ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (35 page)

Wang and Katz exchanged glances, and Callaway caught the look. “Listen, I
can’t do this alone,” he said. “That would truly be impossible. I need the best
you can give me. I need your wholehearted support or I might as well give up on
the whole idea. Can you give it to me? Eric?”

Wang regarded his Boss, a man he’d known and worked with—or for—for more than
20 years. “Don’t insult me, Charlie. You know where my loyalties lie. I’ve
proved it a thousand times.”

“Yes you have, Eric. I’m sorry. I know I can count on you.” He turned toward
Veronica.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “Your kind of idealism is why I’m here, Mr. President
and you know that. We haven’t had a
mentsh
in the Oval Office in
decades. Besides, there’s nothing I like better than a challenge. Just tell me
something’s impossible and I’m itching to prove you wrong.”

“As I remember,” Callaway said, “
you
were the one who said it was
impossible.”

Veronica laughed. “I’m entitled to a little
kvetching,
aren’t I?”

“Before you get to me,” Marty Katz interrupted, “I want you to think back and
remember how many times I’ve played Sancho Panza to deranged knights like you.
You want to slay some windmills, pal? I’ll help you polish your armor and
sharpen your sword.”

“Deranged knights?”

“Figure of speech,” Katz explained. “Poetic license.” He reached into a pocket,
found a cigar and lit up.

Callaway regarded his three advisors with affection. “I almost wish you’d been
harder to convince,” he said.

“You were hoping for a longer argument?” Veronica asked slyly.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” President Callaway turned a keen eye on his
Confederate counterpart. “Buddy,” he said, “I wonder if you’ve spent much time
considering what you’re getting yourself into—how monumentally the CSA will
have to change if we go ahead with this.”

“Considerable time, actually,” Bourque said. “Truth is, it’s been eatin’ away
on me for some years now.”

“You’ll have to get rid of all those ‘colored only’ signs over the drinking
fountains and the bathroom, for example,” Callaway said.

“And the white and colored sections in restaurants and public transportation,”
Katz added, watching Bourque’s reaction.

“I know,” Bourque said. “And let blacks serve on juries, n’ vote and sue white
folks if they think got a reason to. Yep. Mulled it over, all of it.”

“Have you thought about the schools?” Veronica asked. “No more separate
schools. Blacks and whites will sit in the classrooms together, like they do
here.”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be too hard for the kids, ‘specially the young ‘uns,” Bourque
said, considering the matter. “But for the parents, it’s gonna take some
getting’ used to.”

Katz lit up another cigar and regarded Bourque with interest. “Don’t forget
housing and employment,” he said. “It won’t be legal to exclude people of color
from renting or buying homes, merely on the basis of race. Same with jobs. And
there’s the equal pay for equal work laws…Ready for all that?” He smiled, then
took another puff on his cigar.

“Am I ready for that?” Bourque asked. “No, I can’t say that I am. But I might
ask you, Mr. Katz, are
you
ready to take on a health care and welfare
system that’s in a shambles? Are you willing to step in and make our social
security system solvent? Are you willing to station thousands of your young men
and women in southern military bases, where some of them may be in harm’s way?”

“Touché,” Katz said. “You’re right, of course. We’re going to have to spend a
fair amount of our national treasure to raise the Confederacy and its citizens
to economic equality with the North, and to build up its defenses.”

“You know, Buddy,” Callaway said, “we didn’t get to where we are overnight. I’m
talking about racial equality and prosperity. We’ve done pretty well, but we
haven’t reached Nirvana yet.”

Bourque put a hand to his chin. “Let’s get back to those social changes,
Charlie. Do you really expect us to go to sleep as fish and wake up as fowl?”

Callaway glanced around the table, at Katz, Wang and Veronica, as if assuring
himself of their support. “No. That would be asking the impossible. But you’d
have to
start
immediately, by nullifying all of the Jim Crow laws and
dismantling all of the external evidence of discrimination. Of course, I
know some things will take time—like school desegregation. We might give you
six months to complete that. As for the social attitudes…

“Those are gonna take awhile,” Bourque said. “But for everything there is a
season, or so we’re told. Maybe I’ll live to see it, maybe I won’t. But I think
I’ll see its beginnings.”

