BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 90. Sarah, just before the end, stubbornly suspected "the switch. Kissinger meets in Oval office with imposter-President John, passing silent notes about the MIC.

https://www.amazon.com/Kissinger-1923-1968-Idealist-Niall-Ferguson/dp/1594206538

CHAPTER NINETY

Rudy was aware of Sarah’s visit with her daughter-in-law the day before the stroke, but he hadn’t yet made the connection between her final words and their White House luncheon.  The meeting had taken place at 2:00PM that afternoon. 

Upon arrival at the Chief Executive’s mansion, Sarah was escorted swiftly through the checkpoints, reaching the drawing room with the Continental Army etchings on the walls – a large oil portrait of Washington center stage. Cissy got Sarah comfortably situated at a table in the large room and put herself to Sarah’s right, looking up just in time to direct the landing of the silver service; tea and coffee, toast and crackers, two petite roast chicken sandwiches, cream and sugar. “Thanks Arnold,” said the First Lady, before the waiter departed. 

“So, my dear,” asked Sarah almost immediately, “How have you been getting along without your husband? I’ve seen some of the foreign coverage. Kissinger, Putin. That German woman. They seem a happy bunch.” 

Cissy was surprised at the vigor of the talk. Sarah seemed to have become younger, not older, in the months following her cancer treatments. Maybe it was because of the drop in weight due to chemo. Whatever it was, Cissy brightened up too, at the animated questions. 

“Yes, I miss Jackson. He and I have been together so long now that it does feel like a part of me is less than fully functional when he leaves. And the usual tales of secrecy – Bilderberg, and the stories – just annoying. Can’t really imagine leaders of countries prancing around like frat boys and girls, bringing in prostitutes, all that nonsense. But with kids in school, the empty nest, and the hunter/gatherer away but with my every need met – Arnold brings me any meal I want within minutes – it feels pretty surreal. A dream of loneliness, I guess.” 

Sarah just sat quietly, listening patiently, taking it all in. It comforted her to hear Cissy carry on and on, as if life could somehow be normal. She almost felt guilty about her agenda, awaiting the exact right moment to air her suspicion that her boys had switched. But she knew it had to be said. Finally the twin’s mother found her opening. 

“Cissy, honey, just wondering how Joh…I mean Jackson is doing, after the hospital treatments, the explosion and all. Seems like he’s still been a little off-kilter. He and Rudy laugh about things, but it doesn’t seem like the old Jackson–” 

“Well, yes, he is still not himself. But with every new day he’s becoming more of the man I know. 

“I see. Yes. That’s possible. And I’ve found it very interesting, him remembering stuff that only happened to his brother – to John – as if it was him that done ’em. Like the hidden five-dollar bill in hallowed-out National Geographics. Surprised how he talked about that, like he did that.” 

“Oh yeah.” Cissy had heard the whole Hidden-fiver story repeated, but she didn’t bother reminding Sarah. “I guess I’ve seen some of that too. But you know twins – better than me. Seems like the brothers were always hard- wired to trade personalities, when it suited them.” 

“Yes, but they did have separate ways, did some things differently. Actually thought quite differently” Sarah was happy to be finally leading the conversation in the direction she wanted. She kept the floor. “

“John was always the fine artist at heart. His brother, much more pragmatic. John could always make me laugh with his cuckoo antics. And now I notice that more with Jackson.” 

“Oh yes!” Cissy jumped in, affirming Sarah’s observation. “He does seem to have a more unpredictable side now. Maybe Jackson’s brain got knocked around in a good way.” She gave a chuckle. 

“But is it Jackson?” asked Sarah, breaking the light chatter with her suspicion. When no answer came quickly enough, she added, “I don’t believe it is. I think they switched, somehow. That’s what I think.” 

