The President's Ninja Read online

  “So we need to spread our military all over the face of the globe, is that it, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Yes, Sir. And it’s a wonderful thing. You should see the reception I get from our military bases when I arrive in different countries. They all turn out. Fanfare, trumpets. It’s a site to see. Celebrations, toasting, the wine flows. It’s like Christmas and the Fourth of July all wrapped up with a gold ribbon.”

  “Military ceremonies and state dinners?”

  “Of course, Sir. That’s what impresses these foreigners. If you know your history, you’ll remember how powerful ancient Rome was with its legions camping all over the known world.”

  “I was raised on history, Quirk. Morning, noon and night. The legions and the military became a preoccupation with Rome only during its decline. So did excessive bathing.” Brooking chuckled. “Both seemed to contribute to its degeneration.”

  Quirk looked surprised, then asked, “You do bathe, don’t you. Sir?”

  “A quick shower now and then.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vice President Tina Geer arrived just after six in the evening. Brooking had been up since 5:30 that morning and was ready for a drink. He set out a bowl of pistachios and a second bowl for the shells, then mixed a couple of light drinks. “You know what it takes to get a bag of pistachios around here?”

  “It’s never troubled my mind,” Tina said.

  “Well, it’s not easy. My cook bugs me because I don’t come up there for meals. You’d think he’d be happy to rustle up a bag of pistachios now and again.”

  “Well, Bruce, I don’t think you rustle up pistachios. They must be grown on some sort of a farm, or plantation. Maybe on a bush or a tree. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen them in the wild.”

  “Everyone likes them, Tina. They can be a struggle to open if they’re closed. But there’s your challenge. Man against nature. Drama during cocktail hour.” The President was on his third pistachio. There had been very little resistance on the part of the nuts.

  “Incidentally, where do you eat?”

  “I send someone to the cafeteria for a sandwich or a bowl of soup, sometimes a bagel. My diet is varied.”

  “Do we have a topic this evening? You seemed a bit excited on the phone.”

  “Were you of the generation that read Catcher in the Rye?”

  “Oh, this is book night. I have read the tome.”

  “You realize then the book is loaded with symbolism. These are symbols either the author stuck in there on purpose, or he simply was writing to fill space, and a bevy of English professors set out in search of symbols. I believe they wondered why the book was such a hit, so sought secret meaning. Truth to tell it struck gold because every rebellious teenager saw him or herself somewhere there.”

  Tina had eaten only one pistachio and was struggling to open a second. Brooking paused to show her how to pry a reluctant nut open with half a shell of another. An age-old pistachio trick.

  The President continued. “There is the carousel ride. Holden sees it going round and round, pointless, as a metaphor for life. The feeling of movement, but going nowhere, like the Kennedy rocking chair. As of this day, not unlike my term in office. Yes, this is my watch. Yes, the country is running fairly smoothly. But there are many things I’d like to do that are beyond my reach. We are in and have been in gridlock.”

  “And you’ve had a moment. A flash of light on the road to Falls Church?”

  “Yes, you gave me a moment. I need a ninja, or something very much like it – maybe a suicide vest at a large congressional and lobbyist gathering.”

  “Cast of thousands.”

  “You betcha. But let’s talk ninja.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s a good plan.”

  “Ok.”

  “I’ve talked to Tarot about it. I think I should bring him here and the three of us can confab. I hate to chew my cabbage twice.”

  Brooking looked up from his pistachio. “The sooner the better.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was difficult finding a time to fit Tina and Tarot in for a meeting of any length. But a meeting fairly late in the evening was scheduled. This time she would escort Tarot into the Oval office.

  Brooking had a cabinet meeting early on the day of the talk, a session skipped by Tina. A couple more of the country’s aging bridges had collapsed, moving the spotlight to highway infrastructure and the need for more funds in that area. Money is to highway maintenance and construction as rain is to corn. Should already high gasoline taxes be hiked? The secretary of transportation had a lengthy report delineating the thousands of unsafe bridges and miles of crumbling highways. Nothing was decided, leaving the question in Brooking’s lap and at the mercy of Congress. He would see that the report was distributed to the usual suspects.

  Then there was the telephone conference with the British prime minister who complained of the influx of Islam and the resulting religious unrest in all quarters. The President could do nothing but express his sympathy and note that there had been lesser but similar incidents in the States. Plans for the prime minister to visit Washington and the West Coast were discussed.

  A group of fossil fuel magnates joined the President and his energy secretary for lunch. Oil and coal barons, as Tina termed them.

  The afternoon was spent catching up on paperwork, which involved a lot of reading. Brooking had tried, but had never become a speed reader. He digested every paragraph, which made for toilsome, but accurate work.

  Toward normal quitting time the White House social secretary, Wilbert Lyn, had scheduled a meeting. Of all the executive staff, Lyn’s task might be termed the most sensitive. He could delight individuals out there beyond the beltway, or snub them in such a way that they would never support the President again.

  Millions in contributions hinged on his decisions, not just dinners, but festive events at Christmas and egg rolls at Easter.

