Foreign Enemies and Traitors (104 page)

                The shocking video was being shown on both giant televisions in the Camp David conference center.  It was also being shown on every television in America, and millions more around the world.  After the Predator video and Doug Dolan’s narration, the images faded and returned to show a teenage girl with blond bangs down almost to her eyes, sitting in front of a wall covered by maps.  She began speaking.  “My name is Jenny McClure, I’m seventeen years old.  Today is Tuesday, January 15th.  I lived in Germantown, Tennessee, until my parents were killed after the first earth-quake.  After that, I was staying with my aunt and uncle near Mannville, Tennessee; that’s about seventy-five miles east of Memphis.  What I’m telling now is what happened in Mannville on Saturday, January the 12th.  I was there in Mannville, at the regular Saturday swap meet, when about two hundred Kazak soldiers came and surrounded us.  They were on horses and in trucks.”

                While she told her story, the Predator UAV video was shown again over her narration.  When she told about wandering into the ravine, the graphic color images taken by Boone on the digital cameras were shown.

                ****

Down at Fort Campbell, Colonel Spencer
was nervously watching a small television in his office at the 5th Special Forces Group.  Eleven o’clock came and went, and all of the channels continued with regular programming.  Then the broadcast abruptly and without explanation switched to the Predator video at four minutes after the hour.  He already had an email blast-alert typed and ready to send to hundreds of military contacts.  He sent it, and then began making phone calls to key individuals, telling them, “Turn on your television, something is happening!”  The other members of the original “working group” either were doing the same as Spencer, or they were preparing for their first direct-action missions at Fort Campbell.

                Within two minutes, Colonel Spencer stopped making the phone calls: everyone he reached was already tuned in.  In just a few minutes, tens of millions of civilian and military men and women were watching their TVs in stunned amazement.  All across America more and more millions were tuning in by the minute, until the nation almost came to a halt, staring at the astonishing spectacle on their screens.

                But while the rest of America watched their televisions, Colonel Spencer sent his next series of text and email messages, and made a few more phone calls of a different nature.  The military operation against the “rural pacification program” personnel in Building 1405 and at their UAV flight center was set into motion.

                ****

Before Jenny McClure finished her story,
the painful massacre pictures faded and stopped.  She continued speaking over a black screen, and then her image returned.  When Jenny finished her story, she stared into the camera while holding the infant against her chest, the infant whom she had rescued from the open mass grave.  This image of a silent Jenny then dissolved, and the screen came back into focus to show none other than President Jamal Tambor, in a casual setting. 

                The new film was anything but high resolution.  The lighting was too dark and the sound quality was poor, but the familiar face with the easy but somewhat nervous smile was unmistakable.  Tambor was sitting across a table in somebody’s kitchen, wearing a white buttondown shirt.  It was open at the neck, with his sleeves rolled partway up his forearms.  Incredibly, a white bust of Russian communist leader Vladimir Lenin appeared on a counter over one shoulder, and a portrait of Che Guevara was visible on the wall over his other.  He leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed, his hands folded over his knee.  A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the table, its smoke curling upward.

                “I apologize, I really do,” said Tambor.  “I’ve meant to come and see you for a long time.  But now that I’m campaigning, well…”  The president was speaking to somebody off-camera, on the other side of the table.

                “I understand, Jamal.  It’s politics.  The last thing I would want is to be an albatross around your neck and sink your chances.”  The camera must have been set up intentionally to capture this conversation.  The positioning of the two iconic communists behind Tambor was clearly deliberate.  Just as clear was the fact that Jamal Tambor had no idea that he was being filmed by a hidden camera.

                Tambor appeared relieved to hear what the unseen man had said.
 
“I’m glad there are no hard feelings.  I wouldn’t want you to think I’ve been brushing you off.  Not after all we’ve shared.  Ever since my undergraduate days, you were more than just a teacher and a friend.  You were my mentor and, well, my ghostwriter, of course.  I know it’s been difficult for you, not being able to take public credit for my book.  But there was just no other way…”

                “No, that doesn’t bother me, not really.  As you said, there was no other way to do it.  You had to take full credit; it had to be your book.  It was the least I could do.”

