ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (5 page)

Wang was suddenly alert. "My cellphone," he explained. He flipped it
open and listened. "What?" He said. "You're kidding me.
No, no, no...put him in the Oval Office. We'll be there in a couple of
minutes."

Callaway looked at his Chief of Staff with raised eyebrows.

"Howard Exley is here."

"Why? Good Lord, why?"

"Courtesy call, I guess," Wang said.

Callaway leaned back, closed his eyes and put his hands on top of his head,
fingers intertwined. Then he sat up again. "Secretary Mullhouser, we'll
have to continue this at another time."

"Of course, Mr. President."

Callaway and Wang walked briskly toward the Oval Office. "All the
interruptions—I feel as though I never get to finish what I’ve started. Is that
one of the Presidency’s traditional hazards, Eric?"

"I suspect it is," Wang said.

President Exley was sitting on a couch, displaying his famous hayloft of
orangish-brown hair, a color seen only on men approaching 80, and his trademark
Steinway smile, complete with 50 or 60 blindingly white teeth, probably not the
originals.

He rose when Callaway and Wang entered the Oval Office and extended a hand,
which Callaway shook.

"To what do we owe the honor, Howard?" Callaway asked.

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood, Charlie," Exley said,
grinning.

"Any trouble getting in?" Wang asked.

"I know the doorman."

They sat. "So, Mr. President," Callaway said, "I thought you'd
had enough of this place."

"Just a few things to clean up," said the former President, in his
famous rumbling bass. "Then I'm headed to Hawaii and I'm not coming back."

"Howard Exley the beachcomber?' Callaway joked.

"Something like that. Anyhow, my conscience has been bothering me."

"Really? Why? Did you feed me too much Republican propaganda?"

That got a laugh. "Not enough, probably. But no. I just feel I have an
obligation to warn you."

"About what?"

"Well, I've been listening to you talk about bipartisanship and I admire
what you've been saying. I know the difference between truth and bullshit, and
I know you mean what you've said..."

"But?"

Exley ran a hand through his age-appropriate hair. "It's just this,
Charlie, I want you to know that your chances of getting real cooperation from
my party are somewhere between zero and none."

"We're not so sure of that, Mr. President," said Eric Wang.
"I've been talking to the Republican Congressional leadership and Leader
Wendell has given me solemn assurances..."

Exely was shaking his head. "You don't understand, Eric. That's just
duplicity and deception. Wendell is a weasel. I wouldn't believe him if he told
me it was Tuesday. I endorsed him for President, but I’m glad he lost. Now, his
only purpose is to shut down our friend Charlie, here. He and the others have
promised themselves your Boss will be a one-term President..."

Callaway smiled. "I may have something to say about that, Howard."

"Well, I hope so, Charlie, for your sake. All I can tell you is that
they're going to bust a gut trying to make you look like Benedict Arnold, a
black Benedict Arnold, if you'll forgive me. "

Callaway shrugged.

"President Exley," Wang said, "With all due respect. I don't
think any reasonable person is going to be fooled by that."

"I know," Exley said, "but they're not going to be appealing to
reasonable people. They're going to be appealing to the morons and miscreants
among us."

"A small fraction, thank God," Callaway said.

Exley looked at his successor almost tenderly. "Ah, Charlie. You have so
much to learn, and you surely will. Just be prepared for the shit storm that is
about to rain down on you."

"I'll keep my umbrella at the ready, Mr. President," Callaway said
with a grin.

The former President slowly got to his feet. "Well then, Charlie, message
delivered. My conscience is clear."

"Thanks for the warning," Callaway said. "And thanks for
dropping by."

The two Presidents shook hands again. "Don't worry about me, Charlie, I
know the way out."

Callaway and Wang watched him depart.

"What do you make of that, Eric?"

"Decent man, trying to make himself useful. But I wouldn't take him too
seriously."

"Do you think he's going to make a habit of just dropping in?"

"God, I hope not," said the President's Chief of Staff.

Lunch with the German Ambassador went well, although it might have gone better
if Callaway's German was as good as Ambassador Puttkamer's English. Still,
there was promising talk of trade deals and increased German buying in the NAU
and a brief discussion of a possible Callaway visit to Berlin, to meet Chancellor Walther Wohler.

The meetings with Congressional leaders from both sides of the aisle were as
friendly as birthday parties, but then they were solely intended as
meet-and-greets. The subject of bipartisanship never even came up.

Toward the end of the afternoon, the Chief of Staff fielded two cell phone
calls of enough interest for him to inform his Boss. "The British
Ambassador is begging off tea this afternoon," Wang reported. "His
secretary says he's under the weather."

"Under the table, more likely," Callaway said.

"Be nice now," Wang said.

"Do I have time to go upstairs and canoodle with Julia?"

"Unfortunately no. As delightful as I'm sure that might be, you have
another unexpected visitor and this one is much stranger than the
ex-President."

Callaway shot him a skeptical look. "And who might that be?"

"An emissary from Buddy Bourque. At least that's what he says he is."

"Buddy Bourque? President of the Confederate States Buddy Bourque? You're
pulling my leg, Eric."

"They've checked his credentials," Wang said. "Evidently, he is
the real thing."

"And he just shows up here? No request from their Ambassador?"

"He says he's on a confidential mission. Their Ambassador isn't in on
it."

Callaway frowned. "What does he want?"