  The bundlers, those who grouped funds for the President, were important. News anchors, sports figures, military heroes, Hollywood stars, business tycoons, financiers, lawyers, educators, philanthropists. Cabinet members, mayors of major cities, foreign dignitaries, UN officials and high court judges. These are just a few of the types that need to be carefully balanced at each event, plus a balance must be maintained over the long haul.

  The task was extremely delicate with pulls and pushes from all sides. One might say a social ninja is required.

  Another long day wound down, and Brooking enjoyed a toasted cheese and bacon sandwich while he waited for the final session.

  Tina and Tarot arrived as advertised, and Brooking poured drinks and set out a bowl of peanuts. “How’s your day been?” Tina questioned after they did the usual clinking and cheers, although Tarot said ‘kampai,’ and were seated. The Oval office can be a cheerful place with the right kind of company.

  “The usual crop of cares. Sometimes I wonder why I wanted this job. It was better being a senator. I had protective cover and was like one in one hundred sheep, driven by lobbyists and contributions from the one percent set. Why did I think I could speak for the great unwashed? Just today I was going over a list of power brokers, contributors and major TV and film figures who have not yet disgraced themselves.”

  “For what purpose?” Tarot questioned.

  “Oh, sure. You’re not yet an insider. To invite to glitzy White House functions. I get to shake hands, not stay for the entire affair, not eat much and try to remain sober.”

  “Quite a responsibility,” the ninja chuckled.

  “And this afternoon I devoted myself to health care issues. What the law considers an appropriate standard of care, what procedures health insurance companies do and do not cover, how overextended a facility’s patient caregivers might be, prescription drug prices. I’m quite the jack of all trades. Now, I understand you two have come up with a plan to lighten my burden.”

  “Tarot’s been a trainer in a near
by gym for five years. He, like you, feels as if he is on a carousel, revolving to no place. I and other executive and Hill workers have availed ourselves of his adequate services. Our plan is to bring him into the White House as the physical fitness trainer, possibly have an early morning session for staffers, schedule personal sessions at other times. It’s workable,” Tina said.

  Brooking nodded approval. “We could have a session for the Secret Service, might keep them from binge drinking. Also the Marine guards. Plus Tarot and I could get together for other projects.” The President turned to the ninja. “Are you on board?”

  Tarot smiled. “One hundred percent. You don’t know what such a thing would mean to me. I would honor my Japanese father, Old Kaz. He and those who came before him would be thrilled at one of their number serving the President of the United States.”

  Both Brooking and Tina were not certain how this would be communicated to a series of dead people, but saw no harm in it. In fact they were delighted by the degree of dedication the ninja had expressed. The President saw it as a new beginning, a piece of superb human equipment placed in his hands to achieve goals both honorable and wholesome. He reached out and shook Tarot’s hand, then turned to Tina. “I should stay out of this as much as possible. Could you get together with Curtis German and tell him the scheme has my approval?”

  “Certainly, Mr. President, but I don’t think I’ll use the term ‘scheme.’”

  “Good point. Let’s have another drink and eat a few more peanuts. I have a video we might want to watch.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Time slipped by and Washington fell into the political season as the election, although not exactly looming, was close enough for the first bit of mud to be slung. The Senate seemed bent on blocking anything the White House backed, such as legislation to tamp down violence against women.

  Even though a majority approved a bill, the body was unable to rally the 60 senators required for a cloture vote to put down a filibuster.

  At the heart of the problem was John Joe Conner, that pudgy little dandy, not five by five, but approaching it. The Senate minority leader had both the filibuster as a weapon and the ability to place a hold on any nomination the President might make that required Senate confirmation.

  Tarot Jones had been an immediate hit. Both his group and individual programs kept him hopping. He had a small apartment in the lower regions of the White House and had been granted high priority security clearances. The apartment pleased him to no end, both because of its proximity to the gym and because he could use a rice cooker to keep those sticky grains edible for up to twenty-four hours. His taste for the Japanese diet had not been replaced by cheeseburger cravings.

  During his individual workout, Brooking confided that he needed to do something about John Joe.

  “You want him disabled, Sir?” Tarot inquired.

  “Yes, but not physically. I need some information about him that might be unpleasant. Many men, particularly in politics, have something one might call unsavory in their past.”

  “I believe I get your drift. I will research.”

  The President was pleased to have the ninja in his service. He had even learned a few ninja tricks in their one-on-one workouts. Tarot was careful not to let slip any Asian secrets during sessions with others in the White House gym.

  He and Brooking had discussed the source of Eastern martial arts. About 700 B.C., he related, a young woman named Yuh Niuy wrote that to be battle-ready one had to have full spirit within, but outwardly appear calm and relaxed: “Appear to be as gentle as a fair lady, but react like a vicious tiger.” She is said to have defeated three thousand men in a sword battle lasting seven days.

  Brooking imagined he might become a serious student of tai chi. The thought rolled around in his brain for several days before being discarded. He had many other fish to fry in days jammed with a plethora of activities and decisions.

