BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 94. Another cat gets let out of the bag, when Kissinger visits.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9ipRaLa4Jw

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

Looking at Cissy – more lovely a woman than he’d ever understood her to be when on the arm of his brother – he swept her up with a kiss, and the love-making shortly ensued. Afterwards, she preferred to lounge under a thin sheet while he grabbed a shower. Once the water reached its desired temperature – hot, not scalding – he moved his head under and felt his ears being tickled by the drops. Boy was he lucky! he thought. Whatever mechanism existed in the brain of Cissy Little, to make her accept the craziness of his impersonation, was unbelievable. On top of everything else, she had told him – ordered him – to keep having sex with Fran. She was that practical. She anticipated the ramifications surrounding Fran.

She knew that if his wife-in-real-life ever discovered his true identity, then both he and the First Lady would be hauled away, both of them facing imprisonment. Shame and a blot against the name “Little” would be their children’s inheritance, on both sides. How could their children – his with Fran, or Jackson’s with Cissy – ever avoid becoming a laughing stock? All Littles, in fact, would be besmirched, pay the price for what he’d done.

John remembered the story Rudy told him and Jackson years back, about how Rudy, a young Vietnam vet, had gone through about a hundred Littles in the Seattle phone book in 1964, searching for “Sarah Little.” So there were probably thousands of Littles in America who would hate them, for what he and Cissy perpetrated. So her logic was sound. Keep up his disguise at all costs.

Keep making love to Fran, as Jackson. Make love to two women. Lie to your kids. Lie to Cissy’s. All well and good! But – What about Fran’s pregnancy?

John cut the shower short. The urge to discuss Fran with Cissy had gotten the better of him. As he reentered the bedroom. Cissy was no longer lying in bed, but had seated herself at the computer. The printer was humming, each pass giving off its distinct cadence. By the time he arrived she had extracted the document. “YOUR BABY” topped the page, in very large type. But before The President could discuss Cissy’s list, John was whisked away for various scheduled meetings in the Oval Office. There always seemed to be a Congressman or woman ready to make the legendary visit to see the President, and try to get points for their next election by getting the highway bill or energy bill passed in Peoria, IL, or Putney, Vermont. Small districts to large metropolitan cities got repaired or not, based on the ebb and flow of political pressure. Whether they succeeded or failed to get something passed, they could at least say, I met with the Commander in Chief.

Just as a Texan senator was wrapping up his pitch for new oil regulations, the intercom buzzed. The old technology was charming in a way. But it did its job of interrupting current business for something more pressing, more important, or downright critical. In this case, it was none of these, unless the President regarded Henry Kissinger as representing all three possibilities.

“Mr. President, Henry Kissinger on line two,” said secretary, Dorris.

“Hello, Mr. President. This will be short, because I know you are a busy man. Your Sunni-Shiite plan – I’ve heard about it through the notorious DC grapevine – is truly a brilliant and creative stroke. Let me first congratulate you.”

“Why thank you, Henry. But I’m a little embarrassed that I didn’t have the opportunity to run it by you first, in person. The timing of–”

“Oh please, don’t even think twice about that. What I do wish to discuss, though, is the problem of that type of extensive spending when it comes to our mutual friend MIC. He won’t like that very much, not much at all. So I hope we can meet, and fairly soon. He’s good, you know, at stirring up quite a ruckus, for people who bother him.”

Glancing over toward two Texans seated on opposing Oval Office couches, John motioned them to pour another. With smiles and nods they rose and headed over to the bar.

“Yes, of course, Henry. As we previously discussed, MIC takes precedence. I can squeeze you in around dinnertime, for dinner, too, if that works for you. I’m sure Cissy will be pleased as well, to see you again. Thanks Henry.”

Off the phone, John listened to the concerns of the Senator and his chief of staff, acting as all Texans did, like they represented another country that bordered Mexico.

———-

The day passed swiftly, and before John knew it he was headed toward the dinner table with Kissinger. The man was punctual, and all smiles, as the First Lady gave him a welcoming peck on the cheek. As always, the old man- about-town lit up with the attention of a pretty lady.

