I was annoyed – mad as hell – at the FSIA. Actually more at the CIA. This was ages
ago. They’d bounced me and left me with only with a part time job, forcing me to take that
damn part time secretarial and reception job at Armament Associates, which I got because
of my experience with armament at the CIA. I knew that others, less qualified than me – but
male – had been kept on, but I couldn’t afford to complain. I had the remittance every
month, but it was not a guaranteed pension from Gordon’s death, and I didn’t want to
jeopardize that. With CIA payments not governed by law, there was no way I could appeal if
they stopped them. So I remained still about it, but I still felt I’d been shafted.”
“What has all this shit to do with that fucking birthmark? And with the spy? If it’s not
you.”
The VP could sense he was being manipulated, and he was not at all happy. If Mary
Elizabeth was involved in whatever she was involved in, his name might suddenly become
shit. And his dream of the Oval Office might go up in blue smoke.
“You see,” she continued, “I’d heard about the Maillol case, and I thought it might be
a Korean name, Mai Il. I realized I had the perfect opportunity to play a practical joke on
them. The Maillol thing on my thigh brought it to mind. I inserted a false document in one of
the North Korean reports about a Maillol birthmark on a female operative and mentioned it
to Mimaji Jae-hyo. Before I knew she was a spy, of course.”
“You what?”
“Oh, Terry, for crissakes, look at my thigh. What’s there is not a birthmark, it’s a
tattoo. I’ve had it since college.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ortega said. “What since college?”
“Well, you see, there was a bunch of us, a group of girls, all slightly wild, slightly
promiscuous, and all enrolled in an Art History class. We all decided to have art tattoos
done on our thighs, a place only someone screwing us would see. One girl chose a Picasso
head, another a Monet lily pad, one Cezanne’s Mont St. Victoire, my roommate a Gaugin
South Sea islander, the group leader the Rodin Thinker, and me the Maillol torso. You know,
Aristide Maillol’s torso, Action in Chains. Until we become lovers that tattoo, other than
using it for the joke, was lost in my memory. I didn’t have anyone who might want to look
for it. Until you, darling.”
“I saw it,” Ortega said. “And when I heard about it at the meeting, I turned white.
The President saw it, and asked why. I told him my diabetes. I don’t think he swallowed it. I
always thought it was a birthmark. Why didn’t you say something about it before?”
“I think I’ve always been a little ashamed, and I certainly didn’t want to own up to the
joke I played on those bastards at the FSIA. So I shut up.”
“I’ll have to tell the President,” the VP said.
“Oh, God, I’ll lose my job altogether. Terry, darling, don’t do that to me. Please. And
he’ll make you give me up. We’ll have to split up. I don’t want to lose you, dearest. It was
simply mischief. We were kids. We didn’t do anyone any harm.”
An especially fascinating sexual encounter followed, and it didn’t take long for the
Vice-President to give in to his satisfying and, at the same time, demanding companion.
After all, it had been a teenage prank, and it had nothing to do with national security. And,
most of all, Ortega did not want to lose another woman. It had been so hard accustoming
 60
himself to the loss of Brenda, and he was just getting used to Mary Elizabeth. So he said
nothing and kept up the pretence of the diabetes kicking up.
The bugs in the apartments, activated by the voices of the two, recorded on
audiophile tape everything that was said and done. What was said came through clearly;
what was done required imagination on the part of the eavesdroppers.

* * *

When Maureen asked the name of the woman with whom Li had had sex, Mary
Elizabeth didn’t bite. “I have sex with her as often as she wants it, but I’d never tell. I won’t
make life difficult for anyone. Besides, I don’t even know where she works or what she does
or to whom she’s married. I keep faith.”
“I respect you for that,” Maureen said. “I like that very much.” And then she
laughed and said, “And when we go to bed together, I’ll feel confident you won’t betray me
to my boy friend.”
“No,” Mary Elizabeth replied, laughing. “Providing you let me share your boy friend.”
The two kept up their friendship. They went out drinking together. They began
sharing their personal secrets. Maureen told Mary Elizabeth a good deal about herself,
mostly things that would show up if she were investigated. Mary Elizabeth surely still had
friends at the FSIA who would be in a position to check on Maureen. To test the situation,
Maureen, when she told Li that she worked at the Washington Post, said that her position
there was much less important than it was. “I’m a kind of gopher in the foreign desk. I run
about the reporters and editors; I dig up material in the morgue; I do research when they
need it.”
Three days later Mary Elizabeth, in passing, said, “A person I know at the Post, Mabel
Kitts in the social desk, said you reporters rarely get to see reporters in other departments.”
“That’s true,” Maureen said. “You get yourself so specialized that all you associate
with are the people in your own field. I’m telling you, but I never tell anyone else that I’m a
reporter. They always want to get some inside information from me.” Well, she thought,
she’s been checking up on me.
Maureen got a telephone call from the White House. Why didn’t she get to know
Tommy Kwo, a special attorney of the President? He had a little office in the Old Executive
Office Building basement. Maureen and Tommy hit it off immediately, and they decided to
share the job of observing Mary Li’s comings and goings.
Maureen suggested to Mary Elizabeth that maybe they could take a weekend off to
do a little hunting – not deer, but bigger game. “With your talent as hypnotist, we could
score big,” Maureen said, but Mary Elizabeth begged off. She stayed in Washington with her
older lover as often as she could. It became obvious to Maureen Douglass that the VIP and
Mary Li were almost always simultaneously in residence.
The next time she asked about a weekend trip, Mary Elizabeth said she was going up
to New York State to visit some relatives. Maureen watched for her departure and saw her
going out through her front window. Li had a small carry-on and a black-box type attaché,
something like an old-fashioned typewriter case. While Li was waiting for her taxi to the
airport, Maureen ran down to greet her, as if by accident. She asked Li if she wanted a lift to
the airport, but Li declined. Maureen noticed that the typewriter box had some Chinese
symbols on one corner, mostly pasted over, but the covering tape had come a bit loose and
showed two or three characters.
 61

SIX: THE NORTH KOREAN PLANE

“Mr. President, an invading plane identified as probably North Korean – maybe
Chinese – has been picked up on radar flying toward the East Coast. Probably launched
from a ship in the North Atlantic.”
“Are we in touch with it?”
“Within minutes, sir.”
“Has defense been set up?”
“Yes, sir. From ROMFIS. There’ll be no problem getting it before it reaches landfall.”
ROMFIS was the Romany FSIA air base from which aircraft missions of the
Intelligence forces on the Atlantic coast originated. Informally linked to the armed forces, it
provided quick response to immediate danger.
The President gave further instructions to the agent on the phone. “I want the
contact on my speakers so I can hear exactly what is going on. I’ll be in the Secure Room.”
The Secure Room, although kept private from other government agencies, had
already been integrated into the FSIA community, and as the North Korean situation had
hotted up, the President found himself more and more using the facilities of the Secure
Room. He didn’t like going from his office in the Old Executive Office Building to the Secure
Room because it involved going to one of the undamaged wings of the White House and
there boarding the subway that would eventually let him off at the Secure Room. He tried to
maintain a schedule that would put him in the subterranean room in the late afternoon, but
today’s message required immediate action on his part.
“I want Smith, Goldberg, Crankshore, and Corbin there immediately.”
“Yes, sir. I will notify them at once and provide transportation as needed.”
“Good. No one else. No one. Understood?”
“The VP, sir?”
The agent on the receiving end of the message could feel the President’s annoyance
in his voice, as the Boss said, “No one. Not a breath. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. No one else, no matter who. I understand, sir.”
Muttering under his breath at the waste of time, Fortunatus started for the Secure
Room. It’s my own fault. I should have let them argue me into starting the rebuilding of the
White House. But I didn’t want those bastards at the UN trumpeting all over the place that
the USA can’t protect its own capital. If only the investigation would show who was in back
of the whole disaster. All they have still is the remnants of that damn tee shirt with FR on it.
But they did find out that there were more letters than two on other charred parts they
found. So now we know there’s an EN and a CA somewhere after the FR. Where does that
leave us? Not Freedom America, because the CA is too far away from the FR. Not France or
French – and there’d be no reason for France to be involved. It has to be some fucking Arab
or Asian country.
There was a tense ten minutes or so. By this time the President had transferred to
the Secure Room. As soon as he arrived there, his personal phone was signaling.
“We’re in contact with the NK plane. Visual sighting and attempts at radio. We know
he is receiving our signal, but he doesn’t respond.”
“Are you aimed at him?”
“Radar locked on, sir.”
“Can you tell his direction or his probable destination?”
“Northeast coast as far as we can determine. Anywhere from just above New York to
DC.”
“Is he carrying a nuclear weapon?” The President’s voice was becoming increasingly
taut. His throat tightened up. If the answer’s positive, I’m in seconds of having to make a
decision that’ll make a change in world history.
 62
“He has a missile, a single one. Shape we can’t determine. Not a standard type.
We are video recording it and relaying it to ROMFIS. If it’s in the files, we should know pretty
well in a bit.”
By this time the President’s inner group had assembled in the Secure Room. The
President brought them up to date on the serious events that were taking place as they sat
at the long conference table. Aides brought in detailed maps of probable strike zones.
“Anything from the NK plane?” the President asked.
“Nothing, sir, but I know he’s hearing us. He responded a while ago, not in English.
Korean, I guess. Then he said, ‘Fookyu.’”
“Said what?”
“Sounded like Fookyu, but I guess he meant Fuck you. Excuse me, Mr. President, but
that’s what he said.”
“Well, I guess he means to stay on his course. At least you know he’s hearing your
signal.”
“Yes, sir. He’s flying straight as a die.”
“What’s his ETA for the coast?”
“Half an hour if he flies at his current rate. Maybe twenty minutes if he speeds up.”
“OK, I’ll keep this line open on the speakers. Watch out for any sudden change. If he
keeps flying straight, then he’s knows you’ll eventually shoot him down. He may be a
Kamikaze. In which case, he’ll do his job to get to some fucking North Korean heaven. I
want instant response to any change. Even the smallest. Are you sure he’s NK? Could he
be Chinese? Or anything else?”
“Pretty sure NK, but I can’t be positive.”
“Fuck it! You’ve got to be sure. Let me know when you are.”
“Yes, sir.”
The conferees sat in dead silence. The tension was enormous. They were all aware
of what might occur in the next minutes. Goldberg opened up the dialogue. “Broadcast a
warning?”
“Too soon,” Crankshore said. “It’ll set off a panic. And we don’t know if the bastard’s
carrying nuclear.”
“First the diplomatic,” said Fortunatus. “I want calls to every head of state in Europe
and Asia that counts: England, France, Germany, Russia, China, Australia, India, Pakistan,
and Japan. And Sweden also, to forward the message to P’yongyang. They are to be told
that what is apparently a North Korean plane is flying toward the US, that it is being warned
by an American plane in pursuit, and that if it does not turn back, it will be blown out of the
air. The Americans will take no chance that it may be armed with a nuclear weapon.”
He turned to the others and said, “Whether or not it’s in international waters. By its
flight it has indicated it is heading to our shores. It has not responded to communication
except to utter an expletive. Add all that to the calls.”
Marisa Smith raised her hand in a cautionary motion and said, “You realize that
shooting it down, if it is not hostile, is an act of war. If yes and it’s carrying what we fear, it
means a nuclear explosion. Won’t an attack plane using an air-to-air missile set off the
bomb?”
“Well, are we sure that North Korea has nuclear capability?” Conrad Corbin queried.
“I’ll let you know in five minutes,” Crankshore said. He spoke into the phone that
connected with his office. Then he waited, holding the phone in his right hand, but near
enough to his ear to hear sounds at the other end. The fingers on his left hand kept tapping
on the conference table. A steady drumming sound.
“Cut that goddamn tapping out,” the nervous President said. Then there was silence,
brutally uncomfortable silence.
Finally Crankshore put the phone close to his ear. His face became red. “Good,” he
said into the phone. Then, “Isolation. No contact with anyone. Total.” He turned to the
others. “Mimaji Jae-hyo confirms that the plane, if it’s the one she described, twin engine
ZX-3, has the capacity of carrying a Chinese nuclear-tipped missile.”
 63
Goldberg went to the President’s phone and spoke to the officer at ROMFIS. “Twin
engine ZX-3? Is that the plane?”
He listened intently, and, after being brought up to date by the officer at the other
end, he said, “It’s a variation on the ZX-3, longer range, with what looks like a Rodong-1
missile mounted in an undercarriage.”
Intelligence had determined before this that the North Koreans, with Chinese help
and using Chinese materials, had successfully made a nuclear explosive small enough to fit
into its Rodong-1 missile, but the missile only had a range of 600 miles. However a plane
like a longer range ZX-3 could carry and discharge the missile, so that a medium range
capability, even if not comparable to that of the West, was available to them. Also the
Rodong-2x missile was nearing completion. This would have a range of 1000 miles. For all
they knew, that missile was already operational.
Two more planes were sent up to intercept the North Korean aircraft. Orders to turn
back were disregarded. The three American planes boxed the hostile craft in, but it flew
straight on its course.
“Where could the damn thing have originated? That plane can’t take off from a ship.
It needs much more runway than even the largest carrier can give it.” The President turned
to Lou Goldberg.
Lou himself turned to Marisa, and the two said in unison, “Greenland.”
“Greenland?” queried Crankshore, and then he said, “Of course, the joint Chinese,
German, Norwegian oil project on the west coast of Greenland. That plane could make it
one way and far enough back to be ditched in the Atlantic and the crew picked up by ship.”
“Fucking son of a bitch.” Fortunatus ground his teeth. “I asked the Chinese
ambassador why they were going so far afield in their exploration. There’s millions of miles
of possibility in their own territory. But he said they were getting experience in oil
prospecting by tying up with the Germans.” He sat back, musing, and then said, “If that
plane came from Greenland, then it’s a Chinese plane or a North Korean bamboozling the
Greenland people that it’s Chinese. If it’s from Greenland, then there is a fucking Asian
conspiracy, and we better watch our steps or we’ll really be up shit’s creek.”
He started walking back and forth in the room. The moment of decision was nearly
upon them. The incidence of nervousness kept growing higher and higher as the minutes
past. Crankshore, not thinking, tapped his finger on the table before him.
“Goddamn it, Max, keep your fingers off the fucking table.”
“Sorry, Mr. President. I’m just…”
“I know, Max. So am I”
Then the President’s phone speaker filled the room. The voice was not loud, but it
was demanding: “We’re within a minute of deadline, Mr. President. What do we do?”
Ten seconds of dead silence.
Then the President made his mind up. His voice was clear and firm. There had to be
no question or ambiguity in his meaning. The tape recorders were going and the tapes
would be witness to the drama being enacted in the Secure Room.
“One last try at contact. Then shoot it down. There may be a nuclear missile on it.
And for all I know it’s a dirty one. I want our planes as far away as they can be, but still
accurate. I don’t want our boys killed, but I want that plane stopped. And I want film from
each plane to create a record of the encounter.”
“Yes, sir.”
The speakerphone shifted to the pilots on the American attack planes.
“Romany. A and B will launch. C will check distance and direction. Please confirm.”
“Confirm. Proceed.”
“Shit. I think the bastard is ready to launch. Fire. Fire. Fire.”
“A missile launched.”
“B missile launched.”
“Get away from the wind.”
“Confirm.”
 64
“Oh, shit, will you look at that! Back off. Back off. Watch the wind. Check the
cloud.”
“It’s a dirty one all right.”
“The cloud is heading east. They’ll love it in Europe.”
“Mission completed, ROMFIS. Returning home. No casualties. But tell the President
there’s a big cloud, must be radioactive as all hell. Currently moving almost directly east-
east-by-north.”
The President immediately ordered warnings to all ships in the area and to deep-sea
fishermen that might be trolling there.
Then he called an emergency meeting of both Houses of Congress. Before the
members could congregate, the news from Europe expressing worry about the fallout from
the explosion of the North Korean bomb filled the airwaves. Condemnation of the American
action was almost universal. Only England, Canada, and Israel, normally the US’s most
stalwart allies were restrained in their response. They were the only three who thought it
important to mention that it was a North Korean nuclear bomb that had been exploded.
News reports from the other nations, particularly those in Asia and the Third World left the
impression that it was the United States who had exploded the nuclear weapon.
James McAllister III, Senator from Louisiana and the Republican Minority Leader,
called the incident an example of an autocratic president who refused to consider that there
was a division of powers in the American government and who acted at his own whim and
wish without regard for the opinions of other members of the government who might have
views different from his own. He went on and on until even the congressmen who looked at
him favorably were bored by his diatribe.
“Why did our chief executive, who now acts like a dictator, not seek converse with
the government of Korea and avoid such a dangerous conflagration, such an increase in
world tension and fear that could lead to a war of the worlds?”
Senator McAllister was not one to seek for underlying reasons for any action when a
Democratic president was involved. He was 100% partisan, and to his deathbed he would
maintain his true-blue Republicanism.
The President, standing before the members of both houses, wondered why the Vice-
President, presiding over the joint meeting had recognized Senator McAllister as the first
speaker. Is this a deliberate act on his part? Is he trying to knife me? Doesn’t he realize
the danger we’re in? Is he so stupid not to know that pulling me down pulls him down? Or
is this bedroom advice from Mary Elizabeth Li? Or, the President thought, Is he just
recognizing that McAllister is the senior member of both houses and getting him out of the
way first may cut his position down?
Smiling broadly, the President went to the podium and said, “If the Senator from
Louisiana had read the White Paper that was distributed to each member of the Congress
and to the media, he would be aware of the exchange of messages between us and the
North Koreans through the mediation of the Government of Sweden and its embassy in
P’yongyang. And he would be aware of our attempts to keep the situation under control.”
“Well, I’ve read the President’s White Paper,” Oliver Partik, Republican from New York
and House Minority Leader, said, “and nowhere in the Paper is there an indication of why the
Koreans were so exercised that they would threaten an attack on continental United States.
What had the President done to push them into such an unequal situation where they would
threaten, as he says, a power so great as the United States of America?”
“What had we done? Oh, something quite serious, Mr. Partik. We caught a North
Korean spy, a woman. The NK wanted her back, and they threatened to attack us if we
didn’t instantly accede to their desires. We didn’t accede. And furthermore, an attack on
the United States or its interests, whether or not that attack is on the continental states, is
immaterial. A threat of attack…”
Partik interrupted. “What about the spy? Why didn’t you return her? What’s one
spy? Or is the spy one of your personal friends? Was she recommended to you by your
Intelligence Liaison? Did she sleep in the White House? Is she one of your…?”
 65
The President in turn interrupted him angrily. “Mr. Partik, I understand that you are
in the opposition party. In Great Britain it is called the loyal opposition. In the United States
as you are redefining our country, you are making your party into the vilifying opposition.
You, sir, are no gentleman. By implying that I would do anything to injure my country, you
are defaming and maligning me. And you are bringing shame on yourself by such
language.” He pointed a stern finger at the New York Republican and in the tone of a
teacher facing a recalcitrant pupil he said, “Sit down, little man. You don’t belong in this
assembly.” And he waited, silent, until the now red-faced legislator sank into his seat.
“Now let me continue.” The President spoke directly to the thoroughly embarrassed
New Yorker, this time in the tone of a teacher explaining the real world to a child, “What’s
one spy among friends? Why not give the little lady back to her handlers? What harm has
she done? Why make a war over a little thing like a spy that’s been caught? Well, I’ll tell
you, Mr. Partik. The United States of America does not let any country, certainly not a two-
bit source of terror and espionage like North Korea, determine what we shall do. This is not
a game they are playing. This is big league stuff, and North Korea is not even in the minor
leagues. And if they decide that their spy, who happens to be the mistress or former
mistress of the de facto leader, Il Jung Tu, is what they want, let them not threaten us or
make war on us. And since they have decided that that’s the way they want to play, Mr.
Partik, would you have preferred that we let that nuclear missile come into our country and
land on what may have well been your own district and destroyed property and brought
death to countless thousands? No, Mr. Partik, the United States of America is a world power,
a great nation, and to put it in understandable street language, the US doesn’t take shit
from anyone.”
The President’s last words, uttered in a calm, stern voice, were seen and heard all
around the world. His use of street language, his naming the spy involved, his direct words
demeaning North Korea were all understood by every listener and watcher in every country.
The words, The US doesn’t take shit from anyone, echoed from hill to hill, mountain to
mountain, down valleys, along rivers, across oceans.
They were strongest in the US but they were not strong enough to quell the anger that
came across the seas in the wake of the nuclear fallout. The poison cloud spread across
Europe, and fortunately attenuated by its long trip across the Atlantic, it was no longer a killer
cloud, but one that still brought fear to the hundreds of millions in Europe.

* * *

Sandy Lintofen, the American ambassador to the United Nations, ordinarily a soft-
spoken Southerner, known for his ability at reconciliation, took his cue from Fortunatus’
remarks to Congress in his own words to the General Assembly.
“I have heard arguments by the doves in the American Congress and in these halls.
This, I have been told, is the United Nations. And the United Nations acts as if it is only united
in opposition to the United States. I keep hearing, ‘Why not wait until things cool off? Don’t
start a war. Perhaps there’s some virtue in the North Korean argument. Don’t upset China.
There’s an apple cart out there that is trying to be balanced. Nothing in the US was damaged,
so why become so angry?
“Well, President Fortunatus is correct. The President’s argument that a nuclear bomb
has been detonated requires an immediate response. The fact that the bomb did not kill any
Americans is beside the point. The fact that American defensive efforts prevented the bomb
from reaching American territory although the airplane was inside American territorial waters is
beside the point. The only thing exactly on the point is that a North Korean attack was made
on the United States.
“All American attempts at negotiation during this period have failed. It is not we but
North Korea who has precipitated this terrible incident. And why, I ask you, should a captured
spy be returned, especially when that spy was the source of this tragedy?
 66
“There are rogue nuclear states represented in this Assemby: Iraq, North Korea,
Libya, Syria, Iran. I am speaking plainly, and I have absolute proof of every word I say.
There has been terrorist use of nuclear technology. China as an arms merchant is spreading
clandestine nuclear weaponry for the purpose of creating hidden profits to support its war
making capacity. I call your attention particularly to the sale of the HY-2 Silkworm coastal
defense missiles. I bring to your notice the continuation of Ali Hussein, as Saddam Hussein’s
successor, in the hidden building of nuclear weapons despite all diplomatic attempts to
make him desist. In the view of my country this alone shows the inability of the UN to keep
its members in control when it comes to destruction and terrorism.
“And if the UN wants to know where the Iraqi nuclear weapons plants are, they can
make an appointment with Doreen Eberly, my assistant. She will give UN officers all the
information they need. If others seek to find information for themselves, let them try the
area between Tikrit and Bayji along the Tigris River.
“Also, if any one wants to find out about Arab interest in military cooperation against
Israel and the USA, let them read the Alexandria-2 protocol, the hidden new agenda of the
Arab League. I refer you to the Secretary-General of the Arab League, Muhammad Said
Omran of Libya.”
Despite Lintofen’s speech, a motion of censure against the bringing down of the
peaceful North Korean plane was proposed. America voted almost alone on the motion of
censure, except for Israel, Canada, Great Britain, Australia, New Zealand, and Mexico. There
were a number of abstentions.
The President called Lintofen to Washington immediately after the censure. He was
escorted to the Oval Office to meet with the presidential advisors and the joint chiefs.
“We have to end nuclear war,” the President said. “I want two battle-ready forces,
one for the Pacific and the other to protect our Atlantic coast. And I want them out now.”
Within hours the naval vessels were in motion. Simultaneously, the Air Force had
planes in the air, covering every avenue of approach.
But the North Koreans refused to desist, and without further warning they sent
another plane out to attack what appeared to be the Washington, DC area. It was a replay
of the previous provocation. The invading plane was shot down, the nuclear-tipped missile
was detonated, and a dirty cloud of contaminated wind began its cross-ocean path to
Europe.
But this time the cloud was not completely dissipated over the ocean, and northern
Scotland and the Orkney Islands and the northern reaches of Scandinavia caught varying
amounts of fall out. The shrieks and cries from the affected countries – all democratic –
were heard in the UN Assembly. They were directed to North Korea, but the Islamic bloc and
the Asian group – except for India – focused on what they considered to be the nation at
fault: the United States.
A hurried meeting at the UN with North Korea in attendance led only to calls for
moderation on the part of the US. In a vote only the US, Israel, and Micronesia voted for
action against North Korea.
Through his ambassador the President told the UN to shove it, that the US would take
care of its own protection and that the UN would know where to go in the future when they
needed help. Of course, Sandy Lintofen put the President’s thoughts in more diplomatic
terms.
North Korea had succeeded in putting the United States in opposition to most of the
nations of the world. Privately, one diplomat after another led Lintofen to understand that
they were actually on the American side, but they were afraid of antagonizing the more
emotional responses and unpredictable actions of the blocs other than the western ones:
Islamic Africa and Asia, the Chinese sycophants, the Indian subcontinent, the Russian bloc.
The general reaction of the Western diplomats was that it really wasn’t worth starting a war
because of a single incident. From a pragmatic point of view they said, Why not return the
bitch and cool things off a bit.
 67
The reaction in the UN and the opposition of a solid Republic minority, which added
to a wavering Democratic majority in the Congress, gave the President and his immediate
supporters and advisors pause. Fortunatus agreed to hold back for the time being.
He agreed to low level discussions with the North Koreans under Sweden’s auspices
with regard to their spy. These discussions went on for four weeks. There was a distinct
relaxation in tension. At the UN almost everyone breathed a bit easier. But certainly in the
back of the minds, particularly of the Western diplomats, there was the suspicion that North
Korea as a loose cannon in the Asian mix might be the catalyst that could engender an
explosion with the capacity to spread westward. No one said anything specific, but the
comings and goings of representatives of China, Russia, Indonesia, Iran, Syria, Iraq, and
Libya were scrutinized from behind every locked office door.
Walking the corridors from one committee to another, a visitor could have the feeling
that there were eyes peering at his every step and ears listening to every word.
For the moment everything was quiet.
 68

SEVEN: ISABELLA’S DINNER

The First Lady was sitting with Marisa Smith in her private sitting room. It was the
one room in The Marble Box that bore resemblance to what rooms had been like in the
White House. Although in the White House itself restoration was proceeding according to a
plan that set a completion date just before the end of Fortunatus’ term. More significantly,
in Isabella’s eyes, the campaign to collect furnishings and items of the appropriate period to
redo the rooms as close as possible to the original was ahead of schedule. It was the one
thing at the moment that was bipartisan.
Isabella had insisted that the furnishings in her personal room in the Box not be the
21st Century Practical that most of the furnishings were like, but that where possible
furniture and decoration be like what she had had before. Actually some of the furniture
came from the Fortunatus home in New York City. To Isabella this was the only room in the
colorless and tasteless building that had a sense of home in it. The President, involved in
more complex matters of state, didn’t care one way or another.
Tea service was on the cocktail table between them. As she always did, Isabella sat
in a straight-backed chair; Marisa, in her nervous mode, sat forward in a small barrel chair
opposite. The First Lady looked at the younger woman. Critically. Marisa looked a bit worn
about the edges, the bloom of her youth finally faded. She was a good-looking woman, but
not nearly as Isabella remembered her from the first days of her involvement with Alexander
Fortunatus. Then she was almost beautiful. The years of public service and the strain of the
circus inside the Beltway had taken their toll.
“Do you remember when I first told you to call me Isabella?” They had gone through
a drill like this more than once.
“A week or so after the first inauguration, I think. Somewhere around that time.”
“The first time. Before we had our little talk. Three days after the inauguration. Do
you remember where?”
Marisa Smith drew a complete blank. Isabella Fortunatus was looking at her with an
odd smile on her face. Marisa couldn’t put a location on the incident.
“If you don’t remember, it’s no big thing,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”
“No, wait a minute,” Marisa said. “Something is buzzing about in my brain.” Blank,
blank, blank. Then it hit her. “Of course, in the White House. It was the first time I’d been
in the presidential residence.”
“And,” Isabella said, prodding the other woman’s recall.
“And we were having dinner.” The whole scene flooded forth from the recesses of
memory. “We three, Alex and Debby, and Lou Goldberg. The President had just appointed
me Presidential Assistant for Intelligence.”
“And what did we eat?” Isabella asked.
“Oh, I know,” Marisa said with great enthusiasm. “The best spaghetti and meatballs
I’d ever tasted. With a great bottle of Chianti. But first, roasted peppers and toasts dipped
in olive oil. You had made the dinner yourself, and I remember you saying, ‘They can cook
for the big shots, but for my family, I am the cook.’”
“You see,” Isabella said. “You remember everything. What we said that night?”
“You know what,” Marisa said.
“Enough,” the First Lady said. “We are becoming sentimental. I want you to do me a
favor.”
“Anything,” Marisa said, meaning it.
“This North Korea thing frightens me. I never enter into Alexander’s political life. I
want him to be able to do some serious thinking before he takes the next step, the one I am
afraid he will. I don’t want him to fall – not from a step, not from a cliff. He is a great man,
and I want him to talk about what to do next with the people whose sense he trusts. And I
want it to be private. I was thinking of inviting some people to a small dinner. Not him, me.
 69
For off-the-cuff discussion. Where he can dig into their brains without threatening them.
If I make the dinner and I am the hostess, it may make the talk easier to get started.”
“You mean,” Marisa said, “you don’t want him to jump into a full scale war before
he’s thought it through, and before he challenges the rest of the world.”
“You know, then, what he plans?”
“I have a pretty fair suspicion.”
“Exactly. Whom do I invite? I know it’s not the Vice-President. Who?”
“Lou Goldberg, Marcia Bloom, Kenny Bloom, Max Crankshore, Con Corbin, Frank
Steiner.” She said those off the top of her head because she’d been thinking all along of who
there might be to help keep the decision making rational. With all that the little group knew
about Maillol – they had all heard excerpts of the incriminating tapes – it was important to
keep the international temperature as low as possible – without sacrificing American
standing as a world power, the only world power, and at the same time preventing an
opposition alliance from having the opportunity to form.

* * *

Isabella Fortunatus invited them: Lou Goldberg, Marisa Smith, Marcia & Kenny Bloom,
Maxim Crankshore, Conrad Corbin, and Franklin Steiner, to her private dinner. After the
invitations, which were personally addressed by her and specifically noted as coming from
her, were sent out, she told the President what she had done.
“I think it’s important that you have an off-the-cuff conversation with the people who
have most to do with the decisions you make when it comes to foreign affairs.”
Since the invitations were out, the President couldn’t undo the situation. He was not
terribly happy with the idea, and he didn’t like the fact that Isabella had interfered with his
governmental affairs, but he gave in reasonably and graciously.
She said, “I know you don’t like when I put in my two cents, but sometimes I think
about ways you should do something, and this time I decided to act what I thought was
right. A good long talk about everything might help you.”
“OK, maybe you’re right, but there are things even you shouldn’t know.”
“So don’t tell me. Just talk about the things that could go in the newspaper.”
The dinner was set in the small family dining room in The Marble Box. The furniture
was modern and light in color, undistinguished but practical. “I’m not decorating for a
temporary stay,” Isabella had said. “I don’t like this Box to live in, and I want to get back to
the White House.”
But the President would not give a speedup push to the reconstruction. “I want this
terrorist act to sear itself into America’s memory,” he said. “I want every citizen to be aware
that we are living in a world of danger. And at the proper time I’ll have the work go faster.”
Actually, he had quietly given orders for acceleration of certain parts of the work to go on
inside the wrecked building: reinforcing and rebuilding interior walls, changing plumbing and
electrical work. Doing all kinds of repairs and reconstruction that did not show. To the world
the White House was unchanged, a memorial to the damage that terrorism could do to a
great power. When he decided to let the world know that the White House would be
reconstructed, the parts that would show would be done quickly.
The dinner began with the President setting Isabella’s words into action. “We’ll just
talk about things that could go into the newspapers or on the six o’clock news. My wife’s
idea. No secret stuff. As if the public is listening in, and we have to be honest and direct.
And be willing to stand on what we say. Who’ll start?”
Isabella took the lead. “Are they evil?”
“Who?” Kenny Bloom asked.
“Who?” Isabella said. “The North Koreans. Who have the papers been yelling about?
Who’s been threatening to bomb us? Those idiots in that starving country. I ask you, are
they evil?”
“What difference does that make?” Marisa asked.
 70
“Well,” Isabella continued, “if they’re evil, they have to be stopped, crushed into
the ground. If they’re not, then maybe what they are doing is like what a child does – to get
attention to himself – when he wants something. Do they want something they don’t have?
And need, or think they do?”
Franklin Steiner, Secretary of State, was particularly cautious. “We will find that we
have the whole world ganging up on us if we do something precipitous. We shot down those
planes carrying the nuclear bombs. I doubt they will do anything now. They know we are
aware and ready. I suggest we register strong objection to their actions in the UN and let
the world know that we will not tolerate another threat to our security.”
“That’s a panty-waist response to a war declared on this country. I can’t see how you
can merely register a strong objection. That’s what the Palestinians do when Israel does
something they don’t like.” Lou Goldberg, when he said that, probably, as those at the table
thought, reflected the President’s point of view. Lou was the closest person to the President;
he was not a yes-man, but on the other hand his views and those of his friend were so very
much alike that Goldberg’s statements, particularly to the press, were often considered to
be matching the attitude of the chief executive.
“And then there’s another element,” Goldberg said. “They probably have the
Taepodong missile with a two or three thousand mile capability, but I’ll bet they don’t have
the accuracy acute enough to hit a specific target. If they do have the needed accuracy,
they could have fired from far out in the Atlantic. But having the range doesn’t mean having
the capability of hitting a specific target. They were looking to hit us at a hurt point and
provoke us, and that’s what they have done. Even if we knocked down their missile. Any
response other than a very hard one shows us as having been intimidated by them.”
The Intelligence people were at one in feeling that the North Koreans, by their action,
had declared war on the United States, and that the actions of the US should be in accord
with that point of view. “Hit fast, hard, and decisively,” Max Crankshore said, “and don’t ask
anyone any questions.”
Marcia and Kenny were between the opposing points of view. Kenny said, “Use the
UN this way. Ask the Swedes to determine from the NK whether they truly want a war.
Check also whether China is involved. And whether the Arab world is part of a conspiracy to
demonstrate that we are a paper tiger and can be challenged with impunity. My people in
the East are pretty sure that this is more than it appears to be. This whole thing looks to us
like more than a single action. More than just an attempt to get a spy back. Spies are
expendable. We know it. The NK knows it, and your spy knows it.”
The President said nothing. The table was silent. Finally, he looked at his wife.
“Isabella, they are evil. They have no reason to attack us, and the only thing that I can think
of is that they are not alone in this. But I have no proof, not that I need proof to retaliate.
An act of war is an act of war; it must be defended against. But this is a mouse that roared
situation. North Korea is not a viable country. They are pretending power for consumption
in their own country. For an act like this, they must have been egged on by a larger power.”
“And there is only one larger power near them: China,” said Maxim Crankshore.
“Or, Japan,” added Kenny Cohen.
“Can’t be,” the President said. “It wouldn’t pay Japan to do this again. They are too
involved with us economically and commercially. We have too many similar interests in
keeping peace. And they need us. You don’t cheat on your major customer. The Japanese
are too smart for that. And they’ll never want another war. Besides, their banks are
involved with our banks too heavily since the last financial crisis in Asia to do anything but
cooperate. With us, not with some dumb North Korean cowboy. And, besides, China is
becoming more and more their competitor. In all ways.”
“Then it’s China,” Steiner said. “If you’re sure enough, challenge them in the UN. Or
have Sandy Lintofen do it. Sandy’s a China expert. That’s why you made him our
ambassador to the UN.”
“You’ve got half an idea there,” President Fortunatus said. “I’ll have Sandy speak to
the Chinese... and some of the other Asians. See if he can pierce the mask.”
 71
He turned to his Intelligence liaison. “Marisa, call him right now. He can get some
of them on the phone. Particularly China and South Korea: the one whether they were in
favor of what the NKs did; and the other if they knew anything about the whole affair. And
tell him I don’t want him talking to the French or Germans or Russians. They’ve been
kicking up such a fuss about the poison cloud, you’d think we were the ones who sent the
fucking thing out to screw up the atmosphere.”
Marisa Smith left the room to make the call, and when she returned there hadn’t
been even the slightest motion on the part of any of these leaders of the free world. They
were held in thrall – in fear? – by the thought of another war. There was an air of
uncomfortable electricity in the air. The possible consequences of whatever action they
might recommend and the President might take was too horrible to contemplate.
“Also,” the President said, “I want to speak before the UN tomorrow.”
“I’ll take care of that right now,” Frank Steiner said. “I’ll call Nu Thant-ilan right now.”
Nu Thant-ilan was the temporary Secretary General of the UN in the absence of More Vikers
who was recuperating from an appendectomy.
Five minutes later he returned and said, “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That’ll
give you time to get some notes together.”
“I won’t need notes,” the President said. “I know exactly what I’m going to say.”
Marisa interrupted the Boss and said, “You’ll need documentation whatever you say.
To make sure that when you are misinterpreted, you will be able to show the words you
used.”
“Oh, I won’t be misinterpreted, Marisa,” he said. And he had that look that she
always called his statesman stance. This time it made her shiver. Obviously he was not
about to take anyone into his confidence. He was going his own way into the history books.
“And I want the VP and the heads of both parties, Senate and House, with me. Lou, you take
care of that. Stat.”
Goldberg nodded. It was his turn to leave the room and burn some telephone lines.
Both Intelligence men went to their pockets for digital phones. It was necessary to take
extra precautions, especially in New York where all the UN diplomats, foreign organizations,
pressure groups, and crazies were in constant presence. Also, it was necessary that New
York City officials and police be notified not only that the President would be there, but that
there might be heightened tension as a result of the failed attacks and the US responses to
them.
“Well, Isabella, are you satisfied?” Alexander asked his wife.
“Yes,” she said and added, “since everything that was said here could be told to the
news media, how about letting them know what’s going to happen tomorrow? Better from
you than from a leak.”
“How about an official leak... without validation. Highest sources, no names?”
“Good.”
The late TV news had it all. And around the world that night there was speculation
concerning the coming UN appearance. Generally, throughout both Europe and Asia,
without it being specifically said, there was the feeling that the American paper tiger would
be satisfied with a half apology from North Korea, something on the order of an
unauthorized pilot who was so insulted by the US refusal to return the NK diplomat held
unlawfully by American authorities that he took off to show the evil western power that NK
would not be affronted in such a manner. No American official made any response to that
opinion which was leaked in several capitals by P’yongyang authorities.
 72