  Getting away to New York for a United Nation’s session, he managed to work in a Mitsuko Uchida concert. It was a daunting display of talent and endurance, the last three sonatas of Schubert, the C-Minor and A-Major Sonatas alone were vast and sometimes wildly chaotic. The Adagio of the C-Minor Sonata could be likened to a mountain range of contrasting emotions. And finally the Andante of the B-Flat Sonata transported the audience to a level seldom achieved.

  The President’s thoughts drifted to his days on the farm in Iowa and the baby grand that graced their living room. The hours his mother spent as his tutor, hours that he thought would be better spent roaming the fields and woodlands, or curled up with a book.

  To counter Schubert, he led his Secret Service escort into a performance of Nice Work If You Can Get It, featuring the product of George and Ira Gershwin.

  In his absence from Washington, Tarot used the time to visit Hanover, New Hampshire, the home of Dartmouth, founded in 1769 and the smallest of the Ivy League institutions of higher education with less than 7,000 undergraduate and graduate students combined. One of those students was Dalton Conner, son of John Joe, a festering thorn in the President’s big toe.

  Dalton was a good student, industrious and favored his father, fairly short, prone to corpulence, intelligent. His dad didn’t get where he was by being stupid. Perhaps his father has his eye on the Oval office. The path to glory might be littered with obstructionist tactics. The opposition in politics seldom accentuates the positive.

  Tarot had already done some checking on John Joe and his Georgetown townhouse in Washington. Now there was a third item he needed to complete his quest. But that would take a little cash.

  He returned to Washington and submerged himself up to his chin in the Japanese tub that had been installed in his small apartment. The water was much too hot for the average American, but Tarot had been steeped in Japanese culture. His body soon glowed ruddy pink, and he seemed as one with his ancestors, the dead ones of two races. The hour of the bath was sacred.

  The Japanese love of water was well known. Their island nation is surrounded by water that has fed them and cooled them for centuries, plus providing protection from their enemies. Of course Tarot soaked alone, but on those islands there is delight in the communal bath, simmering with steam rising in the “onsen,” exchanging comments on how wonderful the water was.

  Then the betrayal. The occasional tsunami, sweeping life and treasure into the sea. Destroyer of lives, homes and fishing vessels. Over the years the disasters had been many – wars, earthquakes, fires, to name a few. But always the return to the healing ritual of the bath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Back in Washington the President was determined to win John Joe over for the sake of the country. He decided to make an earnest appeal by inviting the Senate minority leader to his office for a one-on-one session. He had his secretary, Penny Aycock, phone Conner’s office to make the appointment.

  Before that day arrived, the President kept his early morning workout date with Tarot who told him he might have found a key to part of the puzzle.

  Brooking was all smiles. “Give me the good news. It’ll be a blessed relief from the way things have been panning out.”

  “And I could be wrong,” Tarot added. “But I need money for a trip to Panama to pin this down.”

  “You are full of surprises, Tarot. Panama.” The President took a moment to look perplexed, then said, “Ok. You’re my one and only ninja. So how much do you need?”

  Tarot shrugged. “Maybe three or four thousand in cash.”

  “Cash. Of course, cash. But one word of warning. The money will come from my personal finances. I want to make it clear from the start that no campaign contributions will be used to do whatever it is you intend to do, which I’m certain will be perfectly legal.”

  “But it is to the best interest of the government and therefore the people,” the Ninja stressed.

  “Of course. But using campaign funds for any non-campaign purpose can land me, probably not you, in federal prison. It’s happened.”

  “
I’ll keep that in mind,” Tarot said with a large smile. The game was afoot and he was pleased with the way things were going so far.

  “The reason I stress this is that individuals involved in this sort of thing, or other sorts of things, like paying off mistresses, have been dragged into court in the past. So please remember our conversation. Drop by my office just after lunch. Penny will have an envelope for you.” The deed was done and Tarot was dispatched to Central America to ferret out whatever it was he was attempting to ferret out.

  The President spent much of the remainder of the day with his ambassador to the United Nations. They were attempting to hammer out a resolution on which all countries could agree to end violent border disputes between Sudan and South Sudan.

  The bitter conflict was over oil, the source of which was not far over the southern border, a black poverty region that had always played second fiddle to the Arab north. The resolution would be quite simple: Stop fighting, start talking. But for the zillions of countries crowded into the UN quarters nothing was simple.

  Midmorning the following day, John Joe Conner arrived at his office a half hour late, no doubt to indicate who was actually calling the shots.

  Brooking was cordial, and had Penny bring in coffee and small scones. After the usual greetings and handshakes the two settled into seats for their chat.

  “I’ve invited you here, Senator,” the President began, “because I think we can put petty and political differences behind us and agree on some wholesome issues that will benefit the Republic.”

  John Joe smiled slightly, possibly trying to mimic a grandfatherly like image. “I’ve been in politics for some time, Mr. President. I think I know what’s best for the country. You know the old saying, what goes around, comes around. If you play ball with me, you’ll find your troubles will vanish.”

  “Like cutting taxes for the rich?”

  “Well, we must protect the job creators.”

  “We have other problems at the moment. We need a comprehensive and fair immigration bill. We need to address the area of unemployment.”