BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 92. Can the Sunni and Shiite factions in both Iran and Iraq ever see eye to eye? How much will their divide affect the world at large?

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/mideast/what-are-differences-between-sunni-shiite-muslims-n489951

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

The morning that John received the two-word text from Fran, I’m late, the Mid-East Tri-Lateral Peace Plan (METLPP) was being undercut by a radical group called Koranists, who announced that they had a nuclear device. Somehow, this tiny, relatively unknown faction was threatening major cities with total annihilation.

Iran was heating up again, with a failure to effectively separate Sunni and Shiite factions in both their country and Iraq. After Iran’s military use of its secret nuclear warheads – only three were produced, two used against Israel before the West and the world learned that Iran had joined the club – President Jackson Little, in the first year of his administration, had used his newly appointed cabinet to attempt a massive partitioning of the countries where sectarian violence was causing continual strife. The U.S. government agreed to back a strange and creative plan, put forth by, of all people, Henry Kissinger and Hillary Clinton, retired Secretary of State and perennial front-runner for the office of President. Iran and Iraq would separate the two groups, geographically, in each region, with physical barriers. Both Sunni and Shiite would have equal advantages to good, fresh water supplies, as well as high and low terrain in equal measure, so no one would feel slighted. As the countries were divided into the new city states, the operation was funded by almost all of the U.S. allies in Europe and Asia, including even China. It was an across-the-board Bilderberg group, which hatched the scheme at Jackson’s second yearly gathering.

Some Western financial groups were less than enthusiastic, primarily worrying that they would lose their economic chokehold on various lines of profit. Rockefellers, Kissinger had explained, were exceedingly displeased. But Kissinger, at his most-convincing (think J. Edgar Hoover holding a file with dirty secrets of Presidents and Congressional leaders, movie stars, politicos from half a century), had bullied the plan into action. The old dog still ruled.

Flash back to 2016. The U.S. President, Jackson Little, had been attacked in the Oval Office, blown up with his brother inside. He had miraculously survived, (as far as the world knew), but his brother had died. With Jackson Little still alive, the plan of re- settlement in not only Iraq and Iran, but also Israel, would have continued. And probably the most difficult part of the master plan had been how to convince illegal settlers to exit the Golan Heights, move their families back to Israel proper, finally honoring the accord. All that, along with making Palestine a state, was the plan that Kissinger, President Little and fellow Bilderbergs had conceived, and implemented.

***

“Hello, Mr. President,” said Rudy as he noted the White House caller ID. “Glad to hear from you again.” Rudy was continually mindful of covering his tracks for his stepson. Any secret eavesdroppers would have known that they spoke earlier that same day.

“Well, there are serious problems developing – Iran and Iraq again, but on the home front, I need to see you about something else. Actually a ‘John’s Wort’ kind of thing.”

Rudy knew John’s use of the “wort” word, it being code for I can’t really talk. And so he was suddenly on full alert. John tried his best to indicate the “l’m late” problem with Fran, without actually divulging the true subject. Rudy kept silent and listened carefully. “Like yesterday’s visit,” added John, “some more on that.”

“Of course, Jackson,” was Rudy’s careful response. “Shall we include a meal?” John Little was relieved his last remaining parent understood him so well.

“How about an early dinner, say 5:30PM, here on the 2nd floor, if it isn’t too much trouble? Our great chef has a steak with your name on it”

“OK, you got it!” Rudy exclaimed, in a manner he knew was expected for the playacting. “See you then. Bye.”

Next, John tested a couple different texts, before finally settling on the right message for Fran:

If you’re going to be late, I understand. How about a visit? See you at your home, 2pm tomorrow? The reply he got back was short and just what he’d hoped: OK.

Immediately after reading his phone, John got back to the minor problem of trying to save planet earth from extinction, in the name of his dead brother.