EIGHT: THE UNITED NATIONS

The UN Assembly was packed. It was as if every employee and executive,
distinguished and otherwise, who labored or passed time in the building at the East River
and 45th Street had to hear the American President speak. There was a buzz, not the sharp
clackety-clack of women before a matinee performance on Broadway, nor the deeper hum
of men waiting impatiently for a boxing match to begin. This was the buzz of ten thousand
flies, each lingering flight of sound ending in a rising pitch: a question seeking an answer.
Did they tell you what the President is going to say? Is NK right when they say he’ll do
nothing? Is the German deal with China going through? Are the French so cozy with both
Iraq and Iran that the super-Middle East pipeline will become a reality? Where is the twenty
billion coming from? Did the Americans plant that bomb in the NK plane? Was it an NK
plane or was it a repainted substitute by the FSIA? Is China involved? Is China involved?? Is
China involved???
The President came in, surrounded by a phalanx of plain-clothes men who were
obviously part of a security detail. They escorted him to the speaker stand and then stationed
themselves at each of the entries and in the corners of the large hall.
There were no preliminaries in his speech. Although Smith had advised him that there
was nothing lost in being polite and making the usual greetings to the distinguished audience,
he said, “Marisa, for once shut up. I am not going to be a diplomat. I am going to say what I
mean, and then I am getting out. Out of that pigsty of international shit. This is no game we
are playing. This is real world, and the sooner the plastic players get out of the way, the sooner
the world will recapture its true being.”
He was the Boss. No matter how he mixed up his metaphors and how he defined the
world’s true being, there was nothing she could say, and as it turned out, his way was far more
effective. The audience sat up and took notice immediately.
He stood tall. He had parked his crutches at the side of the podium. By leaning lightly
against it, he could keep his balance and use his arms and hands as he willed. So he didn’t
look like a crippled person. If it had been a Western, the script would have said he stood tall in
the saddle, but it was not a Western, and it was dead serious.
“North Korea, a government we do not recognize,” he said, his voice stern and
controlled, but one that carried throughout the hall. “North Korea, a government we do not
recognize, sent an attack airplane with a nuclear missile whose components were supplied by
the People’s Republic of China to bomb the continental United States of America. Fortunately
for the assassins who run North Korea and for the innocent people of America, the plane was
intercepted and blown up. It was this incident, as you know, that set up the cloud of dirty
nuclear fallout that drifted over Europe.
“Unfortunately, perhaps because the United States did not retaliate immediately, the
North Korean government sent another attack airplane with a nuclear missile into the territorial
waters of the United States. This plane was also intercepted and blown up. Again there was a
cloud of nuclear fallout that was blown to the northern European shores. This cloud was not
totally dissipated before it made landfall and large populations were subjected to nuclear
exposure.
“Despite the fact that these attacks were acts of war, the United States did not
immediately reply, but engaged in diplomatic talks, assisted by the Kingdom of Sweden as
intermediaries, with representatives of the North Korean government. There has been no
attempt on the part of the attackers to explain their actions, and lest anyone be disabused by
any actions the United States of America has taken in the past, these attacks will have
immediate consequences to the people and land of North Korea.
“First, the government of North Korea will within twenty-four hours sue for peace on the
basis of unconditional surrender to the United States.
“Second, if the government of North Korea does not sue for peace as I have just stated,
the governmental office area of the city of P’yongyang will be destroyed. Tomorrow.
 73
“Third, on each following day until surrender is accomplished a section of another city
will be destroyed.
“If the United States is forced to destroy certain sections of North Korean cities, we will
make known which sections they are to be so that civilians may leave and so that casualties
will be limited.
“I will return to New York tomorrow to receive the response from the government of
North Korea. In the meanwhile leaflets are currently being dropped from unarmed airplanes
over the length and breadth of North Korea and constantly repeated radio announcements are
being made with the message I have just given.”
There was total hubbub. Delegates on all sides sprang to their feet, their hands raised
as they tried to get the chair’s attention. Cries of Warmonger, Killer, Evil Satan, Criminal were
shouted in various languages from all sides of the hall. The members of Western delegations
sat dumbfounded in their seats. They had not been warned of the President’s decision. For
that matter, the American delegation had only heard what the President had told the meeting
of congressional VIPs the night before.
America would not be insulted, would not be attacked, would not stand for being
referred to as a paper tiger – he had taken that metaphor to heart, and he hated it. America,
he insisted, would not be treated as a weakling, nor would it be insulted by an upstart terrorist
state. He had not told the congressmen or the UN delegation what he intended to do,
preferring to let the shock of unanticipated American action to percolate in the minds of the
world population before the deadline of the action he intended.
The temperature in the chamber became scalding and blistering, and it suddenly
reached a boiling point. It seemed as if the whole of the audience had risen in their seats and
had poured down the aisles to the speaker, surrounding him in a cloud of shouts, imprecations,
and threats of violence that became almost palpable, like a fog swirling around a person
striving to find his way through the mist into clarity.
But then the environment changed from misty to the brilliance of spilled blood.
A shrieking black-clad figure, an open handkerchief in one hand masking his face, a
small silver-colored handgun in the other, pushed his way through the mob that surrounded
the President. And fired several shots point-blank at the President’s chest. Or, so it seemed.
For at the moment he aimed his automatic at Fortunatus, the Secret Service man who had
been crouching at the President’s side rose up and deflected the man’s arm. But one bullet hit
the President’s side. A glancing hit, but a hit. And it drew blood. The President’s jacket
showed red. He collapsed to the floor.
The President’s security detail, which had already begun to push the demonstrators
away from the speaker’s stand, now using brute force, literally threw those pressing in on the
American President to the floor and forced them away from him. Two agents opened his
jacket, ripped his shirt to expose the wound, and tore the shirt into strips for a bandage in an
attempt to stem the flow of blood.
The President was conscious. “I’m all right,” he said. “I can tell it’s only superficial. It
hurts, but not that much.”
“I’m a doctor,” a voice said over the men attending the President. “I have some first aid
material with me.” The security agents looked up. They saw a swarthy man, his arm stretched
out holding a small satchel.
“Let me give him some help until the ambulance arrives.” He could see the suspicion in
the agents’ eyes. “I’m Indian,” the doctor said. “Bombay.”
The agents backed off and let the doctor at the man who was suddenly his most
illustrious patient. The doctor applied antiseptic. He bandaged the wound superficially and
said to the President, “You will live, sir. You’ve lost some blood and probably have a cracked
rib, but you’ll be right as rain before long.”
He leaned down close to the President and whispered to him, “I’m sure my country will
protest the action you’ve threatened, but as for me, I think you are doing the only thing that
will stop those thugs from putting the world into turmoil.”
The President smiled weakly and said, “Thank you, doctor. I know what I’ve started, but
 74
I think the good people of the world will ultimately see that what I am doing is necessary and
right.”
By this time the medical people of the UN were at the President’s side. They put him
onto a stretcher and carried him out. As they reached the outer hall, paramedics from an
ambulance that had just arrived were bringing in a gurney on to which they placed the injured
man. Moments later, accompanied by Secret Service agents on motorcycles on each side, Lou
Goldberg and Marisa Smith rode with the President in the ambulance. They were followed front
and back by protective autos on the way to the New York Heliport and then to the Capital and
to Bethesda Naval Hospital.
His attacker, apparently an Arab from Libya, was immediately taken into custody. He
had several passports in his possession from different Arab countries. He was recognized by a
number of Europeans as a minor member of the Libyan delegation. But the delegation denied
that he was a member or that Libya had anything to do with him, claiming that his Libyan
passport was a forgery and that his appearance in the UN was probably the work of the United
States seeking to disrupt the equilibrium of world political relationships.
Dorene Eberly, second in command to the US Ambassador to the UN, immediately
denied the Libyan allegations. From the American security officer assigned to her she
produced a photograph of the Libyan delegation showing the criminal, who was now already
handcuffed and on his way to detention, in the last row of a picture taken some months earlier.
The Libyan response was again a denial and an accusation that the US had falsely produced a
photograph that had been retouched to show the attacker in the midst of the delegation.
Indeed, the man, the Libyans said, was an Iraqi.
Ms. Eberly laughed, but she laughed alone. No one in the General Assembly,
apparently, was on the side of the United States.
What Eberly did not know was what was happening outside on the street in front of the
UN building. There the security men, most of them in plain clothes, came into contact with
members of the New York City Police Force. A melee ensued, the police not aware that a man
was in custody, assumed a mugging of some sort. As the White House security tried to
establish with the city police what the situation was, a crowd of Iraqis, many from the Iraqi
delegation, and other Arabs from the crowd outside the UN, mixed themselves into the group.
In the ebbing and flowing of the human mass, an attempt was made to put the shooter into a
limousine to take him into custody, but he was grabbed by Iraqis. Members of the Iraqi
delegation surrounded the assailant. They rushed him into a waiting limousine of their own,
claiming diplomatic immunity.
They told the New York Police – ignoring the White House security people entirely – that
the assailant would be taken to Baghdad and tried and executed there. Then they removed
him to the Iraqi consulate. Apparently his being Libyan, Iraqi, or a subject of any of the Arab
countries was a matter of conjecture. The police sergeant in charge of the UN area, having had
more than one run-in with Arabs regarding parking tickets, non-payment of bills, and other
annoyances, let them go.
From the UN the shooter was delivered to an Arab – in this case, Saudi – owned hotel on
Madison Avenue where several of the Iraqi delegation had residence. The hotel people would
not give him up to the New York police since he had immunity as warranted by the Iraqi
delegation, despite their denial of that fact inside the UN. Further, notwithstanding the hostility
between Saudi Arabia and Iraq, the Saudis at the UN could exercise no control over the hotel
which was technically owned by an American corporation, although one which happened to
have a Saudi subject as majority stock holder.
The following morning the man was taken by the same limousine to Kennedy Airport
where a Saudi plane waited to take him first to Saudi Arabia and then to Baghdad for trial and
execution. But the man mysteriously disappeared. Waiting newspapermen at the Baghdad
airport found no sign of him when his plane landed after its flight from the US.
The Iraqis blamed the New York police who followed and surrounded the Iraqi limousine
all the way to the airport for allowing the criminal to escape. The Libyans were totally silent on
the issue. The police said that no one got out of the limousine from the hotel to the airport.
 75
There were two people in the car when it left the hotel and two came out when it arrived at
the airport. The Libyan Embassy could make no protest because the Libyan UN delegation had
said the man was not of their nation.
In the meanwhile the President had been airlifted to the Bethesda Naval Base and the
hospital there. He was operated on, and Dr. Alan Yesner, the President’s physician, advised
that he be placed in intensive care. The broken rib had touched a lung, and there was the
possibility of a small puncture.
At once Ortega took on the role of president and had the Secretary of State make the
strongest protest to the Iraqi and Libyan governments. He ordered an investigation into the
incident and asked the American people to be calm until the whole affair could be investigated.
And then he stated that he wished to defuse the situation as much as possible lest it become a
major world crisis.
When the President regained consciousness after the operations, he asked what had
been done about the attack. When told of the escape of the culprit, he almost lost his cool and
wanted to be taken to the White House where he could resume his authority. He became
almost apoplectic when told that Ortega was trying to prevent the situation from becoming a
major world crisis.
“What the fuck does he think a foreigner’s attack on the chief executive of the United
States is but a major world crisis? The man is an idiot. Or is he just disappointed that the
bastard who shot me didn’t succeed in making him president?”
“Will you shut up and get back into bed,” Dr. Yesner told him. “You’re not well yet.”
“Shit, Alan,” the President said, “I can’t let him get away with what he’s doing.”
Yesner literally had to push his patient into a chair before he could stop him from
ranting about his vice president. Adding to the doctor’s words, Conrad Corbin and Marisa
Smith asked him to hold himself back, that the situation would be resolved momentarily, and
that Ortega be allowed to make his moves. Given the knowledge they had of Ortega’s liaison
with Mary Elizabeth Li, they had become very suspicious of Ortega and thought that he might
himself be the source of the leaks concerning the Korean spy. This, together with the loss of
Fortunatus’ attacker made both of them very antsy with regard to the Vice President’s actions.
There was uproar in the country with regard to the UN and to the fact that the President
could have been attacked in the General Assembly. Ortega went on TV and tried to calm the
country by saying that the assailant would be caught almost immediately. The New York City
police had several leads as to his whereabouts and so on. But this was hogwash. He was only
trying to stop the scare headlines.
The President was furious with his behavior.
There was no reply from the Iraqi or the Libyan governments other than shrill blame
on the American police who were not able to prevent a criminal from escaping in their own
city.
Finally Maxim Crankshore told the President that the shooter had been kidnapped by
Crankshore’s own people. It was a complete cloak and dagger affair. The FSIA people
planted at the UN had become aware of the limousine the Iraqis had parked for some days
in a nearby garage. When they discovered that, they engaged an identical auto that they
placed a street or two away. Their machine had a full complement of agents in it – or near it
– twenty-four hours a day.
The FSIA had a mole in the Iraqi delegation that kept them informed of Iraqi
intentions. When the attack on the president occurred, the mole informed Crankshore of the
whereabouts of the killer. The mole had not known of the attempt before it actually
happened, and he did not think that anyone other than the chief Iraqi delegate had known.
The assassin had only been in this country for three weeks before the attack. And the mole
was not sure if the assassin was Iraqi or Libyan. He did know, however, that the killer had
been in the country a number of times. He sometimes appeared in the Iraqi delegation, at
others in the Libyan.
When the brawl occurred outside the UN, the FSIA limousine was brought out of its
garage. It followed the Arab vehicle to the Saudi hotel, and the next morning to the airport.
 76
At a red light, one car behind the other, the FSIA agents forced the driver and his
passenger out of the fleeing limo and took the assassin captive. The driver, an Iraqi, was
held on the charge of assisting in the escape of a wanted person. The assassin was spirited
to Washington. Two FSIA operatives drove the limo to the airport, made as if they were to
board the Saudi plane, and then they themselves disappeared into the airport woodwork.
The President’s wound fortunately proved superficial, and in hours he was up and on his
way to the Capital. There in the White House Dr. Yesner checked the wound and the dressings,
examined x-rays, and agreed with the physician from the Indian delegation that there was a
cracked rib. He suggested bed rest and a couple of valiums.
“Horseshit, Alan,” Fortunatus said, “I’m not taking myself out of the loop until this thing
is settled.”

* * *

That night all discussions about the incident in American halls of government became
moot.
A series of small missiles – none of them nuclear – landed on American soil. There were
five in all. The plane – or planes – that launched the attack had apparently flown in low to
evade radar. By the time they were finally detected the bombs were on their way. They were
not fired particularly accurately, but the general purpose of the attack was evident from the
places in which the explosives landed.
The only bomber which had been detected was forced down into the water about one
hundred miles east and south of New York City. The pilot, who had parachuted from his
airplane, was carrying a black attaché case, which he attempted unsuccessfully to discard
when a rescuing helicopter appeared. He was identified positively later as North Korean. The
case, bobbing in the water and out of reach of the pilot, was retrieved by a member of the
helicopter crew. Further attempts to salvage all or any part of the airplane were unsuccessful,
but marker buoys signaled the location, and the American pilots photographed the sinking craft
for identification. There was no evidence that there were more than the one jet involved. The
missiles were small and the plane could have been carrying several of them. Other personnel
on the Korean plane were presumed to have gone down with their aircraft.
The destinations of the bombs were neither important politically nor industrially. One
was headed to the South Florida Gold Coast in the Fort Lauderdale area, but it fell far short and
landed in the ocean about fifteen miles offshore, still several hundred miles from its
destination. It did not detonate and was retrieved from the water. A second was directed to
the South Shore of Long Island. It landed in a cemetery just over the Queens line in Nassau
County, destroying a number of monuments, but injuring no one. The third hit the Lower East
Side of Manhattan near Avenue A, landing on a condemned building and blowing it apart. Six
people in the street were killed. Twenty-two were injured, fourteen of them seriously. The
fourth landed in a Black area of Baltimore, making a direct hit on a three-story building next to
a gasoline station. The fire and explosion, as much from the filling station as from the missile,
killed fourteen people and injured twelve others, three of them critically.
The fifth missile did the most damage. It landed in Woodbourne, New York a block
away from Sullivan Road in the Golden Hills Bungalow Colony. The colony was a summer
escape for a number of Orthodox Jewish families from New York City. Thirty-two people were
killed: twelve men, eight women, six boys, and six girls. Seventeen others were injured. Most
important about this missile was that it was laden with anthrax spores. This was discovered to
be a strain that came from Iraq. The bomb, however, had an easily identified North Korean
warhead. The area was evacuated and disease control agents, covered head to toe and
equipped with gas masks, cleansed the area, but monitored it for weeks afterward.
Reporters noted that all of the areas targeted except the poor Black area of Baltimore
were inhabited either exclusively or substantially by Jews. Although the bomb was sent by way
of a North Korean attack aircraft, there was consideration that Arab terrorists may have been
involved, either individually or with the active participation of rogue Arab nations.
 77
Rigorous questioning of the captured assassin provided no information. He was, as
the photograph indicated, Libyan and a member of the UN delegation. But he was of very low
rank and apparently had acted totally on his own. He was jailed for months and later tried and
convicted by a military court.

* * *

The President asked Marisa Smith to cooperate with Tommy Kwo and Maureen
Douglass concerning Mary Elizabeth Li. Although he was much concerned about Terry Ortega’s
involvement with the one they all believed to be Maillol, he did not want to make his other
advisors so tentative in their relations with the Vice-President that he would become suspicious
of them. When Maureen mentioned the black attaché case, Tommy Kwo asked her to describe
it as comprehensively as she could. When she said that there was a patch that covered up
what she thought were Chinese pictographs, he gave her a picture of the case retrieved from
the ocean by the helicopter team that pulled the luckless NK pilot out of the water.
“That’s it,” she said. “What was in it?”
“Maps of the East Coast, classified documents concerning Air Force and Coast Guard
flight plans along the coast, lighthouse locations. All an incoming plane would need to avoid
radar detection. The notations on the maps were hand written in Chinese.”
Kwo looked at the two women. “I guess that puts it all in the bag.”
But the President, when he was told of the identification of the bag, disagreed. “I have
the UN to go to now. They’ll be a little more difficult to convince of this. And who is the guilty
party? North Korea? China? Any Arab country? One? Or all?”
The missile that was retrieved from the ocean near Fort Lauderdale was brought back
and identified as a Chinese design, but manufactured by North Korea.
 78

NINE: FORTUNATUS ACTS

On the following morning the President sat with the Vice President; his personal
liaison with Intelligence; General Brian Rose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs; Armbruster
Coolidge, Secretary of Defense; Arthur Toller, Secretary of the Air Force; Toller’s Chief of
Staff; and the Directors of the FSIA and the FBI in the Joint Chiefs Conference room at the
Pentagon
The President looked worn and tired. It was obvious that the experience at the UN
and the trauma of the gunshot just the day before had taken their toll. His voice was soft
and almost expressionless. He had both hands, fists closed, on the table, and he leaned on
his arms for support. He was in obvious pain.
“I apologize for my appearance,” he said, but that shot knocked the stuffing out of
me. I feel like a dishrag…”
“If you want, Mr. President,” Terry Ortega said, “I could…”
“No, you couldn’t, Terry,” Fortunatus replied. “I know you have only my best interest
in mind, but what I have to do, I have to do. And no one else can substitute for me. But
thank you, anyway.”
The VP looked a bit put out. Marisa Smith glanced at Lou Goldberg. That gentleman
faintly smiled at her, nodding gently. She returned the nod.
“What’s the condition of PinPoint?” the President asked Armbruster Coolidge.
“Tested and employable,” the Secretary of Defense replied.
“How long to get into condition of operation?”
“Twenty minutes to install in a plane.”
“At my order?”
“Just say the word, and it’s done,” Coolidge said.
“You have the city map?” the President asked.
“If you mean P’yongyang, yes we do.”
“Install it.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“Yes, sir.” The Secretary took nearest phone on the table, dialed a number, spoke a
code word into the phone, and then he said, “PinPoint into active service.” He listened a
moment and then said, “Right, the plane we spoke of. Hold it ready to fly at a moment’s
notice.” He put the phone down and turned to Fortunatus. “Done, sir.”
“To bring you all up to date,” the President said, “PinPoint, which I will use today if I
have to – if they force me to – gives us total accuracy for a bomb that will destroy a half mile
circle. Accurate to ten yards plus or minus. What the Norden Bomb Sight was to the Air
Force in World War II, PinPoint is more so to us today. It's what a microscope is to a
magnifying glass.”
“You’re going to drop a nuclear bomb?” Ortega said, unbelief and shock coloring his
voice. “You daren’t”
“I daren’t?” the President said.
“You daren’t. It’s against international law and a dozen treaties.”
The President stood up. The pain in his side made him wince, but Ortega’s words
brought color back to his face. His words were sharp and clear. “Don’t tell me I daren’t. I
dare what the fuck I please when my country is attacked. What am I supposed to do? Invite
those yellow bastards to tea and crumpets on the White House lawn? Have you forgotten,
or don’t you see the wreck of that building every morning? Have you forgotten that we have
enemies and that they attack us? As of this afternoon the world will know that attacking The
United States of America is not done on the cheap. It’s a very expensive thing. And they
are going to pay. Oh, are they going to pay!”
No one else at the table had anything to say, and when the President said that the
discussion was over, each silently left the room. The air was heavy with tension and
 79
concern. That day would change the history of the world, and there were some at that
meeting who were concerned that the change would not be for the best. But no one said a
word.

* * *

It was the second time in two days that the President of the United States visited the
newly revamped and refurbished General Assembly of the United Nations. He helicoptered
directly from the White House to the heliport on the East River. Four other helicopters were
with him, one ahead, another following behind him, and one on each side. Waiting
limousines and a huge police escort were at the landing when his craft lighted on the
ground. He was a man in a hurry, walking rapidly despite the tightly wrapped bandages
around his middle. He walked ahead rather than amidst his guard. One could almost forget
that he used crutches. His arms, one after the other, pushed the crutches ahead, his legs
followed almost instantly. He almost leaped into the waiting limousine. The entourage went
directly to the UN building. The police, as requested, had cordoned off all the streets around
the building, creating an enormous traffic jam on the East Side.
The President got out of his limo, and, followed by the Vice-President and several of
his advisors, including the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense, he walked into
the building. A circle of protective officers surrounded him as he opened the door to the
General Assembly. The President stalked into the UN General Assembly chamber. He was
followed by the US Ambassador to the UN, Sandy Lintofen, and an entourage of assistants
who had met him at the entrance to the building. They all walked in a body up to the
podium. Dispensing with a greeting to Secretary General More Vikers, who came out of a
sick bed to be in attendance, the President waved away the speaker at the podium. He
disregarded the President of the General Assembly, currently the Ambassador of Nicaragua.
He moved behind the podium, turned back to the entry door and lifted his hand in a signal.
His chief guard checked the podium and made sure the microphone was on and
adjusted properly. The President’s guards stood about him, and two men were posted at
each entrance to the hall. Their guns were visible. At the sight of the guns a number of
delegates gasped. Several guards and New York City police officers placed themselves in
the press and in the public galleries. These spaces were quite constricted since the
Assembly had been revamped to hold the myriad of new countries that had been admitted
since the breakup of the Soviet Union and the recognition of an ever-increasing number of
euphemistically called African and Asian republics and Balkan mini-states.
At this a troop of heavily armed marines entered. A deeper gasp rose from the
audience. No one was permitted to wear arms in the General Assembly. The marines stood
at attention at each door to the Assembly and at the head of each aisle. Next a heavy-duty
four-wheeled cart was pushed in. It was loaded with fragments of bomb and missile parts.
Then a larger cart was moved in. It was surrounded by heavily armed soldiers. On it was a
small missile with its warhead still attached. Angry shouts came from sections of the
audience.
The President raised his hand and began to speak. The shouting continued. He
turned to the entrance and signaled to Marisa Smith who stood at the doorway. At the raise
of her hand a large contingent of armed forces men and women entered. They filled the
aisles and in some instances forcibly put the shouting Assembly members into their seats.
Finally silence was restored and the president began.
“Over the past three weeks there have been five acts of war committed against the
United States of America. Two nuclear missiles in aircraft flown by North Korean pilots were
intercepted and destroyed. Those of you in nations in the north of Europe are aware of
those. You have suffered from the fallout. In a new attack launched by the rogue state of
North Korea from a clandestine plane that took off from Greenland and from a presumed
fishing vessel converted into an attack craft in the Atlantic that was supplied to the
government of North Korea by the Peoples Democratic Republic of China, there have been
 80
American deaths and injuries. There have been fifty-two deaths, and at last count nearly
one hundred injuries and property damage of one hundred sixty-two million dollars. These
deaths and injuries were caused by three medium range ballistic missiles fired by North
Korean forces from this Chinese fishing vessel in the North Atlantic Ocean. We have taken
the North Korean-slash-Chinese vessel captive,” the President said. “And the evidence that
this is not a fishing vessel, but the one from which the missiles were launched is
incontrovertible.
“Two missiles fired from an airplane inside American territorial waters caused no
human damage. One hit in a cemetery in Long Island, New York; the other landed in the
Atlantic. The pilot ditched his plane when he was attacked by American defenders and is
now in custody in Washington.
“If at any point in my address to you, the North Korean Ambassador wishes to
telephone or radio his superiors in P’yongyang, he will be free to leave this chamber to do
so. We know that he is aware of this whole affair. I urge him to do so, because at the end of
my words to you there will be a few moments for decision making and then the central
government office area of the city of P’yongyang will disappear.”
A shock wave of hysteria blew through the General Assembly. It was obvious what
the President meant. Shouts came from all sides.
“Over-reaction!”
“Ridiculous response!”
“Unfair behavior!”
“Illegal use of power!”
The soldiers enforced silence, and slowly the room came to order.
“I will have distributed to you copies of the sequence of events that have brought us
to this uncomfortable situation,” the President said, “and while you read the summary
pages, I strongly suggest that the North Korean delegate be in contact with his superiors in
his country. My decision for action is irrevocable. No one threatens, no one attacks, and no
one injures the United States of America with impunity. We are not as, some have stated
about us, a paper tiger. We are a lion defending lives, liberty, and human rights – and most
particularly, American lives, American liberty, and American human rights. I will give you
fifteen minutes to read the summary pages. At the end of that time I will give a signal that
should solve the problem this situation has brought forward forever.
“I wish also to inform you that during the night every foreign embassy and foreign
corporation in North Korea has been warned to evacuate their nationals from the capital.
We have word that there is an exodus from the city and the surrounding area. We do not
choose to injure any citizens of any country who work or who are visiting in North Korea. I
understand also that many inhabitants of P’yongyang are leaving the city.”
The President stood quietly at the podium. An aide brought him a glass of water.
Two minutes after the period for reading started, the North Korean Ambassador left his seat
and the Assembly chamber. Seven minutes later he returned, went to his nation’s station,
stood up, and spoke.
“North Korea denies totally and emphatically any connection with the accusations
made in this dastardly American document. The American president is an unmitigated
prevaricator and is seeking to find a quarrel with the peace loving people of North Korea.”
The President smiled thinly and said, “Mr. Ambassador, I have no words that can
make sense to you, considering the evidence that we have brought into this chamber other
than to say to you that you, in plain words, are a horse’s ass. And if you don’t understand
that American idiom, I am telling you that you are a fool and you may have just condemned
many thousands of your people to death.”
The Secretary-General, disregarding the President of the Assembly who sat
dumbfounded in his seat, rose to his feet and said, “Is the American president acting as
accuser, judge, jury, and hang-man? Without a discussion, without a trial, without
diplomacy to mitigate the seriousness of this situation?”
 81
“Mr. Secretary-General, I will talk directly to you. And I tell you now, before this
august audience, that we believe that the People’s Democratic Republic of China is a prime
conspirator, along with co-conspirators in Iraq, Libya, and Iran. The last time America was
directly attacked, at Pearl Harbor on December 7th of 1941, the American response was that
a state of war existed at that moment between the United States and the Empire of Japan.
We were not prepared for that war, but we are prepared for this one. That war lasted for
several years; this will last only a few minutes.”
The President turned to the North Korean delegate. “Do I take it that you refuse to
admit your country’s guilt?”
“We have done nothing. Your paper is a pack of lies,” the North Korean shouted.
“And we are not afraid of you. You do not have the will to attack a defenseless nation that
has done you no harm.”
Cries of support for the North Korean echoed through the hall. The calls came mostly
from small, new countries, from members of the Arab League, and from puppet states. Most
of the delegates from Western powers sat on their hands.
“Mr. Secretary-General,” the President said, “If nothing is done in the next minutes,
P’yongyang as it is now will be a memory.”
“You would not dare,” More Vikers said.
“We have in recent weeks received warnings and threats from North Korea
concerning a spy that we have in custody. This spy has asked for and has been given
asylum. The American government was told that if it did not return this spy to North Korea,
missiles would be fired at United State territory. The United States does not deal with
terrorists, either individual or government. We did, however, inform the North Korean
government through the Swedish embassy in P’yongyang that were these missiles to be
launched and should any – even one – American lives be lost, then the reprisal would be
immediate and vast. Since we choose not to risk American lives in such an action, the
reprisal would be nuclear.”
Again the President paused, and the din of voices was immediate and continuous.
Hands were raised, fists tightened, at the President’s statement. There was no question but
that the vast majority of African, Muslim, Russian, Balkan, and Asian delegates found the
President’s words shocking beyond the wildest parameters of belief.
He stood his ground, raised both arms to quiet the commotion, and continued. “I ask
the North Korean government, which has entered into an act of war, to surrender
unconditionally. And immediately.”
The North Korean delegation rose as a group, shouting imprecations at the President.
The President of the Assembly vainly called for order. The delegate from France finally
made himself heard, and he began a long speech asking for moderation, for a committee to
be appointed to look into the matter, for the rule of reason to be applied to the situation, for
so powerful a country as the United States of America not to bully a small nation like North
Korea...
But the American President, interrupting the French delegate, said, “There were
people killed – American people – who had no argument with North Korea. No country has
the right to begin a war on an emotional pique. The spy I spoke of was a concubine, a lover,
and a mistress of the current head of the North Korean government. I can understand her
paramour wanting her back in his bed, but he has unfortunately chosen the wrong way. I
warned him that a nuclear response would be the result of his actions, and at this moment
an American airplane is poised over P’yongyang ready to destroy the governmental center
of that city. Unless I hear capitulation from the North Korean delegate, that is exactly what
is going to happen.”
The President looked at the members of the North Korean delegation. They
screamed and shouted and thrust their fists into the air. The President turned to the
President of the Assembly and said, “Mr. Ibano, I take it from the actions of those people
that North Korea is not capitulating. Will you confirm that, please?” A rapid running back
 82
and forth between the chair and the North Korean delegation did not bring any message of
surrender. “I take it, then,” the President said, “that they wish the bomb to be dropped.”
“Mr. President,” Tomaso Ibano of Nicaragua, current President of the General
Assembly said, “can we not have a moment of reason and discussion? You are surely not
serious about an action so vile...”
“Wasn’t a missile killing Americans vile?” the President asked.
“Yes, of course, but you cannot consider a nuclear response...”
“Oh, yes, I can. It’s either capitulation or destruction. I have no intention of sending
an army to North Korea. We did that once before. It’s up to those men there.” The
President again pointed at the North Koreans. One of them, a slim, small, young man in his
early twenties, walked out from the seats of his group, pulled a gun out of his pocket and
pointed at the President. Before he could pull the trigger, six shots rang out from among the
President’s security people. The North Korean, hit several times, fell to the floor.
“I am picking up this telephone,” the President said, “and I am giving the order. No
one will ever doubt that the United States does not act instantly when it is attacked. We will
have no Pearl Harbors. We will not be bullied. We will not be threatened. An act of war has
only one consequence: defeat for the attacker.”
The President had not raised his voice once during the whole engagement of wills.
He had waited patiently each time an uproar occurred, leaning on his arm crutches, until the
American armed personnel in the aisles had forcibly restored order. Then he rested his
crutches on the side of the podium, put his hands on the top and leaned into the
microphone. He spoke slowly, clearly, and decisively.
“Mr. President of the General Assembly and Mr. Secretary-General of the United
Nations, I am making public the fact that we have informed you and your officers several
times in the last weeks of the attacks on the United States of America, and you have refused
to take any action. Don’t speak of diplomacy, sirs. If it were not for the faulty workmanship
in North Korea and in the People’s Democratic Republic of China where many of the
components were made, there would have been thousands of American deaths this
morning. Your time is up, and I will give the signal now. The North Korean delegation can
interrupt my giving the signal for destruction at any time by raising a hand in acquiescence
to our terms.”
The President opened a brief case an aide was carrying. He reached in, booted up a
computer, looked at the screen. Then he lifted a handset from inside the case, spoke into
the cell phone. He waited. The whole Assembly waited. There was absolute silence. A
minute, two, three, four, five. The phone went back to his ear. He listened. Every one
watched him.
His face turned white, his hand shook as he leaned his body forward to touch the
podium and balance himself. He folded the phone and put it back into the case. A bead of
perspiration was visible on his brow. He put a hand to the counter in front of him again to
steady himself. Then he turned to an audience that sat, traumatized into complete silence.
Every eye was on him. He put a hand to his brow. His face was pale, his voice shaking. He
said, “The governmental center of P’yongyang no longer exists.”
Knowing full well that there would be enormous repercussion from his action,
Fortunatus took advantage of the moment of silent shock to exit the UN Assembly quickly.
The armed forces surrounded him protectively, and they, too, exited the hall. As they left
they could hear the pandemonium beginning. The President was taken to the East River
helipad and ferried to Washington. There he called all the political leaders to the White
House and briefed them on what had happened.
Although he had already essentially told them what he was going to do, the fact that
the United States was again at war, even if with a small country, upset bureaucrats and
legislators alike. It was not North Korea that brought a feeling of dangerous times to their
mind, but China. The behemoth of Asia was not the fat sleeping giant it had been before the
revolution of 1949. Nor was it the early stages of industrial growth it had been at the end of
the last century. It was now an industrial and military force of enormous power.
 83
“They can put as many people in arms as we have in our whole country,” Oliver
Partik said. “You’ve put us in great danger, Mr. President.”
“Partik, you’re a goddam fool,” the President told the Minority Leader. “When your
country is bombed, you do one thing. You whip the goddamn idiots who attacked you. If
you think the Chinese are going to pull North Korea’s fat out of the fire, you’re sadly
mistaken. They made a stalking horse of those Korean idiots, and I assure you they’ll let
them go down the drain. I don’t know about forty years from now when they may be up to
snuff industrially, but right now they need us more than they need North Korea. They’ll turn
on us eventually; I give you that, but not until it suits their fancy. When they’ve come up to
us technologically. Not before.
“Right now the country wants revenge. Watch the media in the next couple of days.
Because it isn’t over yet. Our people are going to want surrender. The way they did years
ago with the fucking Japs and Germans.” The President almost forced the Republican down
into his seat.
“But will the people be with you, Mr. President?” asked Nora Norwich, Majority
Leader, and a Democrat from New York.
“Nora, you’re asking the wrong question. The people will not be with me. They will
be with us. It’s we the people. I haven’t done anything for Fortunatus. I’ve done it for the
only major power on earth, the United States of America. It’s we the people. Watch the
news reports and pay attention to the surveys and the polls.”
The President sighed. He was in pain and he was tired of defending himself. He,
more than ever in the six years he had been in office, was feeling the strain of the
presidency. His hair, graying rapidly, was a barometer of the wear and tear of what the day-
to-day leadership of the country had done to him.
But the President was right. The country was in wild upheaval. Despite the fact that
most people associated Jews dying in bombings with ever present turmoil in Israel and did
not feel too much kinship with them, the fact that missiles, even quite small ones landed on
American soil, made them angry, and they wanted the President to do something about
them. It was, for once, not that Jews and Blacks had been killed and injured. It was that an
attack on American soil had been made. That was the true insult to American pride and
nationalism.
The bombing of P’yongyang gave the average person a sense of power. Nothing was
bigger or stronger than the US of A. No one was going to tweak a super-power’s nose.
Spurred on by this and by the feeling that anything he did at this point would have popular
approval, the President declared martial law, called up all state militias, and brought the
national military forces up to fighting strength. It was a time of salute the flag and make a
pledge of allegiance.
The President reiterated his call for surrender, instantly and unconditionally. The
communists refused. North Korea called for the United Nations to declare the United States
the enemy of the world. Taking a tack from the Arabs, they promised the mother of all
battles to destroy the Satan of the West.
In the UN Sandy Lintofen delivered a message from the American president. “I am
speaking today not as a diplomat accredited to this body, but as an emissary of my
president, speaking for the American nation. “We have been attacked by the Democratic
People’s Republic of Korea. We have replied by destroying the governmental center of their
capital city. We have demanded their surrender, but we have not had a reply of any sort. A
state of war exists between our countries. We have not abused North Korea in any way.
Their espionage agent whom we have in our care has asked for and has been given asylum.
We do not choose to cause any more deaths, but we will not permit any more attacks on our
soil. Not since our war with England in 1812 has any foreign nation attacked our continental
soil until this criminal action. We demand action from the government of the People’s
Republic of Korea, and until we have appropriate response, we will blockade that country.
An American battle fleet is on its way this moment. And we demand support from the
various members of the United Nations in condemning the action of North Korea.”
 84

* * *

The turmoil on every main street in the United States continued. There were bomb
and missile threats, warnings, scares, and rumors. Not since Pearl Harbor so many years
ago had an armed projectile landed on American soil. The country was angry. The President
had judged the response accurately. The United States did not like being attacked. If
anything, people wanted North Korea destroyed; the President was criticized for not
following up on the American nuclear initiative.
Inside the UN there was anger, too. But it was a different kind of anger. How dare
the USA threaten to attack sovereign nations simply because some unidentified missiles – if
there were actually any such at all – were rumored to fall on American soil. If any country in
the world could be accused of making unconscionable war on anyone, it was the United
States. Did not the United States viciously and without prevarication and without warning
destroy the capital and thousands of people of North Korea?
After a quick telephone call to Washington, Sandy Lintofen, American Ambassador to
the United Nations, informed the assembled delegates that they were about to be given a
demonstration of the situation that caused the American administration act as it had done.
On the following morning, before any of the delegates could leave the Assembly, the
doors of the hall were opened, and at each were four marines, each armed and at the ready.
Lintofen, who had walked to the podium before the Secretary General’s desk, made an
announcement to the Assembly.
“Delegates, buses are waiting for all senior delegates at the entrance. You will
please walk to them in single file and seat yourself in the buses. Only the senior delegate
need go, but any others who wish to attend are welcome. We will all be making a trip to two
locations in the area. One is an area on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, not far from
here. From there we will go to the area in Woodbourne, New York. You will see what you
will see.”
Immediate shouts of anger and disagreement filled the Assembly air. How dare the
US tell us where and when we have to go! What is the purpose of this shameful display? I
will go nowhere without the permission of my foreign office!
Notwithstanding the turmoil and the resistance, when a troop of marines filed into
the Assembly and politely, but firmly, urged the members to move, they did, and within
minutes the ten buses that were waiting outside the UN building were filled and off to the
East Side, led and followed by New York City police on motorcycles whose sirens together
with the buses’ horns created a cacophony of sound that by itself disrupted traffic and sent
both cars and pedestrians scurrying away from the cavalcade that wound its way to the
scenes of destruction.
In each instance the dead and wounded had been removed quickly, but the scene
itself had been left untouched. Blasted walls, broken beams, fragmented and fractured
concrete slabs, bricks strewn helter-skelter, rubble testifying to the might of the missile
detonation lay untouched. The President had ordered nothing to be touched until the UN
caravan had visited the spot.
The delegates were taken to the Lower East Side of Manhattan – not far from the
United Nations building itself -- where the missile had hit. After examining the destruction,
urged by the military personnel guiding them, they were taken to two hospitals where the
wounded were being treated. They were then driven to two cemeteries in Long Island to see
new graves where the dead from the attack were buried.
From Long Island they went over the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey and
then up the Garden State Parkway and into New York State to the Sullivan County area.
They saw bombed out houses and shops, the remnants of a synagogue, more wounded in a
hospital, and more fresh graves.
 85
They didn’t like what they saw. Some turned away from the scene. Others
wondered at the black-hatted religious Jews poking through the rubble on the ground for
remnants of human remains.
“Why?” asked one delegate.
“Human flesh is sacred,” he was told. “Every bit must be buried so that he can come
out whole on the Day of Judgment.”
“Humpph,” was the reply, and the questioner removed himself from the scene and
went back to the bus.
They were next to go to Baltimore, but the pleading of the delegates that they could
take no more aborted the trip.
It was quite late when they returned to the United Nations building. They were
hustled into their seats, and Sandy Lintofen made a short statement.
“One dead American or a thousand dead Americans. What you saw was the result of
acts of war. The government of the United States acts only one way when it is attacked.
The time of the Korean police action, the time of the Vietnam War – these times are long
over. What occurred in the areas you have just visited was the result of acts of war on the
part of North Korea. What has occurred in the areas you have just visited was the result of
acts of war on the part of Libya, Iran, Iraq, and the Peoples Republic of China. These
countries should take warning that they face acts of retribution of the most stringent type to
occur at the will of the government of the United States of America.”
Without another word, Lintofen left the speaker’s stand and walked out of the
Assembly, followed by the other members of the American delegation. Neither he nor any of
the other Americans paid any attention to the hubbub around them. Lintofen chose not to
see the reporters in the outer lobby. He walked to his car. The other Americans dissolved
into the crowds that had gathered about the building when the news of the demonstration
put on by the American delegation became public. Reporters and camera crews were
everywhere, but no one heard another word of America’s intent that night.

* * *

Whatever America’s intent might have been, it was changed by an offshore incident
that changed the history of the world overnight.
At about two AM Eastern Daylight Savings Time a fishing vessel, like forty or fifty
others in a fleet twenty miles off the shore of eastern Long Island was discovered to be
sending radio signals of a suspicious nature. Coast Guard boats, on twenty-four hour alert
since the last tragic happenings, zeroed in on the suspicious craft and called on it to stop
and be searched. Before it could be boarded a rocket was launched from its deck, heading
almost directly a bit south of westward, probably toward New York City.
The warnings went out were too late, and a missile landed minutes later on the north
shore of Raritan River in Highland Park, New Jersey. The explosion destroyed a bridge
across the Raritan linking Highland Park with New Brunswick. It blew up several houses, a
Greek Orthodox Church, and the Jewish Community Center. Because of the time of day the
only people in the church or in the center were the live-in custodians. There were both killed
instantly. Two cars on the bridge were hurled into the river, and the single occupants in
each were drowned.
The President, wakened in the White House, ordered messages to all heads of state
informing them that a fishing boat had been captured with all aboard. The occupants of the
boat were all determined to be North Korean naval personnel except for an armament
technician who was an officer in the navy of the Peoples Republic of China. The fishing boat
had launched a missile targeted at the United States of America. There had been
substantial destruction as a result of the explosion of the missile. There had been loss of
American lives. Without further warning the Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea would be
destroyed, city by city, until it surrendered unconditionally. The city of P’an mun jom would
be hit at six PM Eastern Daylight Savings Time. The United States would continue
 86
aggressive destruction of North Korea until such time as the surrender would be
forthcoming.

* * *

There never was surrender. There never was any response from North Korea. Only
the North Korean delegates at the UN seemed to have any voice, and that voice was always
the same: hysterical accusation and threat. But they, too, did not seem to be able to make
contact with their home country.
The world claimed to be in shock at the American actions. Condemnation from all
over followed, with the exception of Israel, Great Britain, Canada, and a few small island
countries in the Caribbean that depended on American trade and tourism.
In a worldwide television broadcast the President asked, “I have a question for the
leaders of the countries that are members of the United Nations. How do we stop capital
crime? By capital punishment. We simply gave North Korea a fatal injection – but more
important than having destroyed their war capability, we have saved ninety percent of their
people.
“There is no responsible government in North Korea. No one is watching the shop.
No one is running the country. The delegates of North Korea in the UN no longer have a
government to report to. There is no more Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea. And as
far as the condemnation the United States has heard from the floor of the General Assembly
of the UN, I will make a statement there in the next few days.
“Further, according to an agreement, reached last night, between the United States
and South Korea, the Koreas will be joined, and instead of North Korea being a well of
starvation, deprivation, and despair, it will become the agricultural center: the bread basket
of the country. With American know-how and assistance, it will become the greatest food
producer in East Asia. And when the time is appropriate, it will join the democratic
population in the south, and its citizens will be equal members of a greater Korea.
“To prevent any further terrorist action, whether individual, gang, group, or nation, I
am instituting a rule which will define American response to such activity. For each American
or European citizen of a democratic country, or for that matter any citizen of a democratic
country anywhere who is killed by a terrorist, that terrorist’s country will be held responsible,
and the penalty will be the destruction of large areas of his country and, unfortunately, the
death of numbers of his countrymen.
“Further, because of universally one-sided actions of the General Assembly, the
United States will no longer be the host of the United Nations. The United States will no
longer be a member of the United Nations. The United States will no longer tolerate the
presence of the United Nations in its territory. Nor will it provide financial or other support
to the United Nations. When I have finished with this broadcast, I will order all American
companies to shut off service to the United Nations in New York: telephone, radio, television,
electricity, water, heat. The American public has had it with the UN. We are finished.”

* * *

The broadcast created turmoil in the international community. The general

consensus in all quarters was that it was not a diplomatic thing to do. Senators and
Congressmen of both parties in Washington disapproved. The media disapproved. The
international community disapproved. The multi-national corporations disapproved. The oil
cartels disapproved. Even the drug cartels disapproved.
The only group that approved of Fortunatus’s actions was the American public. And
the first polls that were taken by the media – much to the disappointment of the media
moguls – showed that the American public was behind its president by a huge majority.
Only in the Bible belt and in the western private militia areas were there even limited signs
of disapproval. But on the whole Americans didn’t at all like the idea of anyone shooting off
 87
a missile at any American territory. And they certainly didn’t like the loss of American life
in an unprovoked attack on their country. America was angry.
The media gradually fell in line with the public, and most of the elected
representatives of the people did likewise.
For the first time in the years he had spent in the White House Alexander Fortunatus
felt like a leader.