“The change is already happening,” Pickett said. “This will accelerate it. The
CSA has reached a dead end and we all know it, at least in the back of our
minds.”

“You know, you’re going to have to change too,” Bourque told Callaway. “You’re
going to have to accept 75 million rednecks as full-fledged citizens of
America. I’d say that’s going to take a considerable attitude adjustment.”

“When your request for reunion goes public,” Veronica told Bourque, “I think a
lot of Americans will be deeply impressed. They’ll come around. Most of them.”

“I hope you’re right,” Callaway said.

“You do realize, I hope,” said Marty Katz, “that you’ll have to give up the
very name of your country. It can’t be known as the CSA or the Confederacy any
more. When people speak of that part of the country, they’ll call it the
South.”

Bourque shrugged. “A rose by any other name…”

“Maybe so, Mr. President, but the plain fact is, the Confederacy will have to
give up its identity,” Katz said.

“Mr. Katz,” Bourque said, “you’re makin’ me feel like I’m the defendant and
you’re the persecutin’ attorney.”

Callaway laughed. “He’s more like the defense attorney, preparing you to take
the stand.”

“Asking me the tough questions eh?” Bourque said.

“Something like that,” Katz agreed.

“Okay,” Bourque said, “let’s talk about this identity business. I wouldn’t say
we’ll be giving up our identity. I’d say we’ll be cutting out the gangrene so
good healthy tissue can grow.”

“Is that what you really think?” Callaway asked.

“It’s what I’d like to think,” Bourque said. “What I’m trying to think.”

“He’s getting there,” Pickett said.

“And anyhow, the South will always be the South,” Bourque said. “We’ll always
have the bayous and the plantations, tree-lined streets in Charleston, the golf
courses in Georgia, gorgeous Atlantic and Gulf beaches. We’ll always have grits
and jambalaya. We’ll always say y’all. We’ll always have our cotton and our
orange groves and Southern hospitality. We’ll be getting’ a haircut and a
makeover, but Lord knows, we’ve needed one for a very long time.”

“You’ll be dissolving the government of your country,” Katz said. “Your country
will cease to exist, except in the history books.”

“Now you keep your pants on for a minute,” Bourque responded. “You can’t just
wipe out the gubmint…

“If we reunite,” Katz warned, “we won’t need a Confederate President any more.
You’ll be out of a job, unless you intend to become part of the Callaway
administration.”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand me,” Bourque said. “When reunion is complete, I
intend to retire from public life, except maybe for a few speeches to fill the
coffers. No, what I meant is that you’re going to have to switchover from one
gubmint to the next. I’m sure you don’t want the South in a state of anarchy.”

“He has a good point, Marty,” Callaway said. “We can’t just erase the entire
governmental infrastructure. We’re going to need it. Especially the state
governments.”

“We’ll have to have new elections, with universal suffrage for everyone over
the age of 18,” Wang said.

“Yes, and we’ll need them soon,” Katz said, “before the old power brokers can
stack the deck and find ways to scare away the voters—and the candidates—they
don’t like.”

“I might be able to lend a hand there,” Bourque said.

“You’re right to worry, Marty,” Pickett said. “But I can tell you who to watch
out for and how to deal with them.”

“You’re gonna deal with them by sending them on permanent vacations,” Bourque
said.

“If that’s the way the vote goes,” Callaway said.

“We’re going to need a new Federal agency,” Veronica said. “Thousands of
lawyers and judges and maybe police to spread throughout the South and
supervise the transition.”

“Yes,” Wang said, “the Reunion Agency, we could call it. It would have the
authority to make changes and enforce them.”

“Hold your horses, Chang,” Bourque boomed out. “There’s not gonna be any deal
if you’re gonna take retribution or expect tribute. That’s not gonna happen.”

“Of course not, Buddy,” Callaway said. “We don’t want to do you any harm, just
the opposite.”

“Well, I just thought I’d better check,” Bourque said, grinning.

“Always a good idea,” Callaway said.

Pickett decided it was time to get back to business. “So gentlemen—and
Veronica—how are we going to make this happen?”

