ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (7 page)

"Remember the scandal about him and the young boy?"

"Yes—but wasn't he cleared?"

"He bought his way out of trouble that time, but there's more on the way.
Worse, according to my
sources."

Garcia grinned again, then turned to his military chief. "General
Espinosa," he said, "Are you sure we'll be ready in six months?"

Chapter Four

When Callaway got to his private office at 7:30 the next morning, a slim, loose-leaf
binder was sitting smack in the middle of his desk. Someone had written
"CSA polling data" on it, in longhand.

He opened the binder and slowly started leafing through it. A few minutes
later, Eric Wang walked into the room, an identical binder under his arm.

"'Morning, Boss. Find anything surprising there?"

"Hey, Eric. No, it's about what I expected—our people aren't terribly fond
of President Bourque and his country. He gets a 27% approval rating from
NAU residents. And the Confederacy doesn't do much better—32%."

"Well, there's a lot to dislike," Wang said. "The segregation,
the terrible schools, border, the overpowering religiosity…"

Callaway held up a hand to stop him. "Yeah, I know, I know, grits, country
music and red necks. But looking down on the CSA is a pretty cheap way to feel
superior."

"Nevertheless, it's a goddamned national sport. Has been for as long as I
can remember."

"I know." Callaway acknowledged. "But it does us no
credit."

Wang wasn't finished. He opened his binder. "Just look at this—'Favors
increased trade with the CSA: 11%. Favors increased cultural exchanges: 9%.'
Sounds to me like we don't want any part of them."

"I take it you'd like me to turn down Bourque's offer to talk?"
Callaway asked.

"It's really a no-brainer," Wang said. "There's nothing to be
gained. And plenty of opportunities to do yourself damage."

Callaway was not so easily put off. "You're sure nothing good could come
it? You aren't even curious?

"Hah! Of course I'm curious," Wang conceded. "To my knowledge,
this is the first time they've asked for a Summit meeting in the—how long has
it been?—150 years we've been two separate countries. But I have a pretty
good idea what Bourque is after."

"Please. Enlighten me."

"He wants money," Wang said. "Probably a lot of money. I think
they had another crop failure."

"Good season for polyester?"

"Something like that."

Callaway thought a moment. "What could we get in return?"

Wang laughed. "They don't have much. Their infrastructure is barely
functioning. Their military is a generation behind. They do have that
Seven Mile Bridge in the keys, but what are they going to do, sell it to
us?"

"Maybe Bourque will offer us Miami Beach." The President joked.

"What for? We already occupy it, at least during the winter."

"So, you think we should tell Pickett thanks, but no thanks?"

"That would be my advice, Mr. President." He looked at the President
hopefully, thinking that might settle it. But Callaway was a master at
concealing his inner thoughts, which is why he'd made a fortune at poker in law
school.

Callaway weighed Wang's comments. "I wonder if Veronica would agree with
you," he said, surprising his chief-of-staff. "Anyhow, this is her
area. We'd better consult her."

"I already know what she'll say," Wang said. But he decided not to
argue. He flipped open his cell and made the call. "Just happens she's in
the West Wing," he said. "She'll be up in a moment."

And in a few moments, she was, preceded by a fraction of a second, by the Grand
Tetons. "Good morning, Mr. President," she said. "hello,
Eric."

"Good morning, Veronica," said Callaway. "Have a seat."

She settled herself in the room's most comfortable guest chair. "What's
up?"

"Something's happened that's in your area, Veronica." Callaway said.

"It's probably not all that important," Wang said, "But we
thought we should consult you."

"Consult away," she said.

"Well," said Callaway, "how would you characterize Buddy
Bourque?”

Her eyebrows went up. "Buddy Bourque? Hmmm. That's a question I certainly
didn't expect. He’s very shrewd, very popular too. He’s a war hero, you know.
And he has the pedigree—he’s a Lee. He runs the country pretty much the
way he wants, with a nod here and there to democracy. Still, I think he’s going
to be President for life.”

"So he’s a dictator,” Wang said.

Ms. Tennenbaum smiled benignly. "I wouldn’t put it that way, Eric. He’s
really devoted to his country. He doesn’t have any serious opposition, but
that’s because he’s so well loved.”