* * *

There was indecision and puzzled questioning in the General Assembly in the days
following the President’s action. The hall was never full, except in the new public section.
That area was packed. And not all countries were represented. Many delegates of the
smaller ones, particularly those not aligned with the African or Asian cabals, had gone home
when the President ejected the UN from its home in New York.
After a day of no electricity and no water and no plumbing – the President had not
rescinded his edict, which he had no authority to enforce under any circumstances – the
services were returned after a quiet word from Lou Goldberg. He simply told the utility
people in New York that the President had conveniently dismissed it from his consciousness
and there would be no negative repercussions. And he said, not for publication, they could
thank the First Lady for her intervention with the President. He smiled as he said that she
did not want to see so many countries in the dark.
And so the delegates from the USA and Britain and France and Russia and so on
returned to their premises and their duties. The American delegation tried its best to show
no embarrassment. They still did not know whether they were officially there or not.
Secretary of State Franklin Steiner could give them no aid. He had tried to communicate
with the President, but Lou Goldberg as Chief of Staff kept stalling him. Goldberg did not
know what the President intended any more than anyone else.
The President was constantly closeted with Isabella, Marisa, and Maxim Crankshore.
They remained in the Family Quarters for three days. Meals were brought up. Two fax
machines were installed in Isabella’s personal office. A single servant under the watchful
eye of Marisa Smith cleaned the rooms. Secure telephones were installed and checked by
Sam Harvey who had been brought back from New York. He and Maureen Douglass were
signed on as Special Presidential Assistants – officially – so that their efforts could be made
part of any official report. And they were given the assignment of monitoring Terry Ortega
and Mary Elizabeth Li. Maureen was on leave of absence from the Washington Post. As she
told her editor, “The President asked me to, but I don’t know why.” As in the Secure Room,
no notes were made were made in Isabella’s office, no recordings, no official record of any
part of the discussions the four had.
In New York, despite the President’s action concerning the UN, that body continued
to meet, the restrictions having been quietly and informally lifted. Almost all countries
opposed the American stand of total reprisal on those who attacked it. The UN, the various
members said, wanted diplomatic rather than military response. Both Sandy Lintofen and
Dorene Eberly as US delegates asked how the UN, after so many terrorist incidents,
intended to solve the problem of rogue behavior. When no answer was forthcoming, almost
the entire US delegation walked out of the debate. They left a skeleton low level crew, but
those who left never returned. One of the few who remained was an assistant to Marisa
Smith, whose assignment was to report to the White House any discussion, report, or action
that might be of interest to the President.
Maxim Crankshore kept in touch with his people and their contacts overseas. His
agents determined that at least one Chinese industrial compound had been used in the
manufacture of all or part of the missiles. The compound in central China was a joint
venture of the All-China Self-Protective Defense Materials Plant, ACSFDMP, and a still
unidentified American firm, American Defense Sources, Inc., ADS. In addition counter-
espionage showed the involvement of China as a source of funds and industrial direction for
 88
the production of the North Korean missiles. And, to top it all off, further investigation
showed that American Defense Sources, Inc. was a front for funds and materiel for Arab
terrorist groups in Libya and Iraq, but who the Americans in that concern were was still not
known.
Meanwhile in the UN – and in NATO – self-proclaimed impartial countries: particularly
France, Russia, and China, together with most African and Arab nations condemned the USA
for its actions. The French representative understood the pain caused by the attacks on the
US, if indeed they came from North Korea, but he bemoaned the fact that the President of
that great country resorted to force before diplomacy.

* * *

No Americans saw first hand the destruction that took place in North Korea. There
were very few in the country to start with since the United States had no formal relations
with the country. Those who worked for multinational companies that had offices or who
were involved in any of the industrial complexes in the country that were established at the
beginning of the current regime had had enough sense to get out of the major cities and
away from any of the military centers. It was rather the European staff and television crews
of CNN who saw and broadcast the happenings there. Most Americans had seen any
number of times replays of the Japanese bombings of Hawaii that began American
participation in WWII. They had seen television reportage of the first Korean War, of the
Vietnam War, of the Desert War – and, of course, movies and television programs produced
in Hollywood and elsewhere concerned with these historical events.
What the American public anticipated was mushroom clouds and totally devastated
cities with hundreds of thousands of casualties. In actual fact the television coverage of the
bombings by North Korea of the American Northeast – after the first shock of the idea of
anyone attacking their country had worn off a bit – was not at all like what pictures of Pearl
Harbor had shown them, or TV shots of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Since the NK missiles were
comparatively small, the area of destruction was limited.
But when it came to nuclear missiles, the expectations of the TV public were more on
the order of what they saw in disaster movies: wholesale elimination of cities, industries,
populations. What they actually saw was quite different. It was the resultant of the most
highly specialized military attack on a nation, the precision destruction by twenty-first
century science of military and governmental establishments in a target country. The North
Korean government buildings in P’yongyang were gone. The airports were craters with
neither towers nor hangars nor buildings. But the landing strips were generally usable – for
American planes, should they have to land in North Korea. Military camps were leveled.
Major train stations were tangles of metal. There were casualties, of course, but in the
hundreds, not in the many hundreds of thousands the viewing public expected. There was a
distinct sense of disappointment. The bombings were not exciting entertainment.
What the small nuclear missiles had done was to eliminate the sources of
organization and control that determined the direction and the actions of North Korea. It
was as if all the traffic and streetlights in New York City had been eliminated, leaving
unsolved the problem of How would a boy on a date in Brooklyn late at night get back to his
home in The Bronx?
It took only a few days of the chaos that ensued to make the North Korean public
welcome the linking of North and South into a unified Korea even if it was under the
auspices and control of the United States. American forces from the fleet that had been
sent to the Korean area took over government and policing on a temporary basis. Food and
medical supplies were airlifted in huge quantities. The TV public could see why the landing
strips had been saved.
The news reports and pictures showed the flight of the city residents in the North
away from the centers of population and into the hinterlands. Since the purpose of the
reconstruction was to turn North Korea into an agricultural preserve under the dominance of
 89
the South – with the consequent elimination of hunger and starvation – this migration was
welcomed in Seoul and in Washington – and it was made permanent.
The military in the North and the police – for that matter, all regulatory forces – were
gone, and the citizenry was not displeased. Since the administrators that came in to take
their places were from the South (except those from the American military) and spoke the
same language, despite a separation of contact of more than two generations of Koreans,
they were welcomed, especially since they did not come armed. The tension left as soon as
the demarcation zone was eliminated and families that had been separated ages ago could
find lost relatives.

* * *

What the President did not say either to the American public or to the UN was that
when the NK missile ship was captured, a speedboat was seen speeding off and finally
disappearing into the ocean, too far to go after. Fingerprints taken from the remaining
missile and the control device were checked in Washington. Almost all of them were either
unidentifiable or they belonged to members of the captured crew, but two sets were found
in the FBI files. They were prints of two American terrorists who belonged to an armed
private army in Idaho. The two men were wanted for a bank bombing in Texas. Both had
US army experience in missile launching. One had been an army captain, the other a
technical sergeant. These men were not listed on the roster of the fishing vessel. That one
member of the NK crew was missing was deduced from the ship’s roster. The activities of
two unidentified crew members, A and B, as they were noted on the log, were linked to the
missile launching. They must have been the Americans. They must have been in the
speedboat that had been sighted. Perhaps with the missing crewmember.
An all-out search was begun.
 90
TEN: IN ISABELLA’S OFFICE
Unlike her sitting room, Isabella’s office was furnished mostly with castoffs from
offices in the Old Executive Office Building, notably from various secretarial offices through
the years. Isabella was not interested in interior decorating. She took the space allotted to
her and used it. As she said, “If what’s around me looks like home, so long as I have a place
to sit, a bed to lie down in, a table to eat at, I am happy.”
She did not add that her needs also included an exceptionally powerful laptop
computer, a fast printer, a fax machine, and a scanner. She had her own links to the
Internet – under a nom de plume that had not been broken into yet. Isabella had a sharper
and more incisive mind than the public, the politicians and the media characters gave her
credit for. She deliberately cultivated the idea that she was an Old World woman whose
interests were her husband, her family, and her church – in that order. Actually, she had an
acute mind and a fine sense of the historical – and the political.
A coffee table was placed in the center of the room. Two small barrel chairs on each
side completed the furnishings – except for the First Lady’s desk, computer workstation, and
bookshelves. There were no pictures. Isabella found them distracting when she was at
work. “If I look at a picture, I think about the picture. Then I can’t concentrate on what I’m
supposed to be doing.”
The books were all fairly heavy material: biographies, histories, political analysis,
philosophy, and religion. Not a novel among them.
“I don’t need a story to read. We are living a story. I need my entire mind to figure
out what chapter we’re in, and in this story, we won’t know the end. Ever.”
Alexander and Isabella Fortunatus sat at one side of the coffee table. Maxim
Crankshore and Marisa Smith sat at the other. A big pot of coffee, creamer, sugar bowl filled
with Sweet-and-Low, a container packed with cookies – store bought, the kind the President
liked – and mugs crowded the table.
Marisa filled the coffee mugs. Cream for the President, cream and sweetener for
Crankshore, black for Isabella and herself. She knew each’s preference. The President and
the FSIA director leaned forward to take cookies. They all drank in silence.
Finally Isabella put down her coffee and said, “I guess we have to open up the can of
worms we’re in.”
“Can’t open a can of worms when you’re on the inside,” Maxim said, smiling.
“You’re saying we need help from the outside?” Isabella said.
“Actually, I was making a lousy joke,” Crankshore replied. “But maybe I was saying
something more than I meant. If London were to come out and make a public defense of
our actions…”
“No way,” the President said. “I’m the one who started this. Or, should I say, I’m the
one who intercepted the pass the North Koreans threw. It’s got to be my show. I just have
to be sure how I want the next inning to go.”
“Look,” said Marisa in an annoyed and provoked tone, “are we mixing metaphors, not
sure if we’re playing baseball or football, or are we making lame jokes? We have to be
serious – instantly – and if you want a game, we have to play what-if? and figure out what
our best move is.”
“Well,” said Isabella, “if you’re talking what-if? then you have three choices: back off
and apologize, stonewall it, or do whatever the next step is.” She looked at her husband,
knowing he would never apologize for an action he considered correct and appropriate. She
knew also that stonewalling with no action planned for the next step would be frustrating
and nerve wracking. And so, tilting her head in his direction and raising her eyebrows, she
added to the mixed metaphors of the day and said, a mischievous smile on her lips, “I lob
the ball over the net into your court.”
Marisa and the President burst into laughter.
“I’m sorry, Isabella,” Marisa said. “I guess I’m a bit hyper. And I’m nervous…”
“I understand, darling,” Isabella said. “We just have to keep our balance.”
 91
“OK, then.” The President looked at each of his closest advisors, his eyes narrowed
and concentrated. “OK, then. Each of you knows I will not apologize when I have nothing to
apologize for. They made a war. We finished the war. Korea is now whole, and we are in
control of both ends, North and South. When I spoke to Seoul, I told them that if they
wanted control of the North, they had to accept us not only as allies but also as their
protector. No army, only police. No retribution against the people of North Korea, but no
forgiveness of their political leaders. They agreed, so now we have both populations to take
care of. I’ve set up a temporary military government in the North to work with the politicos
of the South. I ain’t apologizing for that either. And I’m not stonewalling. I’m being open.
I’ve told Steiner to send copies of our agreements with South Korea to all interested parties.
Particularly China, Russia, Germany, and France.
“Those are all givens, and each of you, one way or another, has already agreed with
me that the steps I have taken are appropriate. Now what’s the next step?”
Almost simultaneously Marisa and Isabella said, “China.”
“No,” said Maxim Crankshore. “We cool it with China. We stonewall the UN. Or
disregard them. We’ve got our people out of there, and I’d just as soon we kept them out.
We have to take care of some internal matters first.” The other three looked at him in
amazement, unable to figure out what he had in mind. “We have to take care of Horace V.
Jellinson,” The FSIA director said. “We have a big problem there. And we really have to do a
what-if? about him.”

* * *

Horace Vernon Jellinson was Alexander Fortunatus’ most implacable political enemy
although he was not a politician. Nor was he an industrialist. He was a shopping center
developer. More than that, he was an entrepreneur of the purest American type. He had
made a fortune in anticipating where America would like to shop, and he built strip malls to
suit.
He was a competitor of Kenny Bloom in the development of shopping locations, but
each worked in his own way. Jellinson built, bought, and sold strip malls. Bloom developed
larger shopping centers, mostly enclosed, and he kept them, managed them, nurtured them
to maturity, and as they aged, he rejuvenated them. He financed them with partnerships, in
each case investing large sums of his own money.
Jellinson operated mostly with borrowed bank money. Then when a strip mall would
be fully rented and beginning to make a profit, he would sell the mall, take his profits and
build two more, again mostly with bank money.
When he had parlayed this procedure into megabucks, and when some of the chain
stores that had bought into his strip malls began to falter in their payments, he would buy
up the faltering chains.
He developed a manifold increase in his fortune by buying up distressed overseas
products in China and in Southeast Asia at ridiculously low prices, parlaying these minimal
costs into huge profits. Then, having made contact with Oriental brokers, bankers, and
businessmen of all sorts, he began to engage in contracts, both short and long term, that
could supply his stores. In addition he developed a wholesale operation he operated under
another name, very advantageously. Then, with partners in each of the Asian countries, he
built factories and warehouses to produce for himself and his customers, who did not know
they were buying from their competition, so that he was thoroughly in control of his market.
He kept a good deal of his income and profits tax sheltered by what his advisors
called creative accounting, that is to say, other than his expenses in bribing and lobbying
politicians in the US and overseas, he kept all his money working. His tax burden was not
unbearable. Jellinson was known to pay coolie wages overseas, to keep illegal immigrants in
the US in serf positions at below minimum wages, and to fire middle-level executives when
they reached too high an income or when they began to display too much independence.
 92
He would also practice anti-Semitism, engage in sex discrimination, and indulge in
race hatred. He never employed Jews knowingly, no women ever reached an executive
position, and people of color – whom he defined as black, brown, oriental, or American
Indian – rarely even got past the door to the employment office of whatever project he
undertook. He considered himself a true American patriot: white, Protestant, Anglo-Saxon.
That last was somewhat in doubt. His parents were poor. They had both spoken with
accents. The family name was Jelling before he changed it. He probably had been born a
Catholic, or worse yet from his point of view, Eastern Orthodox, but he pretended to be
fundamentalist Southern Baptist. He had dumped his parents as soon as he got his first job
in a small department store in Indiana.
From that point until he surfaced as a full-fledged entrepreneur there was a blank of
about thirty-five years. No one knew where or what he had been or been engaged in. He
carried a Bible with him wherever he happened to be and claimed to be on a God-given
mission to save the United States from the evil influences of Satan and the Liberals, whom
he identified as the cohorts of the Devil.
All in all he was a bastard of the first water. Every one who had contact with him
agreed on that. Even his political allies disliked him. But they – and most others – feared
him. To the broad public, however, he was a sanctimonious conservative who sought to
preserve the great values of the American Family and the American Way of Life.
When the President discovered that Jellinson was a substantial giver to the
Republican party, particularly in districts where small changes in voting would make the
difference between winning and losing, Fortunatus found a good attack weapon in calling
Horace Jellinson Whore-ass Jellinson, the world’s greatest tax-dodger. Fortunatus pushed the
Democratic platform, promising to get a law passed that would make the rich pay through
the nose for unethical and ill-gotten gains. Fortunatus could find out little of Jellinson’s past,
but the businessman’s present was sufficiently clouded for a campaign of negative
commercials and speeches. Rather than attacking his Republican opponents, the President
aimed at the negatives in Jellinson as a prime Republican backer.
Fortunatus opened his own life and talked about his own flaws and faults. In public,
although not on television, he said, “I tell you all that a team of a good working wop and a
proper Jewish lady will do more for this country than any whore-assed phony Bible toting
billionaire ever will.”
The electorate accepted the issue and brought the President and his party a large
majority for his first term, particularly in those districts where Jellinson put his money, so
that not only the Presidency but both houses of Congress came in with Democratic
majorities. The President got his Whore-ass law through, but then he found resistance in the
elected officials when it came to following through with more tax reforms.
Some of Jellinson’s largest and most lucrative investments were in Central America.
He controlled, or at least had great influence on, industry and government in several of the
small countries, and he had particular power in Panama, once control of the Canal passed to
the Panamanians, who promised rule of the Canal as it was conducted under American
domination. But Jellinson had enemies among the Panamanians, and many of the politicians
in the country would have been pleased to see him disappear.
A Panamanian FSIA informant let it be known that unless Jellinson changed his
tactics, a plan was in operation to bomb the canal. The President called his enemy to the
White House and told him of the threat. Jellinson’s response was that the President and the
FSIA could both go to hell, that he would run his business his own way, and that the US had
no authority in what was the Canal Zone any more. With that he stormed out of the Oval
Office.
There was a strangely comic look to Jellinson that belied the enormous power he
commanded. He was small, barely five feet four. He was skinny – scrawny – with a long
chicken neck. His hands were large compared to his body. He was very nearly bald; he
would comb his hair forward to hide the bare scalp. One of his quirks was to squeeze his
 93
large hands together as if he were choking someone. He was nearsighted and wore thick
glasses in a wire frame. He squinted. His skin was mottled. He was ugly.
On the other hand, the sun never set on the Jellinson Empire.
The informant gave a second warning, and this time the President was constrained to
let the Panamanian government know of the threat. He knew that Jellinson owned the
Panamanian President, who consulted with him on every issue that had the smell of foreign
affairs. On his advisor’s advice the Central American politico decided that the threat was
simply an American ploy to regain control over the isthmus. He did nothing.
But the threat was real; a bomb was placed in the canal, and when it exploded, it
created enough destruction to close it to shipping for an indefinite time.
Andreas Soltano, the Panamanian president, turned to Jellinson in abject terror when
he saw what the comparatively small explosive had accomplished in terms of destruction.
Assuming that the bomb had come from local insurgents who on occasion would come out of
the hills to disturb the equanimity of the country’s rulers, but afraid that what had occurred
might happen again, Soltano was willing to talk to their leaders. Jellinson demurred and
required his client to hold tight.
Then another threat came, and Jellinson insisted on disregarding it. Exactly on the
deadline, instead of a planted bomb, a missile was lobbed over from the Pacific side of the
Canal, probably from a ship. There was substantial loss of life, especially on an American
cruise ship that was in transit between the oceans.
American media, which had made a weekend splash over the first attack on the canal
and had almost universally breathed relief that the Canal was no longer an American
possession, now took another tack. They compared the loss of American life on the cruise
ship to the losses suffered from the North Korean bombs in the Northeast.
Where the right-wing press and talk radio had been opposed to American takeover of
North Korea and its subsequent delivery of that rogue state to South Korea, supporting the
many members of the United Nations who bemoaned the unilateral action of the United
States in defending its own citizens and punishing those who killed them, now that selfsame
press and radio called on the President to destroy Panama and seek revenge on those
miserable Central Americans who thought they could tweak the American nose and get
away with it.
Fortunatus took no notice of the press.
The FSIA was far more effective than the CIA had ever been, concentrating its efforts
in foreign countries by having indigenous agents and Americans deployed in embassies and
consular offices who were fluent in the language of the country to which they had been
assigned and who had had intense training in local customs, history, politics, and culture.
The FSIA was well aware of Jellinson’s control of the country that linked the Atlantic to the
Pacific. So the President talked only to those of the FSIA who knew Panama well and to his
closest advisors.
In accordance with the original takeover treaty, the US had guaranteed to protect the
canal against invasion or destruction. The two attacks were interpreted as an invasion of
Panama and an attack on the United States, the U.S. being defined as the cruise ship whose
passengers were mainly American although the ship had Liberian registry and a Hispanic
crew.
Fortunatus acted simply and directly; he not only took over the canal, but also the
country. Jellinson was dispossessed from his holdings in Panama and his companies there
were nationalized — to the US – and the Panama Canal and the State of Panama were both
made possessions of the United States of America. It took no more than a threat to do to
Panama what had been done to North Korea to bring Andreas Soltano to Washington,
begging for American protection. He was more than willing to be the Washington appointed
governor of a Panamanian protectorate than to be a failed president of a bankrupt country.
With a cadre of FSIA personnel and a substantial detachment of American military to keep
him and his country under control, he resumed his office, but his title and his overlord were
both changed.
 94
The United States was an imperial nation again. American armed forces took over
the policing of Panama. The Panamanian legislature was abolished, but local government in
the various towns and villages were left in place. And with Soltano as a front, the FSIA
controlled the little country and the Canal.
Under his authority as commander-in-chief of the armed forces and citing the needs
of national defense, the President ordered the repair and expansion of the canal, a decades
long project to enlarge it so that super tankers could go through. Popular support was so
emphatic and vigorous for these actions on the part of the President that the Congress had
no choice but to follow his leadership.
The uproar in the international community was instant and thunderous. Not since
the Iraqis attempted to swallow Kuwait, had any nation taken over another so blatantly – or
for that matter – so effectively as the US occupation of Panama.
The President sat back and waited. What he had done was bound to have
repercussions.
It did not take long. A meeting of Jay-Keek, JCIEC, the Joint Congressional and
Industrial Economic Council found serious fault in the President’s actions, so much so that it
issued a bulletin on radio and television, a handout for journalists, and an ultimatum with
regard to executive interference in two areas: private enterprise and internal affairs in
foreign countries. The three right wing conservatives and the six industrial members
outgunned the three congressional liberals on the Council. Members of the Joint Council,
particularly the conservatives and the corporate members appeared almost endlessly on
talk and interview shows. The public, which had been enthusiastic about showing those
Panamanians who was boss on the American continents, began to have second thoughts as
prices began to rise – as a result of Presidential action in Panama, according to Jay-Keek
members who spoke almost endlessly on the subject to whomever they could buttonhole.
Suspicious of all this activity and of the direction it was taking, the President asked
Conrad Corbin to have his FBI people look into the activities of the “private sector” to see if
there was anything worthy of being watched. Corbin, himself a product of the private
sector, was chary of governmental interference in business, but he followed the President’s
orders and reported, after having several groups check into the activities in the various
markets, that nothing illegal was afoot.
The President was not comfortable with his report and wondered whether to bring in
his personal and private group into the fray when he had a surprising request for an
audience.
The request came in a roundabout way from an FBI agent whom the President did not
know. It was Maureen Douglass who let Tommy Kwo, as the President’s legal advisor, know
that a member of the FBI wanted to present a point of view contrary to the one expressed
by the Director, but he wanted it to be unofficial and private. The President, already uneasy
with what he had in hand, asked for the agent to appear.
Maureen, Tommy, and the agent met with the President in the residential area of the
Marble Box.
“Mr. President, Jordan Olivieri,” Tommy Kwo said. “This is the FBI agent I spoke to you
about.”
Olivieri, obviously ill at ease, shifted weight from one foot to the other. A tall, sallow-
faced man in his early thirties, certainly not handsome, with a crooked nose, watery blue
eyes, and slicked back hair that looked pomaded, he was not the stereotype FBI agent.
“Mr. President,” he said. Then he paused, his throat dry, his mouth unable to utter
another word.
“Sit down, Mr. Olivieri,” the President said, motioning him to an easy chair in the
small sitting room that served as an informal reception area.
When the agitated agent sat in the chair for a moment or two, the President
continued. “Don’t be uncomfortable, sir. You’ve come here out of a sense of patriotic duty.
Am I not right?”
“Yes, sir,” Olivieri said, choking out the words.
 95
The President’s voice was gentle. Soft and coaxing, like a father urging his son to
confess that he had chopped down a cherry tree.
Finally Olivieri blurted out, “Do you know Lorna Johnson?”
“Lorna who?” the President asked. Then he remembered. He’d been at the wedding.
“Ortega’s daughter. She’s divorced.”
“Whose mistress is she?” the FBI man pursued.
“You’ve got me. Should I know? I know she’s a socialite. Oh, she hosts for Horace
Jellinson. Is she…?”
“Yes, and works deals for him, and she’s involved with Mary Elizabeth Li.”
The President sat straight in his seat. He was at full attention; he looked narrowly at
Olivieri. “What has that to do with anything I should know?”
“Lorna Johnson hates her father. Mary Elizabeth Li is her friend and is the Vice
President’s lover. And they both are involved with Jellinson and the China Cabal. Corbin
knows this and has dismissed it, because he doesn’t believe the China Cabal exists. He
looks at the VP as a political weakling who won’t ever amount to anything. Mainly because
you won’t support him as the Democrat nominee. The China Cabal exists, and it’s
dangerous. Because it’s supported by American corporations with investments and
industrial plants in China.”
All this came out in one explosive breath. Then Olivieri collapsed in his seat and
waited to be dismissed in disgrace. His courage had left him, and he was emotionally
exhausted. He had broken the silence imposed on Agency personnel.
“Who supports the China Cabal?” Fortunatus asked.
A long pause. A deep swallowing of breath. A stutter, and then, “I don’t know all of
them, but there’s Jacopo Bellini, Carolyn Phillips, Trueman Fiskars…”
“Enough,” said the President. “Now tell me, what is the China Cabal?”
“China, a flock of super-corporations, some of the Arab States, some groups in this
country – mostly crazies of one form or another…”
“For what purpose?”
“Each group has its own agenda,” Olivieri said. “China wants to be a super-power.
The Arabs want to control the Middle East. The Corporations want…” He hesitated. Fear
came into his watery eyes. “They want to take over the country. And then to take over
China. But the Chinese don’t know that. And the crazies want to bring down government,
law, order, the whole shebang.”
“You can prove all this?” The President’s eyes narrowed. His voice was no longer
gentle. It was the voice of a prosecutor.
“No, sir. If I could prove it, my boss would have had to go along with my premise. He
can’t conceive of the people he knows and trusts of something as cynical and dangerous as
this is. He knows all the CEOs from way back. They’re his kind of people. Not just right
wing. But power from finance. Wall Street. Investment. Management.”
“Well, if you can’t prove it, how do you come to your conclusions?”
“It’s little bits of things we found. Notes. Memos. Telephone conversations between
strange people. People who shouldn’t know each other. Large money transfers of the
wrong type.” Olivieri hesitated, and then he drew another long, labored breath. “Well in for
a penny… I made copies of some of the things. I’m finished at the FBI, anyway.”
He brought out a bulky envelope from inside his coat and gave it to the President.
Fortunatus opened the envelope, spread the papers on the table before him, studied them
carefully, and whistled softly. “I see what you mean.” He turned to the younger man. “You
will resign from the FBI. You will go underground – I’ll take care of it, so you’ll be safe – and
at the proper time, you will surface. Do you have a family?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You’ll have to have a cover. Another name. The usual. You’ll be working for
the FSIA, but no one will know it. Tommy Kwo will make all the arrangements. Right,
Tommy.”
“Yes, sir,” the supposed attorney said. “Crankshore will be briefed?”
 96
“I’ll do it,” the President said. “Now, take Jordan with you, pick up all his
belongings, and let him stay with you tonight and until you get him set up. Go.”
Without a word the two men left the room. The President turned to Maureen
Douglass.
She said, “I know. I’ve never been here. This meeting never took place. Marisa?”
“Exactly,” Fortunatus said. “This is a big can of worms. Get to Marisa’s place. Fill
her in. Stay the night, and tomorrow we start to crack the can of worms.”
 97

ELEVEN: CORPORATIONS
The President’s poll ratings were at a peak. The North Korean situation was behind
him. With the elimination of both the NK government and the bureaucracy that kept it going
for so many decades, that area of the globe seemed to be on the upgrade. Whether it was to
be a Sisyphean climb to the top, and then a Jack fell down and broke his crown finale only
the future would tell.
There was a sense of satisfaction on the part of the American public that vengeance
had been inflicted on those who had killed American citizens and destroyed American
property.
In addition, the nagging problem of the Panama Canal had been solved. An American
military government provided strictly controlled law and order, oversaw the effort to
revitalize the Canal, and replaced the instability of the Panamanian government. That had
been a government whose venality was exacerbated by the influence of Horace Jellinson on
its political officials.
Fortunatus was the pride of the American public as one who not only carried a big
stick, but also used it. With repairs and extension work going on rapidly at the canal,
America would have the ability to send ships of almost unlimited size from one ocean to the
other without the long haul south to Tiera del Fuego or round the other way to the tip of
Africa at the Cape of Good Hope.
The press, television, even ordinarily reactionary talk-radio had to follow the public.
The President was the home run hitter of the year, the fellow who made more touchdowns
than anyone else did, who scored more three point baskets, who hit hole after hole in one.
He was on more magazine covers than even an Oscar winning movie star. More people
kowtowed to him than did to the aged Bill Gates. There were more web pages devoted to
him than could be counted. And he had thoroughly defeated Horace V. Jellinson where it
hurt. Or so it seemed. Until the meeting of the meeting of the joint Congressional-Industrial
Economic Council, Jay-keek.

* * *

The first thing to cast a tiny cloud on the President’s euphoria was an unprecedented
meeting in the White House. Carolyn Phillips, coordinator of the World Industry Group, WIG,
asked through the offices of Augustus Weilstein III, the Secretary of Commerce, for a private
meeting of a number of chief executive officers of multi-national corporations with the
President. They wanted the meeting to be private, apolitical, and unrecorded. In other
words, they wanted to put their hair down with the President and talk straight and openly
about their view of what was happening in the world. It was natural that these financial and
industrial heavy weights would want to know what was up – or for that matter, what was
going down – in the near future, considering the elimination of the UN as a sounding board
of world affairs after the withdrawal of the US and the double-whammy on two continents of
the North Korean and Panamanian exercises.
Maxim Crankshore and Conrad Corbin were opposed to the idea, feeling that the
President would be at a disadvantage if arguing unprotected and alone in such a contentious
group. “It’s not that one of them might take the opportunity of eliminating you from world
affairs with a well placed bullet… They may play hardball financially, but physically, they’re
afraid of violence. But some nut outside might like the idea of blowing up world industry
with one well-placed bomb,” Conrad said. Maxim heartily agreed. The President nodded; he
gave the FBI director a curious glance.
Terry Ortega said, “All these biggies give huge millions to the political parties, here
and across the globe. You say the wrong thing, as far as they’re concerned, and we may
well be out of campaign money for the next election.” Fortunatus was finding it more and
 98
more difficult to treat his vice-president with seriousness. He had the feeling always that
he was listening to China through Mary Elizabeth Li rather than to his Hispanic VP.
Isabella and Marisa both said, each in her own way, that their feminine intuitions told
them that the idea was not good. Marisa based her thoughts, but did not say so, on the
Olivieri can of worms. But Lou Goldberg said the thing that made up the President’s mind.
“I have the very strong feeling that they think they can bamboozle you by their
financial and industrial might – that you are just a light weight because you’re not a multi-
billionaire. But I have faith in the guy who could knock out North Korea and Panama in the
first minutes of the first round. Give ‘em hell, Alex.”
The echo of the phrase that had made the Truman election campaign firmed up the
President’s thoughts. “All of them in the Oval Office two weeks from now.”
The next two weeks saw midnight oil merging into sunrise light as the Intelligence
officers in every department of the government dug up whatever could be found on all the
boards of directors and the corporate officers of the companies which had asked for the
meeting. The Intelligence people found something the President did not know. Horace
Jellinson’s money was invested in all of the companies that were to be present at the
meeting. And he sat on the board of several.
It was eleven of them and the President who sat in the Oval Office. Carolyn Phillips
introduced each of her people.
Carl Reuten, CEO of GIC, Galaxy Industrial Corporation, represented the world’s
largest conglomerate of manufacturing companies.
Mildred Closter was the managing director of IBCC, International Bankers’
Coordinating Committee. The Committee did not own banks, but it was the controlling
group that told banks what their policies should be. It coordinated all major international
loans, dividing the risk and profit of each participating member of the Committee.
Harvey Rogers headed Transcontinental Construction Projects, TCP, the largest
builders of dams, buildings, bridges, and public works on all continents.
Axminster Hocking was CEO of UT, Universal Transport, the resultant of the
combination of almost all the independent shipping, rail, and air lines that were not national.
Trueman Fiskars headed Natural Resources Unlimited, NRU, owners of coal mines,
water companies, iron mines, sulfur deposits, copper mines, and so on. Almost without
number and located in every sector of the planet.
HH Meternich represented Power Corporation International, PCI, which dominated
utilities across the globe.
Margaret Advent was CEO of TWC, Trans-world Communications. Her bailiwick was
television, radio, internet, telephone, and other means of communication. A wag once said
that an African could not beat his drum unless Auntie Margaret had previously given her
permission.
Jacopo Bellini was both CEO and COO of Military Delivery Systems, MDS, the largest
private armament and munitions corporation in the world.
His cousin, Ralph Sartori, sat next to him. Sartori was the chief of Satellites
Corporation, operator of numerous privately financed satellites, each circling in its special
orbit about the earth.
And finally, World Industry Public Relations was represented by the intimidating
beauty of Julius Vincent, whose smile was said to cause women to faint and men to agree
with him even before he said a word.
The only one missing was Horace V. Jellinson. His absence was planned and
deliberate. Carolyn Phillips, when she requested the meeting, specifically noted that
Jellinson would not be invited.
“I don’t want this to be a confrontational meeting,” she said. “The President’s
hostility to Jellinson is well known. The people I represent want this to be the beginning of
true cooperation between the Administration and industry.”
Secretary Weilstein had taken the soft soap for what it was intended, not being
fooled for an instant. He told the President that Jellinson, as one of the most powerful men
 99
in the private sector, would unquestioningly have influence on the participants at the
meeting. More than one of the CEOs present could be said to be Jellinson’s alter ego.
Fortunatus now had confirmation of what the Intelligence people had discovered.
“Jellinson isn’t hiding his power, is he?”
“No, sir,” said the Secretary. “I think he actually wants it known how much clout he
has, perhaps for political reasons.”
Facing the group of business giants was Alexander Fortunatus, the man who had
loosed nuclear destruction on one nation, causing it to become a subordinate part of
another, and who had taken over another nation by intimidation and threat, absorbing it into
the new American empire as a colony.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, as I promised you, there is no one here but us. There are no
tape recorders running. You are free to say whatever you wish. I will listen to you and
respond in accordance to what I see the interests of the United States to be. There are
notepads and pens if you wish to write anything down for yourselves, and I will have
refreshments brought in. If you will excuse me, I will order these in now.”
A quick telephone from the President brought in three tables with coffee makers,
teapots, an assortment of wines, and edibles of various types placed at three stations in the
room. The coffee makers and teapots were plugged in to keep them hot, and the women
who wheeled the tables in left immediately.
“You may help yourselves as you will,” the President said, “and in accordance with
your expressed desires, there will be no serving personnel. Your people have checked the
room for recording devices in accordance with our agreement, and they have seen that our
usual equipment has been temporarily disabled, so we have complete privacy.”
The President led the others to the refreshments, and when each had satisfied
himself with beverages and comestibles, the meeting began.
Carolyn Phillips led off. “I think, Mr. President, you realize that we represent a fairly
large segment of world business. All of our companies deal in products and services that are
needed to maintain civilization, as we know it. We had all hoped that the experience of the
decades behind us would have made war an activity of the past. But the events – your
events – of the last months have caused instability in the operations of all industry,
commerce, and finance across each of the continents.”
“Ms. Phillips,” the President said, “I am not going to be polite. I have no intention of
listening to the same kind of talk that I heard at the UN before we left. These events,
causing instability as they have done, were not my events. If you are not aware of the facts
as they occurred, then you have been on another planet. To be totally redundant, acts of
war are acts of war, acts of terrorism are acts of terrorism. If you have any way of handling
these events, as you call them, tell me and I’ll consider them the next time someone tries to
tweak the American nose.”
“I cannot speak of the politics of the situation,” Phillips said.
“In that case,” Fortunatus said brusquely, “tell me what you wanted this meeting
for.”
Jacopo Bellini stood up. He was a dark Mediterranean type, stocky, muscular, with
black eyes and a thick black mane. A self-made billionaire, he had neither education nor
culture, neither wit nor humor. He dealt in destruction and relished the power it gave him.
“The turmoil you have created and the restrictions you have put on trade have hurt
our business. You represent the most powerful nation on earth, and you are using that
power to intimidate us and to force us to change the way we do business.”
“Are you losing money, Mr. Bellini?”
“I did not say that.”
“Then what is your complaint?”
“We don’t want you in the United States to tell us how to run our business in Jakarta
or Tokyo or Berlin or Rome. You have no right.”
“You are correct, Mr. Bellini. I have no right to tell you what to do in Rome. But I will
tell you what you may do in New York. Every one of you does business in this country.
 100
Because we are the strongest and the richest. Almost all of you represent companies
that are supposed to be American companies. For your information, Mr. Bellini, Military
Delivery Systems is incorporated in Delaware, and your largest stockholder is an American,
Horace V. Jellinson. You take out of this country, but you do not put back. You use other
countries to reduce the amount you pay in tax to this country. You employ labor in other
countries at a very low stipend, and you sell here at a very high profit. You take out of
America, but you don’t give back.
“You, all of you, are not corporations. You are international combines that seek to
create law for yourself. I have had a study of your boards made, and the study indicates
that multi-national is also multi-ethnic, multi-political, and multi-economic with Japanese,
Chinese, Malaysian, Singaporeans, Saudis, Europeans, as members. Not the people of these
countries, but the elite entrepreneurs, the politically powerful, the economic masters. Your
case is not with America, Mr. Bellini. It’s with the world.
“Now I will listen to whatever you want to say to me, and I will deliver your wishes to
our Congress. That’s as far as I’ll go.”
Fortunatus’s putdown of Jacopo Bellini did not deter the corps of CEOs from
registering strong complaints and suggestions concerning American governmental behavior
that stopped just short of being threats. Unless the USA did as the corporations suggested,
there might be withdrawals of offices, factories, warehouses, plants, and so on from
American soil. Banking centers in Shanghai, Taiwan, London, or Paris could easily replace
Wall Street and the various banking centers and stock exchanges in the US.
Plus the fact that withdrawal of political support of the Democratic Party would
without question put an end to the Fortunatus regime, and a right-wing Republican president
and congress would give the CEOs exactly what they wanted.
Plus the fact that UN members almost universally were hostile to Fortunatus and his
activism with regard to what he called terrorism and acts of war – which no one outside the
US called acts of war or terrorism – would soon put the United States in the position of an
international pariah, without friends or allies.
Plus the fact that corporate know-how in production and expertise in management
was far more efficient than governmental guidance and control and would present
consumers with savings in costs and in taxes.
Plus the fact that international corporate power was greater than any single nation –
or, for that matter, any group of nations. The international corporate society was the real
government of the world.
The views of the men and women, sitting around in the room, each a world power in
his own right came to a precise definition when Margaret Advent rose and pointed a gnarled,
but well-jeweled finger – it bore a twelve carat diamond – at the President and said, “Mr.
President, let’s talk turkey. There isn’t one of us here who doesn’t pull down a minimum of
six million dollars a year in salary, plus bonus and stock options. There isn’t one of us who
in terms of economic and industrial power doesn’t pack more punch than any group of
senators or congressmen you could name.”
“Or president?” the chief executive said.
“You said it. Not I,” countered Ms. Advent.
The presentation, the argument, the position statement went on and on. Finally it
wound down to uncomfortable silence.
“Are you trying to indicate to me that you, singly or combined, are more powerful
than the United States of America, that you can at will control this country? Or other
countries? Or the world?
Again Advent said, “You said it. Not I.”
Again the executives continued with their arguments about power and control.
Finally the discussion wound down, neither side giving an inch. And when the CEOs were
done, the President said one word, “Hubris.”
“What does he mean?” asked Mildred Closter.
“Something to do with the gods, I think,” answered Margaret Advent.
 101
The President picked up his desk phone and called for the doors to the Presidential
Office to be opened and the guests to be ushered to their limousines. There were no good-
byes.
The President also did not mention the fact that the coffee makers that had provided
the CEOs with freshly brewed coffee through the meeting had imbedded in them listening
devices that picked up everything said in the room and preserved all the conversations on
three different tapes.