Chapter Seventeen

“You’re our legal eagle, Veronica,” Callaway said. “Why don’t you explain the
legalities.”

“More like the legal beagle,” Veronica said. She noticed a dust bunny on the
sleeve of her green and blue paisley dress and flicked it off with a
fingernail. “But I taught Emerging Statehood a few years ago at
Georgetown and I know the drill. You want the whole
megillah
or will the
highlights be enough for you?”

Katz held up both hands. “Please, I beg you. Just the highlights.”

“Okey-dokey,” Veronica said. She reached into her big cloth pocketbook—it was
more a knitting bag than a woman’s purse—and extracted a pair of red-framed
spectacles, which she slipped on.

“You need glasses to talk about this?” Wang asked, confused.

“Makes me feel more professorial,” Veronica said. “Consider it an affectation.
Shall I go on?”

“Please,” said President Callaway.

She surveyed the others, then resumed. “Okay. Everything’s based on the 1802
Enabling Act for Ohio.”

“1802?” Wang asked.

“That’s what I said,” Veronica told him. “Anyhow, this is the way it works:
First, the potential state petitions Congress for statehood status. Second,
Congress—if it wants to—passes an act giving the petitioning territory
thumbs-up to hold a Constitutional Convention. The act specifies how the
convention delegates are supposed to be elected.”

“But we already have state legislatures,” Bourque said. “Wouldn’t they be good
enough for Congress?”

“No,” Veronica says. “Not if it follows the 1802 law. But maybe we could
finesse that.”

“Is that it?” Pickett asked.

“Be patient, young man,” Veronica said. “I’ll get to the other stuff in my own
good time.”

Callaway and Katz exchanged exasperated glances, which, fortunately, Veronica
didn’t notice, partly because she’d put on the wrong spectacles—her reading
glasses.

“Okay,” she said, blinking. “Now at that Constitutional Convention, the
delegates must pass a state constitution that does not conflict with our
Federal Constitution, and establishes a republican form of government.”

This time, the objection came from President Bourque. “Republican? You don’t
mean Republican as opposed to Democratic, do you?”

Veronica sighed deeply. “No, Mr. President, I do not. Republican with a small
“r”. Republican as opposed to tyrannical or dictatorial.”

“Ah.”

“At that point,” Veronica continued, “Congress takes a gander at the state
constitution and votes yea or nay to admit the state. If they vote yea, the new
state joins the union on an equal footing with all the other states. It gets to
elect two Senators, and, until they do a new census, a single Representative.
After the census, they’ll get Representatives in proportion to their
population—about one for every half million.”

“That’s it?” Bourque asked.

“I got a million details if you want ‘em.”

Bourque and Callaway exchanged unhappy glances. “Sounds to me like we’re gonna
be rasslin’ a pack of alligators, Mr. President.

“Oh, much worse than that, President Bourque. Senators and Congressmen. The
media.”

“Okay,” Pickett said, “Let’s say all the states are readmitted. Is that all
there is to it? From that moment on, we’re all one happy family, 50 states
strong, marching to the same tune?”

“Ah, no, not exactly,” Veronica said. “We’ll have to make sure the new states
are honoring our Federal laws and obeying their new constitutions.”

“I guess that would be the job of the Reunion Agency you were talking about,
Mr. Wang,” Bourque said.

“Exactly,” said Eric Wang. “You know, groups of people—judges, maybe, or
mayors—sent to every Confederate city, town and hamlet, beginning with the
biggest ones, to help in the transition.”

“And make sure we behave,” Bourque said.

“Well, yes,” Veronica admitted.

“Would you like to be head of the agency?” Wang asked the Confederate
President.

“Who me? Not on your life. I might be a useful advisor,” Bourque said.

Pickett seemed troubled. “Bunch of pushy northerners, pouring into the
Confederacy—‘scuse me, the
former
Confederacy—telling everyone what to
do…could cause some serious resentment among the good ole boys,” he said.

“Nah,” Katz said. “Won’t happen.”

Pickett was surprised. “Won’t happen?” he said. “Why not?”