Cissy sat silent, momentarily dumbfounded after hearing another person voice her most repressed concern.  If Jackson was dead and it was actually John, then her husband was an imposter. And that was very dangerous. What would happen to a man who was running a country under false pretenses? If found out, he would be instantly arrested, jailed, disgraced. Most importantly, every bill and law he signed would be made null and void. And the Vice President – not half the man either brother was – would take over. If John was exposed as a fraud then there would be hell to pay.  And how about her? Would anyone believe that she didn’t know, that she wasn’t an accomplice? What would happen to her? If it was all true, that John had taken over Jackson’s life, then she would also be dragged through the mud. It would be on her neck as well. So logically, she must then be the last person on Earth to admit it. Not to anyone. Not even to his mother. If true, then it was the First Lady’s job to maintain a complete cover- up. 

“I don’t think so,” stated Cissy suddenly, with as much assurance as she could muster. A second later, she added, “I would know, wouldn’t I?” 

Cissy watched Sarah carefully, to see how her words had played. It wasn’t clear, so she backed her performance with a more personal fact. “I sleep with the man. I think I would be able to tell.” 

“I still believe it’s John.” Sarah dug in, more than ever felt she knew the truth about her sons. She kept up a consistent stare in Cissy’s direction. She wasn’t budging. 

To protect not only her husband and herself but the entire country, Cissy decided to pull out all the stops. If she needed to deploy shock tactics with her mother-in-law, then so be it. 

“There’s no way it’s John. When we make love I would know. Jackson is the same guy I’ve always been in bed with, from our law school days to my becoming pregnant. There’s just no doubt in my mind. If the bomb blast altered him, then it’s for the better. We’ve never been closer.” 

Cissy noticed that Sarah had at least blinked a couple times. The First Lady really had no more graphic cards to play, other than maybe a description of his identical sexual member’s penetration to end the questions. Yes, probably it was John, but so what? 

“Thanks for hearing me out, Cissy,” said Sarah in closing, “letting an old lady blather on. Better be getting along now. Thanks again for seeing me today. And thanks for this nice lunch!” 

Sarah felt tired and a little deflated as she gathered up her coat. At least the White House waiter she’d talked to earlier, while her daughter-in-law disappeared into the lavatory, had given her some satisfaction. He had appeared to be quite interested in her thoughts on the twin-switch subject, a perfect listener for her story about the National Geographic hiding place and which son should rightfully claim the story. 

Within minutes the President’s mother was ushered back through the maze of White House corridors, for transportation home. Alone again, Cissy had picked at the remaining food, finally devouring the rest of her sandwich. She hadn’t realized how hungry the lies had made her. 

———

The return to the mostly boring daily White House rounds of meetings with advisors, signing of bills, generally inhabiting the Oval Office, did nothing to relieve the feeling of urgency about John Little’s most pressing concern – Fran. He did not look forward to Fran’s reaction if he attempted to ‘end her affair with his dead brother.’ There were just so many ways it could come back to bite him. He made a quick list:

1. Fran could cause a scene in front of his real kids, supplying even more dismay to their already sadly disturbed lives, believing that their father was dead. What would they think if and when they learned he’d deserted them to serve as President?

2. She could threaten to tell Cissy about her husband’s philandering. Of course, all that would do is ruin his relationship with the First Lady. Talk about a shitstorm, thought John.

3. Fran would refuse to give him up. After all, they did have a terrific sex life (better as the “affair” couple). As Jackson, he’d been a much better lover than he ever was as himself. Why was that? It must have been because Fran expected much more out of their illicit encounters, thus drawing him along with her deep passion. And didn’t people always say that ‘the forbidden’ brought out the beast in men and women? Whatever it was, he’d surely have a problem if he tried to cut off Fran’s addiction to secret sex with the President.

Beyond the obvious problems with trying to end the affair with Fran, John wondered how he could even broach the subject while with her. Their routine gave little time for small talk. Just as soon as they were alone, in another room from their kids, she would grab him almost frantically while covering his lips with kisses. What was he supposed to do? Push her away then? Could he really short-circuit their sex life that abruptly? How would it go over, reading her the riot act with words It’s over?