* * *

At his next Cabinet meeting Fortunatus reported the almost-ultimatum that the
executives had given him.
“I can understand them,” Ortega said. “I’ve been a business man long enough to
know that no business wants government running his operation. What they are asking for is
what anyone in business would ask for. And I think we should cooperate with them.”
Fortunatus looked with disdain at his VP. “In that case, we make Carolyn Phillips
President, Julius Vincent Vice President, Jacopo Bellini Secretary of the Treasury, Trueman
Fiskars Secretary of the Interior…”
“But Bellini and Fiskars aren’t American,” said Ortega.
The President looked at him through narrowed eyes, and Ortega realized he’d been
made a fool of.
“One thing I can tell you, Terry,” Fortunatus said, “there are people who hate us and
people who would like to do us in. If we look carefully at what has happened here in our
great country, we can say: We saw the enemy and they are us.” He turned to the other
members of the Cabinet and smiled a bit. “Do you remember many years ago a movie with
Leslie Nielsen called Naked Gun 2A? It was a silly movie about a mad bumbling cop. There
was a conspiracy about corporations trying to force the president not to go the
environmental way with energy. That would injure their profits. The movie was silly – in
part a spoof of corporate influence and power – and it was made before the enormous
concentration of economic power that came as a result of the takeovers and consolidations
and combinations we have seen in the last thirty years.
“It was also before the North Korean and Panama incidents. Now, some of you blame
me for the steps I took to preserve American life and American property and American
interests. Some of you would have preferred that I turn the cheek in good Christian style
and not provoke the North Koreans. Others of you, who feel as I do about America’s position
in the world, would have preferred a conventional war in both the East and Central America
– more Vietnams. Well, I’m the president, and I decided that the best way to win a war was
quickly, cheaply, and decisively. And that’s what I did. If this was the world of the eighties
and nineties, if we didn’t have PinPoint, if we weren’t the most powerful nation on earth, I
might have done just that. But we do have the power, and I chose the quick cut. Surgery.
In and out. And win.
“Well, the CEOs don’t like what I did. And they like producing where it’s cheapest
and most profitable. Actually, they like the fact that we’re so powerful, that no one can
really challenge us. But they want us, the USA, to work the world the way they want. I don’t
go along with that. We are a nation of laws. Of checks and balances. If Congress doesn’t
like what I do, they can pass laws to stop me. But they haven’t. Or the Supreme Court can
say that what I have done is unconstitutional. But it hasn’t.
“It’s a rough game I’ve been playing, and these CEOs don’t like it. They don’t like it
at all. They want to control me. They’ve picked their CEO of CEOs, and it’s Whore-ass
Jellinson. It’s quite true that I hate his guts, but it’s also true that I love this country too
much to let it be controlled by him and his minions. You’ve heard the tape. Now, do you
want me to give in or to fight them every which way we can?”
There was silence for what seemed a long while at the table. Then whispering side to
side. The President sat quiet, waiting for a consensus to form out of the whispers.
 102
Finally, Secretary of State Franklin Steiner said, “We none of us like this at all, Mr.
President. We know we have to go along with what you are doing. All we ask of you is to be
careful and to go slow. We’re a powerful nation, but we are also an apple-cart that can be
tipped over.”
“You mean, Frank, that I wait until we are pushed to the wall?”
“Damnit, Frank,” Secretary of Defense Armbruster Coolidge said, his voice hard and
tight, “we don’t get pushed. What meaning has all our fucking power got if we have to be
pushed?”
“I don’t mean for us to be pushed,” Steiner said, “I mean just to be careful.”
“All right,” the President said, “if a missile comes, do I shoot it down or respond after
it hits.”
“Shoot it down.” It was not only Steiner who said that, but also most of the others at
the table.
“And economic missiles?” the President asked.
The others looked up, not quite comprehending what he meant.
“Economic missiles,” the President repeated. “Control of fuels, vital supplies, arming
of rogue countries? What then.”
Gordon Jamison, the Attorney General, a prominent dove, an idealist, a compromiser,
a do-gooder said, “I hate to say this because it goes against everything I believe in, but I
think we have to shoot down economic and industrial missiles – as metaphoric as they may
be. For our own survival we have to fight this new kind of war.” There was an unhappy
murmur of agreement. The President closed the meeting.
 103

TWELVE: LORNA
Following the meeting with the CEOs of the multinational corporations the President
began to get reports of increases in missile production. These reports came from various
parts of the world. He realized that the buildup could probably be attributed to deliberate
aggressive action on the part of the multinationals. Intelligence determined that the
missiles were being distributed to both legal and illegal recipients. In all cases the recipients
were right wing oriented.
We saw the enemy, and they are us. I was right. American corporations. These
bastards think they are bigger than the whole USA. It’s not just me. They want the whole
country. I think they want the whole world. They want to make a Corporate Empire and
control everything. And it won’t just be American corporations. It’ll be multinationals. Son
of a bitch! It won’t even be political. They don’t give a shit about liberal or conservative.
All they want is power. They’ll use the Republicans as a tool to make a power grab, and
then they’ll discard them the way they do the companies they take over and absorb.
It was time for another meeting in the Secure Room. But without Ortega. “What I
want is for each of you to play Devil’s Advocate with me. You’ve all heard from me the
report I made to you about my meeting with the CEOs. Now I want you to hear the tape.”
He watched as his little group heard the CEOs belittle him and through him belittle
the entire country. It took no discussion at all for them to realize the situation in which the
world was about to enter: the end of 21st Century as they understood it.
“The terrifying thing about it all,” Marisa said, “is that most people, business people
in particular, will want to join them because they’ll make profit on the stock. The way they
followed Microsoft in the 90s. And the genetic developers. And the whole entertainment
field. Everyone fell into the mini-theatre trap, put their money in, and then when the TV and
movie and cable moguls decided what the system was going to be, all the followers lost
their investments – speculations, really – and now that we’re into home theatre, all the real
estate promoters and chain movie house operators are out in the cold, along with their
stockholders and the Disney’s and the Dream Machines and their friends are in control of
the whole entertainment business. Look how far the networks have fallen and how the
satellites cover every rooftop in America.”
“Are we saying that the multinationals are taking over the government of the world?”
Maxim Crankshore’s tone was unbelief. “No one can take over a government.”
“You mean no one without an army,” added Lou Goldberg.
Con Corbin looked at the others. “You can buy a government. We just went through
that in Panama, didn’t we? Jellinson owned Panama. We took it away from him. Simple as
that. How much is it going to take in the Middle East to topple every Arab government?
Now that we have developed safe nuclear energy – and oil is not what it was – every little
tinpot dictator in the Middle East can be bought real easy. And, shit, in Africa and in the
Balkans every little warlord has his hand out for dollars or euros. And once they land in the
pockets of the corporations, it’ll be the way it was in the thirties in America with people
making deals with the Mafia, deals they couldn’t cancel. Before you know it, the acquisitions
vice-president of each corporation will be buying and selling countries instead of
competitors. Or both.”
The President looked at Con Corbin. Is he saying what he means? Has Olivieri
misinterpreted him? Is he a right guy or a wrong guy? Or does he just have to be
convinced. And how do I ask him about the China Cabal without blowing my can of worms
apart?
“What do we do?” Marisa asked.
The President finally entered the conversation. “We can’t stand another cold war,
especially if the cold war is against quasi-internal corporations. There’s no Iron Curtain, no
Berlin Wall between us. They are in the middle of us. If what I see is correct it’s a
conspiracy of Corporate America against the American people. Then who are their allies?
 104
It’s certainly not the people. They have nothing to gain. Is it smaller corporations? Do
they just want to be bought out and made to disappear? These monsters that are attacking
us are so far using money, but if I’m right, they are going to need some element of force.
What else will make a nation capitulate to them? They need an army – of some sort, some
kind of force.”
There was silence for a while.
“Oh my God. It’s so obvious.” The other three looked at Marisa Smith. “Panama,”
she said. “Panama. Jellinson made a mistake. He didn’t think you’d act the way you did.”
She turned to the President.
“He expected to take the country himself,” President Fortunatus said. “It had to be
his terrorists, his missiles. He wanted his own goddamn canal.”
“Is he back of this meeting you had?” Lou Goldberg said. “Is he calling the corporate
shots?”
“I had Kenny Bloom do a little research for me,” Fortunatus said. “Jellinson is an
important minority stockholder in each of the corporations that was sitting at that meeting.
I think we have a war on our hand, and there’s no way we’re going to be able to show the
world who the enemy is until we have beaten him to a pulp. Because to the world the
enemy is going to look like us.”
Maxim looked into his boss’s eyes. “You are going to take him on in every country,
aren’t you? And the whole world is going to think you’re the guilty one. You will be accused
of waging war on innocent people, of fomenting terrorists to make an excuse for conquest.
You are going to be the evil Alexander the Great.”
“Right,” the President said. “Does anyone have any easy way out?”
“Assassinate him,” Marisa said. “Quick and easy.”
“And his allies? And the terrorists? And the banks and the industries and the
media?” The President looked at his advisors. “The whole world will be against us. Because
it will be profitable for them to be. Killing the bastard won’t solve the problem. It’s better to
leave him alive until the end – until we can prove what it is he is.”
Corbin said, “I think I have to go back and look through all the investigation we did
on… whatever, some of it, very iffy. But I have to check. Something is not right.”
“Do that,” Fortunatus said. “Let me know what you find.” Maybe he’ll find the China
Cabal.

* * *

American Intelligence was revved up to fever pitch. Every agent in every theatre was
on the alert. Looking for the bits and pieces of information that would allow the President to
anticipate Jellinson’s actions.
Much of what they found was innocent and legal. On the face of it. Unless an
investigator looked underneath the mushroom. There in the shade would be found the real
information. The mushroom was poisonous, but it could never be proven.
What they found was that Corporate America was deeply involved in countries that
helped terrorist groups. Second, it became quickly obvious that China was playing a lead
hand in the game. It was providing capital that came from Hong Kong and labor from the
mainland for large-scale construction of material that could be used either pacifically or
militarily. The amount of labor was China’s greatest contribution to the Jellinson effort – if it
was in truth a Jellinson effort. But the amount of capital was another matter. When an
estimate was made of the number of industrial plants and programs new in the Chinese
world, it was easy to see that the capital from Hong Kong was not sufficient to support them.
There had to be an infusion of vast amounts of capital from outside the Red Republic.
And there had to be control over exports of material and know-how to China.
Fortunatus saw only one solution. The USA had to be not only the leader of the free world,
but also the police force and the controller of capital. Despite the resistance from Congress,
he made presidential orders that froze exports either of know-how or material, particularly
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any thing to do with lasers, nuclear power, computers (especially mega-power
computers), and anything remotely connected with weaponry.
The election money suppliers, big industry – a good deal of which was linked to Asian
money and labor – resisted. And the congressmen and senators, eager for reelection, went
with the pipers who paid their way. President Fortunatus was faced with defeat, one time
after another, when he favored reform legislation. Sufficient numbers of senators and
representatives from both parties – including the leaders of both – voted their political self-
interest to stop the President from instituting reforms. Then, when the Treasury
investigated the sources of very large election dollars, it was inevitably a corporation in
which Jellinson was a significant player who provided the funds. Fortunatus had found the
Jellinson-China link.
The game had become bigger and riskier. It was now a question of domination. Who
was to be the dominant political player in the United States? And who was to occupy that
position in the world. With the takeovers and mergers in all major fields almost an
accomplished fact there was no longer a situation in which the ultraconservative Supreme
Court would find it necessary to invoke the Sherman Anti-Trust act. The protections of the
19th and 20th centuries were long gone. Perhaps it was the breakup of the old AT&T or the
enormous growth of the computer software monopoly of Microsoft that spurred the new
economic fiefdoms or the marriage across national lines of huge companies that created so
much economic power.
Whatever it was, the representatives of these powers had met with the President and
told him what his place was in the scheme of things. And the fiction of stockholder control
only thinly veiled the actual fact that it was Jellinson, who if he was not in actual control, was
certainly a prime influence in expressions of corporate power.
The unfortunate wrestling match between the President and his enemy, intensified
by the publicity given to the President’s name calling, the Whore-ass incident, made the
match, like those of the Roman gladiators, a struggle to the death.
Despite his losses in Panama and other areas in Central America, Jellinson still
controlled much of American and international investment and influence. The current
battlefield lay in China. It was not possible yet to defeat Jellinson commercially in China or
to force China to accept the terms of level-field trade. China, like Japan in the previous
century, favored its own companies without exception. Foreign concerns could have only a
minority interest in Chinese corporations, even though they might have invested most of the
capital necessary for these corporations. The only thing the President could do was to
summarily take China out of the most favored nation group and increase tariffs, these done
on the basis of presidential act. He went to the media, exposing – no matter which party
was involved – all the political dirt he could, but he never touched politicians' private lives.
Unlike his opponents, both in the opposition and in his own party, the President kept to a
firm set of ethics.
Under a barrage of political, economic, and social criticism the President’s popularity
plummeted. There never had been in American political history such a number of political
commercials in a non-election year, all of them critical of Fortunatus in one way or another.
Much of the money for these could be traced to China. It was at this point that Con
Corbin’s investigations convinced him that Jordan Olivieri had been correct in his
assessment of the China situation. He himself brought Olivieri to the President and had
Olivieri make the presentation. Neither the FBI agent nor Fortunatus said anything to
indicate that what was being related had been told before. But the interview pleased the
President. He knew now that he could count on Corbin in what he expected to be a war to
the finish.
Chinese officials, whose pay backs from American business had been substantial,
now as the streams of profit were diminished, realized that not only were they losing big
dollars, but they were losing face – they had played the game of being leader in Asia against
American commercial dominance – and their attempt to out-Japan Japan commercially was
turning into a failure.
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They turned to Jellinson, whose ubiquitous presence in the corporate field
impressed them. He convinced them to stop the river of dollars being poured into the
political coffers of the American parties. And he began to turn them into another and more
dangerous direction.
It was important for the Chinese bureaucrats and their silent partners, those willing
corporate behemoths, to beat Fortunatus and the American administration. They began to
approach the Arab and Muslim countries in terms of the American Satan, and they poured
money into terrorist cells to create war and havoc on American industry and business. It
made little difference to a corporate board if a plant in the US was sabotaged if that plant
could be easily replaced by one in a third-world country that produced commodities at a
fraction of the cost of production in America.
But this wouldn't work too well on a long-term basis or if became too extensive
because China needed the American market to maintain its own position. What the pearl of
the Orient needed was a subservient rich consumer population who would pay whatever was
asked for TVs, sneakers, VCRs, and jeans that came inexpensively and in prodigious
numbers from quickly constructed assembly lines. These the First World corporations,
through the efforts of Horace Jellinson, eagerly provided for their commercial ally without
realizing they were aiding their political enemy.
That China was the ultimate political enemy was hidden by the dollars of profit that
efficiently papered over the slime beneath. The inscrutable Chinese façade presented a
smiling face that hid its fangs behind second sets of corporate books.
Terrorism, which had been buried in the sand ever since the declaration of the State
of Palestine, began slowly to raise its evil head above the soil. The events were small and
separated from each other. A ball bearing plant in Indiana, a computer software company
on a floor in an office building in Lake Success, New York, a lead-battery maker in a suburb
of Tulsa. Nothing big, no lives lost: all of the bombings were done on Sunday when the
plants were closed. Just enough to make some headlines and create an aura of nervousness
in police departments, in Intelligence departments, and in the Old Executive Office building.

* * *

But it was enough to activate the professional relationship of Tommy Kwo and
Maureen Douglass. At the President’s request the two had been in contact with each other
and had on several occasions seen each other socially. The President had arranged for
Tommy to have an indefinite leave from the police department in New York, and the
detective, maintaining his cover as a lawyer for the President, found he had time both to
monitor the VP’s apartment – and Mary Elizabeth Li’s – and still to enjoy an attractive
woman’s company.
The terrorist sabotage activity had no direct connection with anything he was
connected with until the name of Lorna Johnson came up. Then, as Con Corbin noted,
something hit the fan. And all the investigations came together.
Lorna Johnson was in the final days of a divorce from her husband, Dr. Benjamin
Johnson, professor of humanities at Harvard. A divorce in Cambridge, Massachusetts would
have not been noted in a Washington, DC paper had it not been for who Lorna Johnson was.
Lorna Johnson was the daughter of the woman who had been Brenda Loomis before
she married. The Loomises were a socially prominent Florida family who had fallen on
difficult times as a result of unfortunate investments and were what was euphemistically
called cash-poor. To improve the lot of her family, Brenda had looked beneath her and
married a rising Miami businessman, Terry Ortega
What had been Brenda Loomis-Ortega’s dream as she pulled her husband out of the
Hispanic political rat-race came true: her husband became the Vice President of the United
States. Her ambition for him and for her only child had been the same: come as close to
being White Anglo-Saxon Protestant as possible. Terry was – and would remain always –
Catholic, and that probably would inhibit him from achieving the presidency. His religion
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was Brenda’s only failure in her remake of her husband. But Lorna, raised as an
Episcopalian and who actually had no belief of any sort, looked and acted the true-blue
WASP.
When Lorna was not quite eighteen she met Horace Jellinson. She was valedictorian
at The Morgan Academy, a posh private school in Miami. He was graduation speaker. He
entranced her by his personal power. When he asked her to have dinner with him, she
accepted, but without her father's knowledge. Her mother knew, and thought it better not
to let Terry have any input concerning the propriety of an enormously wealthy property
owner taking his teenage daughter to dinner. Brenda Loomis Ortega, from the time her
daughter reached early puberty, hoped for a marriage that would lift her out of the Hispanic
Miami rat race.
Brenda Loomis was brilliant. Terry adored his wife, and she returned the compliment,
but essentially on the surface. She had always looked down on her husband’s background
despite his success in business. This did not change when he demonstrated an aptitude for
politics. But her looking down on Ortega was a kind of sympathetic one. He was not well
educated. His family was nothing, but he had ambition. And as their relationship
developed, she no longer saw him as someone beneath her, but someone who could be
educated and elevated to her own level of culture and civilization. She never quite
succeeded because Ortega was always looking for ways in which to improve his position,
more than to improve his self. Brenda understood him, and he did bring her and by
extension her family back into the fold of the wealthy families of Florida. And with his
connections, or so it seemed, he was able to point the Loomises into investments that made
Brenda’s share of her family fortune greater than the fortune Ortega was able to make for
himself.
Lorna’s attitude toward her father was far more negative than her mother’s and
much less hidden. She hated the fact that she was a spic. She hid the ounce of black blood
in her, and she longed to become part of the high society she believed her mother's family
represented.
So when the wealthy and powerful commencement speaker proposed a visit to his
hotel suite after the dinner, she was thrilled to accept. Everything in the suite indicated big,
big money. Jellinson reached into a drawer and drew out a lovely jewel-decorated watch. To
Lorna it was a symbol of wealth and social position. Although her father had money
according to Miami standards of the time, this watch, encrusted with diamonds and rubies,
casually gifted to her by a stranger, was a symbol of the world to which she would like to
belong. When Jellinson kissed her, it was all she could do to slow herself down from
stripping. Yet she was a virgin – she had rejected all the boys who had approached her: a
bunch of spics, and so she was the first virgin Jellinson had ever had.
Without question, he was impressed with the fact that the girl had given herself to
him quite voluntarily. He tried to ease her pain, got her a little tipsy, and kept her the night
in his suite. Her mother told Terry that their daughter was spending the night with a friend
after the graduation ceremony, hoping that Lorna was making a step up in the world. Which
she was.
Jellinson and Lorna were really birds of a feather. There was a predatory element in
Lorna's makeup that matched the millionaire's. And he recognized it. He offered, not to
marry her, but to provide for her and to make entry into society easy for her. He also,
recognizing an ally in Mrs. Ortega, fed the mother bait by tips in the market that made the
Loomis money expand geometrically. Brenda made the Lorna and Jellinson alliance
acceptable to society by the strength of her own position.
At eighteen all this looked like heaven to the teenage girl. To give the lovers credit,
they were faithful to each other – at least as Lorna grew older and when Jellinson happened
to be in town. They did not question the lives that they lived, so long as each was discrete.
He sent her to Radcliffe. Terry Ortega kept himself blissfully ignorant of what was
happening, and Brenda, who discovered finally that she had let Lorna take a mouthful of a
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repast her mother had not prepared, could only hope that no harm would come to her
wayward daughter and that she would ultimately enjoy a rich dessert.
Brenda, in her own mind, kept the fiction of Lorna acting only as a young hostess for
the powerful magnate alive for her entire life. Lorna, as least as bright as her mother, knew
her billionaire lover was serving her a gourmet meal, and she made a point of pleasing the
caterer.
When, after her graduation from Radcliffe, Jellinson arranged for her to marry
Benjamin Johnson, a young man from his Texas hometown, whom he had sent through
school and whom he had gotten academic positions in universities where he was known as a
important benefactor, Lorna had no objection, understanding that she would still occupy
Jellinson’s bed and be his prime possession. And the fiction of the beautiful hostess, now to
be a matron, would go on.
It was this wedding that cost Ortega so much. His wife – he knew she was mortally ill
at the time – wanted a DC wedding that would bring out all the socialites of the Beltway. To
please the wife, who had literally raised him up from Miami’s streets to his high office, he did
the wedding feast up brown. Yet he knew that in his daughter’s eyes he still was just a spic.
Benjamin Johnson's mother, Rita Johnson, had been a mistress of Jellinson in Fort
Worth. She bore Jellinson's baby, but on the promise that her son would always be cared
for, she said nothing to Ben about his father. Jellinson kept his word. He introduced Lorna
to the young professor and fostered the young couple’s relationship. He set up a fund for
Ben on the proviso that the two young people marry, which they did, recognizing that it was
an arranged marriage. Ben knew that Lorna would meet his benefactor – he never found out
that Jellinson was his father – on occasion. He didn't like it, but the position and the money
were good.
Ben became a professor at Harvard and he kept the deal and the money until he met
a graduate student with whom he made a passionate alliance that had little to do with
academics. The affair became too public for Lorna to accept, and with her lover's
permission, she divorced from Ben. Subsequently, when her parents moved to a permanent
house in Washington, she also made a home in DC.
But she was a thorn in her father's side because of President Fortunatus' enmity for
Jellinson. By this time Ortega was well aware of his daughter’s liaison with Jellinson. And
when Lorna began to move in social circles from which her father was excluded, her
relationship with him became cold. Actually he agreed with the President about Jellinson
and what he stood for.
Lorna in Washington became well known as the friend of Horace V. Jellinson, often
continuing her role as hostess for his social gatherings. Jellinson had long expanded his
interests from shopping centers. Ten years before, in the space of two months, with
assistance from a number of banks, he made a stock and cash deal to take over both a
major aircraft and an armament company, Torgin, Ltd. and General Fire Power, Inc., both of
which had huge dealings with the US military. And one acquisition led to another. He
eventually built a pyramid using banks and investors’ money. The pyramid was mostly
overseas, where American investors had little chance of discovering what their hard-earned
dollars were being used for. They didn’t care much. Jellinson stock rose steadily. He even
paid a small dividend. And the corporate statement went from millions to billions. Everyone
was happy with Horace V. Jellinson.

* * *

Lorna had been a bosom friend of Mary Elizabeth Li at Radcliffe. Tommy Kwo heard
her voice for the first time in Mary Elizabeth’s apartment at a time when the VP was not in
residence. Then when he heard her name mentioned and heard her raucous laugh when
she was told that her father dwelled in the apartment next door, he began to pay strict
attention to what was being said. He heard her hysterical glee at the announcement that
her dear friend, whom she had just rediscovered, was her father's mistress. Tommy
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immediately sought out Maureen Douglass for a conference with the President on
strategies that might be taken.
The President did not want to involve his VP in this. But Marisa refused to see it his
way. Marisa’s voice was firm and uncompromising. She did not like what she presumed to
be the President’s attitude toward Lorna Johnson.
“I’m not trying to compromise you, Marisa,” the President responded. “You ought to
know me by now. You know what I stand for. But Lorna is not her father. They don’t even
speak to each other. Since her mother died, I don’t think she’s even telephoned him. If
she’s involved with Li or with Jellinson, it’s all on her own. I just don’t want to destroy Terry
– and you know I don’t like him – but I don’t want to treat him like a fall guy. If that’s what
Jellinson has planned.”
“OK, then,” Marisa said. “Then let me do it my way.”
The President was not used to anyone in his inner group opposing something he had
put forward. Marisa refused to create some sort of cover-up to protect the VP, whom
Fortunatus insisted was absolutely innocent despite his emotional involvement with Mary
Elizabeth Li and despite the new complexity of his own daughter being linked to a known
enemy agent. Fortunatus painfully arose from his desk and followed his crutches up and
down the breadth of his office.
“Why do you insist that Ortega is mixed up in this? Don’t you know that if this gets
to the public, the air will be filled with threats of impeachment – for both of us. Don’t you
know that?”
“Are you thinking of yourself – or of the country?” Marisa’s voice became stern,
almost strident. “We’re not talking of impeachment. We’re talking of treason. Are you
being a politician or are you a statesman?”
The President halted in his steps. He wobbled a bit. Marisa caught him before he
lost his balance, and she pushed a chair behind him. He sank into it, closed his eyes, let his
supports fall to his sides, and put his hands to his forehead.
“My God,” he said, “I’ve loosed nuclear bombs, I’ve taken over the Canal, I’ve forced
two foreign nations to give in to me, and I don’t have enough common sense to realize who I
am.”
“Alex, you are the most powerful man in the world. You are the only protection the
world has against the crazies who will bomb, burn, destroy because they know absolutely
that they, and only they, have the right on their side. Because they talk to God, because
they know the Truth, because they know the Right Way, because they think in capital letters
all the time… Alex, if you lose control, the whole world can go down the drain. You have to
put the stopper in the sink so that the whole civilized world can keep afloat. Even if the
water is not so clean. If it turns out that Terry is soiled, then he goes into the wash. There’s
no compromise when it comes the well being of the country.”
“All right. You’re right. But what the hell do I do? I need a second opinion. But
where do I find the right doctor?’
Marisa was silent for a bit. Then she smiled. “I know,” she said. “Go to the Vice
President.”
The President looked at her unbelievingly. “To Ortega?”
Marisa smiled broadly. “No, not to Terry. Go to the Vice President. Go to Marcia.”
The idea blossomed instantly in the President’s mind. He called Marcia to
Washington.
“I could have had a shot at the presidency as the first Jew to try,” Marcia Bloom said.
“I gave that up for you – and probably lost my baby as a result of the campaigning, and I did
it because I thought you needed my help – which you did. And now you want my help
again? I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for my still-born baby.”
“You’re right, Marcia, and things having turned out the way they did, I fault my self
for not seeing the country and the world in a proper light. But, Marcia, I've got problems
that are bigger than I am. Jellinson is involved in some kind of international conspiracy to
destroy not only me, but also this country as a democracy. He will make a financial
 110
autocracy of the whole world, with the Chinese as his partners, with power and terror at
his command. He has links in every terrorist movement, in all the rogue countries, in every
international bank and conglomerate. He’s bigger than America, and he'll control it all if we
don't find a way to destroy him.”
Marcia knew Jellinson from the days when he and the Blooms were both building
shopping centers, but she had no idea how far afield he had gone in his drive toward power.
“You must be exaggerating, Mr. President. I know he has power, but there's a limit to what
he can do. And what do you want me to do, Mr. President? I'm a private citizen.”
“Marcia, can’t we be Alex and Marcia again? I need you person to person.”
She looked at the man, and she could feel the pain in his voice. She softened her
tone. “All right, Alex, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get me Kenny.”
“Kenny is not a politician, Alex.”
“I need you and Kenny. Not in the front. In the back. I need you privately and
personally. Kenny has the links I can't get at. And if you say so, he'll help me. He'll help the
country. I'll never be able to acknowledge him because I know the control and influence his
and the other internationals have on each other. I may even cost him a lot of money, but he
and you have got to put the country before yourselves.”
“How did you ever get yourself locked into this fucking room?” she said. “Not a
window in the goddamned building. How can you look out and think?”
She was right. The Marble Box had no windows – a matter of security. And
consequently, the important element of being able to look out into the open air, into the
world outside, was not available to the inmates. And inmates they were, the officials of the
federal government, from the President down, who were encased in the secure cocoon that
was The Marble Box, two marble encased floors above ground, three concrete and steel
protected below, all of it air conditioned, well lit, but isolated from the real world. They were
all captives of the fear of terrorism, of attack by the unknown.
“Marcia, you are really so smart. I can never think in here. When I have time to think
– when I need it – I use my office in the Old Executive Office Building. There I have a couple
of windows. I can see daylight. I hate this place.”
He looked at his old friend. Does she really hate me for what I did to her politically?
Am I the reason her baby came out stillborn? Am I just a political animal? Or am I trying to
save this country – and the rest of the world – from the Corporations?
Marcia Bloom got out of her chair. She walked over to the President and looked deep
into his eyes. Then she turned away and walked to the four security monitors that showed
the outside of the building. The question of heightened presidential security was obviously
answered by the presence of military personnel on all four of the screens. An armored
vehicle, its engine purring lightly, was parked just below on the tarmac that had been laid in
a wide circle around the whole building.
“Good TV,” she said. “I can almost smell the exhaust from the Jeep down there. I
guess, this is as close as you get to the outside in this mausoleum,” she said, mostly to
herself.
She hadn't like what Fortunatus did to her politically, but she could understand the
need for his action. And, she had to admit to herself, that she liked the idea of being a
mother once more. Fortunatus did not know that part of the therapy after the disaster of
the death of the unborn baby was another pregnancy that took almost two years to
eventuate. There was a fifteen-year spread between Kenny, Junior and the fetus that was
beginning to move inside her. She and Kenny called him Tiny Tim in a way had brought back
a breath of youth to her life. Kenny, Senior was away so much that without the Washington
she had filled her days with, she would have been lonesome had it not been for her
anticipation of the crib and the carriage and the playpen that her adorable baby would
occupy.
She didn’t much like the idea of once again being involved with DC politics, but she
was impressed by the President's expression of need. As she looked at the monitors, she
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thought of her dream of some day occupying the room in which she stood as the prime
tenant, but it was not to be. As the Oval Office had disappeared, only to have its name
resurrected in an imitation in the Old Executive Office Building, so had her dream of being
Numero Uno disappeared, only now to be awakened by being once more close to the center
of power. But it would only remain a dream.
Behind her the President cleared his throat and said, “Marcia, you remember Pogo,
don't you? Before our time, but philosophically appropriate. The POGO PRINCIPLE, Marcia.
WE HAVE MET THE ENEMY AND HE IS US. I need you and Kenny, Marcia.”
“All right, Alex. Personal, unofficial, and private. What do you want?”
“I see you’re pregnant again,” the President said. “If it’s a boy, will you name him
after me?” He kissed her affectionately. “Welcome aboard, Marcia.”
She gave him a thin smile. Alex always got his way.
 112

THIRTEEN: CORPORATE WAR

The President soon realized there were very specific and dangerous forces affecting
the American economy that could not be accounted for by normal market movements. They
were affecting US Treasury offerings, the general bond market, and the stock markets, all in
a downward direction. First it was what was called a normal market correction, but when
the downward movement reached ten percent, everyone took serious notice.
Augustus Weilstein, Secretary of Commerce, called the Cabinet’s attention to the
very substantial dollar loss that was taking place.
“This has happened before,” Denver Morgan, Secretary of the Treasury said. “We
have ups and downs constantly.”
“You had to hold back on a Treasury Notes offering,” Weilstein said. “Why?”
“Well, there’s been a good deal of private selling, and the interest rate’s been rising.
You don’t put out an offering when the market is selling; it’s too expensive.”
“Who’s been doing the selling?” the President asked.
“Very strange,” Morgan said. “I checked all the exchanges and the OTC market. The
selling comes both from overseas and from corporate holdings. A large number of
multinationals have been unloading American bond holdings. Also, a number of countries. I
checked these, and strangely enough, countries where the multinationals have large plants.
These countries that hold American bonds and currency have been – I hate to say this –
dumping securities, bonds, and currency on the market. We’ve had to buy dollars to
maintain our position.”
“Very similar happening in the securities market, both for stocks and corporate
bonds. Large dumping of stocks in a very selective way. Companies that are essentially
located in the US. Not so much multinationals. American corporations. And stocks that
have been in the hands of holding companies and mutual funds. So the depression is
essentially onshore, and the offshore companies have been holding their own pretty much.”
“I want a detailed report,” the President said. “And I want it yesterday.”
The President, when he got the report, called in Marcia and Kenny Bloom to a private
meeting. They were the first non-government people to see the Secure Room.
“Awesome,” Kenny Bloom said when they arrived there. “I don’t know where we are,
but where we are is very impressive.”
“You have never been here,” Fortunatus said, “and you will take the oath everyone
who has been here has taken. Nothing to be reported from here, no notes, no leaks, no
conversation.”
“Of course,” both replied.
“First listen to the recording I have of a meeting with a number of CEOs.”
After listening, Kenny Bloom said, “Hubris is the right word. Who do they think they
are?”
“Now, you two look at this report.” The President showed them a detailed list of buys
and sells in the various markets that had taken place over the previous weeks. Some of the
transactions were in third party names, but government researchers had been able to trace
a fair number of them to the actual sellers.
“These are fronts for the ones who were at that meeting,” Marcia said.
“Now look at the foreign government transactions and relate them to the companies
on the list you have.” The President handed the couple another set of reports.
The Blooms examined the reports, whispered to each other, and then nodded in
agreement. “These companies are directing governments to act on their behalf,” Marcia
Bloom said.”
“It’s almost as if the multinationals are in control of some of these smaller countries,”
Kenny added.
“Exactly,” Fortunatus said. “Now look at this list of cancellations and orders for
heavy equipment.”
 113
“The same,” the Blooms responded. “What they are doing is canceling orders to
be filled in the US and replacing them offshore at considerably lower prices.”
“Actually,” Kenny explained, “they are going to cause unemployment in the US and a
drop in business, and they will make more profit in their plants in Europe, Asia, and South
America. These are not so much multinational as they are anti-American.”
“And yet most of the CEOs and stockholders are in this country. But what do they
give a shit about the US? They are trying to beat us into the ground.” The President
slammed his fist to the table. He pushed his hand through his hair and said, “It’s a…”
“It’s an economic war.” Marcia finished his sentence.
“How do you fight that kind of war?”
“It’s a crazy war, said Kenny.]
“That’s exactly what it is,” the President said. “The Crazy War.”

* * *

In the midst of the market turmoil, Arab-Israeli hostility came to the surface again.
As always, with undercurrents so close to the surface that one could feel them oceans away,
the word was that the US was always friendly to Israel and an enemy of the Arab countries.
Nothing new, but disturbing.
Secretary of State Frank Steiner asked the President, “Will you talk to the Arabs?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That we’re just trying to be evenhanded and an honest broker. To make peace
where there’s never been peace. You know.”
“That’s all horse shit, Frank. You know it, I know it, the Israelis know it, and for sure
the Arabs know it. Israel is our ally; we’re tied up tight with them, because if anything starts
up in the Middle East, it’s them we can hold on to and get support, nowhere else. But if you
want me to give the usual canned speech, I’ll do it.”
“Will you go to the UN?”
At this point the President almost blew up. Angry and in a rasping voice, he said,
“God damn son of a bitch, Frank, you know I won’t go near that place. If they blew it up, I’d
dance on the rubble. I let them stay there after I dispossessed them, but only because I
don’t have the power to kick them out. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ever walk into that place
again. Nor will this country have anything to do with any action on the part of the UN.” He
glowered at his Secretary of State. “Pick another place, Frank.”
“The Arab Friendship League in New York,” Steiner said quickly. Before he made the
suggestion he knew that the President would not go to the UN, but he thought it worth a try.
“I’ll get a lovely reception there, won’t I?” Fortunatus said. “But if you really want me
to go, I will.”
Arrangements were quickly made, and two days later the President helicoptered to
New York. He told the gathering that the United States was neutral with regard to any other
nation, Arab or otherwise, except when its interests, either with regard to the security of its
nationals or its property, or when members of its society were in danger. He was received
politely but with little applause.
Having done his duty as he saw it – he took no questions, but he did indicate that he
would have a news conference on foreign affairs the following day in Washington, and he
invited members of the Arab delegations or their news media to attend.
Accompanied by his entourage, he turned to leave the hall, when a member of the
audience, an unknown sitting among a group of Iraqis rose from his seat and drew a large
handgun. He shot several times and the last bullet caught the President with a superficial
hit in the shoulder. But the wound bled profusely. The Secret Service surrounded him
instantly and led him out.
They drove him to the Helipad and he was flown to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Alan
Yesner, the President’s personal physician was at the hospital when the President arrived.
He examined the Chief Executive, took out the bullet that had lodged in a muscle, and
 114
cleaned him up.
When he was finished with the bandaging, he said, “You know, I think I’d better go
along with you when you’re outside Washington. You seem to attract bullets. I’d better be
there if one does more damage than this. Rest.”
“You have to be kidding, Alan,” Fortunatus said. “I have to find out what happened
after I left.”
“All right,” the MD replied, “but I’m going back to the Marble Box with you. I want to
look at the wound again. And I want to find out that there was nothing on that bullet that
could harm you.”
“You took it out, didn’t you? What could be wrong?”
“For all I know that fucking Arab could have shitted on the slug or poisoned it. I’ve
sent it to be checked.”
“All right, Alan. Come along. I’ll buy you dinner in the Residence.”
Meanwhile in New York, in the turmoil at the Arab Friendship League that ensued, a
whole barrage of bullets aimed at the presidential group from various points in the hall
disrupted the entire assembly. Two Americans and three people in the audience were killed:
two from Saudi Arabia and an English journalist. There were a dozen wounded.
911 calls brought ambulances and the police there within minutes. Two of the
assassins were killed. American Secret Service officers captured three others of the
shooters. One of them, an Iranian, claimed diplomatic immunity. The other two allowed
themselves to be captured passively. The Secret Service beat the Iranian unmercifully.
When he was taken to an ambulance that would deliver him to a prison hospital, he
muttered the word, “Maillol.”
Protestations of innocence from the Arab nations seemed sincere. They claimed that
they had nothing to do with the situation. The FSIA and the FBI eventually dug out enough
from the captured miscreants to determine that they were contract agents, hired not by the
Arabs but by an international group in some way linked to China. But the information was
fragmentary and vague.
The following day in the United Nations Assembly, almost as if choreographed, there
was an enormous anti-American outburst about triggering a nuclear war because of the
death of a couple of unwelcome Americans at a meeting of the Arab League. The whole
thing had an aura of hysteria about it, with most of the uproar coming from the visitors’
gallery. Naturally, the usual Asian and African delegations took part.
The President made a point of calling the Iranian ambassador to a meeting in the
Presidential Office in the Old Executive Office Building. When that official arrived, the
President took him on a walking tour of the remains of the White House.
“You can understand, I think, why we take terrorism, sabotage, and murder seriously
in this country.”
“We in Iran take these subjects most seriously,” said the ambassador.
“But, Mr. Akubar, it was an Iranian who was the leader of the group who attacked my
countrymen, and this Iranian claimed diplomatic immunity.”
“This man, Mr. President, was no delegate of ours. He had no diplomatic immunity,
and if you hand him over to us, we will punish him properly.”
“But, Mr. Akubar, if he is not a delegate and does not have immunity, then he is
subject to American law. He will be given a fair, public trial, and if found guilty, then he will
be punished according to law.”
When the President told him that American justice would take care of the miscreant,
Ismail Akubar ranted and raved about Iranians being subject to Iranian law. But the
President resisted him point after point. Finally, Akubar gave in and walked away. His
limousine, which had been following the two executives, picked him up, and he left the area.
The Iranian terrorist eventually gave in to intensive questioning and implicated every
Arab country and, most interesting, China in the attack on the Americans. But it was
pointless. He knew the name Maillol only as the one who gave the orders, but he did not
know any more than that. He, too, used the feminine when referring to the terrorist leader.
 115
He had never seen her. She was the subordinate leader to the main leader, General
Jelline.
This was the first mention of another name. It did not take much imagination to
associate General Haidar ibn Jelline with Horace V. Jellinson. A link was finally made.
Further evidence found on the Iranian and on the bodies of the dead assassins were
credit cards issued by the International Bank of Commerce and Industry. “No such bank,”
said Kenny Bloom, “but somewhere I’ve come across the name.” He checked with his
people in credit card circles and found the card for the presumed bank had been used to
obtain an apparent credit check of a Chinese diplomat. The telephone of the supposed bank
turned out to be a private number. “I think this was a means of identifying a messenger or
messages in a public situation,” Bloom said. “A credit card purchase would be made, and
verification would occur through this pseudo-bank, letting the seller know that the buyer was
‘one of them.’ And,” he added, “the location of the telephone was in Idaho. In Boise, and to
give you an idea of the chutzpa of these people, do you know in whose name it was listed?
Eric Stodman. How they got themselves into the credit card system I haven’t the faintest
idea. But they did.”
The President blanched at Bloom’s statement. The international link had suddenly
moved from overseas to onshore.
Eric Stodman was the name of a militia leader who had been killed in a shootout in
the Idaho mountains between the FBI and local police on one side and a violent armed
militia group holding several hostages on the other. Stodman was a leader of the Rocky
Mountain Freemen Association, a group that had set up the Nation of Freemen of America on
a thousand-acre compound in the mountains. Stodman himself had been killed in the last
battle in which all the hostages, an FBI agent among them, had been murdered.
Now the concept of an international conspiracy against the US hardened. Iran, Iraq,
whatever other Arab League countries – Libya, most likely, China, and local anti-government
militias, the CEO group, and Horace V. Jellinson.
The most difficult thing to believe was that corporations headed in many instances by
Americans – American citizens – could be involved in such a mind-boggling plot. This went
beyond belief. It was more than just a conspiracy. It smacked of treason. And if it was
treason, then Fortunatus’ action had been determined by that very condition: it was a war
situation in which treason was punishable, and punishable by death.
The whole thing was incredible. Or was it? And, more and more, the FR seemed to
be Freemen. Could the White House disaster have been caused by internal rather than
external enemies? Was there a link between Jellinson and the militias? The whole concept
was staggering. It seemed to lead to a situation where it was the United States against
most of the rest of the world. If most of the rest of the world was essentially being
controlled by the CEOs. If this was anywhere near correct, then the US was being besieged
both externally and internally. The Pogo Principle again. It was indeed the Crazy War.

