BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 87. The Merkel/Hitler connection, as John Little's internet surfing raises big questions about his fellow Bilderberg companions.

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CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

On the second morning of Bilderberg, around 9:30AM, President Little, imposter, sat down to a tremendous spread of eggs, fruits, and breads. For Europeans who favored lighter fare – strong coffee, a roll perhaps, some fruit or orange juice – each of these buffet items were of the utmost quality and in endless supply. The espresso was pitch black, milk of every consistency available, steamed or straight, sugar raw or refined, and breadstuffs from plain bagel to exotic twists. Also in the European section were choices of the freshest sliced meats, hard-boiled eggs and some candied fruits for those who simply wanted to sweeten their palate.

The Muslim, or Iraqi, section of the grand buffet had many flatbreads – khubz and oval loafs called “samoon,” with samples of toppings such as ghee, fresh jellies, cheeses, olive oil, nut pastes and, most importantly, an array of egg dishes, and dates of various colors and origins. The dairy selection included skim milk to heavy creams, called “gaymer” similar to the clotted creams available in the British counterpart, but perhaps even thicker, since it took a wooden spoon to serve it. That, and a selection of exotic syrups, completed the offering.

For the Near Eastern delegates – Russians from Moscow to Siberia, Slavs, Czechs – came a combination of breakfast items that John was unfamiliar with. The trays were filled with kolachs - buns with rolled meats inside, something like pigs in a blanket. But in this case, the bread was baked around the meat fillings, while some offered jelly centers.

John watched as Russia’s Putin and two other gentlemen he didn’t recognize filled their plates with the delicious-looking combinations, bread and meat all wrapped up in one. Putin glanced in his direction, nodded, smiled an odd smile, then went back to selecting his food. Obviously he saw only President Jackson Little, because a certain familiarity was generated in the imposter’s direction.

As John seated himself at his designated spot, next to UK Prime Minister Evans and Merkel, he felt the warmth of friendships radiate his way. His brother had obviously been very popular over the few years he had been attending Bilderberg. John hoped that the close quarters and small talk wouldn’t blow his cover. As he consumed eggs, bacon, toast and medium-strength coffee, he tried to contain the fear that was trying to surface. The conversations about mundane things began to help. Before John could get further lost in thought about his twin’s extra-marital activities while President, he spotted Germany’s Merkel headed his way. He had never met the woman, but of course his brother had. So he prepared himself for faking the friendliness and old comradeship that would be fully expected.

“Hello, Jackson, so lovely to see you back here.” Merkel moved in for a European double-kiss to the cheeks of the American. John could smell her scent lavender shampoo or deodorant, and made a mental note. Much better than the old tired smell old Kissinger had generated. The Chancellor was downright girlish as she spoke, unabashedly flirting with the man she believed to be President. John couldn’t help being surprised when Merkel suddenly scooped up his hand in hers during their encounter. And leaning close, her breath on his cheek, she whispered, “Henry said if there was anything I wanted from the American President, I should just say ‘Jojo.’”

When Merkel dropped the secret name it had sent out a shockwave. There was the code used again! It had been drilled into him by the CIA director that the “Iran-Jojo” operation was only known to a handful of top intelligence officers and the President. Things were feeling crazier than he could have imagined,

As the two leaders stood together, John couldn’t help trying to determine if there was any resemblance at all between Merkel and Hitler. He couldn’t shake an online picture he’d found earlier, of Hitler holding a little girl with a Merkel-style haircut.

Another site had tried to connect the two by their birthdays. Both Hitler and her were born on April 20th. It claimed that the physician who attended her birth in 1954 was Dr. Karl Klauberg, one of the Nazi death camp doctors who experimented in artificial insemination. He, it explained, was considered the father of that procedure. Also, the good doctor had supposedly cryogenically preserved some of Hitler’s sperm, used to inseminate Eva Braun’s youngest sister. Could Merkel really be the secret daughter of Adolf Hitler, raised out of sight in South America and brought to power by Nazis?

Or was Merkel was actually a Russian sleeper agent like another website declared, raised and groomed to keep Germany under their thumb. The site stated that she had rendered Germany completely dependent on Russian energy after dismantling her country's nuclear program. ‘So Russia couldn’t have had a better partner,’ it said, in rendering The Fatherland a weakened satellite. Well, some was true - all German nuclear plants would be closed in 2022.

John's mind remained infected by the other ridiculous conspiracy theories. To top things off, it said that supposedly Hitler hadn’t really died in a bunker in Berlin, but had escaped to Argentina with wife Eva Braun, shuttled there in a secret submarine supplied by OSS chief, Allen Dulles. With all the Nazis recruited for the US space program, who could say for certain that elements of the Intelligence community didn’t do the same for Hitler? There were certainly numerous eye-witnesses accounts of high-ranking Nazi agents in South American during the mid-1940s, John recalled.

Merkel placed her empty cocktail glass on a waiting tray and, with a winning smile to the server, thanked her in Russian, “Spa-see-ba.” Then, facing President Little, she asked, “How are you feeling these days?” Before he could answer she quickly added, for only him to hear, I hope we can have some fun again. After all, someone has to protect me from that scabby old bear! said as she gave a nod toward Kissinger, who had moved on to the British Ambassador. We can always talk about long, hard pipelines and Gross National somethings when we’re back in the office. With a wink, Merkel pivoted and headed back to the Kissinger group.