***

After five almost consecutive meetings; seeing his Secretary of Defense, Joint Chiefs, Congressmen and Congresswomen, National Security Advisors and CIA/Pentagon directors into the night and for breakfast, President Little announced that he had a family emergency to attend to. The Presidential limo and convoy of Secret Service agents arrived at Fran’s promptly at 2:00 PM. John walked briskly to the door, rang the bell and Fran answered. She kissed him perfunctorily at the door, as the wife of a brother would normally do. The kids were at the TV; they looked over with brief glances, little half-waves, before returning to their addiction. The door closed and Fran immediately headed for the back bedroom as John followed. Once inside, she kicked the door shut, turned and wrapped her arms around him, planting a huge kiss on his mouth. For Fran, the sexual drive was still full tilt, and it seemed impossible for John to derail it.

With the locking of the door, their bodies intertwined, and the rest was, by this point, automatic. The sexual event ended almost before John’s mind was fully aware of what he had done. But as the couple rested after coitus, John found himself realizing that under the eye of God, he had really done nothing improper. If one believed that sort of thing – that God could see everywhere, all the time – then all He would have seen was a married couple doing what they were meant to do. And yet, in the context of his present life, John had had an affair with his brother’s wife, and risked the U.S. Presidency and the First Lady’s wrath. What was true? Certainly not that Fran was anywhere near ready to give him up. He had demanded Fran cease certain bad behavior, and then joined her as an accomplice in prolonging it. He had facilitated the exact thing he told her she must end just a day’s-worth of hours earlier. Where was the restraint? Where was the willpower?

Fran lay against her pillow with a sense of satisfaction, bringing her lover back to the fold. She knew in her soul that Jackson’s big speeches in front of Rudy were just an act, something used to satisfy his stepfather’s discovery that they had become lovers after her husband’s death. Of course, it had started way before.

The scenario, in her mind at least, was clear. Rudy had suspected that Jackson was seeing her. They had talked. Jackson had agreed to visit, with Rudy in tow, and Jackson had sufficiently chastened her. End of story. They were still in love, and she was certain nothing anyone said or did would change that. All they had to do was handle the fact of her pregnancy. It would need to be ended.

Lying there in Fran’s bed in his disturbed mental state, knowing full well the true dangers of their continued relationship and aware that he’d lost the power to end it, John-as-Jackson felt he had only one choice.

“Fran, are you pregnant?”

A simple Yes from Fran made that abundantly clear. His real-life wife was pregnant with his child, about twelve years after their daughter had been born. How was it, he wondered, that she had not gotten pregnant with him – her husband – during that stretch of time? They had certainly made love enough, on a semi-regular schedule. “I thought you were on the pill – or past it – or something.

Fran wasn’t thrown by Jackson’s bold questioning, but instead felt good that she, an older woman, could still conceive. She knew her answer would increase his libido, because the only possible explanation was that their lovemaking was more intense and fulfilling than what she’d had with John. Their sex must have awaken her reproductive organs or something. They were that good together. So why should he continue to thwart it? She had no idea what the next bit of post-sex talk with the man next to her would prompt.

“Any idea?” continued John, still trying to get a handle on things, almost pleading for some decent explanation from Fran.

“I wanted it – Because I love you.”

Hearing Fran’s answer almost gave him heart palpitations. “The world took my husband away, but fortunately I still had you. Now that we’re back together, I see nothing wrong. Unless Rudy tells Cissy, how could anyone know? Who will report us? Your palace guards are outside doing their job. We’re safe. Our secret is safe. It has been harder than you know over here, after John died. I’m not ever going to be ready to go back to that. John was everything to me. His death ended me too, in ways. I could barely get up in the mornings, barely get food on the table for our children. I’ll never forgive anyone who did that to me.”

Hearing Fran discuss the hardships that he himself had caused by not admitting his true identity in the hospital room, gave him a nervous chill. He’d almost admitted the truth right then. He’d been right on the verge of telling her outright that he was John. He had come so close, believing that she needed that jolt of reality to break things off. Of course, that admission would only have strengthened her belief that she had a right to love him. Of course she did. He was her real husband. So they weren’t doing anything wrong!