* * *

Despite America’s withdrawal from the UN, unofficial contacts still remained. And
when More Vickers indicated that he wanted a meeting with the President of the United
States, an arrangement was made for the two to meet in the office of the mayor of New
York. Mayor Charles Goldstein was an affable pol, a true big city pro. He knew exactly why
his office was chosen for the meeting. It allowed both Vickers and Fortunatus to maintain
face and to meet on neutral ground. New York City, as host to the UN, kept the façade of
politeness necessary with all the international bigwigs who went in and out of the building
on East 45th Street. Simultaneously, as mayor of the largest city in the country, Charlie
could invite the President to his bailiwick, and the President could come there comfortably.
“Do you two want to be alone, to speak privately?” Goldstein asked.
“No skin off my teeth,” Fortunatus said. “Whatever Mr. Vickers wants.”
“I have no secrets,” More Vickers responded. “We are your guests, Mr. Mayor. Of
 116
course you may sit with us.”
“Good. I’ll take myself into a corner and let you two boys carry on.”
“Ball’s in your court, Mr. Vickers,” the President said.
“Speaking frankly, Mr. President, the United States has been responsible for an
enormous loss of life and property. Plus the illegal takeover of North Korea in one continent
and of the Republic of Panama in another. The world holds the United States to be a
criminal state. I would like to bring the US back into the company of peace loving nations.”
“Speaking frankly also, Mr. Secretary General, you are under a great
misapprehension.” The President saw that the meeting was not going to go anywhere, but
he held his temper in – he wanted to find out something for himself. “Mr. Secretary General,
you are aware that the provocation by the rogue state of North Korea had to be responded
to. When they declared war on the United States by bombing American territory and taking
American lives, the United States had no other response than to protect itself from further
attack. If this led to the defeat of the criminal government of North Korea, then that was the
result of war.”
“But you could have responded more gently,” Vickers said.
“Would you have preferred that we allow the nuclear missiles to land on American
soil and destroy American life and property? Mr. Vickers, what would be your response if
your land of Singapore was similarly attacked? Would you have made a gentle response?”
“An altogether different situation. Singapore is a small state. We….”
“Excuse my expression, sir, but that is horseshit. I wouldn’t sacrifice a single
American life to save a goddamn North Korean – or any other Asian, for that matter.”
“Well, if you are going to be racist, Mr. President…”
“Talk in the real world, Mr. Secretary General. To you a Singapore life is worth more
than any other. To me it’s an American life. But let me ask you a couple of questions. I
have to know where you stand. Do you know Carolyn Philips?”
“Who is that?”
“Carolyn Philips.” The President watched the diplomat through narrowed eyes.
“Carolyn Philips. She was in your office three days ago.”
Vickers face blanched. “Oh, yes. I know who you mean. She did pay her respects at
the UN this week.”
“You remember that big alligator handbag she always carries with her?”
“I am not sure what you mean, Mr. President.”
“Carolyn Philips, the coordinator of the World Industry Group. I met with her panoply
of CEOs some time ago. You must have seen her handbag.”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” the now uncomfortable diplomat said.
“Are you and Singapore in her handbag, sir?” the President asked.
Vickers turned ash gray. His hand shook. “I don’t understand you,” he said.
“Oh, yes, you do. And you know Horace V. Jellinson also.”
The Secretary General of the United Nations sat quietly. His lower jaw and his lips
quivered uncontrollably. He drew his breath in almost a sob. “You know?” he said.
“No, but I guessed,” Fortunatus said. “They came and they threatened a complete
industrial and commercial takeover, and your government gave in.”
“Yes. We had no choice. But it was all done behind curtains. No one knows. We are
for all practical purposes a subsidiary of WIG.”
“World Industry Group. Ms. Philips’ alligator handbag.”
“Yes.” There were tears in Vickers’ eyes. “We have lost our soul.”
“No quite, Mr. Vickers,” Fortunatus said. He looked hard at the diplomat. Then he
rose and stood before him. He extended his hand. Vickers’ hand met his in a clasp. “This
meeting has never taken place, and I promise you that Singapore will be independent again,
truly independent.” The handclasp became firm.
Silently Mayor Goldstein led his guests from his office. They each departed from
different exits to the building. The United States had achieved a silent ally.
 117

FOURTEEN: ANOTHER ARMY

A personal note from More Vickers, stamped Secret and For Your Eyes Only asked the
President if he knew of the International Commerce and Industry Security Corps.
Kenny Bloom said, “There’s an International Commerce and Industry Security
Corporation. They provide protection, guards, and security to office buildings and various
companies here and abroad. They’re probably one of the largest security companies in the
world. But I have no idea about any corps of any sort. We use them in some of our larger
projects. Shall I…? Yes, of course, I will. I’ll check into them at once.”
Marisa Smith and Tommy Kwo were given a similar assignment.
“I don’t have to go very far,” Tommy said. “I came across them in New York. The
Argenta Cleaning Company was having problems with a small hood that had some Mafia
connection. I guess he wanted a bit of cleaning to rub off on him. Billie Cleveland – Billie
Cleveland’s a black guy who runs this super cleaning service – called in the security
company who was working one of the larger buildings where he had a contract. The security
chief in the building said not to worry. He’d get the corps. That was the word he used. The
fee was minor. And the cleanup was good – excuse the pun – but that Mafioso and his hoods
were gone. You want I should go further?”
“I want Billie Cleveland here tomorrow morning,” the President said.
“Yes, sir.”

* * *

“Mr. Cleveland,” the President said, “you’ve had an experience with the Mafia, I
understand. And a security company helped you out.”
“Well, yes, sir.” The words came out slowly. Billy Cleveland was no stereotypical
Black. Tall, very black, very handsome, very much his own man. The words were slow
because there was more to them than was immediately obvious.
“You don’t mean just ‘Well, yes, sir,’ do you?”
“Well, no, sir, Mr. President.”
“Billy, you’re among friends. We want to know your experience with ICISC. It wasn’t
just a little Mafia cleanup, was it?”
“Well, no, sir.” Cleveland looked at Tommy Kwo.
Tommy said, “It’s OK, Billy. He’s my boss and he’s your boss also. He has to know.
The whole thing.”
Billy swallowed hard. Then he said, “I used to have a pretty decent business and be
my own man, but now I’m a slave. I got a lot of money, but I can’t go on no vacation or
spend my money like I’d like to.”
Fortunatus looked at the black man. He was perspiring, the sweat in glistening beads
rolling down his forehead.
“Are you afraid?” the President said.
“I’m a dead man,” he replied. “When they find out I been talking here in Washington,
I won’t last one whole day.”
Tommy Kwo interrupted Cleveland. “He thinks they’ll put a contract on him.”
“But he said the Mafia was gone,” the President said.
“Oh the Mafia be gone,” Cleveland said, “but I gone from the frying pan into the fire.
The Mafia nothing compared to Eye-Sisk, that’s ICISC. They know two minutes from now I
been talking to you.”
“No one will know you were here. Tommy brought you without your name being
mentioned. You came in here in a private entrance. You’ll go the same way, and no one will
know you’ve been out of New York.”
Cleveland looked down at the floor. He muttered, “Don’t make no mind. They find
out, and I’m dead.”
 118
“Look up, man, the President said. “Your country needs what you know. You
must talk to us. What do you mean you’re a slave?”
“When I gotta do what they say. When I go where they tell me. When I gotta hire
people they give me. When I can’t do anything but what they want, then I’m a slave.”
Tommy Kwo pulled Cleveland up straight. “Billie,” he said, “stop being a damn fool,
and tell the President what you told me.” He forced the black man to face the President, and
said, “Talk.”
It came out slowly in halting words, but it did surface. What the International
Commerce and Industry Security Corporation had done was to provide Cleveland with
contract after contract for maintenance of office buildings, factories, warehouses. They
increased his business twenty-fold. But he had to hire the people they sent him. And he
had not to see what they did inside the firms they were supposed to clean. In addition to
washing floors, vacuuming carpets, cleaning desks and other furniture – they inspected files,
took inventories, made notes of suppliers and customers, and generally speaking, spied on
the accounts they went into. They opened file cabinets, unlocked safes, and downloaded
computer data. And when it suited The Big Man – no name given – the information was used
to break the company, force a sale, trigger a bankruptcy, and takeover or absorb the
company into a corporate shell controlled by The Big Man.
“And who is The Big Man?” the President asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Cleveland said. “I’m just scared.”
Gently, the President forced more information out of Cleveland. Not only did the
ICISC steal information, but also in each crew of the Argenta Cleaning Company there were
two or three handpicked hoodlum types who could be called away at a moment’s notice for
some job The Big Man had for them. They were the Corps. In 1900 they would have been
called toughs, scabs, strikebreakers employed by the Pinkerton Agency. Now they were the
base of an entrepreneurial army. Organized into small, independent units, they could move
at a quick command to take control of a building, a warehouse, and a factory. They were
the Brown Shirts of the 21st century.
“Marisa, find out how many units and what strength this corps has. And who the Big
Man is. But I think we already know.”
“Yes, Mr. President. FBI and FSIA?
“Both. And Tommy Kwo, too.”
“Naturally.” Tommy was now an integral part of the President’s inner circle.

* * *

Intelligence gathering, perhaps for the first time in American history, was all funneled
into one big hopper and then refunneled into the office of Marisa Smith.
Marisa’s budget was secret, her subordinates were all protected by the title of
Special Assistant to the President, and her computers, which could accept information from
sources all over the world were so designed that they were state-of–the-art tamper proof
and their codes unbreakable. As the President had his black attaché case with its doomsday
code and equipment, so Marisa had a black attaché case, which in her instance secreted the
results of her interpretations of Intelligence reports from wherever. Except in her office, this
case was chained to her waist, and should it have been forcibly detached from her body, the
contents of the case would be destroyed in a minute explosion that would turn the paper
inside into undecipherable cinders, but cause no other havoc.
“Why your waist?” Tommy had asked the first time he saw the contraption.
“Too easy to cut my hand off if it’s attached to my wrist the way a diplomatic case is.
This way they’d have to kill me to get it off my body.”
“Pleasant thought,” Tommy said.
“It’s not a pleasant business,” Marisa replied. “There’s no light side to what I do.”
 119
“Sorry, didn’t mean to pun,” Tommy said. “To me, I’m from New York, if
something doesn’t have an upside, it’s a disaster. Have to keep my balance by looking on
the bright side – or, at least, on the side of black humor.”
He could tell that Marisa did not have a sense of humor with regard to her
responsibilities. It took a long time in their relationship before he could show her his
definition of black humor: how a volcano would solve the racial problem – everything would
turn gray.
The amount of paper that the President’s orders to them developed soon went
beyond the capacity of Marisa’s attaché case.
“Let’s put this in some logical fashion,” Tommy said. “How about doing it
geographically first, then on the basis of ideology, then on stress in local situations, then on
links – if any – to any of the CEOs.”
“All right,” Marisa said. “I pick geography first. I’d like to see anything that’s come
out of North Korea or Panama. And one thing I want besides the reports that come from the
station head is any opposite opinion. I don’t want to be hooked into a report a station head
makes to get us off his back or to make himself look good. I want contrarian views wherever
they exist.”
The two, with two of Marisa’s Special Assistants, spent a long night going over
information from the two areas she had chosen. There was no longer night and day for
them. A catnap on a couch or a cot was all that was allowed to them. Plus coffee and more
coffee, not decaffeinated. Then more coffee.
At four in the morning on the second night they were working the two areas, Bradford
Bland, Marisa’s second assistant, went over to Robert Gordon, her first assistant, and
showed him some documents. The two scrutinized what Bland had put together, and finally
Gordon said, “Bingo.”
Marisa and Tommy looked up, bleary eyed, but attentive.
“Columbia, near the Canal area,” Gordon said. “Brad has an answer here.”
Bradford Bland read from his notes. “A combination of conclusions from reports
added to a crucial contrary opinion from an agent on the ground, a report that was supposed
never to see daylight, shows that in no uncertain terms officials of the government, long in
the pockets of the drug cartels are being pushed to dump the current government and
accept a quasi-military regime composed of both national and foreign contingents.
“This new regime apparently will be financed by subsidiaries of the huge corporations
that you are calling the Jellinson group. I think Tommy calls them the CEO cabal. He may
be right. This bankrolling, although purportedly coming from the companies and military
groups involved, is being brought into Columbia via couriers on Jellinson ships and private
planes. And the money is being used to create what could easily be interpreted as a staging
platform from which to launch an attack on the Canal. Not that we can prove that last, but it
sure looks like it.”
They went immediately to Alexander Fortunatus to present their report.
“What’s your judgment as to its validity?” the President asked.
Neither Intelligence man had any doubt.
“Eighty to ninety percent,” the Intelligence man said. “But nothing that would hold
up in a court, or for that matter in a congressional hearing. But very probably true.”
“You mean,” the Chief Executive said, “nothing we can quote or do anything about.”
“Exactly, sir.”
The President turned to Marisa. “You?”
“We can do nothing. Except explore further. Now we know we’re on the right track.
First areas: Arab League countries.”
“No,” said Tommy Kwo. “I think China is more important.”
“I think you’re right,” Marisa said, “but China is harder to get at than the Arabs. And
if the Arabs are involved, then they may be the lead to the Far East.”
“Makes sense,” Tommy said. The President nodded agreement, and the little group
spread its nets further out.
 120

* * *

Four days later the President made a quickie trip to Moscow at the invitation of the
Prime Minister. This was in the midst of a meeting of the components of the former Soviet
Union. The actions of the United States with regard to North Korea and the Panama Canal
were under discussion, and the Russian Republic in particular wanted to know the attitude of
the USA to other powers in the world, especially those that had nuclear capability.
In addition to the requisite security personnel, Steiner and Coolidge, Secretaries of
State and Defense, accompanied Fortunatus. They were greeted at the airport with full
pomp and circumstance and taken directly to the Kremlin.
“You must understand, Mr. President, that I realize you have had no rest, and I realize
also that we are not treating you in the manner we should like to. But we – I – have a
problem, that requires this unpolitic action. Some of the republics are talking of creating a
nuclear deterrent to avoid any further dangerous actions like those of the United States in
North Korea and the Panama Canal. I beg you to understand my dilemma. I think of
America as a friend and ally, but I must keep peace in what was once my motherland.”
Vaslav Georgyevich Nikodim’s broad Russian face had no hint of friendliness in it, nor
did it show animosity. It was passive, awaiting a statement from the American president.
The Russian was a small man, not much of the Russian bear in him. His bald head with
beady black eyes leaned toward the President who was seated in an uncomfortable hard
backed chair, his crutches tilted on the arm of the chair.
Fortunatus leaned his head toward his Slavic counterpart and said, “Mr. Nikodim, no
one is going to produce a nuclear deterrent. We have given our reasons for the incidents in
North Korea and in Panama and have stated in no uncertain terms that American power will
never be launched against a friendly state. Even,” he smiled sardonically, pointing his finger
at the Russian leader, “even if that state is only friendly in an unfriendly manner. You may
tell your former compatriots that they are safe from American attack, as is the rest of the
world.”
“Well, Mr. President, I must tell you that the Republics of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan,
and Turkmenistan – against my advice, but they are not in my control – are negotiating with
corporations, some of them in your own country, for the development of nuclear plants for
both energy and military purposes. And they are also negotiating with another Asian nation
to provide them with scientific and engineering personnel for these purposes. I am sure you
don’t like this, and neither do I, but a major American entrepreneur is currently in Moscow
discussing with envoys of these countries, and I must admit, with ministers of mine, the
furthering of these and similar projects. Perhaps you know him.”
“Jellinson,” the President said.
“Indeed,” the Russian replied. “He is in the Kremlin now. Would you like to meet
with him? Perhaps you can join forces in some way?” The Russian returned Fortunatus’
sardonic smile.
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, I should like to meet him.”
Twenty minutes later Horace Jellinson, Jacopo Bellini, and Carolyn Philips were sitting
at a table opposite the President and Secretaries Steiner and Coolidge.
“Well, Alex, we meet in the strangest places,”
“More shopping centers, Horace?” The President, as always, emphasized the last
syllable of Jellinson’s given name.
Philips answered, “We’ve more important things than shopping centers to do here.”
“Oh?” the President queried.
“An installation?” Coolidge said.
“Or, a signing?” Steiner added.
“Yes,” muttered Bellini antagonistically, “if it’s any of your business. A signing, a
treaty.”
“And what are you here for, Alex?” asked Jellinson quickly. “Asking for a contract?”
 121
“We are here at the urgent invitation of the Russian premier,” Franklin Steiner
said, allowing the President to avoid responding to Jellinson’s insolent query.
“Oh, yes,” Bellini said, “some of the states were concerned about the aggressive
actions on your part when your nationalistic pride was wounded, and you felt you had to let
your muscles act for your brains.”
“Mr. Bellini, your are an insulting individual, and you don’t belong in a civilized
discussion,” the President said, the rigidity of his neck showing that his temper was being
held in by strict control. “And I ask you, sir, to leave me and Mr. Jellinson alone for a while. I
wish to converse with him in private. If you will, sir.” The stiffness of the President’s words
added to the clenched fists on the table made it difficult for Jellinson’s associates to remain
in the room. The two American administrators followed the corporate CEOs out of the
conference room.
When they were alone, Jellinson immediately attacked the President. “You have no
right to speak to my people that way.”
“They are your people? These shakers and movers? These people who are hear to
make a treaty with sovereign states? Jellinson, what the fuck are you after? Are you trying
to make yourself into a nation? Are you playing a new real-politick game? Who the fuck do
you think your are?”
Fortunatus, as he said those heated words, realized that he had lost the grip on his
own reality.
The fact that these industrialists, these commercial powerful people had convinced
some of the states that had once been subservient to the Soviet behemoth and were now
feeling their oats in a race to continental power to treat with them as if they, too, were
continental powers, that fact stuck in the President’s craw.
Bellini used the word treaty, and Jellinson didn’t correct him. Unless I’m sorely
wrong, Jellinson is involved in a major push for power. Does he want to become a world
force on his own? What the hell is his ambition? To be greater than the country that birthed
him? I must find out.
“I am not the fuck trying to do anything special, Fortunatus. I am doing what any
commercially powerful entity does. Making the best of a competitive situation. There’s no
reason for you to get yourself in a tizzy, old man.”
Jellinson’s words were uttered softly; there was a nasty kind of smile spread across
the big bald dome on top of the scrawny neck. His hands resting on the tabletop were
squeezed together. Released and squeezed. He was choking someone. Fortunatus could
almost feel his throat between those hands. Glaring at Jellinson’s near-sighted eyes staring
at him through thick lenses he could feel that he was being bested at the game. This was
enough to bring the President back to conscious appraisal of the situation.
“I apologize, Horace. After all, you have the right to be in Moscow as much as I do. I
presume you have been invited as I was. In your case I presume it was for commercial
reasons, in mine for political.”
“No, Alex, I wasn’t invited. I told them I was coming and they should be ready for
me.”
“Are you telling me, Horace, that you command sufficient power that you can tell
sovereign nations to do your bidding?”
“I don’t know about that, Alex, but when I talk, they listen. And if I want something,
they have to take my desires seriously. We told you that in Washington when you charged
us with committing hubris.”
“All right, Horace, I think I understand you. You want to become a world conqueror, a
universal dictator. Using your financial power instead of weapons.”
“However you see it, Mr. President. However you see it,” Jellinson said. He sat quiet
for a moment, and then, pulling his back hair over the top of his dome, he rested his big
hands on the table and said in his quiet voice, “And what do you think you are doing when
you use your Intel 17 chip and your PinPoint bombing system to blast your way to power?
You’ve taken over two countries. I haven’t done that.”
 122
Fortunatus stood up. “I think we have finished our conversation. We each know
who the enemy is. And you, Mr. Jellinson, are no citizen of the United States. You are a
foreign power.”
“Oh, now, Alex, I still have the right to vote in your country, and I have the courts and
the Congress on my side. And I may have the people, too. Watch the next election results.”
The President looked at his enemy, turned away from him and left the room. He was
much disturbed. And fearful.
When he returned to the American embassy where the two cabinet members had
gone, he called them in to discuss the conversations with Jellinson.
“You remember what Bellini said?”
In a voice the two secretaries said, “Treaty.”
“Exactly,” the President replied, “and Jellinson didn’t say nay.”
“What about your conversation with him?” Coolidge wanted to know.
“Oh, God, I wish I’d had a tape recorder with me.”
“Look in your jacket pocket, Mr. President,” the Defense Secretary said. “When we
left the room, I brushed against you, you remember I held on to you for a second. I guess I’ll
never make a good pickpocket, but I did manage to put something in your pocket, courtesy
of the Department of Defense.”
The President felt in his coat pocket. He brought out a small black apparatus. It was
a miniature recorder. He gave it to Coolidge, who pressed a couple of tiny buttons, and
sounds started to come out of it.
“How do you fast forward?” Fortunatus said, not wanting his associates to know how
completely he had lost his cool. Coolidge showed him, and the President found the section
of the discussion he wanted the two men to hear.
Firs they heard Jellinson say, “No, Alex, I wasn’t invited. I told them I was coming and
they should be ready for me.” Then the President saying, “Are you telling me, Horace, that
you command sufficient power that you can tell sovereign nations to do your bidding?”
Then Jellinson saying, “I don’t know about that, Alex, but when I talk, they listen. And
if I want something, they have to take my desires seriously. We told you that in Washington
when you charged us with committing hubris.”
Finally the President’s response: “All right, Horace, I think I understand you. You
want to become a world conqueror, a universal dictator. Using your financial power instead
of weapons.”
The part of the dialogue where Jellinson accused Fortunatus of an ambition himself to
be a world power the President wished to keep private, but the point was made that Jellinson
as the leader of the CEOs was a political opponent of exceeding strength. He was the
enemy.
Among the security personnel that Conrad Corbin had sent along with the President
to Moscow was Jordan Olivieri. Corbin was not aware of Olivieri’s contact with the Chief
Executive; he chose Olivieri because he had been on the Soviet Union desk at the FBI and he
was a fairly fluent speaker of Russian. Corbin had discussed Russian-speakers with Coolidge
before the trip, and at the Secretary’s request, he had sent two, one of them an academic,
Olivieri a field agent. And since Corbin’s conversion to Olivieri’s view concerning the China
Cabal, he had faith in the agent.
Coolidge called Olivieri in. “What kind of Russian do you speak, Olivieri?”
“Standard, sir. What do you mean?”
“Dialect, accent, patois?”
“Oh, I can do Moscow well enough, but I’m better at Ukrainian. I spent some time in
Sevastopol.”
“How about people in the Aral Sea area?”
“You mean Kazakhstan?”
“That general area.”
“In a halting way, but most of the types I’d be in contact with would understand my
Russian. More the Ukrainian-Russian dialect. I can do Ukrainian also.”
 123
“Good. The Ukrainian dialect is what I’d want.”
“I take it you have an assignment for me.”
“Yes, an informal one. But quiet.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I want you to take yourself a walk over to the compound where the Kazakhs, the
Uzbeks, and the Turkomen are staying. Ask about where Premier Jellinson’s foreign minister
Carolyn Philips is staying. Make sure you use the term, Premier Jellinson’s foreign minister.
Mr. Steiner, our foreign minister, wishes to send her some Siberian vodka – or any other kind
that is considered the very, very best – and you need her address. Then get into
conversation. Aren’t they fed up with the Moscow Russians the way we – we – are fed up
with the Washington Americans? But what can we do about it? They’re in the driver’s seat
the way the Moscovites are. See if you can get some response. But easy on the pressure.
Real friendly like.”
“I understand you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, Jordan. I know you will.”
On the following day Jordan Olivieri came back with the address of Carolyn Philips
and the following statement: When do you Americans expect Jellinson to take Washington
over?
Coolidge brought Olivieri to the President and Frank Steiner. The FBI agent related
the report to them.
The President said, “Bingo!”
Steiner, shaking his head almost mournfully, turned to the others and said, “I’ve been
a dove about this whole thing, but I think I have to change birds. Damn!”
 124

FIFTEEN: MORE PROBLEMS IN DC

For the first time in his life President Fortunatus began to feel the presence of
personal danger. Attempts on his life, the discovery of a scheme – or what appeared to be a
scheme – to take over the United States, and the blatant attitude of the CEOs made him feel
that he was in real and personal danger.
Am I going to live out my second term, or will I be another assassinated American
president? Damn, I’m not going to let them get my goat. I have to beat Jellinson and his
fucking corporations. I can’t see any other way to save America. And the rest of the world.
So help me, I feel like Rome being attacked by the barbarians. Shit!…. Or, am I being
paranoid? Are they really not after what I think they are? I’ll have to wait until my people
get more information…. Calm down, Alexander. Slow the heartbeat, Alexander. Easy, Mr.
President…. Ah, that’s better. Slow, slow, slow.
He forced himself to slow down and wait for outside information before he decided
what his next steps were to be. He had not long to wait.
Three days later Marisa let him know that a meeting in the Secure Room was in
order. It was not the usual group of high officials that met in the white room. Kenny and
Marcia Bloom, Maureen Douglass, and Tommy Kwo in addition to Marisa Smith and the
President sat at the long conference table. When the first-comers had finished being awed
at the environment, Marisa led the discussion.
“It’s amazing how much you can learn from public documents,” she said. “We’ve
used secret and public information, put them all into a blender and come up with what we
think is, at least most probably, the answer.”
“Courtroom quality?” the President asked.
“Not really,” Marcia Bloom said, “But FBI quality. Enough to make a case that will
stand in the light of public exposure. And I think that’s all we need, if ever we have to go
public.”
“What we did was to take material from FBI and FSIA investigations and reports –
mostly information that may have been minority opinion…”
“You mean the contrarian point of view?” Fortunatus asked. “How could that make a
case?”
“Well,” said Marisa, “you know that the FBI tends to take a conservative view toward
big business and foreign governments. Especially in recent years. And the FSIA isn’t much
more adventurous in its interpretations. So we went looking for the nay-sayers and the
questioners, and there we picked up a good deal of information and opinion that was more
consistent than one would have ventured to believe.”
“To that stuff we added financial information,” Tommy Kwo said. “I have lots of
friends in Wall Street, and with a little arm bending and cashing in on favors past, we were
able to get stock transactions, overseas investment info, and more importantly offshore
banking and overseas investment records – especially in sensitive areas – and income tax
information.”
“And links with elected officials and lobbying groups, and money raised for election
efforts,” Maureen Douglass added. “We’re pretty sure we have come up with a defensible
position.”
“Which is?”
“Well,” said Marcia Bloom, “we are convinced there is a Jellinson-China coordination
of effort to make China the most powerful nation in Asia, not just in terms of Tibet, but
considering India and Pakistan as active nuclear powers. And, more than that, considering
Israel as historically an active nuclear power…”
“You mean, all the way over to the Mediterranean?” the President queried. “I never
would think China would go into the Middle East. What about the remnants of the old USSR
in Asia?”
 125
“We think they mean a Pan-Asia group, including the East Indies, in a centralized
power source. Threatening Europe on the west, Australia-New Zealand on the south, and
Africa on the southwest.”
“I can’t believe it. And where is Japan in all this? Sitting on the side lines?” The
President found it hard to accept all this as a current condition. Up to now he had thought of
Jellinson and the CEOs as wishfully thinking of expanding their economic grip on a good deal
of the world’s commerce and industry. But this was political. Apparently Jellinson wasn’t
joking when he spoke of a treaty with Russia. The CEOs were thinking of themselves as a
sovereign country.
Kenny Bloom picked up on that issue. “Japan’s a problem. It has this long history
from the end of the Second War when it became the Asian behemoth, and then fell apart at
the end of the century. They could never get away from their approach to business. A link
among the government and the banks and the industries. And a totally protective point of
view. What we would have called cartels – but in Japan they were legal – and a feeling that
as the center of the world they could do nothing unsuccessful. I guess the long period when
they had positive trade balances and astronomical values – they thought – in investments
made them careless. We would have called it lousy mismanagement and fired all the
executives. But they didn’t do that. Protective of all their bosses, I suppose. They kept
using Band-Aids instead of surgery, and slowly they lost their dominance. The way General
Motors did in the automobile business. I think they are so properly worried now that you can
count on them to help. And they are afraid. They think China has a good chance at the top
spot politically as well as economically.”
“Is there any solid information you have?” The President seemed to need a more
specific bit of information to convince him that they were on the right track. He pulled his
crutches to him, got up heavily. Marisa could see that he didn’t have his usual spirit.
Something had gone out of him after the Moscow trip. It wasn’t that he looked pale. It
wasn’t that he hadn’t sought her out – sexually – for weeks. It wasn’t that he was losing
touch with events. He had lost his dynamism.
“Follow this,” Marisa said. “I think you’ll agree that our thinking is accurate. Jellinson
and the CEOs have sunk billions into industrial plants in China. All perfectly legitimate.
They have treaties – not contracts – with China, with several of the former Soviet Union
countries, including ones that are still de facto Communist. And with several Arab nations,
the less respectable ones. And they are treaties – although they are put in the form of
contracts, but they are two-way. For their investment they get exclusive control over a good
part of the local government – special treatment with regard to policing – they do their own –
no taxes, but still with municipal services included, control of imports and exports, all kinds
of special deals. They pay heavily, but they pay. They get cheap labor. Employees are
trained to do complex jobs, but in no plant – now listen carefully – in no plant is the whole
product made. Or in no one country. There’s a lot of transshipment. Jellinson’s group has
kept the industrial expertise in the hands of the multinationals. The new plants are
essentially parts producers or assemblers, but not both. They don’t have total industrial
capability. How does that grab you?”
As Marisa was speaking, the President’s attention became more and more intense.
When she said her last phrases, he stopped, put his crutches down, sat in his seat again,
and said, “Bullseye! That’s the key. Jellinson controls it all. He’s created fiefdoms out of
these idiot countries, and China is his prime conquest. And they don’t know it. What will
happen when they come to understand what he’s done?”
“They can’t take over the factories,” Marcia Bloom said. “All they’ll have is half a loaf
and no place to bake it. They’ll have mass unemployment in areas where the only employer
is the Jellinson factory. And his local police are armed the way a rapid response task force
is. These are not cops. They’re an occupation army. And, Mr. President, he has an air
force.”
The President looked at her in disbelief.
 126
“He ships most of his stuff in by air. Each plane is a fairly sophisticated bomber.
And he has so-called executive planes that are disguised fighters. We have photographs.”
“What do I do?” The President put his hands up to stop any discussion. He wanted
to think. Each at the table sat quietly. Tommy Kwo got up, went to the coffee maker,
prepared two cups, and brought one to the President.
“Thank you, Tommy,” Fortunatus said. He put the cup absently to his lips, sipped it.
Then he put it down and said, “I do something very overt. China will understand; so will
Russia, and with luck Japan. And that’ll pull Japan to our side.” The others waited silently
until he decided whether or not to disclose his plan. “This is top of the head,” he said.
“We’ll boil it down later. I’ve already cut down on exports of anything that can be
associated with armaments. But now I add to it. First, I take China, because of its
undercutting of American products, out of most favored nation status. Then I increase
tariffs. And every presidential edict or departmental regulation I can put my hand on to
freeze exports on anything that has to do with lasers, nuclear, computer, web, military,
quasi-military, satellite. Anything I can – indiscriminately. What I’ve done before, but more
so. This will wake the multinationals up. It may bring Jellinson out of the woods and into the
open. But then I freeze imports. Only the kinds of things that come from China and the
others controlled by the CEOs. Not the stuff from England or Canada or Israel. Not even
from France or Germany, although they’ve been no help to us. We do it unfairly. To suit
ourselves. We isolate ourselves from our enemies. Then we’ll see.”
Fortunatus was right. When in the next week, day after day he put his plan into
action, the corporations filed protest after protest. Lobbyists buttonholed every senator or
representative they could to find support against the President’s un-American actions:
interfering in trade in an unconstitutional manner. The President responded in kind. He
went to the media, print and TV, exposing every piece of evidence, credible or not,
sustainable or not, every bit of dirt his investigations had been able to dig up. He China-
bashed day after day, showing how they were undermining American industry, commerce,
and stability. How they cost American jobs. How they caused American dollars to flee the
country, so that much American finance was done overseas. Some of what he said was far-
fetched, some of it outright incorrect, but what the public heard is what it believed.

* * *

As this was going on Marisa and the spooks in the FSIA were busy in other parts of
the world. Marisa and Maureen linked themselves with a congressional group visiting the
Middle East on a tour looking into possible commercial cooperation with the countries there.
Other than in Israel, the tour's purpose simmered down to vacation time for the
congressmen. Maureen reported for her paper, and at the same time sought out local
newsmen who might share local gossip about any inroads by the CEOs in industry or
commerce. Marisa checked in with FSIA assets in the areas.
In Tel Aviv she telephoned Shmuel Goldring, a Mossad agent she’d known from his
stay in Washington. A lunch date in a discretely chosen hotel dining room followed.
“As far as we have been able to determine, those bombings in New York have not
been sponsored by the governments here. That doesn’t mean that the Arabs won’t protect
their nationals engaged in harassing the US,” Goldring said, “but I don’t think they want to
be tied into active antagonism at this point.”
“How about arms dealing?” Marisa asked.
The burly Israeli, who looked more like a football player or wrestler than the
academic and poet he was in civilian life, replied, “Obviously they have little arms dealing
with your country. They get most of what they want from China. And from some of the old
USSR countries, but that’s mostly from stock. Not much of that are really current types.
The Chinese give them state of the art stuff, some of it cutting edge – when they are willing
to pay through the nose. The Chinese need cash.”
“Any links with anything American?”
 127
“You mean the multinationals?” the Mossad agent asked.
“What do you know about them?” Marisa Smith returned question for question.
“Oh, Jellinson’s activity is pretty open,” Shmuel replied. “His people – not here, but in
the region – have been making deals.” He pondered for a moment, obviously trying to make
his mind up as to how open he should be with the American Intelligence woman. “Well, let
me fill you in on some recent events. There’s a secret Syria-Iraq-Iran mutual defense pact
pointed against Turkey and Israel. There’ve been conferences, exchanges of info,
commercial alliances in previous years, but this one is strictly military. Another thing that
might interest you – and I can’t prove it – is that there’s some evidence that Ukraine has
transferred some nuclear warheads to the Arab triumvirate, which if true, would indicate
that neither Egypt nor Saudi Arabia can take leadership positions in the Arab world.”
“That’s all very interesting,” Marisa said, “but is there anything brewing that I should
know about? Anything really current?”
“Strangely,” Goldring replied, “things are very quiet. The Arabs are silent about the
US. Jellinson is treated as strictly commercial. I know he gets into government circles, but
everything is strictly mum. So, as a result I am very suspicious.”
Marisa said nothing about her knowledge of Jellinson’s activities. She thanked her
friend and went back to the congressmen. Maureen had found a good deal of CEO activity in
the Arab countries the junket had visited, but not as involving American companies. Mostly
the overseas corporations that the CEOs controlled.
Just before the congressional tour returned to the US – they were flying from Israel,
Shmuel Goldring checked in with Marisa again, this time at breakfast in a small restaurant in
a residential section of Tel Aviv.
“China,” he said, “is going to make trouble for you. They’ve been funding…”
“They’ve been funding?” Marisa said. “Where are they getting money to fund…?”
“Let me finish, Marisa. They have been getting outside money – from some of the
Jellinson corporations to bankroll terrorist cells to create havoc in American business. You
are going to have a rash of sabotage in the next few months. Prepare your president.”
“Shit!” Marisa responded. “That means Jellinson is getting ready for real action. Are
you sure of this, Shmuel?”
“Not a hundred percent. But very probable. Keep an eye out.”
Marisa hugged her bulky Israeli friend, kissed him a fond good by, and left much
disturbed by his information. Oh, God, I hope he’s wrong. We’re not ready for this yet.
We’re going to have so much trouble in Congress.

* * *

For the moment, local affairs seemed quiescent, but Fortunatus’ team knew that
problems would grow and become critical before they came to any solutions.
Internationally, however, the situation in Japan – at least in the opinion of the
Japanese – became critical. Japan’s financial leaders realized that their country was more
and more losing its position in trade and production. Despite their pride and reserve there
were overt approaches to the American president for help.
The President appointed Kenny Bloom officially as Special Assistant to the President
for Far Eastern Commerce. Together with members of the Commerce and Treasury
Departments, Kenny set up partnerships between corporations, smaller than the
multinationals – but large nevertheless – and their Japanese counterparts to compete with
the corporations of the CEOs. Kenny used Israeli companies, especially in the information
and technology areas to act as go-between and in several instances as a silent partner in a
triad. In this way the American participation was less evident, although there was
international questioning of the rapprochement of Japan with Israel commercially. The effect
was to create a number of working cartels, illegal in the United States, but common enough
in the rest of the world.
 128
This worked well and quickly, and China found it was losing a substantial amount
of American business. This, plus the effect of having lost most favored nation status, cost
China in the areas of low-tech products, sneakers, VCRs, jeans, CDs and subsequently in the
flow of cash to their banks.
On the home front, however, the President did not do so well. Attempting to counter
the effect that huge infusions of money into the elections was having, he fostered an
election reform bill that would have teeth in it. It was fated to fail. Lobbyists, especially
those in the pay of the CEOs, and incumbents who feared for their positions all fought
against the bill. The Republicans were almost universally against it and a sufficient minority
of Democrats opposed it. The bill failed by a large margin.
Then Kenny Bloom added to the President’s discomfort. His sources happened by
chance to discover that the Vice-President’s daughter was not just a friend of Horace
Jellinson, but had been his mistress before, during, and after her marriage. This information
began to make the rounds of the supermarket tabloids. With pictures. Including those of
the VP.

* * *

The monitoring of the Vice President’s quarters and those of his inamorata went on.
Tommy Kwo, at the President’s direction, wiped out anything that was purely personal –
sexual – and kept in file only those conversations that were of political or security interest.
Since Ortega was routinely not included in any part of the Jellinson Affair, he had no
knowledge of what was going on in the President’s personal Intelligence group. It was
obvious that Mary Elizabeth Li was on the Jellinson payroll.
She urged the VP to influence the President to compromise with the multinationals.
“There’s no sense in America losing business to the rest of the world. I don’t think it would
take much to influence some of those big shots to start a new plant in the States or to
salvage an old one. You have to make Fortunatus listen to reason.”
Ortega, listening to her the way he used to Brenda, felt the validity of her reasoning.
And so, at a Cabinet meeting, when the President brought up the CEO group – he never
mentioned Jellinson as the actual leader of the group – Ortega challenged the virtue of the
President’s hostile acts against the multinationals.
“They’re not American,” the President said hotly. “They take our jobs, our business,
our livelihood. And you want me to make nice on them?”
“It’s not that at all, Mr. President. These are truly American corporations, and their
chiefs are mostly American. We can’t blame them for wanting to find places where their
costs are lower. What we have to do is to make the US more comfortable, more profitable
for them. Maybe some tax breaks. And renegotiate some union contracts, cut out some fat
from working condition setups, less medical, less vacation. That’s the way go. Compete
hard, I say.”
“You’re wrong, Terry,” the President replied. “We are not going to give up what it
has taken a century to build up. We are the leading power on Planet Earth, and we are
going to stay that way.”
“Mr. President,” Ortega continued, “the world isn’t the way it has been. We have to
coordinate and compromise. The world is no longer a political one; it’s an economic and
industrial one. And national boundaries no longer separate the forces that make for
civilization. You don’t balkanize any more, you multinationalize.”
The President, who had heard these very words on a tape Tommy Kwo played for
him, stopped himself from venting anger at his second in command. He kept his temper and
simply said, “All right, Terry, I’ll take what you say in consideration. Why don’t we meet in
the Little Office after this and discuss it some more.”
The Cabinet meeting ground on for a while, after the others left, the President led his
VP to the Little Office, the quiet place where the President went to work on speeches or to
 129
read or to contemplate. Rarely did anyone else go into that room. It was a kind of
personal sanctum that Fortunatus had specially set aside for thinking.
“Terry, tell me about your daughter.”
“Tell you what?”
“About Lorna.”
“What about Lorna? What are you getting at, Alex?”
“What about her friends and associates?”
“How the hell would I know, Alex? I haven’t seen Lorna since three weeks after her
marriage. I didn’t know she was divorced until it was in the papers. We don’t talk.”
“Before her marriage. At college. At commencement.”
“What are you talking about, Alex?” Ortega was obviously confused.
The President could see that his questions were not ringing a bell in the VP’s mind.
“You don’t know about your daughter? Anything?”
“Well, I know she sometimes acts as hostess for Horace Jellinson. I know you hate his
guts, but I can’t control my daughter’s actions or whom she decides she’s going to be
friends with. She’s a woman. She’s divorced. She’s single. She likes society, and if
Jellinson wants her to be his hostess at a public affair, that’s his business and her business.
Not mine. Definitely not mine. And I don’t appreciate you’re asking me about her.”
Ortega’s temper began to rise. He looked square at the President, and across the
desk he raised his finger and pointed at Fortunatus. “There are some things that are not
politics. We’re linked together in this damn government, but we’re not kissing cousins, Mr.
President. I don’t have to remind you that we don’t particularly like each other. And I don’t
have to remind you that you aren’t going to support me for the next election, so what the
hell do you expect me to do? I don’t know anything about my daughter, and if I did, it isn’t
necessary for you to know what it just happens I don’t know. So bug off, Mr. President.”
Fortunatus stayed calm. He was pleased to see that Ortega was losing his; his next
topic might cause Ortega to go over the top.
“Your daughter is Horace Jellinson’s mistress. He was fucking her before she even
got into college, through her marriage – which he arranged, through her divorce and to this
day. She’s his possession. He’s America’s enemy, and your daughter is his whore.”
Ortega became red, black red, but he said nothing. His hands gripped the arms of
the chair in which he was sitting, so tight that his knuckles turned white, but he said nothing.
The President waited, and when he felt that Ortega was no longer agitated, he loosed
his second shot. “You have broken your oath; for all practical purposes you are a traitor.”
Ortega shook his head in shock and in disbelief. “What the fuck are you saying,
Alex? What oath have I broken? What is this shit about treason? You know goddamn well
I’ve done no such thing. I think you are out of your mind.”
“Did you not swear when you were in the Secure Room the first time that you would
say nothing to anyone – anyone – about anything that went on there?”
“Of course. And I’ve kept my word.”
“Who do you sleep with, Terry?”
“Who do I sleep with?”
“Remember how you used to tell me about your pillow talk with Brenda, how you
would discuss everything with her, how she would advise you, how you’d disagree, agree,
come to compromise, and when you were sure about a subject, then you’d go public with
your attitude?”
“Of course I do.”
“Mary Elizabeth Li, Terry.”
If Ortega had turned deep red before, he was chalk white now. His hands went to his
head. “Oh my God! My God!” He took his hands away from his face and turned to the
President. There were tears in his eyes. “Oh, God, what do I do?”
The President, who was about to disclose what he knew about Mary Elizabeth Li,
suddenly changed his mind. There was a spark of inspiration. What an opportunity he had,
if it would work! He decided to go on another tack. Mary Elizabeth could be like having a
 130
mole in the opposition camp. If Ortega was not suspicious and kept his faith in her,
Tommy Kwo’s hidden bugs would be a source of information in the war against the
corporations.
“Nothing, Terry. Do nothing. I understand what you’re up against. I truly do. The
years of mutual confidence with Brenda, the way you always discussed your work with her,
and how she advised you. I truly understand. And Mary Elizabeth Li is her substitute, isn’t
she? It’s just that you still shouldn’t have broken your word.”
“Oh, I know. I know. Do you want me to resign?” Ortega was profoundly humiliated,
and the President could see he was sincere.
“No, I don’t want you to resign. I have to take you as you are, Terry. I don’t want
any public scandal. Go on as you are. Mary Elizabeth’s a good woman, and I think she cares
for you. There can’t be any harm. If there were, it would have come out before this. If
she’s your second Brenda, keep her. But be smart. Don’t marry her. I don’t think the
country would take a Chinese First Lady.”
“Thank you, Alex. I apologize. Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart. With all my
will. Thank you. And if you think I should separate from her, I will. It was because she lives
next door to me.”
Ortega said nothing about it, but he had heard “I don’t think the country would take a
Chinese First Lady.”
“I understand, Terry,” the President said. He walked over to the Vice President. “I
sympathize. You don’t resign. You don’t do anything. Don’t separate. Just keep it quiet.”
“But how did you know?”
“Gossip. No more than that. We live in a fish bowl, Terry. That’s all DC has ever
been. A fish bowl. So keep it quiet. Go on the way you have… And, Terry, don’t mention
this conversation to your lady. You don’t want to embarrass her or inhibit her. Go on as you
have been. Just know I understand.”
It was a profoundly downcast VP who left the Little Office. When he left, the
President smiled broadly to himself. He had made a good move. Mary Elizabeth Li was too
good a resource to drop. He only hoped Ortega would go on as he had been.
 131

SIXTEEN: FIFTH COLUMN

Conrad Corbin brought in the secret report on the dead assassins. He reported
directly to the President, “The two dead ones had rings. One was inscribed Freemen of Asia,
the other Freemen of Africa.”
“But neither one was black or oriental,” the President said.
“Well, Asia can include the Middle East and Africa the northern sector,” Corbin
replied. “Could be Arabs in both areas. But more important, do you remember the tee shirt
at the White House fire with FR on it? That could have been Freemen also. And then there
are those illegal militia groups in the West who are linked to an underground organization
called Freemen of America. And also interesting: the rings. They are gold, a kind of
debased gold, like about eight-carat, used only in China for export. How do you like that?
Plus, one of the weapons we found was also of Chinese manufacture. One of the armament
factories in central China.”
“Jellinson firm?”
“What else?”
“Why don’t we go to the UN with this. Maybe we can kick up a fuss.”
Corbin didn’t sound too hopeful about the idea of going to the UN, and Fortunatus
judged him correctly, that it was a dim prospect, getting help from the world community.
“Pointless,” the FBI Director said. “You know as well as I do, that even without
Jellinson and his people pushing the China cabal, the UN hates our guts and couldn’t care
less what happens to me or to you or the whole US. Except, as you told me, for More
Vickers, and he really has no clout. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that somewhere
along the line he might simply disappear.”
“Assassinated?”
“Could be.”