                “Thank you, Robert.  We both share the same goals.  We both want to build a just society.  But now that I really have a chance to be president, I’ll have to be much more…circumspect.  That’s why I haven’t answered your calls, or written back to you.  I’m sorry, I’m not proud of that.  It’s embarrassing for me to admit it, but, well…the right-wing media are already digging around in my past, and there are certain people, even old friends, who…”

                “Don’t worry about it, Jamal.  I understand political reality.  I can’t get tangled up in your campaign.  The right-wingers would be howling for your blood if we were linked.  I don’t want to make waves for you.  You shouldn’t take any unnecessary chances now—even coming here tonight was taking a risk.”

                “I know, I know.  But I wanted to get together with you one more time before…”

                “Before you have to cut me loose for good—at least publicly.  I understand, we can’t do this anymore.  We can’t meet again…maybe ever.  You may even have to renounce me, and I understand that too.  It’s all part of the political game.  You don’t have to worry about me; I’ll stay out of the way.  I won’t make any statements to the media, not during your campaign, and not after.  You won’t have to worry on my account.  Not at all.”

                Tambor tilted his head back and smiled.  “I knew I could count on you, Robert.  I just had to be sure.  It could get ugly.”

                “I’m ready for whatever happens,” said Robert’s off-camera voice.  “It’s been coming for a long time.”

                “Yeah, it has.”  There was an uneasy silence, and Tambor glanced furtively at his watch.

                “Hey, Jamal, since this is probably the last time we’ll be getting together for, well, maybe for years…well…I’ve got some great weed.  You want to do a bong hit with me, for old times’ sake?  They don’t make you take drug tests when you’re running for president, do they?”

                Tambor laughed.  “No, not yet anyway!  I don’t even have Secret Service bodyguards yet.  Yeah, this might be one of my last chances to sneak out by myself.  Sure, go ahead, Robert, bowl it up.”  The future president smiled broadly.  “Yeah, this is just like the old days.  The times we had!”  Robert’s arm was briefly visible as a foot-tall tubular water pipe was passed across the table.  Tambor had his own butane lighter.  He put his mouth over the top of the bong, lit the bowl at the bottom, and inhaled deeply.  The sound of water bubbling in the pipe was clearly audible on the tape.  Then his head quickly came away from the pipe and he began coughing, shaking his head, and coughing some more.  “Wow!” he said in a low, gravelly voice.  “That’s some
strong
shit.  What was that?”

                “Lebanese hash.  One of my Palestinian friends brings it over when she visits.  She sticks it right in her diplomatic pouch.”

                “Damn!  That’s some
seriously
good shit!  Hey, have you got another beer?”  Off-camera came the sound of a shuffling chair, a fridge opening and closing.  A green bottle was passed over to Jamal Tambor, and he took a long drink.  “Just in time—that put out the fire.  Man, that hash is too much!  One hit, and I already feel like my head’s the size of Jupiter.” 

                “Yeah, I should have warned you,” said the unseen Robert.  “So, what do you think your chances are?  You’ve only been a governor for two years.  They’ll say you have a thin résumé.”

                “Oh, I know the pundits say my candidacy is a long shot, but they don’t know what I know: I’ve got an inside track.  Robert—the Kosimos Foundation is backing me.  I mean,
really
backing me.  They’re going to pull out all the stops.”  The Kosimos Foundation for Global Peace and Justice was the “philanthropic” arm of the Kosimos Group, a half-trillion-dollar international conglomerate of hedge funds founded by the late Peter Kosimos.  Even in New Dollars, the currency in use at the time the video was filmed, that was a lot of money.

                “They can’t donate to your campaign, can they?”

                “No, of course not.  They’re going to launder it through PACs, charities and community action groups.  It’s all legit, once the money is rebundled.  It’s already all set up.  They’ll fund a grass-roots effort, and the Kosimos money will flow in through a thousand different channels.  They’ve already kicked in two hundred million New Dollars, and that’s just for starters.”