There was no illicit relationship about which to shame her. Even with her believing he was Jackson, he couldn’t overlook the fact that he loved her too. He doubted that she would ever totally forgive him for pretending he was Jackson, seducing her as Jackson. That would be too embarrassing for any woman – or man, for that matter. There would be a cost, to admit that they couldn’t tell the difference during sex . So her reaction, once she learned he had taken advantage of her with the impersonation, would have been catastrophic.

***

The White House briefings came fast and furious with each hour generating new insolvable problems, Sunnis reported that Shiites were not evacuating parts of their land sections fast enough, or at all, and vice versa. Neither group was being honest or forthcoming. Each faction had important and powerful allies who refused to vacate their palace-sized buildings and acreage, places that their ancestors had inhabited for centuries. Families had fought and died for that ancient real estate.

Who would move from such vast and elegant surroundings to some shabby two-bedroom apartment where the fumes of fat rendering from a dog food factory wafted through the air, or where people “of less honor” resided? Replacing the scent of cherry blossoms with putrid air was unimaginable. Many of the wives of these “men of dignity” were opposing the new order. Subconsciously, they knew they would take on the brunt of their men’s problems, if they agreed to any relocation.

The allied United Arab Emirate nations were failing to implement the plan quickly enough. All so tidy on paper, in actual practice it had come unraveled. Bottom Line: it was an unnatural solution. Worse than the Golan Heights.

John returned to his private living quarters in the White House perturbed that so logical a solution should face such opposition. He realized that, although a bitter pill, it needed to be forced into place. Of that he had no doubt. That is, until he talked to the First Lady.

“It isn’t working, is it?” asked Cissy as they sat down to a lunch of their favorite club sandwiches. She looked her usual best, in blue blouse, cotton skirt, patent leather shoes.

“Not really. A difficult puzzle, for sure. Reminds me of the conference in the extended version of that Lawrence of Arabia movie, where no one can agree to anything, and that disagreeing keeps shifting around. A real hell to maneuver in.”

“Oh honey,” said Cissy, let’s retire to the bedroom. We can talk more privately there. We can eat in bed! ” A mischievous look came over her face; even though she hadn’t been thinking of the sex, she couldn’t really seem to put a rein on her desires.

“Sure,” said John, as he lifted his plate and followed his brother’s wife to the next room. Snuggling onto the bed, his back against the generous pillows, John took a bite and tried to make sure no crumbs dropped on the linens. Cissy slid off her shoes as she eased into position. After taking a bite, she spoke first.

“Can’t really manage to keep my mind on the Middle East reshuffle right now. Been thinking of us too much, I guess. I miss the lovemaking. There, I’ve said it.” She figured it had been just the political pressures that had caused that short break.

Cissy put down her plate, reached over and started kissing his neck. He got rid of his plate quickly, reluctant to resist her advances. In fact, their lovemaking seemed to be spurred on by the knowledge that they weren’t really husband and wife. It now had the excitement of an illicit affair.

With the intensity, it was quickly over. But it left a strong afterglow. John suddenly realized he had fallen in love with the sensible woman his brother had married. Cissy had her man back, so that freed her mind to supply some political observations; sorting out the problems of division between Sunnis and Shiites. Small talk was now replaced with pressing issues of the U.S. Presidency.

“Jackson –” Cissy began, getting things immediately back on track, “– I think you’re going to have to be a lot tougher with these countries.” She was on his team. He wasn’t alone anymore, wasn’t using up his energies worrying about what she did or didn’t know. Their relationship had stabilized, and he was stronger for it.

“You should figure out a way to proceed where families not moving will feel more pain and hardship than if they do nothing. Not doing the legal thing of moving must have a higher cost. Relocation isn’t easy, but failing to do it must be worse.”

Cissy approached the problem with practical political solutions, basically like a good mother who makes sure that her children can’t defy her authority. With rewards and punishments in place, kids could usually be controlled. And they got to feel secure and loved besides.