* * *

Within days the anticipated sabotage campaign began. At first it was small incidents:
a fire at a Chrysler plant in Michigan, a smoke bomb in a Kansas City department store that
sent hundreds of people, gasping for breath, out into the street. A Dallas, Texas firehouse
was firebombed. A note scrawled on the sidewalk in front of the building: Freemen give fire
to the firemen. In Sacramento, California a bomb blew out the ticket kiosk in front of the
theatre, the sound, fire, and smoke ensuing created a panic in the audience. Three people
were crushed to death. Flyers tossed from a passing car noted: Freemen move the movies.
A Boise, Idaho diner, a street away from a precinct station, was burned to the ground; it was
known as a hangout for local police. A poster left on the steps of the station said: Freemen
eat police.
There were no clues, but there was fearfulness. The media however had much to be
thankful for – insofar as selling papers or having good newsbites – people were reading the
dailies, the weekly newsmagazines, watching TV news, all to find out what the latest horror
story was.
The President would not let the word Freemen and what it meant come out, at least
not from his office. But there was speculation in the media and, certainly, on the Internet.
Was it hate groups causing this outbreak of terrorism, militias, anarchists, communists,
fascists? Or did the inspiration come from overseas: North Korea, disaffected Panamanians,
drug lords, China, Russia, Iran, Iraq? Who the hell could it be?

* * *
 132
Kenny and Marcia Bloom had given themselves a weekend in their Central Park
South penthouse apartment in New York. They used to enjoy coming into the City once in a
while, going to a theatre or to a concert or both, having catered meals – breakfast, lunch,
and dinner – Friday night to Sunday night, sleeping late, walking in the Park, and unwinding.
And going back to work on Monday morning.
They were just back from a performance and a couple of after-theatre drinks. When
they opened the door to their luxury pad, they found the lights on and Benjamin Arvilla
helping himself to a drink at their bar.
“So glad you could come, Ben,” Kenny Bloom said. “Make yourself at home.”
“I have. Sorry about walking in like this, but I didn’t want to wait downstairs. So I
picked your lock. Just a few minutes ago.” Ben Arvilla, off and on with the FSIA, formerly
CIA station head in Taiwan, and now associated with Bloom’s own security firm, had a tale to
tell his boss.
Arvilla was the kind of person you could easily forget. That made him valuable, and
he traded on his appearance. He was average height, average weight, average age,
average appearance, ordinary features, slightly outdated clothing, scuffed shoes that always
needed a polish, a face that looked as if it almost needed a shave. He could look you right
in the eye, talk to you for two minutes, and when you turned away, you wouldn’t remember
the color of his eyes – which were kind of hazel, maybe.
“Crankshore should be here any minute,” he said.
“You called Maxim to come here from Washington?” an unbelieving Kenny Bloom
said.
“Yup. When I told him what I had, and that I didn’t want to speak in DC, he said you
had to be in on it, and he’d be up on the next shuttle.”
Before Arvilla and the Blooms could finish a whisky and soda, Crankshore was at the
door. Although they were in the penthouse, with no way that anyone could look into the
windows, Crankshore insisted that all curtains and drapes be drawn and the door double
locked.
“How the hell do I know who could have been following me. I’m not the kind of spook
you are, Arvilla. I could be followed two steps behind me and not know it. Let’s get to it. I
want to get back to Washington before anyone knows I’m gone.
“OK, here’s what I have. There’s an agent named Maillol, female of the species,
linked to George Korman Beldes, assistant to the COO of Armament Associates. I know that
Beldes is a handler for Jellinson’s commercial spy network. I came across him in Taiwan, but
could never pin anything specific on him. Beldes has an Iraqi wife, with a Western name,
Margaretta. I think you ought to check through with the Mossad. If you don’t have a
personal contact, I’m sure Marisa Smith does.”
“I know Schmuel Goldring. When he was in DC. I’ll call him now.” Crankshore
hooked a scrambler onto Bloom’s phone and dialed. Two minutes later he was connected
with FSIA in Tel Aviv. He spoke a few words in the phone, hung up, and said, “We wait.”
Half an hour later the scrambler phone rang and Maxim spoke to Shmuel Goldring.
When the connection was finally broken, Crankshore told the others what Goldring had said.
“Margaretta Beldes. Goldring’s Bedouin associate, Shekhde Abu-Ilkuan, identifies her with
the Japanese Red Army, which has resurrected itself, with Chinese Intelligence, and as an
international coordinator of Middle East terrorism. He says I have to see Arnie Tankerman.
Arnie is one of my own assets. I’ll get him tomorrow.”
With those words Crankshore departed. Five minutes later Arvilla was on his way,
and the Blooms were left with the remnants of a night in New York.
When the Bloom’s jet landed in Washington on Monday morning, a presidential
limousine met them with orders to bring them to the Marble Box immediately. There, the
President, Crankshore, Conrad Corbin, Marisa Smith, and a man they didn’t know awaited
them.
“Arnie Tankerman,” Crankshore said.
 133
“Tell them, Arnie,” the President said. “Arnie is undercover FSIA. He may be able
to get us into the middle of the sabotage and terrorism thing.”
“There’s a summit of militia groups coming. I’m invited. To sell them laser weapons
information for big money.”
“That’s treason,” Marcia Bloom said.
“Not quite,” the President said. “It’s actually all under control. Arnie’s the Air Force’s
third highest laser expert. He’s been turned down for promotion three times, and he’s dead-
ended in his career. And angry. Angry enough to sell out for big money.”
“Do I get to keep the money?” Tankerman asked his boss.
“Don’t make jokes,” Crankshore said. “And good luck.”
“When next you see me,” the agent said, “my name will be Benedict Arnold.”

* * *

Deep in the northern Idaho Cabinet Mountains, not far from the Canadian border,
somewhere between Kootenai Indian Reserve, Coolin on Priest Lake, and Bonner’s Ferry – in
a well protected compound of log cabins and lean-to’s, property of Margaretta Beldes – a
militia meeting was in progress.
George and Margaretta Beldes were hosts. Eric and Raul Stodman were present.
Eric was the leader of a major militia group that operated in several western states. Raul
was militia liaison with the Japanese Red Army, a group of Orientals, some Japanese, some
Chinese, some Indonesian, who had resurrected the name from the twentieth century
radical group. Osama Jukiko was a Japanese American and second in command of the JRA.
Arthur Rand, representing the Association of Fundamentalist White Christian Americans and
Corina Eastlin Morgant, the delegate from Opposition to Abortion, Inc. and Death to Baby
Killers Association completed the roster, except for one important figure.
That was Mary Elizabeth Li, on a two week vacation in the Bahamas – so her
employment record said, backed up by tickets to the Bahamas and reservations in an
ordinary hotel, the tickets and the reservation being used by a Mary Elizabeth Li, whose only
resemblance to Mary Elizabeth Li was that she was a woman. This lady had gotten the
tickets and hotel charges at a very deep discount provided she go under the name that was
on the reservation slip and airline tickets, and she had no objection to a very inexpensive
vacation.
There were perhaps fifteen or twenty militiamen in the compound – they called
themselves Freemen of America – housed in cabins away from the Beldes’ main building.
Tankerman had been invited to work out an agreement with the Freemen, but he was not
permitted to attend their meeting.
He discovered through the Freemen guards who watched his every move that the
purpose of the meeting was to arrange events that would demonstrate the weakness of the
United States with regard to foreign affairs. His host-guards told Tankerman that the Arabs
were useless to them at this point, except as a place to point fingers of guilt with regard to
sabotage and terrorism.
“They don’t mind being blamed for things we do,” one of the Freemen said. “It gives
these Palestinian morons more standing in Syria and Iraq. You’ll see, when it’s hot time in
the US, they’ll get blamed and they’ll take all the credit. We don’t care; we’ll be home free.”
Then he began whistling to the tune of A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. He laughed.
“There’ll be a blow out also,” he said, “but I don’t know the tune.”
Tankerman wondered what evil the Freemen were contemplating. Trouble was sure,
but he had no clues as to what the particular trouble would be. Fire and explosion, it
seemed. He dared not question any further; he had his own agenda. Finally Arnie was
called in to the Freemen meeting. Eric Stodman was apparently the chairman. At least it
was he who did the speaking.
“You have something to sell?” he said.
 134
Tankerman, morose and angry at having been kept penned up – or so it seemed –
did not reply.
“Well, do you have something to sell?”
Tankerman, looking with obvious disdain at Stodman said, “Why the fuck do you
think I’m here? For the comfort of the accommodations? I did not appreciate being
blindfolded; I did not appreciate being kept penned up. And you know damn well what I
have to sell.”
“Don’t be so snotty, mister,” George Beldes said. “You want to do business with us,
or not?”
“You want to get out of here alive, or not?” Osama Yukiko’s snarling voice showed
little respect for the turncoat technician.
“Look,” said Tankerman, “I don’t know what you guys are up to, and I don’t want to
know. You got your agenda, and I got mine. Mine is money. You want to talk about money,
I’ll talk with you. You got anything else to say, take me back to where I came from, and I’ll
find another customer. I can go anywhere in the world and sell what I got.”
The atmosphere instantly became dark and fraught with anger to Tankerman, but he
was playing his game well. He knew that it was not the Freemen who were going to buy his
product, but someone more important, who had deeper pockets than this rag-tag group ever
could have.
“Why don’t we cool down and have a drink,” Raul Stodman said. “And have
something to eat. We’ll all feel better when we can relax.”
Margaretta Beldes and Mary Elizabeth Li made themselves busy, bringing out drinks,
bread, salami, cheese, and bars of chocolate. The company ate and drank, more beer and
vodka going into their bellies than food. Finally George Beldes said, “I guess we can start. If
what you have is what you’ve said it is, we’ll go as high as a million dollars.”
“You go to be kidding,” Tankerman said. “This laser process cost three hundred
million to perfect. Whoever has it not only has a beat on the rest of the world, but the only
working product that can stop a missile or destroy a tank. You want it, you pay for it.”
As Beldes and Tankerman traded bids, rejected offers, and drank more vodka which
Mary Elizabeth Li kept pouring, the discussion about price became heated.
“And I don’t want to have anything like this killing Americans. I don’t want it on my
conscience. I don’t give a fuck about my bosses in the Air Force, but not the guys that fly. I
ain’t no traitor. But I want my price, and it ain’t three million dollars.” Tankerman’s voice
became thicker and his temper shorter as the argument went on.
Finally Mary Elizabeth Li shooed off her fellow conspirators and got them to leave
Tankerman alone with her. She pulled the already inebriated Air Force technician over to a
couch and sat down close to him. “Come on, Arnie,” she said, “let’s forget business for a
while.”
“Sure, babe,” he replied. “What the fuck are you doing here with those animals?"
“I have to make a living, don’t I,” she smiled at him, leaning her perfumed breast
close to him. She put one arm around his neck and let the other hang negligently on his lap.
Then she leaned over to kiss him, pressing her body on his, and letting her hand go to the
crotch of his trousers. It took only a few seconds of a tongue on tongue kiss for her to feel
his penis beginning to rise inside his pants. As he pressed in to kiss her more deeply, she
unzipped his trousers and felt in through his shorts to the already engorged penis. She
fondled it, and as she did, she pulled his hand up into her dress. She was wearing no
panties, so his fingers went right to her vagina. “You like pussy, don’t you,” she said in a
hoarse whisper, lips on lips.
All he could answer was “Hmmm.” He put his fingers inside her and was rewarded
with a deep sigh as she opened her legs for him. Then he pulled back and started to undo
his belt.
“Wait,” she said. “Let’s go into the bed inside. I don’t want anyone coming in here.”
She leaned down to his crotch, momentarily taking him into her mouth, just enough so that
he groaned in beginning passion. Then she got up and pulled him willingly into the next
 135
room. She pushed him onto the bed. He wobbled; he was drunker than he seemed. She
pulled his shoes and pants off, then his shirt, leaving him ridiculously half-naked in an
undershirt and socks.
Then as he began to paw at her, she seductively began to undress herself, stepping
out of her skirt, opening her blouse and letting it fall to the floor. She stood before him with
only her high heels on and opened her arms to him. Then she moved her torso in a
revolving way so that her pudendum came closer and closer to his face. Finally he pulled
himself up in the bed and thrust his face into her pubic hair.
Her voice was husky, deep throated. “Eat me,” she said. “Eat me till I come.” His
tongue went into her as she spread her knees, and with her groin in his face, she forced him
down onto his back, his tongue continuously working into her sex. She groaned and called
out, louder and louder, “Yes, yes, yes!” Then she came.
Arnie, who wasn’t nearly as drunk as he made it appear, at first thought her actions
were specious, but they weren’t. He could taste her fluid. This alone made him randy – if he
hadn’t been before – and he turned her over. As he got up from her, he saw the tattoo on
her thigh. Then he penetrated her as deeply as he could, forcing and forcing, until he came
inside her. Wouldn’t it be funny if I made this lying, treacherous bitch pregnant? Then he
sank down, exhausted.
“What do you want from me?” he said. The sexual action had drained the alcohol
from his system, and he was suddenly alert.
“The laser plans,” she said.
“What’s your offer?”
“Five million.”
“No,” he said, “ten million, deposited in my name in euros in a bank in the Cayman
Islands. Before you have a blueprint in your hand.”
“We don’t have authority to go that high.”
“Who does?”
“They call him Jam Vi-Pot. I’ve never met him. I think he’s Malaysian or Indonesian.
Or Cambodian.”
“All right. I’ll go back to DC. You can let me know.”
“Where are the plans?”
“In DC. You didn’t think I’d bring them to you, did you? They weigh fifty pounds.”
“Hidden?”
“Of course. You let me know. I’ll be there.”
The following day a silent group of Freemen took a blindfolded Tankerman to a main
road about forty or fifty miles from their compound and left him at a deserted gas station.
He hitched a ride to the nearest town, telephoned Washington and waited until a helicopter
appeared some hours later to take him back to the capital.

* * *

Crankshore deduced that Jam Pot was Jellinson. When Tankerman told him of the
tattoo, he confirmed to himself that Mary Elizabeth Li was definitely Maillol. The President
told him of the link between her and the VP and of the relationship of Lorna Ortega Johnson
with Horace V. Jellinson.
“Well,” said Crankshore, “what do we do about this particular mess? The Li woman
and the VP? And Arnie and the laser prints?”
Fortunatus’ reply was instantaneous. “The VP situation stays as is. We have that in
control. Arnie goes ahead. Armbruster Coolidge has the plans doctored in such a way that
the Chinese – and we presume that’s where the laser material will go – will be years trying to
pick out the bugs and trying to make it tick. It will look real, but it won’t work.”
When contact was made with Tankerman again, he made arrangements for a transfer
of money and plans, the money to go to his account in the Cayman Islands, the plans to be
exchanged in New York. Stodman wanted the meeting in Idaho again.
 136
“We have a big meeting coming up. We can finish it up there.”
“No thanks,” Tankerman said. “A hotel in New York. If you get me into the
mountains, I may never get out. Have your meeting in New York; it’s safer there. No on
would suspect that militias would meet in a hotel conference room. Just dress your guys up
like human beings, don’t bring any guns, and you’ll be more private than you would be in
Idaho.”
“Actually makes sense,” Stodman said. “We want some dealers to the meeting, and
they don’t like coming West. You got yourself a deal. I’ll let you know when it’s set.”
“What hotel?” Arnie asked.
“You’ll find out when you get there. We’re not going to take any chance of you or
any of the federal spooks bugging the place.”
“All right,” Arnie said, “but I want the confirmation of the deposit in my hand the day
before, so I can check with the bank that the money is real.”
“You don’t trust me much, do you?”
“You know what they say,” Tankerman replied. “As far as I….”

* * *

Tankerman was picked up on Times Square for the meeting. He had a heavy valise
with him. He was hustled into a van, and once again he was blindfolded. When he arrived
at the destination chosen for the meeting, four Freemen huddled about him, took his
blindfold off and led him quickly into the hotel where a glimpse at the lobby told him he was
in the five-star Essex House Hotel.
He laughed at the men with him. “You may as well let me free. I know where we
are. This is New York, not Idaho in the mountains. Don’t be such jerks. Play the game like
human beings. We’re in the Essex House, and by doing what you’re doing, you’re attracting
attention. And for your information, this is a Japanese owned establishment. It is a Nikko
hotel.”
Embarrassed by the obvious truth in what he was saying, they let him walk freely and
took him to the conference room where Eric Stodman greeted him with a grunt.
“You got the plans?”
“In the valise. All but one page. That’s my security. Without that page, you have
nothing.”
“The money is where you wanted it,” Stodman said.
“I know. I checked.”
“So why aren’t you doing what we agreed.”
“You are staying here, right?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the room number, and the page will be in your room tomorrow.”
Five minutes later Tankerman was on the street, but he had seen George Korman
Beldes again, and he knew he knew him from some place. More significant was the fact that
the van in which he had been transported had been followed by FBI agents, and the face of
every man that entered or left the conference room that night or the next day or the next
several days until the conference was assuredly over was preserved on film.
They would have loved to bug the room, but Beldes had a man with him who did a
very publicly obvious scouring job. Bugs would have been detected and suspicions aroused,
so no tape was made of any meeting.
“All we have is more suspicions and no evidence,” stormed Marisa Smith when she
was told of the inability to get concrete evidence. “They’ve broken no law that we can get
at them. Except, of course, the purchase of the laser plans, but we don’t want them to know
what we know. So, they go out clean.”
“But we know more than we did before,” Tommy Kwo said. “The kind of guys that
belong to a militia don’t usually stay at a posh place like the Essex House. It’s old, it’s
elegant. What do these guys know from that grand lobby, its fine woods and marble
 137
columns. And the 18th century murals. And do they know how to eat in Les Celebrités? A
four-star restaurant is not in their experience. Who would have picked that hotel? Not Mary
Elizabeth Li. She doesn’t know New York. Who would OK the kind of money needed for the
eight rooms they occupied? Not one of the ones who slept in those luxury rooms. Who?”
Marisa thought for a moment. “Of course, Jam Vi-Pot. Old Horace Jellinson.” Three
telephone calls, five minutes, and the proposition was QED. Jellinson not only made the
Essex House his headquarters when he was in New York, but he was in residence during the
time when the Freemen were having their meeting.
Examination of the photographs by New York Police, by Immigration authorities, by
Customs officials, by FBI and FSIA personnel picked out some known identities. Three arms
dealers, two military weapons experts, and George Korman Beldes.
“Well,” said Marisa Smith, “that ties Beldes and Armaments Associates to this group,
and Li works for Armaments, and they are all tied to Horace V. Now, what?”
 138

SEVENTEEN: WAR INSIDE THE STATES

It didn’t take long to find out what was next. Sabotage and terrorism were no longer
a case of parking a van loaded with explosives next to a building. Now it was guerilla
warfare, but warfare with flying artillery.
Like the attacks of the North Korean missiles on the East Coast, these attacks – all
within the confines of the country – were directed at specific targets, but they were much
more accurate. The attacks were of two types: a small hand held projectile that could terrify
a crowd in a shopping center when it burst through the roof and created destruction in a
very limited area, or planted explosives whose larger area of destruction was calculated to
terrify the entire population.
The number of deaths in any instance, however, was limited. And the number of
deaths became smaller as people learned to stay away from crowded areas. Shopkeepers
and businessmen appealed to federal authorities to attack this enemy that came from
within. But who was the enemy?
Business dropped severely. People feared leaving their homes. The megamarkets
that had succeeded the large supermarkets of the 20th century were empty. Restaurants
pleaded for diners. Movie houses ran projectors for dozens instead of hundreds of patrons.
Newspapers clamored for answers to their questions. Television became the prime source
of information. But then there were bombings on TV antennas and stations.
Gradually the country was grinding to a halt.
Everyone looked for the enemy. But not everyone defined the enemy the same way.
When four missiles hit IRS offices, destroying hundreds of thousands of tax documents,
there were those who began to feel that the enemy was more against the government than
against the people.
The President put the country on an alert. He wanted to declare martial law, but the
cabinet led by Terry Ortega cautioned him not to exacerbate the situation by having soldiers
and state militiamen in the streets.
Evidence that a foreign group performed the attacks cropped up. An unexploded
missile had Arabic markings on it. An attaché case found in a subway in New York had
papers in it purporting to come from Iraq. The papers had to do with violence to be done to
Jews in Brooklyn. Three Lebanese immigrants were captured when they ineffectually tried
to rob a bank on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan. Intense interrogation did not disclose any
ties to organized crime, sabotage, or foreign countries – but the public did not believe it.
The Arab countries of the Middle East were judged guilty, and a public outcry began to
demand action against them.
The President set up a plan of action that would have as its first step a complete
banning of arms in the hands of anyone not part of the military or police establishments.
Immediate opposition came from the NRA and the right wing of the Republican Party.
The right to bear arms and to defend one’s home became the standard watchword of
this group. Terry Ortega found a certain justification in this stand. “How can you ask a man
to give up his rifle in the face of these constant attacks?” he said. “You can’t ask the
American public to stand defenseless as long as the attacks continue.”
Another type of flying artillery was the surface-to-surface missile. These were larger
and infinitely more destructive. They could be launched from a moving platform, a flat-back
truck, for example. Only two of these had been catapulted against a target. The first hit the
parking lot next to the capitol building in Texas. It was off target only by a hundred and fifty
yards and succeeded in destroying many of the Texas legislators’ automobiles. Five lives
were lost.
The second missile landed, unexploded – a dud – next to the mint in Denver.
The President declared martial law for the entire country. He called up the armed
forces in full strength, required each governor to call up the states’ militias, and required
 139
each personal weapon to be registered within ten days under pain of confiscation of the
weapon and jail for the owner.
Both parties called his actions laudable, but late. Some Republicans and all officers
of the National Rifle Association screamed against the order concerning personal weapons.
Every known private militia was searched out, and where possible their leaders were
placed under protective arrest. The howling from the radical right reached the moon. But
the President was firm. For once, the courts upheld his actions under the laws of national
emergency.
While this was going on, the dud missile and the remnants of the one that had
exploded were thoroughly investigated.

* * *

The Presidential group, knowing that his bed companion was influencing the VP,
decided to plant a piece of misinformation calculated to get action by Mary Elizabeth Li.
At a cabinet meeting the President announced that he was sending an important
mission to Israel to investigate the involvement of any Arab states in the attacks on the US.
He pinpointed their secret meeting place to be in an unoccupied school building near Herzlia
on the following Wednesday.
As night follows day, the next set of events could be predicted. On Wednesday next,
a progression of trucks and buses unloaded boxes of equipment and debarked passengers
for the school building. Several hours later the emptied trucks left, leaving the unoccupied
buses in the school parking lot. Just after midnight an explosion in the building leveled the
school, and the people who had acted as decoys huddled in the trucks as they neared the
Lod Airport and thanked the good Lord for their safekeeping.
A quick investigation by the Mossad confirmed the involvement of several groups of
Arab terrorists: Libya, Iraq, and Iran were involved. The missiles were of Chinese
manufacture. At least one industrial compound was the manufacturer or assembler: a joint
venture between All China Self Protective Defense Materials Plant [ACSFDMP] and American
Defenses Sources, Inc. [ADS]. The latter was a subsidiary of Bellini’s Military Delivery
Systems.
If there was any question concerning the information loop between Li and Ortega, it
was gone. For the rest of the War Inside the States, later to be known as the Crazy War, the
Vice-President was separated from any confidential information.

* * *

The President warned the world, through a dispatch to the UN and by appearances
on television, that a single further act would involve the destruction of parts of cities in The
Terrorist Zone. He spelled out the protected area of the world that came under his warning.
This included continental United States, Hawaii, Alaska, American dependencies of all sorts,
and its allies, Great Britain, Canada, and Israel. He specifically did not mention those
nations that had not supported the US in the United Nations Assembly or Security Council.
Almost as he spoke, launched within fifteen minutes of his message to the UN and his
appearance on worldwide television, a missile landed in the black section, near the
Chinatown area, of Washington, D.C. In this case devastation was very substantial and
casualties could be counted in the thousands.
The capital was paralyzed. It was as if the entire city was convulsed by an apoplectic
stroke. Witnesses said that it was hours before anyone moved. But it was only moments.
First aid vehicles, ambulances, fire trucks, and military transport were at the scene almost
instantly. Assistance came from Maryland, from Virginia, from states all over the eastern
seaboard. Israeli disaster specialists were airborne less than an hour after the explosion.
But the dead were dead. And the hospitals were overloaded. And the buildings were
destroyed. And the fires took days to control. And the Crazy War was on in earnest.
 140
With a three-hour warning, nuclear warheads were directed at locations in Libya,
Iran, and Iraq in the Arab world and at three locations in China. All of these locations had
installations, some small, some larger, linked to ADS corporations. Using the PinPoint
system, the bombs were directed accurately at the arms plants. In each case about half a
square mile was devastated. There was no attempt on the part of the United States to send
the bombs during nighttime hours when there would be fewer casualties. It was a tit-for-tat
exercise meant to tell the enemy that counter-attack would be infinitely greater than attack.
The world was shocked into silence. All the President did was to send surveillance
planes over the areas hit to take photographs. These were shown all over the world along
with pictures of the devastation in Washington, DC.
There was silence all over the world – except in the UN Assembly. The usual uproar
burst forth, but since the United States was no longer represented there, there was little
outcome of the uproar, except for the exercise of the lungs involved. CNN and other media
representatives were in attendance so the cries and whimpers of the UN delegates were
broadcast to their home countries. No one in the United Nations mentioned the mass
destruction in Washington. No one regretted the cost of American lives or property. No one
apologized.

* * *

The roundup of private illegal militia personnel continued, but the Intelligence
community was not able to discover the compound in Idaho that contained the Freemen of
America.
That they were still active was demonstrated on Mount Rushmore. During the last
decade a fifth sculpture, in addition to those of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson,
Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln was in the process of being carved out of the
mountain. It was one of Franklin Roosevelt. A week after the reprisal on the Arab and
Chinese terrorists six charges placed in the night on the new sculpture exploded, effectively
making the almost completed head a pile of rubble cascading down the mountainside.
The internet carried that night a statement signed by the Freemen of America that
the action on Mount Rushmore demonstrated that the so-called United States of America
was no longer, nor had it ever been, a viable government, that the people of the North
American continent were now and forever free of repressive government with its
restrictions, its taxes, and its outmoded regulations. Further, to prove the inadequacy of
government and the independence of free men of the restraints of government and federal
control, the Independent Militia of Freemen of America would, within the next few days,
destroy one of the government’s most valued possessions.
Every local, state, and federal government building was put under twenty-four hour
heavy guard. Every road was policed. The area of Idaho where Arnie Tankerman had been
a guest of the Freemen was combed branch-by-branch, blade of grass by blade of grass.
The searching parties felt that they were closing in on the Freemen headquarters, but they
turned up nothing of value. The big question asked in government circles was, whether with
government enforcement closing in on them, did the Freemen feel they had to act.
It didn’t take long to find an answer to the question.
A pileup of automobiles and trucks on US Highway 99 just below the intersection with
State 180 below Fresno closed most of the traffic on the highway. Emergency vehicles
found it difficult to get through the tangled mass of wreckage. Sirens blew, but noise could
not move a car that had been totaled from the road.
South of this scene, at the intersection of Route 99 with the road that leads to Visalia,
California, not an hour after, another pileup occurred. It was hours before the roads could
even begin to be cleared.
As US 99 became more and more clogged with cars coming both north and south, all
of them, when they came closer to the accident sites, were frustrated in their desire to be
somewhere, but not where they were.
 141
Simultaneously, on many of the Federal Government web sites strange messages
began to appear:
Dear, or dear, the park is burning!!!
Oh, my, is General Sherman marching on Georgia again????
How red is redwood, darling? Is it natural or dyed in the wood????
But, daddy dear, why is the park burning????
What is 101.5 feet around the waist and 272.4 feet tall? Or is it the other way
around????
Sequoia, sequoia, is a match quicker than a sawyer???
Ask the President why the park is burning!!!!
Marisa Smith, to whom some of these messages were relayed, as possible coded
Intelligence items, had no idea what they meant. She called Maureen Douglass at the
Washington Post.
“We’ve been getting some strange messages, Maureen. Does any of this make
sense to you. Let me read: ‘The park is burning,’ and ‘Sherman is marching on Georgia,’
and ‘How red is redwood,’ and ‘101.5 feet at the waist,’….”
“Good God, Marisa, is something going on in Sequoia…”
“One of the messages mentions Sequoia.”
“At the national park, Marisa. What’s going on there?”
“I’ll call you back.”
Marisa turned from the phone she was on to another on her desk, and asked her
assistant to connect her with Sequoia National Park in Californian. There were no lines open
or no lines operating or some sort of emergency. A radio to one park ranger and then
another brought out the reason for the weird messages.
THE PARK WAS BURNING.
Telephone lines were down or inoperative. Frantic radio messages for assistance
brought the reply that all roads were jammed because of traffic accidents. Hurried calls for
helicopter assistance were answered by the Air Force.
Fire fighting planes were hurried in from as far as Canada and the Midwest. From
Olney, Texas came Air Tractor AT-802 and AT-805 airtankers loaded with FlameOut Water
Wetter. Added to these were Polish produced PZL M18 and M18B Dromader airplanes fitted
for forest fire fighting and equipped with water bombs. In addition to these, retrofitted old
transport planes acted as airtankers to drop water bombs. Extra supplies of FlameOut, the
best fire suppressing agent available were flown in to add to the water used for the water
bombs.
But the clogged roads and the fact that most of the fires raging in various parts of the
park had been started with containers of gasoline and kerosene made the fire fighting
difficult. Forty percent of the Sequoia National Park was destroyed in four hours. The
General Sherman big tree, more than three thousand years old was a charred hulk. It had
been doused with gasoline, some of it apparently dropped from the air, so that the tree
burned at all levels of its nearly three hundred foot height. In addition to destroyed
sequoias, other trees and shrubs and animals – black bears, deer, foxes, and squirrels – were
victims of the vicious vandalism.
A treasure of the United States had been destroyed.

* * *

President Fortunatus called an emergency meeting of his personal group, to which he

added the Joint Chiefs. They met in the Secure Room.
“This fire in the Sequoia,” the President said, “is still not in control. It’s a crime of the
first water. And it is deliberate sabotage. The traffic accidents were contrived. Many of the
cars did not have drivers. They were hauled there, crashed and left to contribute to the
mess.
 142
“That’s number one. Number two. We called out all the fire fighting equipment
we could get. When our people in the Park made radio calls because the telephone lines
were cut, the answers in all cases were that planes could not be supplied because the CEO
of the company which controlled the fire fighting company had left orders that no planes
were to go out without express authorization, and the CEO of the larger company was out
for the day. The only cooperation we had was from some of the smaller independents. But
they couldn’t bring enough power to stop the conflagration.”
“This is insupportable,” General Brian Rose, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “What
did you do?”
“As Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces I commandeered every plane in
everyone of the companies, and I ordered the arrest of every Chief Executive Officer who
had given those instructions. Some of them were hard to find. Those that are in custody
will be brought before a Grand Jury tomorrow. I happen to know why they did what they did,
but I want them to say it in court.”
“You have evidence for this?” General Rose asked.
“Oh, yes, and more. I’ve hesitated to bring the armed forces into this, hoping it was
simply a political and financial problem we were facing, but at this point, I am sure you don’t
realize it, but we are at war. It’s a Crazy War.”
Disbelief was evident in the faces of the Chiefs. They looked at the President in
dismay: General Brian Rose, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and Chief of Staff of the Army;
Admiral Abner Knox, Chief of Staff of the Navy; Vice Admiral Ben Tookin, Commandant of the
Marine Corps; and Lieutenant General Hugh McBain, Chief of Staff of the Air Corps
“Lou, start the demonstration.” The President’s Chief of Staff distributed to each of
the participants a locked case. He gave each an envelope with the combination to the lock.
In addition to the President and the Joint Chiefs those present included Chief of Staff
Lou Goldberg; Presidential Liaison with Intelligence Marisa Smith; Maxim Crankshore,
Director of FSIA; Conrad Corbin, Director of the FBI; Marcia Bloom, former Vice-President;
Kenneth Bloom, a business man and husband of Marcia Bloom; Tommy Kwo, Special Advisor
to the President and a Police Officer in the City of New York; and Maureen Douglass, a
reporter on the Washington Post.
“The rules in this room for those of you who are here for the first time is that absolute
secrecy pertains. No notes. Those of who haven’t already done so will indicate your oath to
this by raising your hands.” The President waited until those hands were raised, and then
he continued. “You may open your cases.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” General Rose said, “the Vice-President?’
“He will not be here.”
The four armed forces commanders turned in surprise to the Chief Executive.
“You will discover shortly why.”
“Lou, proceed.”
The Chief of Staff began. Starting with the first meeting of the small group in the
Secure Room, he took them through the spy story, the attacks from North Korea, the
Panama incident, the attacks on the President’s life, the Jellinson cabal with its involvement
with China, with the Arab nations, and on and on.
Disbelief gave way to astonishment; astonishment gave way to despair. Is this what
the United States was coming to? Each of the Chiefs had at least some involvement with
one or more of the CEOs in Jellinson’s group, and certainly with corporations that were
controlled by the CEOs directly.
They did not want to believe; they resisted believing, and then when they heard the
tape of the CEOs meeting with the President – and they recognized some of the voices –
then they realized that they were indeed in a war, a war without boundaries, a war that
pitted a class of entrepreneurs against the whole of society, a war not only inside the states,
but inside the various companies involved. And all for what? Each of the CEOs was
extraordinarily rich; each had great power.
 143
What did they want? Political power? They had that, indirectly if not overtly, by
their ties to the conservative end of the Republican Party, as well as by looser ties to the
right wing of the Democratic Party. The Joint Chiefs could not make sense of what was
happening.
“If I may, gentlemen – and Marisa, may I pose an angle you may not want to give
credence to, but an angle that in this world of multinational mega-sized corporations may
make sense.” Maureen Douglass forced the others to turn to the Washington Post reporter
when she added, “Rulers of the world.”
“Ridiculous,” said Hugh McBain, but then he thought a bit. “Or is it? I know the
feeling. When you’re flying – out alone – in the middle of the sky. With no frame of
reference. You feel as if you’re the Lord of Creation. If you stay with that feeling, ultimately
you crash your plane and… If you realize after a bit, that what’s keeping you up in the air is
a very complicated bit of machinery – machinery that has no feelings, no brain, no soul –
and you have to work within its parameters, the way you do with a computer. And if you do
everything right, you no longer think of yourself as Lord of Creation, but a human being who
wants to get down to the ground and go home to have dinner with your family. Those guys
may still be up in the air. Still thinking of being God. Maybe Rulers of the World is the right
phrase.”
Ben Toonkin nodded in agreement. “Well, what do you want us to do, Mr. President.
You’ve declared martial law, and we have to agree with you as far as that’s concerned. The
military moves are easy. What about the political ones? Considering what you’ve shown us,
we just have to back you – all the way.”
“Thank you, Ben,” the President said. “Now this is what I think we have to do. The
key to the whole Jellinson plan from his point of view is China. He needs China and China
needs him. The country is so large that plants can be spread all over, with no area of
concentration. Efficiency of location in terms of transport – the way the rust belt started: to
keep as much of industry near railroad tracks – is not necessary there. Labor is so cheap
and plentiful, and easily trainable, and so passive that it is controllable. When China
becomes ChinaCorp, with its key top administrators under Jellinson and his people as CEO
and Board of Directors, they won’t even know that they’re no longer an independent
country.
“There has to be a rapid and irreversible attack on the corporations in this country.
Not all, not the medium and small ones, not the independents. From the tape you heard you
know the ones: those that those bastard CEOs control. It becomes a military takeover,
either army or state militia, under martial law. It has to be quick and complete to prevent
any reaction on their part that would cause us to lose dominance over the world. In other
words, production must be maintained – in this country. As far as Jellinson’s assets
overseas, we’ll worry about those later. The banks have to be nationalized; perhaps a
United States Bank that takes on all the assets of the ones controlled by the cabal, in this
case assets both local and offshore.
“Labor has to be mobilized and motivated to revolt – peacefully, and under the eyes
of the administration – against management control. A return to power of the workers,
white and blue collar, either under union conditions or the US Association of Labor, which
we’ll inaugurate to protect workers’ rights.”
Admiral Knox intervened. “You’re going to get a lot of heat from the other side of the
aisle, Mr. President. The Republicans – and I’m one – aren’t going to like having the
corporations taken over. After all, their election money comes in large percentages from
them. It is un-American, truly. Don’t you actually feel that way?”
“Correct, Admiral, it’s goddamn un-American. We’ve never in our history had to
operate this way, but never in our history have we been attacked on our own territory both
from outside and inside the country. Never have we had the situation where one man wants
to be master of the world, and he is simply buying his way from one country to another.
There’s no way to make a fire brake to hold the conflagration away from us. You saw the
evidence of the missiles, even in the capital. You saw Mount Rushmore. You see the
 144
burning of Sequoia. Why those last bits of sabotage? Because they’re American
treasures. They have no party: no right, no left side of the aisle. They’re just American, and
they’ve been destroyed to demonstrate to the world how weak we are.”

* * *

Under the force of martial law, the militias were eliminated physically. All their
weapons and all their assets were confiscated. The Stodmans were captured as well as
most of their group. But a few small groups managed to hole up in the mountains, some in
the Rockies and some in the Appalachians.
Mary Elizabeth Li and George Beldes were both in Washington, safe in their corporate
positions, although under the heel of military guardians. The FSIA operatives in charge of
their particular corporations and bosses were told to allow both of them free movement, but
that they were to be tailed wherever they went, and a log was to be kept on all their
movements, their telephone calls, Internet messages, people with whom they were in
contact, and on and on and on.
The radical right, the National Rifle Association, right wing fundamentalists, and the
usual followers of reaction opposed the President and what they called his unconstitutional
actions. They made noise, and the noise was permitted, but violent action was not. The
Internet, of course, was abuzz with chat sessions, home pages, messages, e-mail and all
sorts of fun for activists who preferred their activism safely at the monitor of their laptops
and PC’s.