"Well I guess that’s a diplomatic way of putting it," Wang said.

“I
am
a diplomat, Eric,” Veronica pointed out.

“I know. But I’m not.”

President Callaway sighed. "Ah, Eric, Eric. Never fear. No one would ever
mistake you for a diplomat."

"I’ve seen how he operates," Wang said sharply. "I was Sen.
Downey's chief of staff during the flu epidemic. He—and I—put together a group
of Senators and we convinced Exley to issue an order opening up our hospitals
to the CSA. The flu had hit them much harder than it hit us. Anyhow, they
brought us their sickest patients. But not one of them was Black. Not one.
That’s the Buddy Bourque I know.”

"As I recall,” Callaway said, “Bourque was under a lot of pressure from
his own people. Some of the bigger cities were dealing with civil unrest.
Anyhow, that was then. This is now."

"You may be wrong about that," Eric Wang said.

"Don't tell me you're considering an overture…"

"It's not us, Veronica," Callaway said. "It's Bourque."

Her eyes, which had benefited from a nip and a tuck and some artfully applied
mascara, now widened. Then she grinned. "You're shitting me," she
said.

"He sent an emissary," said the President. "We talked to him,
yesterday just before dinner."

"The Ambassador?"

"No," said Eric Wang, "a private messenger from the man himself.
A young Black fellow."

Ms. Tennenbaum's eyes widened again. "Black, you say?"

"Man named Roy Pickett," Wang said. "Name familiar?"

She gave it some thought. "Vaguely. He's been with Bourque a long time. I
always thought he was just a body man. A glorified servant. He wasn't asking
for asylum or anything?"

"He was here to deliver a personal message to me from Bourque,"
Callaway said.

"Which was?"

"Bourque wants to meet with me. Confidentially."

"Confidentially? He wants to meet
confidentially
?" Ms.
Tennenbaum said, dumbfounded. "What century is he living in?"

"Maybe he could pull it off in the Confederacy," Wang said.

"Well, it's out of the question here," Ms. Tennenbaum said. "I'm
not even positive we can keep
this
conversation secret."

Wang laughed, then stopped abruptly when he realized he was the only one who
was amused.

"What do you think, Veronica?" Callaway asked. "Should I break
bread with him?"

"Look, off the top of my head, I'd say no. I mean, what for? What could we
gain? And I can just imagine how smiling Jack Sullivan would ream you out on
The
Edge
."

"Yeah," Wang said, imitating Sullivan's theatrical television voice,
"Callaway's agreement to meet with Bourque is just more proof that our new
President condones racism."

"Well, maybe he'd have a point," Callaway said. "But Veronica,
you said 'off the top of my head.'"

"Yes. And I do have a second thought. I'm curious. What does Bourque
want?"

"Money, we figure," Wang told her.

Ms. Tennenbaum turned the idea over in her mind. "I’m inclined to agree.
Anyway, I can't speak to the domestic side, but as your Secretary of
State-designate, if you met with Bourque, it would make my life harder. I'd
have to do some serious 'splaining to our friends. Lotta downside, no upside
that I can see."

"That's just what I thought you'd say," Wang told her, pleased.

"Thanks for your advice, Veronica," said the President. "What
you say makes a lot of sense."

"Thank you Mr. President," Ms. Tennenbaum said, beaming. Then she
turned to Wang. "Now do you think you can get me confirmed before the end
of the month."

"I'm sure going to try," Wang said.

"You do that, dear," Ms. Tennenbaum said, putting a firm but motherly
hand on Wang's shoulder. Then she headed out of the door, and both men, being
polite, turned their eyes away from her departing figure.

"So what do you think, Mr. President?" Wang asked, trying to read his
man. "Are you ready to make a decision?"

"Almost," President Callaway said. "But let's give this just a
little more thought. Are we absolutely sure Bourque wants money from us?
Couldn't he have something else in mind? Maybe we should at least listen to
him."

"Charl…Mr. President, there are just too many ways it could go
wrong. It could be some kind of trick, meant to embarrass you or the
administration. Maybe it's a political power play for his home audience. I
don't know. But I'm pretty sure that if you meet with him you're going to end
up with egg on your face."