“Because they’ll be bringing
money
, Mr. Pickett---money for roads and
schools. Money to rebuild the ports. Money for unemployment, Medicaid and
Social Security. And pensions for the mayors, the sheriffs and the judges who
want to retire..”

“Or need a nudge,” Veronica added.

“Yes, exactly,” Katz said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those.”

“That’s going to take a lot of money,” Wang said, dubious.

“Not so much as you think, Mr. Wang,” Bourque said. “Don’t take much to make
poor people feel rich.”

“I think you’re being naïve, Mr. Katz,” Pickett said. “They
booed
Delphine at her last show, after the meetings were announced—Delphine, who
everyone in the Confederacy loves! What do you think’s gonna happen when we
announce reunion? Mass protests. Stupid mass protests, by people who just want
to keep living the way they are, no matter how bad it is. What are you gonna do
with people like that?”

“We’ll hire ‘em,” Katz answered. “We’ll get ‘em building roads and schools and
factories. We’ll put ‘em to work, give ‘em something to do they can be proud
of, something to look forward to.”

“You make it sound possible, Mr. Katz,” Pickett said.

“The name’s ‘Marty,’” Katz said, “and almost anything’s possible if you work at
it hard enough.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Callaway said. “That attitude got me elected.”

“Okay, what’s next?” Wang asked.

“Next we start telling the people who need to know,” Callaway said. “Starting
with the Vice Presidents.”

“God help us,” Veronica said.

And it was on that note that the meeting broke up.

Eric Wang hurried back to his office, calling Linus Hawke on the way.
“Could you come see me as soon as possible. I have business that can’t wait.”

“I’m in the
building,” Hawke said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

They arrived at
Wang’s office almost simultaneously.

“Thanks for coming
so quickly, Linus.” Wang said, pointing to a chair.

Hawke took a seat, with his usual grace and looked at Wang expectantly. “What
can I do for you, Eric?”

“Seems we have a leak,” Wang said.

“In connection with the Bourque meetings?”

“Yes. His biographer. Pinckney his name is.”

“You’re sure?” Hawke inquired, with the practiced politeness of a haughty man.

“No, Linus, which I why I wanted to talk to you. We think he may be a Garcia
spy, but we have no proof. No evidence, really, except that Garcia appears to
know something he shouldn’t know and Pinckney is the only possible leak.”

Hawke leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “Okay,
come up with a piece of information he’d be eager to report to Garcia.”

“What kind of information?”

“I used the wrong word, Eric. I mean
disinformation
—something that will
mislead our Mexican friend, maybe slow him down. Can you come up with something
or would you like my help?”

“Thanks, but I think I can come up with something.” Wang said.

“If you make it too obvious, he might suspect you’re onto him.”

“I grew up on John LeCarre, Linus.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

“So, okay, we make him privy to some crucial information. What then?”

“From that moment on,” Hawke explained, “my people will keep an eye on his
phone calls, his emails and any personal contacts he may have. I’ll get back to
you when I know something.”

“Okay,” Wang said, “Give me a couple of hours, then it’s on.”

Hawke rose and nodded. It was almost a bow. “I’ll be in touch, Eric.”

Wang found Pinckney sitting in the White House reception room, busily filling
up his notebook, apparently content to wait until Bourque was free. After a
moment, he looked up. “Meeting over?” he asked.

“No, they’re going to be awhile,” Wang said. “President Bourque sent me out to
find you and ask you to be patient.”

“No worries,” Pinckney said pleasantly. “I’m getting a lot of work down here.”

“I’ll tell the President,” Wang said.

A shrewd look flickered briefly over Pinckney’s face. “So,” he said, “how are
things going in there?”

Wang had been afraid Pinckney wouldn’t ask, but here it was. “Well, you know I
can’t give you any details.”

“No, of course not. Besides, I don’t really need to know now. President Bourque
will tell me everything later. We’re very close, you know.”

“I gathered that…”

“But the talks are going okay, I assume.”

“Well…” Wang said, letting the answer be dragged out of him.

“In general, I mean.”

“Not all that well,” Wang admitted.

