“Mr. President.”
“Ms. Carol Turner.” He cheerfully accepted her hand. “You must be an extraordinary woman to be at the side of Houston Robinson. I must confide that this is a first for all of us as he has never brought a guest to any of our little gatherings. I’ll let you in on a little secret. They threw this party to cheer me up and now that you are here they have succeeded.” He turned to the others. “I know what all of you are up to. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on!”
He introduced his daughter Tabitha. “It is a pleasure to meet you Ms. Turner.” She offered her hand.
“And it is pleasure to meet you, Tabitha. How does it feel to live in a house so splendid?”
“I like it. I wish there were more my age around. Other than that—”
“You won’t be a little girl for very long. Before you know it you’ll be all grown up.”
Tabitha found a lavender flower in one of the table decorations and brought it to her.
“This would look nice on you.” She beamed a broad smile.
“I would bet you are right. She stooped down while the president’s daughter fixed the flower in her hair.
She looked at Houston. “What do ya think Sugar?”
He beamed. “Beautiful.”
The IMF meeting was a success.
The ruble became a highly respected currency and the IMF fund was returned to balance. Third world countries would benefit from the Russian donation. The members stood for a group photo while marching bands from the host countries marched through Red Square playing martial music. Artists set up camp selling their wares in a street fair while flags from each country lined the square.
A reporter from CNN summed it up for the cameras. “There is a feeling of hope in the air here. There are no protesters like we usually see at these events. It must be a welcome relief for the IMF members that usually fight their way through crowds of angry protesters. Our understanding is that the citizens are happy and had anyone chosen to demonstrate they could have done so. The Russians are most hospitable hosts indeed. I would not be surprised if the IMF met here regularly.”
Monday morning the Russians welcomed another group of dignitaries from the larger oil-producing nations of the world that included Is-hâque Ash-Shafi'I, the President of Saudi Arabia and President Rio from Venezuela. Iran was noticeably absent. Kuznetsov and Vissarionovich welcomed each with their usual charm and everyone settled in for the presentation. No one was quite sure what was on the agenda. In view of recent events, most imagined it could be about anything, and had attended out of curiosity.
Kuznetsov addressed his guests. “Welcome most honored guests to Moscow, the heart of mother Russia. You are our personal guests and if there is any hospitality that we can offer, do not be afraid to ask. As we all know, the events of the last month have been extraordinary and all of us sit here today in a quandary wondering what will befall us next. I for one, being an old man, cannot take much more of it.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow as he offered a sly smile. “Perhaps the sky will fall upon us. It is the only thing that has not happened — YET.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling as though the ceiling was going to cave in. This received chuckles from everyone.
“What has happened to us is not an ending, but an opportunity to recognize that we are approaching a new chapter of our history. We have seen the first page and it is up to us to configure our future. I would suggest that we not let events and tragedies befall us, and that instead, we reshape the future so that we all may prosper. The old order must give way to the new. You will see that Iran is not here, and while their fate is unfortunate, it is a reality that we must all face. They will not be producing oil for many years and now the world needs a new distribution system as the Arabian Sea and the Straights of Hormuz are no longer viable. I welcome Is-hâque Ash-Shafi'I of Saudi Arabia for being here. It is fortunate that, while one source of distribution has been cut off, that the Red Sea remains open and is a viable method for distributing their exports. I have economic advisors that have suggested that the OPEC nations no longer are viable in its present form now that our own nation is the largest exporter of oil. We plan to add to that in the future with our endeavors in Africa and we have already begun in earnest in Somalia. Our first task is to restore order to these nations and then to tap the wealth that is hidden there. I am going to suggest a Middle East Oil Alliance with our country as a partner. We could call it the MEOAR. We would function like OPEC in an effort to set policies that maintain an orderly market in the world. If one day Iran does become an oil producing nation, then we can deal with that when the time comes. I invite discussions of this proposal and leave it up to you if this is a course that appears to be in our mutual best interests.”
Discussions continued all day and, before the day was out, the formation of MEOAR was announced to the world.
“How about tuna fish?” Turner rummaged around in the picnic basket and brought out the refreshments. Robinson brought his Mom along and the three were having a grand time on the deserted sandy beach on Lake Michigan. Freighters dotted the horizon and grey smoke drifted lazily into the blue sky. It was long before the tourist season, it was cold, the wind was blowing, but that mattered little — it was home. When you lived in Michigan all your life, the wind and the cold were of little significance. Most everyone agreed if you didn’t like the weather at that particular moment, “Wait five minutes and it will change.”
DSS agents walked up and down the beach skipping stones. Apparently they didn’t believe there was much to worry about.
“Tuna sounds fine.” Robinson accepted the sandwich and helped bring out the chips and soda. He wrapped a blanket around Mom. “Don’t worry about me.” She ripped open a bag of chips and began nibbling.
“She’s a real trooper,” observed Turner. “Twenty minutes of this and I’ll be ready to head back to the house.” She pulled up her parka and blew on her fingers. “This is one great idea you had here. You really know how to treat a gal, Sugar.”
Robinson brought the trio up from D.C. in his CJ3. He received four personal trips a year as part of the perks. Not many foreign dignitaries hovered around in this part of the country.
Turner loved every minute. She had not visited Petoskey in a decade and the memories jumped out at her as they drove down the street. “There’s the old drugstore with the sandwich counter! Yep! It’s still got the grill. We used to go in there every Friday after school and listen to music and drink Coke for a quarter.”
When they pulled into the drive at his house, she exclaimed, “Here it is! Uncle Houston’s house — I’d bike down to your house and we’d hike the dunes and slide down the hills on a piece of cardboard. Your dad loved to play those ragtime records by the hour in his chair. The two of us would sit with him and listen.”
They reminisced on the beach while they ate the contents from the picnic basket. Robinson loved her vibrancy, the smile, the sound of her voice. She was full of life like no one he had ever known. He knew that she was right to see the magnetism between them when she was a twelve-year old. He was blind to it at the time, but now it was as though his eyes had been opened — like opening the “big present” on Christmas morning — pure joy.
Chapter Thirty-three
Admiral Mahdi cast the lives of his B-Wasy pirates into the hands of the Russians.
They would either be free men in Venezuela, or dead in the next several hours.