John had always admired Cissy’s mind from afar, when she was his brother’s wife, but now he could appreciate it as part of his own arsenal. Maybe there was enough brain power between them to actually solve the unsolvable. “So you’re saying put more penalties in place. The threat of jail sentences? And fines”

Cissy didn’t speak up immediately. John imagined wheels turning in her brain, the human computer ferreting out a clear path.

“That’s not exactly where I’d start. The whole thing needs a fresh new approach. The first thing I’d do is identify a precise starting point. I think it’s making sure we actually have identified who is Sunni and who is Shiite. In a perfect world these groups would be color coded somehow. Like in a kid’s book – Dr. Seuss, for instance. Sunnis would wear red hats, Shiites blue. Or even dress in the full colors. In any case, a nice visual guide would help.” John didn’t speak, so Cissy hardly skipped a beat.

“That’s because the key here is knowing when we’ve actually succeed in separating these groups. So that’s STEP ONE.

“STEP TWO will be to either move all the BLUES out of RED territory, or the reverse – moving REDS out of BLUE cities. Which group has to relocate and which doesn’t, Mr. President? The colored group that is ordered to vacate must receive benefits equal or greater than the imposition placed on them. Maybe a one-time cash payment, also moving expenses and a few free meals included, plus travel expenses and a per diem. Treat the vanquished as if it’s they who are benefiting, Switch things around, psychologically.”

“OK. Interesting! Tell me more.”

“When the BLUE group reaches their new town or settlement, how will you let them select their housing. The rich can’t be allowed to automatically get the best houses. Or can they? Can each family receive a new abode similar in square footage to their last residence? How is this determined? And will there be the exact same number of 1200-square-foot buildings in the new city, for the 400 families who had that amount of space previously?

“To be the fairest, no one should have to accept a step down from what they were used to. If this aspect of the resettlement isn’t implemented and closely monitored, new anger and hatred will be generated. Just figure that everything involved here is a fuse waiting to be lit.”

“OK,” repeated John. “I see the precision that needs to take place. It sounds like an accurate census needs to occur, so we know the approximate size of living quarters, each address, in both cities. Then we can take a tally of exactly how many equal-sized residencies we have. Once the tally is made – say there are two-thousand 1200-square-foot places, one-thousand 1500-square-foot apartments, five-hundred 2500-square-foot houses and so on – how do we dole them out?

“Also, not all buildings are in the best neighborhoods, with the best views, best access to stores, or pleasantly rural. Even with a clear beginning, there could be some real grousing here, when people arrive at their new homes and find that their equally-sized apartment looks out at a brick wall or dirty factory. I see it falling apart there.”

Cissy listened and continued to problem-solve. It was the kind of mind game she enjoyed. Overcoming obstacles gave her a rush, so she kept at it.

“We’re probably talking about some kind of lottery here, because there is no way everybody can be made happy. That is, unless everybody gets more square footage than what they had before. Give them a plus to make up for each negative.

“Maybe they’ll get free utilities for a year. Or they receive free fresh vegetables delivered twice monthly from some farmer’s market. Maybe you need to enact a survey, to find out each family’s wish list. I realize this is time-consuming, and in some cases prohibitively expensive, but I think we need to go the extra mile to make this plan actually work. Bottom line, we don’t want to aggravate these two factions. It’s not so easy to dispel 1500 years of anger – ”

“Ugh,” grunted John. “That certainly is the elephant in the room. Centuries of slights – Hatfields against McCoys. And that feud didn’t even run one century, did it?” John was reminded of the immense difficulties. “Anyway, if the BLUE group becomes the BLUE MEANIES then we really have a problem!”

“Ha, ha,” Cissy immediately exclaimed. “That’s correct, sir...Mr. President!”

They both laid back smiling, loosened up by John’s comment and their difficulties at catching a tiger by the tail. Given the complexity of feelings between the two groups, each new imagined solution seemed to have generated two additional problems with it. Like the Disney movie, Fantasia, the brooms kept dividing and dividing.

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