John was half-surprised at how flirtatious she was being, to ‘Jackson Little, realizing more and more that his brother had some serious secrets! After the breakfast John-as-Jackson took his leave, excusing himself with a minimum of notice, to return to his room (‘e-mails’ was all anyone needed to say those days).

Back in his well-appointed room John Little, the pretender, took some notes on other things Henry Kissinger had mentioned, like repeating what Jessie Ventura revealed on his TV show about how China was stealing water from the Great Lakes and floating it across the ocean in gigantic rubberized containers. Probably that was true too. Anyplace where people could make a buck there were untold bizarre activities going on, without any regard for the future. As President, John wondered if there was anything a person in his shoes could really do to halt such nefarious and criminal enterprises. He was supposedly the most powerful man in the world. Really?

While trying to fall aslee - his clock read 1:00AM, six hours ahead of his usual 7:00PM D.C. time - a distinct triple tap sounded at the door. Placing his eye against the tiny peephole, he saw Merkel’s face, appearing twice as wide due to the fisheye lens. What to do, he wondered? Feign sleep and not answer? Or answer and plead jet-lag? Could he really deceive the German Chancellor in such close quarters? How familiar had she and his brother been? Another two taps gave him a more tense feeling, so he cracked the door slightly.

“Jackson, dear, wondering if a nightcap is in order.”

The woman, despite her years, looked radiant. He began to see how such a plain woman had shot past all her political rivals to assume Germany’s highest and most powerful office. She was a rare case where her intelligence made her undeniably sexy. His brother’s wife, Cissy - at least until his charade was uncovered, his wife - had the same trait, but with a good deal more natural physical beauty. Still, he saw now that Angela Merkel was a shape-shifter. A few seconds after meeting her gaze he saw a completely different person. It was time for John to say something; he tried to break the spell.

I’m a little jet-lagged,” was all he managed to say, but it wasn’t a strong enough statement to stop the strong-willed Chancellor, who slowly slid past, dragging her hand along his ass as she entered. Men hardly ever knew what was best for them, thought Merkel, as she undid the buckles on her shoes and kicked them off unto the carpet. She knew Jackson didn’t want to miss out on their special moments, like the ones they had experienced at the last two Bilderbergs.

“Jackson, of course everyone is jet-lagged. But we never let it bother us before, now did we?” She dropped her skirt to the floor. Her blouse followed as she flipped the bed cover open and crawled in.

When John didn’t move from the closed door, she said, “I only have an hour. Please, meine lieber.”

John Little had no idea what Merkel had just said in German. All he got from the phrase was the loving tone in which she’d delivered it. He had been challenged in many ways since assuming his dead brother’s identity, but this moment had been the ultimate test to the deception. It boiled down to whether or not he could sexually perform for the German woman, most probably being judged on whatever last performance his brother had given. Jackson Little’s secret life had never astounded him more. His brother had been a real Kennedy-in-hiding, a sex hound of the first order.

So what did Merkel expect? Just as she was getting comfortable, which meant pulling off her underwear under the sheets, the phone rang. The sound of the European phone kept him and his visitor frozen for a second, as if someone else was aware of the situation.

“Maybe you should answer, dearest?” Merkel was, above all, an efficient office manager, and she knew when something must be taken care of.

“Yes, I suppose so.” John lifted the receiver and heard his White=House-wife’s voice, as clear as if she were standing in the hallway outside his door.

“Hello?” Honey, it’s me, Cissy. Just thought I’d try to say goodnight. It took a few attempts, but I finally got you. Hope it’s not too late. Dear?”

John Little tried not to look in Merkels direction, but out of the corner of his eye he saw nothing but naked skin and a big smile.

“Cissy! Great to hear your voice. Not too late, but almost in bed. How are the kids? You OK? Miss you.”

“Me too. Can’t help wondering how you’re doing, with your injuries and all. A long trip?”

“Everything’s fine. Just getting the world’s business done while eating the best caviar. So can’t complain. But really tired. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course sweetheart. Goodnight now. Or is it Gute nacht? Anyway, sleep well. I love you.”

“Love you too. Good night, honey.”

There was no way that John was going to try and answer in German to his wife in front of the German Chancellor, and he didn’t. But as soon as he hung up she repeated, Gute nacht, as she outstretched her arms in his direction. She had obviously overheard his wife’s little language joke. “Yes,” she continued, “it will be a gute night for us, if you can just remove those clothes!

Hours later, as Merkel slowly dressed after her dalliance with the U.S. President, she brought up what appeared to be a small political favor. It was about the latest GMO product, apples that never turn brown after being sliced open. A minor problem, Jackson, she had stated, but still an important one.

“Is there any way you can halt that little U.S. company, Okanagigan or Shenanigan, something like that, from distributing their produce outside your borders? We really don’t want any such threat to our own, pure apples. I know it sounds petty, but believe me, we Germans will go to any length to protect ourselves from such gene-altering miscreants. Why can’t people leave perfect things alone?”

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