                “Really?  Two hundred million already?  I’ve never heard of so much money this early in a campaign.”

                “I know, it’s amazing.  Two hundred million!  But please keep that quiet, okay?”

                “I’m just surprised.  I haven’t read anything about that kind of money.”

                “No, of course not.  It’s all being funneled in by hundreds of little front groups.  It’ll take some time to reach my official campaign accounts, but the good thing is, once we have it, it’s untraceable.  We even have anonymous credit card donation sites.  As long as the donations are all under the limit, it doesn’t matter where they come from, or how many there are.  The Kosimos Group is setting it all up—they’re experts at this sort of thing.  Moving funds without leaving fingerprints, I mean.  It’s practically going to be automated.  It’s perfect.  It’s invisible.”

                “That sounds great.  But what do they want for all that help?  What’s the quid pro quo?  Won’t you be beholden to them?”

                Tambor replied, “It doesn’t really matter what they want for it, does it?  I mean, we share the same goals.  What matters is the Kosimos Foundation believes in me…and I believe in them.”

                “You’ll have be extremely careful to keep the connection a secret.”

                “No kidding.  But even my cutouts have cutouts.  Everything is being done through three or four layers, it’s just incredibly murky.  It’s all designed to be untraceable.  The Kosimos people are experts at shifting funds without leaving tracks.  That’s why they have such an impact on the markets.  They weave their money through hundreds of channels, like invisible ninjas.  Now they’re going to do the same thing for my campaign.  By the time their money gets to me, it’ll be as pure as the driven snow.”

                “Hey, speaking of snow…you want to do a line?”

                “Is the pope Catholic?”  Tambor grinned, showing his perfect white teeth.  “I was hoping you had some.  Good old Robert, you always had the best stuff.”  After a few moments, a black plastic tray appeared on the kitchen table, with two rows of white powder and a red straw.  Jamal Tambor leaned over and quickly snorted up both lines in quick passes.  “You know when the last time I had any blow was?”

                “No.”

                “Right here in your kitchen, at this very table.  What was that, two years ago?  I’ve had to be
so
careful!  It’s been a drag keeping my nose clean, let me tell you.  I can hardly get a private moment for myself.”

                “It’ll only get worse as the campaign goes on.”

                “I know.”  Tambor took a sip of beer and then lit another cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket.  “Hey, it’s really great to be back with you, amigo!  I’ve missed you, I really have.”  Tambor reached across the table, evidently to shake hands, but the handshake was off-camera.  His state of intoxication was growing obvious.  His eyes were reddened and his words were becoming slightly slurred.

                “I’ve missed you too,” said Robert.  “Especially our all-night rap sessions.  We were figuring it all out, weren’t we?  How we would save the world, you and me.  The battle-scarred veteran and the Young Turk.”

                “I know, weren’t we something?  But Robert, now I actually have a chance to do it!  To do it for real!  It’s a long shot, I know, but with the Kosimos money, it can work.”

                “That would just be…amazing.  But even if you do win the nomination and the general election, do you think you’ll be able to accomplish very much?  Even with a Democratic Congress, there’s still the separation of powers.  You’ll have to cut deals with the Republicans.  You’ll have to wave the old red, white and blue.”

                “I know, I know,” said Jamal Tambor.  “But you always said that I could sell ice to Eskimos.  You’re the one who taught me lesson number one: ‘Once you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.’  I’ve never forgotten that.”

                “But so many Americans are still so conservative, so…religious.  They really believe that religion is the ballast that keeps them upright through the storms of life.  And that’s damned hard to change.  They’re just so brainwashed, like little zombies.”

                Tambor took a drag on his cigarette before speaking.  “You know, Marx still said it better than anybody else: ‘Religion is the opiate of the masses.’  It really is.  I mean, personally, I don’t care if people worship Jesus, Buddha, Allah or the man in the moon.  For me, the religion thing is just a matter of political expedience.”