“Really? I’m surprised. Why? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“You know the man better than I do,” Wang said. “Bourque, that is. You know how
demanding he can be.”

Pinckney nodded gravely. “Yes, of course. That’s been a key element in his
public life, usually to his advantage.”

“Not this time,” Wang said. “This time he’s asked for too much and he’s going
to end up getting nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Hey,” Wang said, raising his hands in protest. “I didn’t tell you anything.
Remember that.”

“Of course,” Pinckney said. “But I do have one question, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s that?” Wang said, suddenly hesitant.

“Well, if it’s been decided, what are they talking about now?”

Wang was ready for that. “Setting up cultural and sports exchanges. You know,
making it look good.”

Pinckney took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “It’s too bad.”

“Well, it was always a long shot, Gerard. But worth a try.”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Anyhow, they’ll be out soon.”

“Thanks for talking to me Mr. Wang.”

Wang put a finger to his lips. “Who me? I didn’t say a word.

He left as quickly as he could and somehow resisted a very strong urge to wait
nearby to see if Pinckney came rushing out of the room, looking for a place to
make a private phone call. Instead, he headed for his office, sat down and
waited.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, the phone
rang. It was Hawke.

“We got him,” said DCI Hawke. “What do you want me to do about him?”

“Pinckney, you mean?”

“Yep. He called Hector Herrera.”

“Who’s that?”

“Garcia’s intelligence chief.”

“Aha,” said Wang. “And did Pinckney say to him?”

“Well, he didn’t get him on the phone,” Hawke said. “Maybe he doesn’t know that
Herrera was arrested after the bogus tanker sinking.”

“So he said nothing?”

“On the contrary, Eric. He obliged us nicely. He left a coded message for
Herrera, no doubt telling him that the Bourque-Callaway meetings had
collapsed.”

“Damn,” Wang said. “We got him.”

“Yes. That’s what I said. What do you want me to do with him?”

“Nothing, Linus,” Wang said. “Nothing at all.”

*

The New York Container Terminal, which is located on Staten Island near the
Goethals Bridge, is the largest such facility in the North American Union,
handling an average of 40,000 TEU a year, TEU standing for “twenty-foot
equivalent unit” or shipping container. A forty-footer contains two TEU.

The great majority of these huge metal containers were either coming from or
going to Europe and other points east, stuffed with exports and imports, with
Germany as both the major source and the chief destination

Although the German container port at Bremerhaven handled more freight, the New
York Container Terminal dwarfed any similar facility in the NAU, including the
one at Long Beach, California, which mainly dealt with agricultural exports to
the poor, underdeveloped of southeast Asia and China.

It was this facility that Anthony Zolli and Local 107 of the Truckers’ had shut
down tighter than an elderly spinster’s knees—no traffic in, no traffic out;
miles of trucks parked at the main gate, waiting to pick up a load, engines
off, abandoned; containers piled as high as the legal limit permitted, covering
every available square inch of the 190-acre site.

For the last 48 hours, Local 107 had been picketing, not working, carrying
signs like “Just Say No to Bouque,” “keep the CSA out of the NAU,” “Thumbs Down
on Bourque,” and “Break Off the Talks—Now!”. It took about 200 men to cover all
the entrances and exits, but that didn’t strain the union local, which had more
than twelve hundred members. They did it in shifts, which meant that for five days
a week, everyone could sleep late and go to the afternoon Yankees’ or Giants’
game.

By targeting the New York Container Terminal Anthony Zolli, who was smarter
than he sounded, was striking at the heart of American commerce, attacking a
facility that had a direct or indirect effect on almost 50% of the country’s
GNP. This was a strike that that would shake the entire country. If it lasted
for more than a couple of weeks, every American would be affected.

That, of course, was exactly what Zolli was counting on. He was sure Callaway
would fold, and probably sooner than later. The President was a nice young
fellow, but he needed to be taught who really held the political power in this
country and who would always hold it, no matter who was sitting in the Oval
Office.

This morning, Tony had stopped by to check out the picket line, see how things
were going, lend a little encouragement. Regan was delighted to see him.

“Pickett line’s lookin’ pretty good, Tim,” Zolli said. “Boys complainin’ any?”