***

The second day back to business in the Oval Office, the President’s secretary buzzed in to inform him that Henry Kissinger was on the line. While his brother may have had occasion to receive a Kissinger White House calls, this was his first since his impersonation began. Since Bilderberg was mostly a blur, he couldn’t imagine what the man wanted, other than to retract his own remorse about killing a million in Laos. The old man had confessed to the misdeed, but who was John Little to tell?

“Henry, so good to hear from you. Nice you called,” said John, feeding off the informality that was established. “What can I do for you?”

“Very happy to hear you made it back and are running our country from home again.” Kissinger paused for a second, then added, “Just hoped that perhaps we could have a lunch together, before this week expires. I would like to discuss something I think you’ll find fascinating.”

“Well, of course. Why don’t I send you back to Elizabeth who can set a date. I’ll tell her we need a couple of uninterrupted hours.”

“Excellent, Mr. President! See you then.”

The appointment was set for 12:00PM to 2:15PM the following Friday. As John Little returned to his pile of to-dos, he wondered what on earth Kissinger could be up to. He was a cagey sort. Anyway, it certainly had his attention.

Realizing he wanted to handle the Fran problem before his Kissinger meeting a few days later – an artificial deadline seemed necessary – he found himself outside his own house waiting for his wife-in-real-life, Fran to answer the doorbell. Secret Service agents again flanked the yard, with bullet-proof limos lining the streets both front and rear. He tried hard not to think or rehearse what he would say. He would just play it by ear. In any case, he had to put an end to the loose thread before it unraveled his entire life.

Finally the door opened. Fran stood there, happy and trusting. To John’s eyes she had never looked more radiant. The anticipation of their lovemaking had put a glow on her face, adding to her normal attractiveness. She stood taller and straighter, moved in a more feline way, her persona radiating sexuality. He was going to have to ruin all that?

“Mr. President. Please come in,” said Fran, playing her part, a broad smile beckoning him ahead. The two agents accompanying him each took a step back in unison, and disappeared to the sides. The imposter entered his own house.

Almost before the door was closed John spoke up, “Fran, I –”

But that was all he could get out before she planted a big kiss on his lips, and whispered, “Kids are gone. Let’s do it right here.”

She attacked his belt like it was a rip cord. His back was suddenly against the closed front door. Time was running out.

After sex there was no way he could end things. That would really be asking for a volcano of anger. That would be deadly.

“Honey, we need to–”

John knew he had to just start. But his wife didn’t hear a thing. Just as he had foreseen, she was already getting him hard. It was as if she had been accumulating angst all during the week, to use as sexual fuel for their next encounter. After all, what else did she have to look forward to?

“I can’t–”

John vainly tried to stop her. But his body betrayed him as well. Their amazing sexual compatibility defeated all his best intentions, and he suddenly snapped into lover mode, matching her lust. They took each other down, right on the hearth, feet away from agents guarding on the front lawn, somehow keeping mute enough.

Almost as soon as they emerged from the shower – more sex under the spray as was their usual habit – the kids arrived from school. Without any chance for serious discussion, John found himself giving a token peck on Fran’s cheek, kisses and higs to his children, then being ushered back to the Presidential limo.

An image flashed before him as he rode away. He remembered a picture in a kid’s book where a young Dutch boy had his finger stuck into a dyke, holding off a leak that was endangering the whole town below. Not so, in his own case. Mission failure. His inability to shut down the affair was putting everyone he loved in harm’s way. He vowed to bring Rudy along for his next visit. There was no other way he could succeed.

***

Right at 12:00 noon sharp, President Little was informed that Kissinger had been admitted at the White House gate. In less than ten minutes, John shook hands in the Oval office with his new Bilderberg pal and got them seated. The Secret Service men exited to the hallway, as requested. Since the Oval office door was constructed of steel plate and had sound baffling on both the front and rear surfaces, there was no danger of having any words overheard by outsiders, even with the world’s most sophisticated microphone stuck right against it. So whatever Little and Kissinger discussed, they could be certain of confidentiality.