"You're probably right, Eric, but still—it's such a surprising offer. It
would be a shame to let the opportunity slip away if something good could come
from it."

"Mr. President, you are at the very beginning of your administration. If
you and Mr. Buddy Bourque meet and it all goes wrong, you could blow your whole
agenda. You'd be putting everything we've been hoping to achieve in
jeopardy."

Callaway smiled. "Eric, that's a bit of an overstatement, don't you
think?"

"Not really. Look at it this way, Mr. President," Wang said. "Do
you really want to risk your hard-won political capital by meeting with
the much unloved President of our least-liked neighbor and
listening to him beg?"

"He's only unloved here, Eric. Veronica says he's very well-regarded in
the CSA."

Wang frowned. "I really think we should get Marty Katz's reading on this.
We need to discuss the political ramifications."

"Good idea," President Callaway said. "Call him."

Wang got on his cell phone again and a few minutes later, in walked Marty Katz,
the President's avuncular chief political advisor, and the possessor of the
West Wing's least effective comb-over, not to mention a prominent mustache he
vainly hoped would draw the eye away from the top of his head.

He listened carefully as Callaway and Wang outlined the problem for him.
"It seems to me," he said, "that we've got a damned-if-you-do,
damned-if-you-don't situation here."

"How so?" asked the President.

Katz reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fat cigar and lit up. He had
insisted on the privilege, even though it was against the rules. It was his a
condition for taking the White House job. "Well, if you agree to meet with
Bourque, you're going to anger your base, especially the Blacks. And they won't
care what your reason is. They'll call you a traitor to your race."

"Lovely," Callaway said.

"And if we refuse the meeting?" Wang asked.

Katz took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar, and exhaled in a series of
exquisitely-executed smoke rings, a feat for which he was well known. "If
it gets out—that is,
when
it gets out—your bleeding-heart friends will
say you've shit-canned a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change Confederate
society for the better."

"So we have our choice of executioners?" Callaway asked.

"It's not quite that bad," said Katz, taking another drag on the
stogie. "We can defend either position. If you okay the meeting, we can
tell the Blacks that you'll be working to make life better for their southern
brethren."

"All right, Marty, I can buy that. What happens if I turn down Bourque's
offer?"

Katz took another puff on his cigar and blew rings within rings. "Well,
then you tell your lefty friends that you can't meet with Bourque without
seeming to condone the Confederacy's racist policies."

"Which would be true," Wang remarked.

"Which I would never do," said President Callaway.

"Exactly," Wang said, as though that decided the question.

Katz searched for an ashtray and, finding none, settled for a nearby teacup. He
flicked a fat, inch-long ash into it. "Let's look at this another
way," he said. "Let's imagine that you meet with Bourque and it's a
great success. He gets his money, or arms, or whatever he wants and you
get…what?"

"Nothing," Wang said.

"Not necessarily," said Callaway. "As I said, a social
concession of some kind. Voting rights for Blacks? Some kind of educational
affirmative action?"

"Not a chance," Wang shot back. "Not a chance in hell.
He's not going to trash his country's most ingrained beliefs just to get a
loan, even a big one. His people would ride him out of that plantation of his
on a rail."

"That's what I like about you, Eric," said the President, innocently,
"you're never troubled by doubt."

"Quite true," Wang said, grinning. "Comes from being right all
the time."

Katz took another puff from his cigar, and blew another perfect smoke ring,
which slowly expanded into life preserver size. "I don't know about all
the time, but this time he's right. There's just too much risk here. You don't
want to crash and burn before you even get off the ground."

"Isn't that just what I've been saying?" Wang asked.

"Almost word for word," Callaway noted.

"Okay, let's get another opinion," Wang said. "How about the
military?"

“Fine,” Callaway said. “Set it up.”

This time it was a video conference, with the White House on one end and the
Pentagon on the other. The military was represented by Major General Richard
Hutchison, the President's favorite soldier—he'd been an early Callaway
endorser—and a bit intimidating, at least in his larger than life-size video
screen incarnation.

"Is there any military reason for me to meet with Bourque?" Callaway
asked him, after explaining the situation "Or any military reason
not to?"

"I don't think it matters one way or the other," the General said.
"We don’t have any military contact with them, except at the border of
course. And they certainly aren't a threat to us."