EIGHTEEN: THE VP’S PROJECT

Terry Ortega had little to do. As President of the Senate when he couldn’t unload the
job on some hapless junior senator, he sat long hours watching a nearly empty chamber,
only occasionally enlivened by some Western senator bemoaning the loss of American
freedom while the right to bear arms was abrogated by a President who used martial law to
do what he couldn’t do in a democratic way.
It was obvious to him – Ortega was no fool – that he was being left out of all the
President’s decision making. It was also obvious to him – and to most of the members of the
Cabinet – that the Cabinet was not privy to Fortunatus’ thinking. But there was nothing he
or they could do. The President seemed to work best with his informal Inner Cabinet or, as
some of the more disgruntled members called it, his Out-of-the-Beltway Cabinet. The
comings and the goings in the Marble Box and the retreats to undisclosed places could not
help but be noticed.
So, Ortega, to keep himself busy and also to make himself more aware of what was
happening in the world, took to working at his computer. He scanned the Internet and made
himself aware of the opposition to the President among what he realized were the crazies in
the country. Always a moderate dove himself when it came to unpopular movements, he
could understand and sympathize with those who felt themselves disenfranchised.
Although, like Fortunatus, he was a city person, he was an environmentalist and an animal
lover. But he had no pets. In neither his dove position nor in his empathy with the political
earth movements was he very orthodox. Like a good politician, he was always ready to
change his attitude – whichever way the wind blew. Up to a point. And he always
considered himself a good American.
He was not surprised, therefore, to discover a strange e-mail message on his
computer one day. And he was willing, for the moment at least, to take the message
seriously. It was an e-mail with an ID that Ortega did not recognize: Would the US pay one
hundred million dollars for a way of accomplishing absolute protection from incoming
missiles?
 145
Thinking himself foolish for even reading the message, let alone responding,
Ortega, assuming he was dealing with a jokester, sent an answer: We gave up on Star Wars
decades ago.
The e-mail writer, who identified himself as Return@Juno.com, replied: I sent a
request to the Department of Defense asking that someone look at my proposal, but no one
responded. A message to the White House got a thank-you for writing to the President. And
now, that all hell has broken loose, I am sending it to you, hoping that it will reach your
attention. I am not a foolish person. My proposal is real, and it works.
The VP, on the basis of nothing ventured, nothing lost, continued the correspondence
– an almost hourly one – and agreed to meet with Return, who had not identified himself
with a real world name. But before he made an appointment, he called Ron Stoller, Deputy
Director of the FSIA. Stoller, not part of the President’s inner-outer cabinet, did not know
anything more about Ortega than that he was Vice-President, and with the country being in
the emergency it was, it was only natural that the President’s second in command should be
in touch with the FSIA on an issue he said might be important and possibly critical.
When Ortega told him what the subject of the meeting was, Stoller suggested that
Arnie Tankerman, as an FSIA specialist in lasers come along, since the project would
undoubtedly include a laser factor. Tankerman also did not know that Ortega was out of the
presidential loop.
The three men met with the e-mailer in the VP’s office in the rarely used mansion on
Observatory Circle. His name was Melvin Cordovsky. He was a wizened little man with
sparse white hair, a long thin nose, crooked tobacco-stained teeth, arthritic hands, and
stooped shoulders. He walked with a cane and looked a hundred years old, but he told his
listeners he was only seventy-two. His clothing was old, threadbare, and wrinkled. His shirt
needed laundering, and if a person came to close to him, that person knew that Cordovsky
did not bathe often.
He didn’t talk much. “You know physics, engineering?” he asked the group. There
was a definite Eastern European flavor to his speech.
“I do,” Tankerman said. “Mostly laser and projectile.”
“Maybe you will understand this. If not, we have nothing to talk about.” He opened
the supermarket plastic bag he had brought with him and began pulling out papers. He
gave two of them to Tankerman.
Arnie looked at the papers critically. At first he seemed to smile, the tolerant smile a
professional gives an amateur when he is shown a work to examine. Then he looked
seriously at the pages, going from one to another. He held out his hand for more.
Cordovsky gave him another set.
“Range?” asked Tankerman.
“Fifty to a hundred miles,” the old man answered.
“Accuracy?”
“Pinpoint.”
At that Tankerman gave a little start. PinPoint was the aiming device used by the
small nuclear missiles that the US used to punish terrorist nations.
“Have you made any models? Or just drawings?”
“In my barn I have a small model.” Before anyone could say a word, the old man
said, “It works.”
“Where is this barn?”
“On my chicken farm, where else?”
“Where is the chicken farm.”
“Oh, outside Baltimore. Where I live. Where else?”
“Let me see more papers.”
The old man gave the whole bag to Arnie, who proceeded to pore through it. After
another twenty minutes during which Ortega and Ron Stoller sat silent, the FSIA agent,
bleary-eyed from strained concentration on the drawings and data sheets, got up from his
chair, went to a phone and ordered a van to be used immediately.
 146
“We’re going to Baltimore,” he said. “You leave your car here,” he told
Cardovsky.
“I don’t have a car. I came by bus. And I took a taxi to this place, what do you call
it? Observatory Circle.”
“Good,” said Tankerman. “I want to see the model.”
While they waited for the van to take them to Baltimore, Tankerman, out of the
hearing of the old man, told the others, “If what I see is right, if what I see works, it’s worth a
billion dollars. More… And I’m sorry I took over the discussion. I couldn’t help it.”
“No sweat,” Ron Stoller said. “You’re the expert. That’s why you’re here.”
“Exactly,” the VP added, wondering if he had really fallen into the nest of a goose
with a golden….
The van driver and the old man rode in the front, the VP and Tankerman in the
middle seats, and Ron Stoller in the back. Ortega wondered why Tankerman had made a
point of the inventor riding in the front. He said Cordovsky could give the driver directions,
but the VP knew that reason was specious.
The answer was soon coming. Tankerman motioned Stoller and Ortega to bring
themselves as close as they could to him. Loud music from the front covered their
conversation.
“If this thing is what I think it is, and if it works, it’s the greatest thing since the Cold
War. It’ll freeze everything tight. It’s really Star Wars – what Reagan was looking for. Not
everything, but if it works, it can stop a missile cold. And more… I don’t want to say
anything until I get to his barn… Now I have to make a call… I hope I’m not getting out of
line. I know I should ask permission for whatever I do, but…”
Stoller looked at the VP, who nodded positively to him. “Look, Arnie, we’re riding on
your coattails. We’re illiterate when it comes to the kind of thing you’re talking about.”
“OK, sir. I’ll make that call.”
Tankerman spoke into his cell phone for several minutes. Then he put it away. A few
minutes later, it buzzed and he picked it up, listened, tapped the van driver on the shoulder,
and when he turned a bit, Arnie said, “At the end of the Parkway a companion?”
“OK,” said the driver. “I’ll watch.”
“We may have to wait a few minutes.”
“No sweat, sir.”
At the end of the Parkway, the driver took the van off the road and parked on the
grassy fringe. A state police car came by. The driver took his badge wallet out and
displayed it in the window. The policeman went off. Five minutes later another van joined
them. They resumed the trip, followed by the second van.
At this point, the old man gave directions. And twenty minutes later they reached
Cordovsky’s farm. The two vans drove directly to the barn. The old man got out very
excitedly. He was obviously stimulated by the attention he was getting. When the others
got out of the van – the occupants of the second van stayed put – the inventor took Arnie by
the arm and led him – almost ran with him – to the barn door. He pulled out a large key
chain, unlocked three locks and opened a padlock on a chain between two door handles. He
entered the dark interior, pulling Tankerman with him. He switched on a couple of lights,
and when the others had come inside, he locked the door.
High in the air, suspended from the ceiling were sets of tiny tracks going the length
of the barn. Hanging from the end of one of the tracks was what looked like a model
airplane.
“You see,” said Cordovsky in an excited voice, “there can be a number of sources on
the one end and a parallel number of objectives on the other.” He turned to his audience.
“And here is the Return to Sender apparatus. It was a black box.
Why are they always black boxes? Ortega thought. God, if this doesn’t work, how will
I keep it quiet with all these people. When Fortunatus finds out I did something without
consulting him, the shit will hit the fan. Well, he keeps me out of everything as if I’ve done
something wrong. Fuck him.
 147
“Now I can program that little airplane to start from one of a thousand launch sites
and to end at one of a thousand objective sites. You pick them both, Mr. Tankerman, and
tell me nothing. The machine will have to do the work.” Tankermann nodded. “Now, touch
the numbers of source and objective and then whisper the number for source and the
objective to the Vice-President. As it is flying, the RTS will determine its source, and when it
almost reaches the objective, I will press the button that says Return.”
Tankerman followed Cordovsky’s directions. “Far right, number S799 for source,” he
whispered to the VP, “Middle, number 206 for objective.”
“All right, now,” the old man said. He went over to the black box. “I am pushing the
button that says Start.” He did so. “Now I am pushing the Launch button.”
The Washingtonians looked on transfixed as the model airplane moved to the place
Tankerman had indicated. Then the model took off. Down the tracks it went, points lighting
up until it came to the center. It paused momentarily, then selected a particular track and
went down it until it almost reached the objective point, which flashed several times. When
the inventor pressed a button without a designation, it hesitated and then went back to the
far right launch position. The test was repeated several times in varied positions. It didn’t
make any difference which launch and objective sites were punched in. When the unmarked
button was pressed, the airplane returned to the launch position chosen by the government
officials.
Then Arnie said, “How about a real time test?”
“You brought something in the other van?” Cordovsky asked.
“A small hand held missile.”
“Good. Tell your men to take it a mile down the road. Then aim it back here and
launch it. But then they must get quick out of the way. Put the launcher on the ground and
run away from it.”
Tankerman gave instructions to the men in the second van. They did as Cordovsky
ordered. And when they reached the point on the road that they chose, they called
Tankerman on their cell phone. He said, “Launch and get out of the way.” Just make sure
there are no other people are around. I don’t want anyone hurt.
A moment later those at the barn – they were all outside watching – could see the
missile as it approached them. Cordovsky manipulated the controls in his black box. The
missile turned, wavered a bit, and flew away from them and disappeared. A minute later,
Arnie’s phone buzzed, and he heard an astonished laser expert say, “The missile landed at
its launch site, bent and bounced off the launcher. If it had been armed, it would have
destroyed it.”
“Cordovsky, take your box and your plans and get back in the van,” Tankerman said.
“We’re going back to Washington. To the Pentagon. To Colonel Rudy Swarts. He hurried
them all. He called the other van to pick up the damaged missile launcher and the missile
and do the same. This time, on the way back, he sat with Cordovsky and spoke in muted
tones to him all the way.

* * *

The next step was complex, and it legality was questionable. In this the Vice-
President took the lead. He knew perfectly well that what he was doing was outside his
authority, but it might well – if successful – be a way of bringing him back into the
President’s good graces. He had overstepped bounds with Mary Elizabeth, but the President
had said no damage had been done and to continue his relationship.
I wonder if he meant me to marry her. Funny, I’d never thought of it. I guess Brenda
will always be my wife. But a second marriage? I wonder. But he did say America would
not take to a Chinese First Lady. Or was he just buttering me up? I guess. No, I don’t get
married again.
He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the current problem. He
could not go to the top of the military hierarchy; that would go directly to the Marble Box.
 148
So top generals were out. Any generals, for that matter. But what he wanted now was
just testing.
What Tankerman said of the value of this black box if it works is like a billion dollars.
Is it possible? Well, tests might show. And if it is, we can bargain with the old man later.
Ortega had always been a good politico, and he understood what it took to get a
person’s support. Appeal to what he really wanted or needed. What Melvin Cordovsky
needed was a real test of his machine. What he wanted was public approval and
recognition. More than the hundred million dollars. Obviously, the man did not need much
money, and apparently he did not have a family, so perhaps the money was a bargaining
chip to get the attention and fame that would go to a world class advance in missile
technology.
In that case what was needed was an officer who could perform the test. And, if the
test were successful, well then…
A second cell phone went into use as the van sped down the Parkway to Washington.
This time it was the VP’s. He called his office and asked his first assistant for the name and
telephone of the officer he needed. The answer was forthcoming. It was Colonel Rudy
Swarts of the Air Force, in charge of missile and artillery testing. The man that Tankerman
had indicated they were to meet.
The VP called the colonel, who fortunately was in his office.
“Colonel Swarts, this is the Vice-President. We are on our way in to see you. I have
Arnie Tankerman with us. You know him?”
“Yes, sir. And what can I do for you.”
“We’ve just had a little demonstration, and I would like to have an official test –
actually something in the beginning stages – of a piece of apparatus. Could you arrange
that? Stat?”
“I guess so, sir. A missile? Small or large?”
“Well, not quite a missile, but we’d need one. Rather, an anti-missile.”
“A what?” Disbelief was evident in the colonel’s voice.
“Colonel, I can hear you clearly. This is not a crazy thing. If it is what we think it is, it
may be the answer to great many questions. And it has to be absolutely top secret. No one
– no one – must be in on this. Don’t even speak to yourself about it.”
“All right, sir. How soon shall I expect you?”
“Let me check with Tankerman.”
Cupping the phone in one hand, Ortega tapped the FSIA officer and asked about the
time element, and where should they meet Swarts. Tankerman took the phone from the VP,
spoke to the air force colonel, and then hung up.
He turned to the VP and said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you for what?” smiled Ortega.
“For protecting my rear in case this turns out to be a fiasco. I appreciate that.”
“Well, up to a point. Also, if it works, I can get some of the credit. But let’s hope
there is something in this cracker box that won’t crumble down to nothing.”
“Amen, sir. Amen.”
Ortega, Stoller, and Tankerman all realized that their careers were on the line if the
old man’s box didn’t work. On the other hand….

* * *

They never went to the Pentagon. Instead the van took them to a testing ground
between Washington and Baltimore. There Swarts met them, and Cordovsky explained his
mechanism to the Colonel. Swarts shook his head doubtfully.
“I thought they gave up on Star Wars in the Reagan administration,” he said. “But I’ll
give it a go. We’ll give it a circular route, so it can come back here. That’ll require the least
preparation. I’ll use a fifty-mile range. That OK?” he asked the inventor.
Cordovsky nodded. “Whatever you say.”
 149
The old man looked doubtful, and the others, seeing that, began to lose heart.
“What’s the problem?” Ortega asked him.
“I never did a circular test.”
“Don’t worry,” the VP said, worrying, “we’ll do several tests.”
Two hours later, the test was ready. Colonel Swarts himself launched the missile. At
the VP’s insistence, no enlisted men were involved. The missile flew up and out. It’s circular
route clearly evident. When it was nearly out of sight, Cordovsky activated his black box,
aiming – or whatever – his machine at the missile.
The onlookers could see the projectile shudder, wobble about, and then turn away
from its course and head back along the route it had taken.
“Oh, shit!” Colonel Swarts said. “Let’s get the fuck away from here. If that thing
lands near here, it can do a lot of damage.”
“It’s not armed, is it,” Arny asked.
“No, but it’s got a lot of steel in it.”
They all backed away, their eyes peeled on the missile, as it grew closer. And they
stared in incredulity as it crashed exactly on top of the launcher.
“My God, what have you got there?” Swartz said. “Star Wars?”
“No,” replied Melvin Cordovsky, “Return to Sender.”
Swarts turned to the others and said, his face dark with seriousness, “As far as
anyone is concerned – anyone – we had a missile failure. It was a demonstration missile
that collapsed on takeoff.”
“But it was a great success,” protested the old man. “It worked better than I ever
hoped. I want people to know.”
“Mr. Cordovsky,” Colonel Swarts said, “if you’ve been reading the newspapers or
watching TV, you know we are in the midst of a strange war. We are under military
government and great constraints to our behavior. The President, as Commander in Chief,
has declared martial law. You must understand.”
“But I want the world to know…”
“They will know, Mr. Cordovsky. You will be well rewarded. You will receive much
public acknowledgement. But it must wait. For one thing, your work has to have much
more testing, and then it has to be manufactured for use by the armed forces of your
adopted country. You are a great American, Mr. Cordovsky. I hope you realize that and that
you will cooperate with us. I want you to take leadership in the development of your great
invention.”
Cordovsky grudgingly agreed, and Swarts hurried him into his own car, saying quietly
to the Vice-President, “I have to get him under wraps. We dare not let him loose. I’ll butter
him up and give him all kinds of flattery. Then I’ll house him, probably with me. I have
room. Since my divorce my house is empty. But I need him to explain what it is he has
done.” Then he called Arnie Tankerman and said, “And you, my friend, are going to be
sequestered. You’ll stay with me. You and those blue prints and formulas. This thing is the
greatest computer virus I have ever seen. Do you know what it means, Arnie?”
“Of course,” The FSIA man said, “the whole world.”
“Exactly.”
The VP got into the conversation, saying, “Does this have to go up the line?”
“Eventually, yes. But for the moment, I think this is a project in development, and
not until it is OK’d for multiple production is it necessary to go to the top.”
“In that case, Colonel, how do we go ahead with it?”
“Will you go the limit, sir?”
“Name it.”
“I have a budget that I have to justify. If you will authorize the expenditure, that
leaves me clear, but you might have to take the heat. Unless, of course, it’s what we all
think it is, and then you become tomorrow’s hero.”
“Sounds good to me. My imprimatur is on your work. Go.”
“Now the question is the old man. Will he go along with the secrecy?”
 150
“Why don’t I talk to him?” the VP said.
“Good. I’ll get him, and you two talk. In the van OK?”
The VP smiled and said, “So long as there are no bugs in it. I hate bugs. I hate the
idea of eavesdropping. I like all my conversations – except with the press – to be private.”
“No bugs.”
“Good. Let me talk to him.”
Melvin and Ortega sat in the van.
“Mr. Vice-President,” the inventor said. “I have to know about this. How it is going to
end. Am I losing control of my own baby?”
“Melvin, call me Terry. We’re here as friends, if you will, as partners in a great
project. Forget who I am. Let’s just talk.”
“But, Mr. Vice-President….”
“Terry.”
“All right. Terry, I told you all a hundred million dollars. Do I get it?”
“Let me ask you, Melvin, what is it you want most in the world?”
“A hundred million…” Cordovsky stopped. He slumped in his seat. Both hands
trembled on his knees. Tears came to his eyes. “What I want. What I want. What I want
most in this world… is for people to respect me, to recognize what it is I did, without help,
without money, what I did. To be recognized by my country for what it is I am giving them.”
Ortega put his hand on Melvin’s, grasped it to stop the trembling. “If I could give you
that. That and more, would you….
“Would I? You could take the money and put it in a sewer where it belongs.
Everybody thinks of money only. That is why so much I ask for. What could I do with it? If
there was a television camera in front of me and somebody said to the camera, ‘This is a
man who loves his country and who did something to make it greater, bigger, more than it
was.’ If that happened I would go to my grave a happy man.”
“I can tell you this, Melvin. If this invention of yours really works, I can promise you
that both the President and I will stand with you before the TV cameras – and there will be
many of them – and we will tell he whole world how great you are.”
“Oh, Mr. Vice-President, Terry, you would make me the happiest person ever was
born on this earth.”
“Melvin, we have a contract – you and I – and we will both work for it to come to that.
In the mean while it is absolutely necessary for you work in secret – deep secret – with
Colonel Swarts and Mr. Tankerman. Even I will not be able to look into what you are doing.
And when the work is done, America once again will have the respect of the world, and you,
my friend will have the respect of America.”
Ortega gave Cordovsky over to Swarts.
“Was it difficult to persuade him?” Ron Stoller asked.
“Piece of cake,” a smiling, self-satisfied VP answered. He hadn’t lost his touch with
the common man, even the genius-type common man.
 151
NINETEEN: RETURN TO SENDER
If I were president, and I had a vice-president and he did the things that I have
done…. When do I tell him? Now before the thing is really started? Wait until we have a
working model? But we have a working model – isn’t that what Cordovsky showed us? Will
the shit ever hit the fan! My name will be mud. He’s not going to support me for president,
so what’s the difference. I may as well be a good boy and tell him I chopped down the
cherry tree.

* * *

“Mr. President, I need a meeting with you.”

“Why so formal, Terry? And why do you need a meeting. If you want to talk, let’s do
it now. I’ve got the time.”
“No, sir. I am asking formally for a meeting. And it has to be in the Secure Room.
Alone.”
“Mr. Vice-President, since we’re being formal, what the fuck do you want to talk
about?”
“Not here. Not a word. In the Secure Room.”
Fortunatus cancelled the next two hours’ appointments, took Ortega from his office in
the Marble Box and led him through the passageways and then to the train to the Secure
Room. When they got there, he asked his VP, “All right. What’s up?”
“You won’t remember it, or maybe you never got the e-mail, but an old man sent you
a message that he had perfected a device that would stop incoming missiles. He had
queried the Defense Department and they had ignored him. Your office sent him a
boilerplate thank you. So then, going down the line, he finally sent me e-mail. I would have
disregarded it as a crank letter, but I had nothing to do – you realize, that other than sitting
in an empty Senate, except when the Republicans want to crucify you for defending the
country, I sit at an empty desk. So I answered the message, and I got in touch with the
man. An old guy, Melvin Cordovsky. He has a farm near Baltimore. He gave me this story,
he said he had plans, and so on.
“So I commandeered Ron Stoller and Arnie Tankerman and I had them meet this
Melvin Cordovsky in my office, the one on Observatory Circle…”
“Where you never go,” the President interjected.
“Exactly. I figured if the thing was as stupid as I guessed it might be, it wouldn’t be
noticed if I were there. No one ever thinks of my going there.”
“Can’t fault you on that step. So?”
“Well Arnie took a look at the plans. I should say, Arnie looked up and down those
plans, and when the old man said he had a working model, Arnie – I mean, I – said we should
go out there and take a peek at what Cordovsky had. Then while we were riding out there,
he – I mean, I – said we should have a small test missile to see if it was what we didn’t think
it was, but we hoped.”
“You’re getting yourself all twisted up, Terry. Tell me the story.”
“Well, in this barn – at the farm – we’d called in another van with a small missile in it.
For the test, you know. Well, the old man had some tracks set up in the roof of the barn and
a toy plane that went on the tracks, and when he set up his black box, he made the toy
plane go back to where it came from.”
“You’re not explaining it right, Terry. Calm down.”
“Oh, shit, the short and long of it is this: we tested it with a real missile. It went up in
the air. The old man aimed the black box thing at the missile, and it came right back where
it started and crashed into the launcher. He can send any missile back to where it started.
He calls it Return to Sender.”
 152
The President said nothing. He stared at Ortega, his eyes cold and angry. His lips
narrowed. He pulled himself up from the table, grabbed at his crutches and walked hard
and stiff about the room.
“You fucking, stupid ass. You couldn’t tell me? You were trying to grab some free
publicity? You were trying to be a hero? You don’t know that the only authority you have is
what I give you? Go back to your fucking chair in the Senate and glue yourself to it.”
This was too much for Ortega to take. “Damn it, Alec, why don’t you put the blame
where it belongs. The Defense Department didn’t pay any attention to it. Why? Because it
didn’t come through appropriate channels. You didn’t pay any attention to it. Why? Did
you give your minions orders to take care of mail that wasn’t important? Like mail from
ordinary people, like little old men who might have something worth listening to? All I did
was to explore a very faint possibility and promise two dedicated officers of the FSIA to take
the heat – if it didn’t work. And a colonel in the air force. Him, too, I said I’d protect. Why?
Because we had more faith in trying out something that might stop this idiotic indefinable
Crazy War we’re in, where we can’t even really tell who the enemy is. Where we’re attacked
from inside and from outside, and all we can do is strike out blindly. Well, this fucking
machine works. How, I don’t know. But it works. Will it do us any good? I don’t know, but it
sure as hell looks as if it might.”
The President didn’t say a word. He went back to his seat.
The bugger is right. And not only is he right, he did the courageous thing. And this
may be an important step forward. More important, it was a patriotic thing to do. Maybe I
have a real partner in him. If only the Mary Elizabeth Li and the Maillol thing would go away.
Aloud he said, “You’re right, Terry. I apologize. Now how do I get filled in on this?”
The VP had never dreamed he would hear the word apologize from the President. He
appreciated it. “Thank you, sir. Shall I call them up? To come here?”
“Absolutely. It’s the only safe place.”
Ortega called Tankerman, Stoller, and Swarts. Within an hour they were gathered in
the Secure Room.
“You can speak freely here,” Fortunatus said, :”but the rules are no notes, no talk
outside. Absolute secrecy.”
They all understood, and then Tankerman began the explanation. “It depends on a
computer virus. The laser locks a robot on to the missile. The program in the RTS…”
“RTS?” the President said.
“Return to Sender. That’s the name Cordovsky gave it. It’s what it does. The
program in the machine sends a virus that hooks onto the missile’s command system – a
very powerful one, no anti-virus exists for it – that digs into into the missile’s computer
chips. It blanks out the computer’s program—or a good deal of it. The machine launches a
tiny rocket that has a robot in it. This lands on the incoming missile. The robot crawls on
the surface of the missile and finds the control area—the computer inside the missile—and
then it kind of hypnotizes the missile control and feeds it new commands. This reverses –
reverses – the program for directing the missile. Then it gives the command to return to
base. If it’s past the point of no return, it detonates in the air. If it was launched from a sub
or a plane, it returns to the point of origin. From a fixed land site, it goes all the way and
detonates on the launcher. We’ve done several tests. It works. We don’t know the
maximum distance the laser will work at, or whether radar would work better. We haven’t
had enough time…”
“Have you anything in production?”
“No, sir,” answered Colonel Swarts. “I only have budget for experimental…”
“You’re wrong, Colonel,” the President said. “You have unlimited funds for
production and development. I want a dozen of them as of yesterday. You are to seal off a
compound, get only the best craftsmen. I want it done all in house. No outside contractors
unless I give written approval. No consultations with any corporations. And when you order
material, if the question is asked, What for? the answer is the President’s new swimming
pool.”
 153
“Understood.”
When the meeting was concluded, Fortunatus asked to be taken to Melvin Cordovsky.
He met with the old man, shook his hand, had a picture taken with him – which he
autographed – and invited the inventor to a dinner at the end of the project – when it would
be appropriate to make the whole thing public. He made Melvin feel like a hundred million
dollars.

* * *

Tommy Kwo’s attention to the bugs in Terry Ortega’s apartment and that of his lover
never ceased. He kept all the tapes, but since he found little of novel interest in them, the
material was rarely sent to the President. One thing, however, did show up in the ones he
had listened to in the last several nights. Apparently there was an esoteric military device
called Return to Sender that the Vice-President was interested in. Ortega mentioned it once
as an odd item, and then, apparently embarrassed that he had said anything about it, he
dropped the subject. But Mary Elizabeth found the name intriguing, and she brought the
subject up at different times. Tommy found that she was clever in the way she tried to get
the VP to discuss something he obviously did not want to. But if mail was discussed, she
wanted to know about Return to Sender. If a gift was received, she brought the issue up
again. She seemed to find it intriguing.
If she did, so did Tommy. He told Maureen about it, and they both listened carefully
to the tapes. Neither Tommy nor Maureen thought it strange that they discussed this while
they were sleeping together. They had first become friends, then lovers, and now were in
the process of wondering whether marriage was the correct next step. And here they were,
discussing the VP and his bedroom arrangements.
“Aren’t we doing what Ortega and Li are doing?” Tommy said.
“Yay, but we’re not giving the enemy information,” Maureen said.
“You’re not a spy?” Tommy asked. “Then what am I doing here?”
“In your language,” Maureen smiled at him, “you’re having a good lay and wondering
whether it’s worth jumping in for the whole banana.”
“It’s you who’s looking for the banana.”
“Well better that than fruit salad,” Maureen retorted. They laughed at each other.
“Anyhow, we’ll see what Marisa has to say about this Return to Sender thing.”

* * *

“Have no idea what they are talking about,” said Marisa Smith. “This goes to the
Boss.”
When the three came to Fortunatus, he hurried them to the Secure Room and filled
them in on the new development.
“This could change the history of the world,” Maureen said.
“Yes, it could, and with luck it will.”
“And I can’t write the story,” mourned Maureen. “What a spot to be a reporter. I
know everything and can’t write anything.”
“You’ll write the history when it’s done,” the President said.
“Good. I’ll get a best seller and a Pulitzer.”
“You may very well,” Fortunatus said.
Another event occurred that tortured the reporter’s soul that resided in Maureen
Douglass. The Vice-President was aware that Mary Elizabeth and Maureen had become
friendly since Maureen became a resident in their building. He also knew that Fortunatus
favored Maureen as a media person.
“I have to talk to you, Maureen,” the VP said one morning when they met by chance
at the mailboxes.
“On or off the record, Mr. Ortega?”
 154
“Off.”
“My luck. I’m kidding, of course. Any time you’d like.”
“Now, if you don’t mind coming up to my place.”
“Glad to.” Maureen accompanied the VP to his apartment, a little curious as to how
she was going to sound on Tommy Lee’s bugs.
“You know how friendly I am with Mary Elizabeth,” he said.
“Oh, yes.”
“Very friendly. And you are a friend of hers, also, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Very much.” She wondered in which direction Terry Ortega was leading
her.
“Can we be Maureen and Terry for the moment?” he said. “This is very personal.”
“OK. Sure.”
“You see, I’m in love with Mary Elizabeth.”
“I know that.”
“And I… And I….”
“Terry, you mean, do I know you and she are… Are that way?”
“Exactly.”
“Yes, I know. Is there something you want to tell me about your relationship?”
The VP sighed. That was exactly what he had in mind. “I’ve been thinking of
proposing marriage to her. She’s a lot younger than I am, but we’ve been so close that I
begin to think perhaps the age isn’t so important.”
Maureen looked at the man and took his hand in hers. “Is there something that is
stopping you? Something…”
“Odd that you should say that. There is something.”
“Terry, we’re off the record. We’re talking confidentially. Friends. Whatever you
want to tell me, I will never tell Mary Elizabeth. Or anyone else, for that matter. You’ve
known me a while, but only as a reporter, but you know I have a good reputation.”
“Yes, and I know the President likes you. More than as a reporter, and Alexander
Fortunatus doesn’t give his favor to many people. You’re one of a few. I know I can trust
you.”
“Tell me, Terry.” She took his hand in both of hers. The candor and friendship in her
eyes was remarkable. The warmth exuded from her in a wave that reached to him.
“Well, you see, when I was married to Brenda, we talked everything over. We’d lie in
bed and I’d tell her everything that had occurred during the day, and I’d ask her opinion and
her advice. From the time we were first married and in local politics. Well, I’ve been doing
the same thing with Mary Elizabeth. And she’s wonderful, but, of course, she’s not Brenda.
It’s just that I’m in the habit of pillow talk.”
“Nothing wrong in that. If you don’t give away any secret information. And I know
you’d never do that. One thing we learn in this business is that For Your Eyes Only means
what it says.” Maureen’s voice was soft and warm, intimate.
The VP screwed up his courage and finally said what he had to say. “You see,
Maureen, Brenda would never bring up a topic. I’d say something and then she’d reply. But
even as my wife, she never inquired into anything I chose to keep to myself. Well, I
mentioned something to Mary Elizabeth the other day, something I shouldn’t have, and then
I dropped it. But she keeps bringing it up, one way or another. Cute you know. When a
similar word turns up, she mentions that topic again. It worries me.”
“Oh, I don’t think it means anything. She might just be curious why you didn’t say
more. Or… Why don’t I think about it a bit, and then I’ll get back to you, Terry.” She
squeezed his hand the way a dear friend would.
She was perfectly aware of what Mary Elizabeth had been doing, having listened to
the tapes. Tommy and she went to the President and Marisa the next day with the tape of
the VP’s conversation with Maureen, and asked Fortunatus what he suggested they do.
“Hint to Ortega that you think Mary Elizabeth through her ties to Lorna Ortega
Johnson is too close to Jellinson, that you believe Lorna is Jellinson’s mistress, and maybe…
 155
Whatever. If she is involved with Jellinson, then there is real trouble for the VP. Say
something like that.”
When she was sure that Mary Elizabeth was gone for the day the next morning, she
knocked on the Veep’s door. She suggested to Ortega what the President had said. It
stopped him in his tracks.
“My God, if she is… Oh, what have I done…? She couldn’t be…. Or could she?” He
looked stricken. “Maureen, you won’t say anything, will you?” He stopped for a moment,
then seemed to come to a decision. “If I ask you to accompany me to a place as a witness,
will you?”
“Of course, Terry.”
“And no story?”
“I think we’re beyond that, Terry. You are safe with me.”
That night the VP took the bull by the horns, plunged into the fray, girded up his
loins, and while his new comrade listened in – without his knowledge – he said to Mary
Elizabeth, “You asked me about Return to Sender. I’m not sure exactly what it is. But
there’s this inventor, Torgard Baunor, who’s invented something. He’s going to do a test
tonight.”
“Oh what fun. Can we see, darling?”
“Oh, no. It’s strictly hush, hush. You know that last empty hangar at the Executive
Airport in Baltimore? He’s rented it, and he has his prototype and blueprints there. He
works there during the day. He’ll be back about midnight tonight to do the test. I only hope
he locks up the place when he goes out for dinner. He’s a real absent-minded professor.
Some kind of weird artillery piece, I think.”
That night, with Maureen, Tommy Kwo, and Terry Ortega looking on from hidden
positions in the hangar, Mary Elizabeth Li and two men Kwo recognized as Jellinson aides
broke into the building. They took pictures of the device and of all the material left there.
The Vice-President now knew that he had been duped. His face was gray. It sagged.
His life was coming apart, as if he were a completed jigsaw puzzle someone had dropped on
the floor.
“I can’t face tomorrow,” he said. He trembled. “I won’t face tomorrow.”
Tommy and Maureen knew they were looking at a man contemplating suicide. “No,
you won’t,” said Tommy. “You are too important to your country to do what you’re thinking.
There’s something you know that these people were trying to steal, and you have to tell the
Boss about it.”
“He’s right,” Maureen added. “You’ve been brave enough to do this. Now, you have
to go the next step. It was a weapon, wasn’t it?” Ortega did not answer. “Then what were
the things you had put in there?”
“Someone came to me years ago with this crazy idea for a flying boat that could be
used as a gun ship. He annoyed me for months. And then he gave me all his material. I
had it stored in the mansion on Observatory Circle. I know the manager of the airport here,
and begged him for the use of the hangar overnight. All they photographed was old
garbage. I told the airport people to dump it all in the morning.”
Ortega did not commit suicide. With Maureen and Tommy he went to the President
the following morning and told him the whole story. The President, when the VP was
finished, smiled broadly.
“I am so happy for you. Now, you are really my partner.”
Ortega looked at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, it’s our turn to confess. And you must hold your Hispanic temper in. We’ve
known for ages. You remember the leak after your first meeting in the Secure Room. Well,
we traced it to you. Rather than accuse you of something and cause a scandal, we did a bit
of reconnoitering. We bugged your place, and when it was obvious that you and the Li
woman were becoming tight, we bugged her place. We knew almost immediately that you
were innocent, a dupe of that bitch. And a damned fool, also, if you don’t mind my saying
it.”
 156
“You bugged me. All that time?”
“Better than charging you with treason? Especially, you fool, when you were
innocent. Innocent of everything but shooting off your goddamn garbage mouth.”
Ortega had been alternately turning red, then white, and then gray.
“I’ll have to resign.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. You’re going to keep on with her until we are ready to hang her
and Jellinson. Jellinson is her owner. Jellinson is our enemy. Not only politically. Militarily.
Jellinson is the China Cabal. Jellinson is the one who is sending missiles on to our country.
He is the Evil Empire. And she may well be the key. You’re going to keep talking and
screwing her. You are our key to Intelligence in this Crazy War. So keep your cock upright
and strong.”
“My God, what have I done! And how will I keep doing this when I know what she is?”
“I’ll tell you how,” the President said. “Every time you stick your prick in that bitch’s
pussy, you’ll be coming for your country. I mean that. You will keep on performing and
talking. And that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” It was a humbled Vice-President who walked out of Fortunatus office
 157

TWENTY: THE VP PLAYS A DANGEROUS GAME

“Mr. President, are you on a secure phone?” It was the Vice-President calling the
Chief Executive in the Residence Quarters in the Marble Box.
“Yes, of course I am, Terry. Why do you ask?”
“You remember Torgard Baunor don’t you?”
“Of course I do. What’s this about, Terry?”
“I’m at the Executive Airport in Baltimore. All his stuff is gone. I know that there
were several pages of the plans to RTS missing. He was supposed to bring them here. He’s
not here, and there’s nothing here. Do you have any idea what happened? Do you
understand me?”
“Oh, I understand you perfectly, Terry. But I have no idea what happened to Baunor.
Could the military have anything to do with this? I know they weren’t happy with the
security. And what the hell are you doing out in Baltimore?”
“I had a call from Baunor, so Mary Elizabeth and I drove out. Oh, by the way, Mr.
President, I have congratulations coming.”
“Yes?”
“Mary Elizabeth and I are planning to be married.”
“Best of luck, Terry. My best wishes to you both.”
“Well, I guess it’s a wild goose chase out here. We’ll head back to DC.”
“Good luck, Terry. I’m with you all the way.”
As soon as the call was concluded, the President put in a call for Maxim Crankshore
and Marisa Smith. They were in the President’s Little Office in the Residence within half an
hour.
“Terry called me. A very strange call. Obviously, someone was with him. From
Baltimore where the imaginary Torgard Baunor had his work. The place was empty, as Terry
had arranged it. But he said Baunor was to have met him with some imaginary missing
papers for the RTS. And he had driven out with Li. And he said they were engaged to be
married.”
“I wonder what kind of game he’s playing,” Marisa said. “Whatever it is, with Li it’s
going to be dangerous.”

* * *

“Let’s stop off for a drink,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I need one.”
“I need one, too.” Terry Ortega agreed with his fiancée, “but I don’t think it would be
too smart to be seen anywhere around here. For all I know, it may be that Baunor is dead. I
think he was fooling around with the wrong people. I know he was negotiating with
someone else. Let’s go home.”
They drove silently. When they arrived at the condo building, they each went to their
own apartments, and then joined in Mary Elizabeth’s by opening the interior door between
them.
Mary Elizabeth made drinks and, instead of undressing and talking in bed, they sat on
the couch facing the fireplace at Mary Elizabeth’s urging. “I want to talk seriously,” she said.
“Politics?” The VP said.
“Yes, do you mind?”
“Not at all. I can tell you have something on your mind.”
“Terry, are you a supporter of Fortunatus?”
“Well, I’m his vice-president. Obviously I’m a supporter. That’s what the vice-
president is supposed to be.”
“Can’t you see he’s becoming a dictator? When in the history of this country has one
man had the power this man has? Martial law. Control, restrictions, friction with every
company in this country. And the same with companies all over the world.”
 158
“Well, the multinationals are the enemy. And dictator is exactly what Fortunatus
says Jellinson wants to be. He hates his guts.”
“But it’s not Jellinson who’s the issue; it’s the companies. Aren’t the companies
American? The enemy was North Korea, and he took them over. Then he had some
justification in Panama. Not much, but some. And he’s destroyed the United Nations. He
has such an ego that only becoming master of the entire globe will suit him. That’s not what
you can say about Jellinson. He’s rich and wants to be richer.”
“But there are other enemies. Terrorist nations. And the militias. They’re anarchists
who want no government.”
“Of course, dear. They had to be suppressed. Which he did, and I give him credit.
And true terrorism, like what the Arabs do, has to be stamped down. But the companies.
Do you blame them for wanting to strike back when he beats on them?”
“Well,” Ortega said, realizing where his lover was going in her argument, and wanting
to give her some line, “he did meet with the corporation people, and he said they were
trying to bully him.”
“Bully him? It was him reading them the riot act that started the fuss. They’d
compromise any time. They always compromise. How do you think contracts are made?
Why not reach a peaceful compromise and take the country out of this miserable war that
doesn’t know where on earth it’s supposed to be?”
“Now, how would I go about doing that?”
“I have an idea, but I don’t want you to lose your temper if I say it.” She knew his
traditional Hispanic temper: quick and hot.
As usual, when someone told the VP not to lose his temper, it began to flare up. “All
right,” he said in a controlled voice, “tell me what you want to say.”
“I’ll put it plain, and if you like it I’ll tell you how.”
“OK, talk away.”
“I think the US should compromise with the companies and present a united front
against whoever the enemy is.”
“The President says the enemy is the corporations and their allies in China or
wherever.”
“Then why isn’t our army in China? Why hasn’t the draft been started? Where is
there a war when you can’t see where it is? What’s the emergency, when no one is being
killed?”
“There were the missiles…”
“But he bombed North Korea and he got rid of the militias. Or he says he did.”
“All right, suppose you’re right, and we should compromise with the multinationals,
how do I go about it?”
“Now, you said you wouldn’t blow up.”
“Mary Elizabeth, for God’s sake, say what you want to.”
“OK, your daughter….”
“Don’t talk to me about Lorna. We don’t get on, and you know it.”
“Yes, I know it. As it happens, I am a friend of Lorna, and whether you realize it or
not, Lorna is very close to Jellinson, and Jellinson is a leader among the companies, and
through Lorna I could get to Jellinson and maybe make a meeting between the two of you to
make peace.”
All this she said in one breath as if it would meet with more approval if she said it
fast.
“I know Lorna is close to Jellinson,” the VP said in a bitter voice. “That’s part of what
separates us. And I know that Lorna hates the fact that she has a Latino father. She’d like
to be a real WASP.”
“Then why does she hang out with Jellinson?” Mary Elizabeth asked. “He’s a
Catholic.”
“How the hell should I know? We’ve just never gotten along.”
 159
“Maybe, maybe, if you talked to Jellinson and reached a compromise, it might be a
way of getting you together with your daughter.”
“I don’t know.” She’s talking about Lorna to get the heat off talking about Jellinson. I
think I ought to let her convince me. “So?”
“How about it? Would you let me try to arrange a truce?”
Well in for a penny… Let’s see what happens.
In an exasperated voice the Vice-President said, “All right, all right. Set up a
meeting. But, for God’s sake, no where visible. This is one meeting I don’t want to be
caught at.”
“How about right here? I can get Lorna to bring Jellinson to me, and then you can
come in here. It’ll be perfectly safe.”
Oh, shit. What if he has the place scanned for bugs? “Here? I don’t know… Wait… I’ll
tell you. Tomorrow morning, early. Before anyone has a chance to leak it out. Before I
decided to change my mind.”
Mary Elizabeth said doubtfully, “Suppose he can’t get here in time?”
“With all his planes and limos. He can get here. If you want it to happen, get on the
phone.”
She did and in twenty minutes a meeting was arranged for seven o’clock the
following morning. Ortega and Li slept in her bed that night.

* * *

Tommy Kwo, Marisa Smith, and Maureen Douglass huddled with the President that
night, playing the tapes over and over again to catch every little nuance in the
conversations. The original telephone conversation had been recorded as a matter of
course, and then the tape of Ortega’s conversation with Mary Elizabeth Li.
“He’s playing a very dangerous game,” the President said. “If Jellinson ever realizes
he’s being bugged in the AM, I don’t give you two cents for Terry’s life.”
“But he’s clever, very clever,” Tommy Kwo said. “By having the meeting that early
and in his lover’s flat, there’s little chance that the place will be vetted. Of course, they can
try to do it in the morning. I wonder if we should set up some protection for the VP. He’s
running a big risk.”
“Well, there are always Secret Service men there, as a matter of regular procedure.
The way there is for me.”
“But do they know to check the next door apartment,” Marisa asked.
“No, actually they don’t.”
“Are your Secret Service men all absolutely trustworthy?” Maureen asked.
Tommy had wanted to question the same thing, but as a cop, he always had to
defend other cops. And the Secret Service was cops. On the other hand, who could tell
whom to trust with what was going on? Jellinson had been buying senators and
congressmen; why couldn’t he buy a few Secret Service men.
“I think,” said the President, “we have to let Terry play it out the way he feels best. If
the bugs are found, we’ll know instantly.”
“How about if we leave an open line between the Marble Box and my apartment,”
Maureen said. “I’ll get up very early and call here. Then leave the line open. I have a
portable headset I sometimes use. I’ll hook myself to it, and if there’s any problem, you’ll let
me know. And as a friend calling on a friend, I’ll make quick run down to Li’s apartment –
looking for coffee or sugar or something. By the time I’m there, you’ll be able to get some
reinforcements. Like call the Secret Service men downstairs and tell them the VP is in
trouble.”
“Good idea.”
That’s where they left it.
 160
Tommy stayed in the President’s Little Office where the hearing devices were.
The President insisted that Marisa stay over. She went to one of the guestrooms, the
President to his quarters.
Tommy spent the night with the eavesdropping headset glued to his ears. He
collapsed himself on to the small couch in the room and rested in two-minute snatches of
sleep. Sometime in the night he thought he heard the door to the guestroom open and shut.
He paid it no mind.
Very early the next morning Maureen checked in, and the open line was set. “I’ll
keep the headset on me, but should it fail, try my second line, the one I use for my modem.”
Her three teammates gathered in the President’s Little Office, waiting anxiously for
the next act in Terry Ortega’s drama. Promptly at seven o’clock, Horace Jellinson and Lorna
Johnson arrived at Mary Elizabeth Li’s apartment. When the VP’s fiancée knocked on the
adjoining door, her lover entered her apartment. Both he and she had apparently awakened
early and were bathed and appropriately dressed. Tommy told Marisa and the President
that he had heard Mary Elizabeth bathing, dressing, making the bed, and preparing coffee
for her guests.