As Kissinger reclined, John noticed the subtle physical nuances of the older man. The spryness was gone, that much was clear. Using the hand rest, Kissinger had lowered himself carefully to the cushions. Younger assistants, junior senators and secretaries just plopped themselves down. Not Kissinger. He was a careful man, which explained his next words.

“Mr. President,” he began, in the familiar gravelly voice John had grown accustomed to in Europe, “Thanks for having me over to this meeting. I appreciate the time, especially for a blind topic. Thank you.”

Of course, Henry. Always ready to oblige one of our first citizens,” said John, finding himself following the lead of his European-mannered visitor. It was as if John had already been controlled somewhat, by the formal speech patterns that Kissinger used. John made a mental note to be more careful about what he said – or promised – during the next couple hours.

“I’m going to order us some food. What’s your preference, Henry? I’m going for hot pastrami on rye, hot mustard on the side, with potato salad and coffee.”

“Perfect. Please make that two of everything.” Kissinger gave an agreeable smile in the President’s direction. “And if I may, could I please get a couple sheets of white paper from you? I left my notebook at home.”

“Of course,” said John, as he headed for the recently repaired Resolute Desk and a secure line to order. Picking up the phone and pressing #6 button, he immediately got connected to the White House chef. “Hi Johnson. I’m fine. And you? Good. Please make it two pastrami, usual mustard, potato salads and coffee, some cream and sugars. Yes, two orders. Thanks so much. Bye.” In seconds the President was returning to his guest with a fistful of plain white paper sheets, and a monogrammed ballpoint pen.

“Here you go,” said John, as Kissinger took hold.

“Thank you Sir.” Without hesitation, Henry wrote something on the top page and handed it back to the President. In bold printing it said, I HAVE SERIOUS TOPICS THAT CAN’T BE MENTIONED OUT LOUD.

President Little was a bit taken aback, knowing the high level of security in the Oval. As soon as Kissinger saw Little’s confused expression, he handed an additional piece of paper over. PLEASE was all it said.

John took a pen out of his coat pocket and wrote back, WHY DO WE NEED THIS?

Shuffling the page back to his guest, Kissinger smiled, and wrote a quick response: BECAUSE SPY-WARE SATELLITES CAN HEAR US.

“So nice for you to spare the time,” added Henry, out loud, as he scribbled another message: I’LL OCCASIONALLY SAY SOMETHING FAIRLY BORING, SO THEY WON’T SUSPECT THE NOTES WE’RE PASSING.

OK, printed the President, ready to play along. By far, this was the strangest thing he’d experienced since being blown off his feet in an explosion.

MAYBE SAY SOMETHING, MR. PRESIDENT, TO COVER THE SILENCE?

“Lunch should be here shortly.” said John, continuing the game. Thinking for a second longer, he added, “Here’s the brief I mentioned in Geneva. Maybe take a look before the food arrives?”

John pretended to hand the non-existent article to his guest, who just winked at the empty air. Now that the rules of interaction were set, Kissinger got down to a brass tacks. John watched the elderly man fill the page, then grabbed it when offered.

I HAVE INFORMATION YOU NEED, TO STOP THE MIC FROM STARTING A WAR YOU CAN’T STOP.

AT BILDERBERG PUTIN TOLD ME THAT RUSSIA WILL LOOK LIKE THE CULPRIT. BUT IT’S NOT.

ROCKEFELLERS, CIA AND INDUSTRIALISTS, OTHERS I KNOW FROM OUR GOVERNMENT ARE IN ON IT. WITH CHINA.

John Little’s mind started to spin. The surreal nature of reading such a message, and especially from Kissinger, seemed implausible. Wasn’t he supposed to be the devil who engineered such things? Wasn’t he the war criminal? Before John Little could completely digest the information, another note was passed. IT’S TIME I HELPED THE RIGHT SIDE. YOUR SIDE. OUR SIDE.

A final, follow-up note beat the arrival of food by half a minute.

I’M NOT WHO I SEEM. I’VE PLANNED THIS FOR DECADES. TRUST ME!———-