“Hello, my darling,” said the old man, drinking in Cissy’s charms before turning his head to her husband. After his quick acknowledgement, followed by a deep nod, Kissinger was carefully installed at the table with help from a nearby staff member. Everyone then unfolded napkins and got settled.

“Henry, so great you could join us,” said The President, with Cissy looking up from the menu momentarily.

“My great pleasure,” said the aging man. His next words got a smile from Cissy, but not much more, “And your lovely wife is much appreciated as well.” War criminal were the words that automatically came to her mind. But of course she didn’t say them.

The meal went smoothly, with Kissinger and President Little ordering the Gigot D’agneau A La Francaise lamb leg, while Cissy took a page from Green’s Cookbook with her Basil Fettuccine with Green Beans order, a few walnuts sprinkled alongside. That, plus low-cal strawberry tarts topped it all off. Cissy then excused herself, as the two men headed back to the privacy of the Oval Office. Guards outside were instructed that it was a “no admittance” conference.

“Please,” said John, arm outstretched toward the Kennedy sofas. Kissinger sat carefully and pulled some fabric up from his knees where things felt binding. John had carried Kissinger’s wine in from the dining room along with his own, and placed the glasses on coasters. Finally, the men could get down to business. John spoke first.

“So, regarding MIC. You say they don’t like any funds going anywhere other than to their armaments. No surprise there.” John was burning to know what his pal Henry had heard.

“Absolutely not.” Kissinger pursed his lips slightly, either for emphasis or just as a symptom of age. “They’ve killed for less.”

While it had been a little inside joke to call the Military Industrial Complex by its extended “MICKY,” it sort of diffused in John’s mind, reduced the utter seriousness of what the term actually represented. That unofficial cabal of war-mongering elites, financiers with many different money interests, along with governments that swayed to their snake-charming dollars, yen, euros, or pounds sterling, was either the grandest conspiracy the world had ever known, or just a predictable manifestation of human nature. If the latter held true, then humans were really a scourge that needed total elimination so that the earth could recuperate. Why a series of new nuclear explosions hadn’t rocked the planet by then was anybody’s guess.

“You take their mother’s milk – I’m referring to the guns, bombs, airplanes they manufacture – and make their livelihood shrink, and you think that can really be allowed to go forward? You take money earmarked for military and give it away to the people they want to arm to the teeth. You try to make nice between tribal factions that are dependably at each other’s throats, and will be for another thousand years? This bill will never see the floor. It can’t pass, won’t pass, won’r even be considered, and I’ll be damn surprised if the public ever hears a word about it. The damage control started immediately. So, sorry.”

Kissinger could still mount an impressive verbal blitz, thought John, for a cause or for an explanation. John couldn’t help breaking into a little smile.

“Man, it seems I’ve touched a nerve there. Glad to have you on the pulse. In here – John waved an arm toward the Resolute desk and the Rose garden beyond the thick windows – I get too insulated from such things.”

“Dangerous,” said Kissinger, doing his knowing nods. “Glad I could help catch this – for you.”

“You must pull this whole thing back, before they tell you to. That’s how to avoid some terrible consequences.” Kissinger was now the company man, earning his yearly commissions. John could see why the diplomat hadn't felt the need to pass secret, silent notes on this visit. At least up to that moment.

“Henry, I hear you, but not this time, my old friend. Not on my watch.”

“Jackson?” Now the silent notes would probably start again. But John launched ahead, without a care toward such penned-out protection. But this time John decided to drop a big bomb himself, right in the middle of Kissinger’s visit. He had previously played around with telling Kissinger his true identity - imposter of a US President - and he was now overtaken with the creative urge that the time was right. So he let the shocking words slip out.

“Henry, I’m not Jackson Little. I’m John Little, the ‘crazy artist’ brother of the man you knew. Jackson died during the Oval Office explosion. I didn’t. We switched. I’m John.”

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https://www.cnn.com/2010/POLITICS/08/09/president.imposter/index.html