"He wouldn't say," Wang said. "Except that he wanted to see
you."

Callaway sighed. There was no getting out of it. "I assume he's been
through the magnetometer."

"And a full body scan," Wang assured him.

"What's his name?"

"Roy Pickett."

"Never heard of him."

"He's a long-time Bourque associate, but his role isn't exactly clear.
Some say he's Bourque's body man, others say he's a close advisor. By the way,
he’s a Black man.”

"Hmmm." Callaway checked his watch. "Well, since the British
Ambassador canceled, I do have a few minutes. Might as well hear what he
has to say. Where is he now?"

"Reception."

"Well, go get him. Bring him to the Oval office."

"Make it your private office, Mr. President," Wang said. "This
isn't a state occasion."

"Ok. Make it happen, Eric."

President Callaway was standing at a bookshelf in his private office when Eric
Wang walked in with Roy Pickett. The two men stood face to face, taking
the measure of each other, both Black, handsome, about the same height, dressed
well—one face world-famous, the other unknown. They shook hands rather
formally.

"Mr. Pickett," acknowledged the President.

"Mr. President," Pickett responded.

"What can I do for you?"

Pickett wasn't ready to say. He was drinking in his surroundings. "Very
impressive, all this," he said, with a little wave of his hand. "A
lot of people in my country would be amazed to see it—I mean, a Black man
occupying a very powerful office, surrounded by all the trappings, with platoons
of white men ready to do his bidding."

Callaway, as usual, fielded the remark deftly. "A couple of years ago, I
would have had trouble imaging it myself."

"Our countries are very different," Wang observed rather sharply.

"Can't argue with that," Pickett admitted.

"I must say, Mr. Pickett, when I heard that we had a visitor—an emissary
from President Bourque—you were not what I pictured,” Callaway said.

Pickett laughed. "You expected a weather-beaten cracker with straw
in his hair?"

"Not exactly," Callaway said. "But not a young Black man
either."

"Yes, I can understand that," Pickett said. "Not a lot of Black
people in the Confederacy’s political establishment.”

Wang looked at Pickett curiously. "No. Except, evidently, for you."

"Yes, except for me. President Bourque and I go way back. I'm kind of a
special case." He turned slightly and took a closer look at a bookshelf.
Callaway and Wang exchanged glances.

Callaway took a book out of the shelf and handed it to Pickett. "This
volume comes from John Adams’ personal library," he said.

"John Adams," Pickett said. "You know, he's a part of our
history too. President Bourque sometimes speaks of him."

"Yes," Callaway said. "We have a lot of history in common. Why
don't you take that, as a gift for President Bourque? That's ok, isn't it
Eric?"

"I doubt it," Wang said. "But you can probably get away with
it."

"Thank you very much," Pickett said.

"Mr. Pickett," Wang continued, "You're here because President
Bourque wants something from us. Would you be kind enough to tell us what that
might be?"

" President Callaway, President Bourque would like to arrange a
face-to-face meeting with you. A confidential meeting."

"A meeting?" Wang asked, "A summit?"

"A confidential one, yes." He opened the book. "My God," he
said, "this has an Adams bookplate in it.
Is that his signature?"

Callaway glanced down at the book and blinked. "I believe it is," he
said.

"You're sure you want President Bourque to have this?" Pickett asked.
"I mean, well, considering the relationship between our countries.”

"A friendly gesture never hurts," Callaway said. “So, tell me Mr.
Pickett, why does your President want to meet with me?”

“I assure you he has a very good reason, but he prefers to tell you himself.”

“Um hmm,” Wang said, suspicious. "Are you at least willing to tell us when
he hopes to have this confidential summit meeting, the one whose subject he
isn’t ready to reveal?"

"As soon as possible," Pickett said, ignoring Wang’s snide tone.
"He'll arrange his schedule to fit yours and he'll come here or anywhere
else you choose."

Wang parked his arms across his chest, body language screaming
absolutely
not, no chance, isn’t going to happen
. "Hmmm," he said.

But Callaway seemed intrigued. “The meeting must be very important to him, if
he’s willing to be that accommodating.”

"Look, Mr. Pickett," said Wang, "this is something we're going
to have to discuss at some length. Give us a few days. We'll get be
touch."

Pickett considered Wang's offer. "How about this," he said, finally,
"I'll talk to President Bourque tonight, see if I can convince him to give
you an idea of what he's thinking, then I'll come back tomorrow and fill you
in."

Wang shook his head. "We're going to need some time..."

"What am I doing tomorrow morning at, say, 11 o'clock," Callaway
asked Wang..

"Meeting with the French Ambassador I believe," Wang said.

"Reschedule him, Eric."

"O-kay," Wang said, sounding a little put out.

Pickett broke out into a broad grin. "Thank you very much, Mr.
President."

They shook hands again.

Wang pushed a button and a college-age young man appeared at the door, ready for
escort duty. Pickett said his goodbyes and departed.

"Get hold of Arthur Schwartz," Callaway told Wang. "We need a
CSA polling data summary. On this desk by tomorrow morning at 9 a.m."

Chapter Three

The old gentleman raised his hand to knock on the door, then paused. He
smoothed out his green uniform jacket, raised one leg at a time to shine his
shoes on the back of his pants and brushed back his mustache.

"How's his mood this morning, Rosalita?" he asked the pretty,
dark-eyed secretary, who was busily filing an elaborately-decorated fingernail.