* * *

They listened closely to the dialogue that came through Tommy’s bugs.
Lorna: Dad, I want you to meet my friend, Horace Jellinson.
Ortega: Good morning, sir.
Jellinson: Good morning, Mr. Vice-President.
Mary Elizabeth Li: Coffee, gentlemen? Pastries are on the buffet.
Ortega and Jellinson: Thank you. (Sounds of them pouring coffee, getting plates, and
so on.)
“This seems like a tea party,” Tommy said. “Except they’re drinking coffee.”
“Shut up. This is serious,” Marisa told him.
“Sorry.”
Jellinson: I take it from what Miss Li has told your daughter you are interested in
some sort of accommodation with me and my forces.
Ortega: Your forces?
Jellinson: My forces. I have a worldwide net of armed forces, equipped with the latest
in materiel. Mr. Vice-President, I am the most powerful person on earth. If I treat with you
now, it is only as a favor to your daughter. I have no interest in doing anything for that New
York Guinea you call a president. But if you choose, I can do something for you.
“Here it comes,” the President said. “He’s convicting himself as a war criminal.”
Ortega: How can I be sure that you have the power you say you have?
Jellinson: Very simple. I control most of the Asian governments and most of the Arab.
If not the government, then the source of power in those countries. That is, I control
production, finance, and what you call terrorism.
Ortega: Prove it.
Jellinson: Well, if I really must and you insist. How about if I send over a few missiles.
Ortega: You couldn’t
Jellinson: Oh, couldn’t I? Within the next few days, there’ll be seven missiles.
Launched from seven locations. Asia. Middle East. Not direct. Some’ll be from the ocean,
some from land, but you won’t know where. Seven.
“My God,” Fortunatus said. “He’s a monster.”
Ortega: You’ll be killing Americans.
Jellinson: Some. Not an enormous number. Enough to prove I have the power I say I
do.
Ortega: You’d kill Americans?
Jellinson: What’s the difference? Chinese, Americans, Arabs, Americans. All they are
are sources of power.
 161
Ortega: You can’t do it. You won’t do it.
Jellinson: I do what I choose. When I wanted the White House burned down as a
lesson to this damn country, what happened? I will send the missiles, and when I do, you’ll
see that there’s no other hope for you but lining yourself up with me. Of course, you’ll end
up richer than you will ever have dreamed. And more powerful, not only in the United
States, but across the globe.
“If I weren’t listening to this, I’d not believe it at all,” Marisa said. “Oh what a story
this’ll make for Maureen.”
“After it’s used as evidence in court,” Tommy added.
Ortega: If I were interested only in myself, I’d have to say that you almost make it
tempting.
Jellinson: I’m trying to do just that, and if you know my history at all, you know that I
am a man of my word. The start for you will be that in the next election, you’ll be the
Democrat nominee. I’ll arrange just a token opposition from the Republican side. Maybe
some senator or governor who’s looking to retire.
Ortega: You mean, you’ll pay him for the…
Jellinson: Oh, yes. It’s not that expensive. A few million. Then you’ll be elected. I’ll
make sure we have a Republican Congress, to make sure that no inconvenient legislation is
passed. I don’t want you to have to veto any awkward bills. If things work out right, you’ll
be president for the rest of your life.
Ortega: What about the constitutional limit?
Jellinson: Don’t worry about that?
Ortega: What about Fortunatus?
Jellinson: Oh, we’ll take care of him. He’ll retire, but not for too long. Then he’ll be
out of your way.
Ortega: You wouldn’t….
Jellinson: Don’t worry about what I would or wouldn’t.
Ortega: I can’t do anything that will hurt Fortunatus.
Jellinson: Who said we’d hurt him. We’ll simply provide him with a very comfortable
retirement, and he will be richer than he, too, could ever dream.
“I’m grateful I won’t be assassinated. Or, will I?” the President said.
Ortega: Definitely, no harm to him?
Jellinson: Definitely. My word on it. Are you with us?
Ortega: I actually don’t have much choice, do I?
Jellinson: You’re no fool, Ortega. You don’t have much choice. And the missiles will
convince you.
Ortega: You’re serious about the missiles, aren’t you.
Jellinson: Even if you said you’re with me right now, the missiles will be launched.
Not only to convince you, but to be a lesson to this country and a warning to the rest of the
world.
Ortega: You’re serious.
Jellinson: I have no sense of humor, Mr. Vice-President. I say only what I mean. I will
be in touch with you when the missiles land. You will either be my man, or…
Ortega: I understand, Mr. Jellinson.
Jellinson: Oh, by the way, should you warn Fortunatus – and I will know instantly – you
won’t live out the day.
“That means some one close to the President’s office is involved,” Marisa said.
“We’d better find out fast,” Fortunatus said.
Ortega: I understand.
Jellinson: Come, Lorna. We’re finished. Good by, Miss Li.

* * *
 162
There was a long silence on the hearing device. Then the eavesdropping group
called Maureen and told her that the visitors had left the VP and Mary Elizabeth, and they
had heard nothing, but that she should wait until they let her know before she went down to
drop in on her friend.
Finally they heard voices. The VP sounded exhausted. Mary Elizabeth sounded
exultant.
“We’ll be rich and powerful,” she said.
“Can I do this?” the VP asked his lover.
“Why do you question it? What has Fortunatus ever done for you? Kept you out of
the loop. Relegated you to the rank of a staff sergeant. Never asked advice. Never shared
his thoughts with you.”
“I know, dear, but what this is is treason.” The Vice-President sounded very
depressed. “I can’t do it. And harm might come to Fortunatus.”
“That’s a copout. Jellinson said nothing would happen to Fortunatus. He can’t run for
president again. He’s had his two terms, so all he’ll get is a good retirement and a pile of
money.” She came close to Ortega and whispered something to him, something the
auditors could not make out. But they did hear what Ortega said in response to her.
“All right. I’ll go along. But he better keep his word. Otherwise, I’ll pull the boom
down and go public.”
“Don’t worry, darling. It’ll all be for our benefit from now on.”
“OK. I said it. Don’t oversell. I’m not very happy now. But I don’t think I have a
choice. Only, please God, don’t let those missiles kill too many people.” There was a long
silence. Then Ortega said, “Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to go to my office and do
some thinking.”
“You’re not going to speak to anyone, are you?” Mary Elizabeth said.
“You mean, do I want to commit suicide? Of course I won’t speak to anyone. I’m
committed, aren’t I? I have no choice, have I? I’m really in the soup, aren’t I? Boy, when
the shit hits the fan, I’ll reap the whirlwind. I got to go to the office. I’ll see you tonight.”
They could hear a hurried kiss, a God bless you, and a door slam.
“Wow,” said Tommy. “What a performance.”

* * *

The next step after Ortega’s bravura acting assignment was a meeting in the Secure
Room.
“Obviously, we can’t put you to any more danger than you already are in,” said the
President after all the team had showered Terry Ortega’s brilliant Thespian performance
despite all the trite metaphors he had used. “You could have used sharper dialogue, but I
forgive you, Terry.” Then the President turned totally serious. “Remember what Jellinson
said, that he would know instantly if you spoke to anyone – meaning me, I take it – and that
in such a case you wouldn’t last a day. We’ll have to find out where that leak is. On the
other hand, suppose you couldn’t tell me – whether or not you wanted to.”
“What do you mean, Alex?” Ortega asked. It was the first time in ages that he was
on a first name basis with the President.
“If I weren’t around. You couldn’t speak to me then.”
“But you are around, Boss,” said Tommy Kwo.
“Not if I am depressed and my doctor sends me to the hospital to prevent a nervous
breakdown. Like a voluntary commitment for a week or so.”
“How do you do that?” Marisa asked.
“Alan.”
“Will he keep his mouth shut?” Terry asked.
“Like a clam. Alan and I go too far back for me to distrust him. He is so fucking
ethical, that if I say, ‘Don’t tell your dog about it, Alan,’ he’d send the dog to a pound so he
shouldn’t be tempted. He’ll order me to a complete rest, and I’ll have to write an
 163
authorization for you to act as president in my absence, but to consult with me when
advisable. Some hedging kind of letter.”
“How about Return to Sender?” Marisa queried. “We’ll need several at once. They’re
only good one on one missile. Until we develop a multiple head one.”
“Not to worry. We’ve a dozen in the works. I authorized them immediately, and
Swarts promised to push them through. I hope in time for the missiles.”
The President sounded worried, despite his optimistic words. Without question, the
last months had taken their toll on him. His face was drawn, and it seemed difficult for him
to stand erect, even with a firm grip on his arm crutches. A week in the hospital might be
just the thing for him to do.
So, it was agreed. Dr. Alan Yesner was called in by the Secret Service personnel who
found the President bent over his desk, almost in a faint. The doctor determined that the
President was suffering from severe depression and overwork, a condition brought on by the
stress of world and local conditions during the last weeks. Dr. Yesner insisted that the
President enter Bethesda Naval Hospital for a week of rest and recuperation. He urged
Fortunatus to turn over the government to Vice-President Ortega on medical reasons, and
the President had, rather unwillingly, agreed.
For the next several days Acting President Ortega sat in the President’s office in the
Marble Box. He himself appeared very subdued and acted strictly as a caretaker. He was
quoted as saying that he did not want to do anything contrary to what President Fortunatus
would have done in such a critical time for the country.
Each day was one of tension and fear for Fortunatus’ group. Although Ortega felt he
could not order stronger surveillance on the radar screens of the Defense Department, that
did not stop Marisa, as Presidential Liaison with Intelligence from keeping a watchful eye on
the monitors as she went from one department to another.
Actually it was she who spotted the first missile coming in. Return to Sender was
activated, and when the missile was close enough, it was put into action. She, Maureen, and
Tommy Kwo watched with trembling impatience until they saw the missile track, stop, shake
a bit, and turn on itself. Obviously the missile did not have enough fuel to return to its base,
but its track indicated that it had come from Libya. It detonated over the Mediterranean.
The other gifts that Jellinson sent his native country came in quickly. Two came from
fishing vessels in the Atlantic; both boats were destroyed when their missiles returned to
their launchers. Salvaged wreckage indicated Chinese origin. One came from Cuba, not far
from Guantanimo Bay; it destroyed a weapons plant when it was returned by Melvin’s black
box. The last came from Idaho, obviously from a militia group, and it returned to make what
was probably a Freemen of America encampment disappear.
Buoyed by the rapid manufacture of RTS boxes, the President, as soon as Dr. Yesner
discharged him from the hospital, decreed that the war was about to enter a new phase.
On television, prime time and all networks, he announced that no longer would
missiles directed at the United States be considered as random acts of terrorism. The
country which acted as host to the missile launcher would be deemed to have committed an
act of war on the United States, and like North Korea or Panama, its government and capital
structure would be destroyed and the country treated as a dependency of the United States.
It would then be occupied by a sufficiently large military force to bring order to it. The
United States would control it completely.
 164

TWENTY-ONE: WHEN EAST MEETS WEST

The whole world changed when China sent a nuclear missile from the shore of the
China Sea heading eastward toward the Hawaiian Islands. That missile was detected in mid-
ocean by a U4 plane carrying a RTS box. The missile reversed itself and destroyed both the
base from which it came and the surrounding territory, killing thousands of civilians.
When the Chinese finally realized what had happened, that the United States
possessed what seemed to be a perfect protection against ICBMs, they listened seriously to
Fortunatus’ threat to destroy Beijing.
Since that threat had been made public, as usual there was opposition from many
industrial countries in Europe: France, Germany, and Italy, particularly. Also from countries
linked to oil and Arabs. Also from peace-loving groups. Also from anti-nuclear countries:
Australia & New Zealand. And from countries that considered the US aggressive. Again as
usual, the only ones actively on the American side were Great Britain, Canada, and Israel.
But Fortunatus held to his position.
Then at a massive press conference, he let the world – and the American public –
know what the Crazy War was about. He spelled out with charts, with photographs, with
videos, with audiotapes, and with testimony exactly what the truth was. He explained in
simple terms the plot and conspiracy of Jellinson, the Chinese, and the Arab cabal. He
showed how Jellinson had allied himself with the multinational CEOs. He named the names:
Carl Reuten, Mildred Closter, Harvey Rogers, Axminster Hocking, Trueman Fiskars, H.H.
Meternich, Margaret Advent, Carolyn Philips, Jacopo Bellini, Ralph Sartori, Julius Vincent.
He took a salacious delight in naming the corporations: Galaxy Industrial,
International Bankers, Transcontinental Construction, Universal Transport, National
Resources, Power Corporation, Transworld Communications, World Industry, Military Delivery
Systems, Satellite Corporation, World Industry. Almost as soon as he named the names, and
before the end of his presentation, the stock markets began a downward slide, and by the
end of the day there was a loss of more than 920 points in the Dow Jones. A loss that was
exacerbated the following day. And more so the day after.
It took weeks before the investing public learned to distinguish between the evil
multinationals and normal American corporations whose only interest was profit and
dividends. Then the equities markets regained their equilibrium.
The President was deliberate in bringing his evidence, not to what was left of the UN
or to the Congress, but to the press and the media. He invited them to hear the tapes of
Jellinson trying to inveigle Ortega into treasonous acts against the US. He gave them facts
and stated that he would order Jellinson’s arrest as a war criminal, in that he deliberately
fomented war against the US both within and without its boundaries. He ordered the arrest
of Mary Elizabeth Li as a spy and an accomplice.
And at the press conference he gave China the choice: Lose your greatest city or
have an honorable peace under the New World Government, which the US would establish.
He told how nations would be in control of their local government, but armies, navies, air
forces, would be disbanded. Major weapons would be destroyed. Foreign affairs would be
conducted in the halls of the New World Government. The US would be the peacekeeper of
the entire globe. And China had twenty-four hours to make up its mind.

* * *

Two events occurred simultaneously. China accepted its fate, not wishing to be
destroyed, while Libya, controlled by Jellinson corporations, sent a nuclear missile directed
at Washington. RTS locked on to it, and it was returned to Libya, landing in the western
desert at Daraj almost directly on its launcher.
The US, in turn, sent its own missile and knocked out Tarabulus, known to the West
as Tripoli, with the center of destruction precisely in the area of government and military
 165
concentration. Libya was reduced to being a protectorate of the United State, and then,
as North Korea had been absorbed by South Korea, although there were still pockets of
terrorists there, Libya was broken up into segments and divided among Egypt, Algeria, Niger
and Chad.
This started the ball rolling. At the stringent urging of More Vickers at the UN,
countries under the domination of Jellinson’s multinationals sent delegations to Washington
asking for assistance. They were so financially dominated that they had no possibility of
separate commercial existence except under the corporations. Fortunatus told them to
nationalize the corporations and to come under the wing of the US – or more particularly, the
New World Government.
In what was probably a last ditch effort, a dozen missiles were launched from Iran
and Iraq, all headed for New York. They flew close together and when they were in the
range where the lasers or radars of the RTSs could lock on to them, they confused the RTS
mechanism by their proximity to each other, and one missile got through. It landed in the
midst of the financial district, creating havoc and chaos. Although the New York Stock
Exchange had long moved most of its operations to New Jersey and other markets, equities
and commodities, had found locations in Westchester, Long Island, and Connecticut – where
some of their senior executives lived – there were still many offices in the area.
There was a large loss of life and property. In addition, the destruction of corporate
records and transactions compound the losses, which to the corporate officers in some cases
seemed more vital than the loss of lives. One thirty-story building which bore the brunt of
the explosive counted six hundred bodies. The toll was in excess of four thousand dead and
eight thousand wounded, most of them critically. It took months of frantic activity to clear
the rubble of buildings collapsed on each other and to find the remains of the dead.
This time not only was the American population terrified, but also the corporate world
realized it had been used as the tools of a madman. Jellinson still had not been found.
Fortunatus gave Iraq and Iran 24 hours notice. He would level both capital cities at
noon of the following day. Terror flew up and down the streets of those cities as the
population sought the comparative safety of the countryside. Then, with the use of pinpoint
precision the capital centers were leveled. There were no longer any government buildings.
Airport centers were vaporized although the runways were untouched. Train stations and
tracks ceased to exist. Radio and TV towers and stations disappeared. Banks and financial
offices turned to dust. It was the time of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Planeloads of American soldiers and administrators landed in each country. They
took whatever bureaucrats, office holders, and government personnel they find into custody
and put them into military compounds. Those who might be useful were put to work setting
up a dependency system, with authority coming from New World Government in New York.
The United States in the name of penalty damages confiscated the assets of national
depositories, particularly those assets held in foreign countries. In addition, the holdings of
large corporation and political leaders were expropriated by the American government.

* * *

Jellinson, Li, and George Beldes – her boss at Armament Associates – disappeared.
The US government offered a reward of one million dollars each for their capture, but they
seemed to have vanished into an impenetrable mist.
At a joint meeting of House and Senate, the President, who had been ruling under
martial law, took full executive power of the US government, suspending legislative action
until total peace was established across the world.
Armed forces were dispatched to disarm all military, paramilitary and known terrorist
camps across Asia and Africa.
Demands were made on nations known to be sympathetic to the Asian Conspiracy to
submit to American domination. Countries like Sudan, Cambodia, and those in Southern
Asia and the East Indies quickly submitted.
 166
American forces were set up in each country. Local laws were changed to make
each a protectorate of the US. All national military units, except for local police, were
disbanded. To avoid large unemployment problems, the former soldiers of the occupied
countries were put into labor battalions to build roads, public housing, reservoirs, aqueducts,
and airports.
Most of the American forces in China were in the large cities along the coast of the
China Sea. The Chinese people were perfectly content with their American occupiers. They
had more personal freedom under them than they had ever had under their Communist
rulers. But among the hundreds of millions in the hinterland, areas essentially unknown to
Americans, even to the diplomats, there were still groups that did not like the idea of the
American occupation.
And it was in the interior of the country that there were military personnel that had
not yet been disbanded and munitions factories not yet closed.
From there came a rain of ICBMs headed toward Hawaii, Alaska, Los Angeles, San
Francisco, and Spokane, almost all of the targets beyond the reach of the missiles. The
Pacific U4 planes and the West Coast RTSs caught almost all of them almost as soon as they
past the China coast and headed across the ocean. The RTSs sent them back toward their
launch points. Most could not reach the launch point inland in China. One landed on the
China Sea coast in Suzhou or Soochow, destroying the city. One made it through to its
destination: Hawaii, and landed just off its target in Pearl Harbor. There were no American
military personnel there. But one sunken ship was hit by the missile and sank down the
slope of an under sea incline, even deeper in the water.
The President acted immediately. With great misgivings, but with the knowledge
that what he had to do he had to do, he ordered the leveling of Beijing. It was the largest
destruction of the Crazy War. Fifteen thousand people were killed. Many more were injured.
When the doves bemoaned the lost of the Forbidden City and the great architectural
art in that city, his answer was, as always, “How many American lives will you trade for a
piece of art, not matter how great, how invaluable, or how priceless it is?”
After this, there was peace in China. And the Chinese themselves quickly punished
the ambitious military officers who had brought disaster to them.
There was one last militia effort. A group of Freemen of America occupied the IRS
offices in Atlanta. They took hostages, but both the hostages and they came out of the
offices, crying in the cloud of tear gas that filled the rooms and hallways.
The Freemen were tried in a military court, found guilty, and executed by firing squad
within a week.
Again the doves were upset, and the President again asked, “How many American
lives….”

* * *

Isabella looked at her husband and said, “You look terrible. You’re walking around
depressed. It’s becoming obvious, and people are going to notice. Even your smile, when
you’re in a photo opportunity is not what it was. And you lean on your crutches as if they
were props to hold you up.”
“Well, they are, aren’t they?”
“They’ve always been a tool, a weapon, a signal to others that you are Alexander
Fortunatus, and nobody ought to get in your way.”
“You’re right, but I can’t help it. In hours when I can’t sleep I’ve been reading the
history of Europe – that old book by Norman Davies, you know that big thick one on the
history shelf in my library – and I’ve come to the same very uncomfortable conclusion I’ve
always had. It’s always been war. Not that everyone doesn’t want peace, but it’s those
three G’s I talk about every so often when I’m being philosophical – God, Greed, and Ground
– as the cause of wars since time immemorial. Those things I think cannot be bypassed.
Think of Jellinson and his mad need for more than anyone else has. Imagine a man who
 167
wants to be King of the World, and he doesn’t even have any children to leave his
kingdom to if we should be so unlucky that’s he successful. Well, he’s nearly beaten – I
hope.
“But then, the fundamentalists – here in the Bible belt, in Islam, in Israel, everywhere
– think of the bigotry they represent. People who dare tell God what to think and what to do.
People who will kill because they know they are right, and everyone else is wrong. Terrorists
who cause us to live in fear. Why should we be living in this goddamn Marble Box instead of
the White House? And those fucking North Koreans threatening us for a cruddy spy, and
only because they thought they had China back of them…. And the Chinese, the Middle
Kingdom, the center of the world. The boast that this is their century. And how they’ve
flubbed it, and we have to police them now. Over a billion and a half people. Do I have to
worry if they have enough to eat? So they must threaten the Russians in Siberia. Or use
their takeover years ago of Tibet to threaten the fucking subcontinent of India and Pakistan.
“So now every country is going to be a protectorate of New World Government. Will
that make it any better? If we keep all the big guns away from them, they’ll fight with small
ones. And if we take the handguns and the rifles away, they’ll use knives. Or pitchforks, for
that matter. Or brass knuckles. Well, we’ll disarm them all, destroy the opposition, and
maybe have a semblance of peace for a thousand years. Or maybe a hundred.”
“You know, Alex, you sound like the Nazis in the 1940s, the thousand year Reich.”
Isabella looked at her husband. She hadn’t been watching closely all through the stress of
the Crazy War. More, she’d been trying to give him a little surcease from strain at home, so
she never spoke to him of his daily problems, nor of the greater ones in the world about him.
This turn away from what he had always championed, freedom and liberty in a liberal
society, frightened her.
“No, Bella, it’s different. We’ll get out of each country. Every legitimate nation will
have its own local government, the way they do now. Except for foreign affairs. New World
Government will be the only place where interaction between countries takes place. No
nation but ours will have the capability of making war, and we will do it one way – and one
way only – with nuclear weapons. We will not risk the life of any American. When any
nation or terrorist group sticks its fucking head out of the mud to make trouble, we’ll
pulverize it.”
“We’ll be the police, the judge, and the jury?”
“That’s it exactly. And when something occurs, the response will be immediate.”
“So we’ll be the hangman, too,” Isabella said. “I don’t like it. Innocent people will be
killed. Thousands of them.”
“Not quite so. It’ll be a mega-response, but with PinPoint bombing we’ll be exactly on
the target we want.”
“And no people will be at that target? You’re fooling yourself, Alex.”
“Oh, there’ll be people killed, but a nation that permits terrorism or murderous
bigotry to take hold, that nation runs the risk of being decimated – or at least put under the
thumb of New World Government.”
“Are you sure that NWG is not just a buzz word? Have you thought it through? Or
are you thinking you’re a 21st Century Alexander the Great?”
“I’ll bring peace to the world.”
“You’re playing God.”
“Well, that’ll be more the truth than saying I know what God wants, and I’m just
doing what he says.”
“They’ll stop you.”
“Who’s going to stop me. You can see, it just takes a couple of missiles. And thank
God for the protection of Return to Sender. We’ll have a real American century. A new
Roman Empire, direct from New York.”
“Not Washington?”
 168
“Not on your life. I don’t trust our politicians any more than I trust theirs. It’ll run
from New York, from the New World Government building. Because the power will be the
NWG Armed Force.”
Isabella shook her head mournfully. She could see a maniacal streak in her idealistic
husband, a streak that might have turned the corner into a kind of madness. Was it the
madness of a deliverer or a conqueror or a tyrant?
“The generals will oppose you,” she said. “No military is going to allow an American
president to be King of the World.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, suddenly frightened by her words.
“Say what?””
“King of the World.”
“Isn’t that what you are going to make yourself into?”
That’s exactly what I just said Jellinson was trying to become. “No, I won’t be king.
I’ll be exactly what I am now. Commander in Chief. And the first time the generals see that
they have the chance to do what every good soldier wants to do – keep peace – they’ll go
along with me.
“My God, you’ll be making Armageddon.”
“No, dear, your God is busy in the churches and the synagogues and the mosques
telling everybody to hate everyone else. He’ll discover that a world government of men will
work – because people will have no other choice but to live in peace.”
“And criminals?”
“Same as for terrorists. Same rule. Sell drugs and be executed. Rob a bank and be
buried. Murder and be killed in return.”
“I see: we’ll watch out for everyone. And who will watch the watcher?”
“I know it won’t be perfect, but it’ll be a better world than ever before.”
“I hope so.” But she shook her head in doubt, and there was a tear in her eye.
 169

TWENTY-TWO: PRESIDENT ORTEGA

Despite the continuation of martial law and rule by the President, or as he insisted on
calling it: direction by the Commander in Chief, Fortunatus insisted that the United States
was a representative democracy. To prove it, although he had delayed the election and
thereby the political conventions, he insisted that the conventions and the campaign be held
and that elections take place in the second week in January so that the new president could
be installed no longer than the fourth week in January.
He personally was more interested in the conversion of the United Nations building in
New York into the headquarters of New World Government. He spent much of his effort in
exhorting, prodding, and pressing those nations which had not yet put themselves under the
protective domination of the United States to come into the shelter of New World
Government.
“Other than self defense every nation is as free as it ever was – with the exception of
the terrorist nations, and they are forever under the hegemony of the New World
Government. Each member nation has the benevolent protection of the power and capacity
of NWG drawn from the United States to protect it permanently from attack by any other
member or by any enemy should one exist outside the framework of NWG.”
He went through this litany over and over again, every so often with the veiled hint –
threat? – that only the United States had the power to enforce the new international laws.
Great Britain, Canada, and Israel, as the only supporters of the US during the Crazy
War, were welcomed as brothers. The enemy nations: China and most of the Arab
community were protectorates and ruled by the NWG. The modern nations: Japan out of
obvious self interest, Germany to protect its industry and commerce, Italy because it could
not afford to go it alone, and finally France lest it be left behind as a pariah who had
supported the Arabs long after it was aware of their perfidy, all joined with one degree or
another of volition.
The Asian, African, and Island nations came in, mostly under protest, but partly out of
a continuing state of fear.
The last to join were Australia and New Zealand, neither of which was particularly
fond of what they called the Fortunatus Method of Peace Making, but on the strenuous
urging of their former mother country, Great Britain, agreed to join the pack.
All nations were allowed reasonable armed police forces. All major weapons, ranging
down from nuclear to ballistic to artillery to hand-held projectiles, were confiscated and
destroyed under the watchful eyes of New World Government commissions.
NWG courts, in most cases consisting of local personnel, rigorously enforced the laws
of personal freedom from injury. There were more executions for murder and drug
trafficking in the first year of NWG than in the two decades before, but after that the
numbers of violent crimes dropped precipitously.
The world was quiet.

* * *

The Republican Presidential Convention, on a coin toss, was held first. Rudy Michael,
the former governor of South Carolina, who had been the unsuccessful challenger of
Alexander Fortunatus in the President’s second campaign for office, was chosen again to
challenge the Democrat candidate.
Although the United States was now in an unchallenged dominant position in the
world, hegemony Michael called it, there was a strong undercurrent of opinion – in some
cases, passion – against Fortunatus. This opposition came not from an upswelling of
negative popular opinion, rather the opposite. The mass of public opinion was in favor of the
President. He had defeated the enemy in that weird war that now every one called the
 170
Crazy War, named so because for so long the enemy could not be identified. The
opposition was small, but concentrated and wealthy.
The President had brought peace and quiet all over the globe. Crime was down. If
the economy in many countries was in turmoil because of the elimination of armed forces
with the inevitable consequence of substantial unemployment, there was the belief that the
billions upon billions expended on armament and war that now could be used for positive
social purposes would eventually bring universal prosperity. Of course in the United States
the economy could not be rosier. Although the US bore the cost of policing the world as the
hegemon, most of the price was actually born by profits from the sale of Arab oil, now an
asset of the US as protectorate over the subject states.
Rudy Michael called Fortunatus Lord Protector, a second Oliver Cromwell. Michael
had the support of a powerful moneyed group of executives and corporations who feared
what the CEOs had feared: government intervention in their international businesses. The
CEOs were gone, but the corporate remains were there.
Fortunatus had broken up the cabal and had torn apart the multinationals. He had
nationalized many of the elements of the multinationals and run them as government
corporations, supported by the sale of bonds to the public of each nation in which these
entities were now incorporated. But the G of greed still remained, and the power people of
commerce and industry were far more interested in acquiring more and more and paying
less and less in taxes. And so they poured hundreds of millions into Michael’s campaign.
“I’m worried,” Terry Ortega who had become the Democratic nominee after being
heartily supported, praised, lauded, and pushed to the front by Alex Fortunatus. “They are
outspending us a hundred to one, it seems like. I can’t put on the TV and not see a
commercial for Rudy Michael. It’s bound to have an effect on the electorate. They’d vote
you in in a minute, but not me. Not me.”
“Not to worry, Terry. You’ll be the next president. I promise you. You earned it.”
But Ortega continued to worry. He had been so overshadowed by the President that
he was almost an unknown quantity to the public. Fortunatus’ original dislike for his VP had
been so obvious that those in the know considered him a throwaway candidate. The polls,
which showed the Democrats a shoo-in as far as Congress was concerned, made Ortega into
a losing bet.
But the President remained confident. And ten days before election he played his
hand. He announced a non-political address to the nation and asked for coverage by the TV
networks, public TV, and the cable networks. He got a good part of it: most of the major
stations but not all, public TV, and a few minor networks. Cleverly, instead of using the
usual site in the Old Executive Office Building, where he had a pleasant desk in front of a
window, he set up a large news conference.
“I will have a statement, a couple of introductions, an announcement or two, and
then I will take questions, as many as you like,” he said, beginning his talk with a news
conference type of introduction. He brought a little old man forward to stand next to him.
“I would like to introduce to you Melvin Cordovsky, the inventor of the Return to
Sender device that did so much to save us from destruction in the Crazy War. What you
don’t know, and we have never spelled out, is that Return to Sender did exactly that. It
turned the enemy missiles around and sent them back to their launching pads, and if they
didn’t go quiet that far back, it let us know from where they had been launched, so that we
could retaliate effectively. If some of you wondered why we chose some of the apparently
esoteric sites we chose to demolish, that is the answer.
“I am presenting Mr. Cordovsky the Medal of Honor. Well deserved, and I am setting
up the Melvin Cordovsky Foundation with a fund of five hundred millions dollars. This fund
will establish a research college in the cutting edge of physical science so that never again
will we have to fight a war, a Crazy War or any other.”
For many in the audience it was the first explanation of a war without an army, a war
different from any previous one. All the announcements of bombings had been in the form
 171
of “We have determined that the source of the missile aimed at us was…” With nothing
specific stated.
Then the President brought forward his Vice-President.
“Now I know you think I’m going to make a political speech for the man who is
running as the Democratic candidate for the presidency.” The audience laughed. “But I’m
not. I’m simply going to make another announcement. I’m going to tell you a story. Melvin
Cordovsky tried to get in touch with the military about his contraption. They never
responded to his inquiry. He wrote to the President of the United States – me – and he got a
nice letter thanking him for his interest, but no real response. He finally tried the Vice-
President, who you know has nothing to do but to sit and listen to the hot air in the Senate.”
The President waited until the laughter died down. “Having nothing else to do, he finally
answered what was probably just crank e-mail. But it wasn’t. And the Veep followed
through.
“On his own, he made contact with Mr. Cordovsky, involved key people who were in
the scientific elements of the Armed Forces, had tests made, and arranged for the
production of working RTS devices. Then when the missiles started coming, thanks to the
intelligent activism of our Vice-President we were in possession of the device that won the
war for us.” The audience sat stunned.
The President continued, “I am therefore bestowing on Terry Ortega the Medal of
Honor of the United States. He is a hero of the first order.”
Deafening applause broke out. The two executives hugged each other, and then the
President called for silence. “And I want to tell you one more thing. The Vice-President of
the United States is not expected to put himself in danger of his life, but Terry Ortega did.
Not only is he responsible for our having the RTS, but acting as a volunteer Intelligence
agent, he is responsible for our knowing who were the major renegades and traitors who put
greed and power ahead of the safety of our country. Many of the perpetrators have been
captured, tried and condemned, but three major ones have eluded us and are probably in
hiding in one of our protectorate nations. But they will be found. And punished. They have
been tried in absentia and condemned to death.
“When I call Terry Ortega a hero, I am not being political; I am being thankful.
Without his actions, many of us here would not be alive. And because of Terry’s actions and
our success in the Crazy War and because we are finally safe, I am announcing the
beginning of the external restitution of the White House.
“Before the end of the next president’s term, he will be in residence in a totally
restored White House.”
The election was never in doubt after that news conference. Nearly two hundred
million Americans had been watching. No flood of commercials could have beaten Terry
Ortega after the President spoke.
At the inauguration of President Terry Ortega the first announcement he made was
his appointment of his dear friend Alexander Fortunatus as the First Director of New World
Government.

* * *

That evening, the new president had just taken his formal clothing off and was sitting
in the sitting room of the Presidential Residence in the Marble Box. He was savoring the
bouquet from a snifter with an inch of Napoleon brandy in it. He looked at the side table
next to him. On it was a humidor that President Fortunatus had left behind.
I wonder if there are cigars in there. It would be so appropriate with this lovely
brandy.
He opened the humidor. There were cigars in it.
How can I even think of it. I’m an environmentalist. I’ve harangued forever against
tobacco.
 172
He took out a cigar and sniffed at it. He put the brandy down and looked about
him. There was a lighter on the table.
I can’t. I don’t even remember how to smoke. But I did enjoy it before I changed my
political behavior.
He picked up the lighter, bit the end of the cigar, lit the other end, and drew in a
satisfying breathful of Havana. He breathed out the smoke, tasted the brandy, leaned back,
and smiled.
I’m the President of the United States, and I can have a smoke in private if I want to.
Look at me, Mommy, no hands.
His enjoyment of privacy was broken by the visit of a small key group. He knew them
all well and subconsciously had been expecting them. Marisa Smith, Lou Goldberg, Maxim
Crankshore and Conrad Corbin.
When they came in, they all stood open-mouthed. They had never seen Ortega
smoke.
“I can, you know,” he said. “I’m the President. But don’t tell the public.”
They all laughed. Then the business of the visit began.
“We’re here because we ought to be, because we have to be,” Lou Goldberg said.
“Marisa and I, as personal appointees, have agreed to resign to give you the chance to set
up your own support group. Maxim and Conrad, of course, have continuing appointments.”
“Where are the others? Tommy, Maureen, Marcia, and Kenny?” Ortega wanted to
know.
Lou Goldberg said, “I’ve been in the loop and out of it for a good deal of this, so I
know only what I should know. And because of that, and because I’m resigning, I said I
would be the spokesman. We agreed that the others had been brought in on an ad hoc
basis and their relationship with the presidency ended when you took office this afternoon.”
“I guess you’re right, Lou. But I’m not taking any resignations. I want all four of you
in my team. I don’t want to change anything that shouldn’t be changed. If I had a way of
keeping Alex with us, I would. But I know he is gung-ho about working in New York and
getting his new baby working.” He looked at his four visitors. “I know what you want first.
Mary Elizabeth. Right?”
“Exactly,” Lou said. “I only know the end of the story, but we have to know the
beginning, the motivation. You understand.”
The President smiled, a wan, almost sad smile. “I do understand what you have to
know. OK. Here goes. It’s not the first time my pecker’s cost me trouble. Maybe it won’t be
the last, but not while I’m president and not while you all are keeping an eye on me.” He
smiled at them all.
“I know that you are going to be my baby sitters. Well, never before have I been
caught. I’ve paid, but always to the girl. Never blackmail, never caught politically. As far as
the world is concerned, I’m the only simon-pure clean Latino in government.
“First time was in high school. I was on the football team, pretty good for a guy my
size, and this little girl, a white one, in the freshman class, took a shine to me. And she
wouldn’t let go. She was fourteen and I was eighteen and should have known better. Would
you believe it, she seduced me. I found out later why she was such a good lay. She’d been
hooking since she was eleven. Her mother taught her. She didn’t want anything from me in
terms of money, nothing but a promise.
“She said she was going to get married some day, and when she had a kid, she
wanted me to get that kid into college. She knew she’d never be able to afford an
education. Years later she came to me with a daughter who looked so much like her that I
got a hardon for both mother and daughter. I was pretty big in Miami at the time and it was
no sweat to get the kid into Florida State on a scholarship with a stipend. And I got paid
back the favor by an invitation to the mother’s bed. And would you believe, it was deja-vu all
over again. She was still a hot pistol.
 173
“Then there was the forelady I had in one of my shops who worked the night shift,
and instead of going home to sleep, she made me coffee in the office and spread her twat
for me before the day shift came in.
“I got married and was quiet the four years we were married. My first wife died in an
auto accident. After her it was a succession of broads – black, white, Hispanic, whatever.
But never anything serious. And no consequences.
“Then I met Brenda at a state Democratic convention. She knew all about me – and
my females – and we kind of fell in together, as different as we were. She never let me
between her legs until we were married. And she never would have married me unless she
was the only one. And she was. When I had Brenda, I didn’t want anyone else. She was the
only woman I could ever talk to, and sometimes we’d talk through the night. We talked
about everything. What I was doing, what legislation was coming up, what my point of view
should be. She was a deep thinker and a wise person. When I took her advice, I was right.
When I went against it, mostly I was wrong. I was converted, totally. All the years we were
married, I never looked at another pussy.
“But then she died after Lorna’s wedding – and Lorna never liked having a spic for a
father. Lorna is not her mother. Lorna is a stuck up bitch who would suck anyone, so long
as he’s a billionaire. That’s why Lorna let Jellinson fuck her. Anyhow, after Brenda, I was
deserted, afloat in an ocean with nobody in sight. I held out for two years.
“Then came Mary Elizabeth. You know her yourself. She’s got more sex in her little
finger than all the twats on the street. Or, for that matter, in the best homes in Georgetown.
She’s royalty, sexual royalty. It seemed that wherever I was, there was Mary Elizabeth. But
we never got close. She didn’t make a move; I didn’t either. Then, at that black-tie for
living presidents, somehow we ended up at the same table, she sitting next to me. I had to
ask her to dance. And that was the end of it. When her body touched mine, it was if our
clothing had been burned off our bodies and we were dancing naked. When the affair was
over, she just put her arm in mine and we went out. One of the Millar Communications limos
was there. She asked me for the key to my car, gave it to the chauffeur. Next morning my
car was parked in front of her place. We went up to her digs. I don’t think we said a dozen
words to each other. And it didn’t take twelve seconds to peel our clothes off. That was it. I
haven’t had another woman since.
“But the fucking thing was that she talked. The same way Brenda had talked. And
gradually I got to need the talk, the way I had with Brenda. So much so, that when I saw
what she said was a damn tattoo on her thigh, I believed that shit she told me about the
thing being done at school and being just an innocent prank. Might have been then, but
Maillol is Maillol, and I swallowed her story; I was hooked and on a short line.
“Alex told me how you have me on tape, how you bugged our places, and the damn
fool things I did and said, so what do I do? You want me to be a one day president and give
back my Medal of Honor?”
“That’s horse shit, Mr. President,” said Lou Goldberg. “It’s pretty simple. We – the
United States, United States, hegemony over the rest of the world – we need a good
president. One who listens, thinks, does the right thing. A responsible president. No, sir.
We want you for president, and we want to help you be that. We’ll be your Brenda if you’ll
let us. We know you are telling us the truth because everything you’ve just said matches up
with everything we know about your history.”
“The fourteen year old?” Ortega asked.
“No. No quite. That’s new to us.”
President Ortega smiled and said, “I’ll be open, completely. You have to be the
same. Agreed?” He took each of his personal group of advisors by the hand, shook each
hand warmly, and said, “You’ll talk to me? Truth?”
Each of the four looked the President in the eyes and said, “We’ll talk. Truth. Always
and only.”
The President opened his arms to them and said, “Done.”
 174

EPILOGUE
The first years of the New World Government were filled with starts and stops, with
idealistic beginnings and heart-breaking failures, with hopes for the future and despair
concerning the present.
There were some positive achievements.
The World Improvement Battalions were composed of former soldiers who were
taught new trades and skills. It was they who began the development of new infrastructure
in areas of the world that were still centuries behind the rest of the globe. They built roads,
sewers, utilities, school buildings, and hospitals.
They built aqueducts, above and below the ground, to bring pure water to the entire
globe.
There was a new currency. Where most of the world had been creating value in terms
of the American dollar or the European euro, now there was a universal currency, the terra.
All nuclear installations for bombs were retrofitted into electrical power plants.
Swords were changed into plowshares in plants that had been producing weapons of
mass destruction.
As much as possible the New World Government began to provide universal
education: reading, writing, and arithmetic in every town and village.
Drug Enforcement Brigades set up rigid enforcement of drug laws. Dealers, users,
growers, makers were punished severely. There were executions for infractions of drug
control laws all over the globe.
The frequent use of capital punishment and hard labor to minimize the attractiveness
of violent crime became the pattern of social response to crime.

Alexander Fortunatus left no legacy to the world. The New World Government in the
long run was no more successful than the United Nations or the League of Nations had been
before.
While it was true that the United States controlled nuclear and other major weapons
on a monopoly basis and therefore prevented large-scale war, nothing in the history of man
could stop one group from hating or fighting another group.
Fortunatus’ three G’s: God, Greed. and Ground, reared their ugly heads, and there
were wars again, smaller than before, but wars nevertheless.
The three major criminals were never caught. The member of the administration who
was supposed to report Ortega’s actions to Jellinson was never identified. And the cadres of
North Korean terrorists who operated all through the Crazy War despite the presence of
American armed forces in the reunited Korea, still managed to make trouble, as did groups
in Central China.
But the wars were small.