He knew the re-emergence of the lost book was a sign of successes to come.
Two young secret service agents, one male and one female, stood in front of the Oval Office door. Both of them nodded as he approached.
‘Good morning, Mr Vice-President,’ one of them greeted him.
‘Good morning, Vincent. How did your mother do with her hip surgery?’ Webster’s mind was like a steel trap. He remembered everything he had learned, and every person he had ever met. All of them were little people who wanted some kind of recognition from those in power. He utilized his talents to make them feel appreciated. It bought him loyalty at no cost to himself. He’d cultivated that trait since he had gone into business.
Vincent smiled eagerly. ‘She’s doing much better, Mr Vice-President. She’s up and around these days, and talking about going dancing.’
Webster chuckled. ‘As an incentive to your mother, tell her that when she’s able to dance again I’ll take her out one night and we’ll paint the town red.’
Vincent reddened slightly. ‘I’ll tell her, sir. And she said to tell you thank you very much for the flowers.’
‘She’s very welcome, Vincent. After everything you do for the president, it’s the least that I can do.’ Webster turned his attention to the female secret service agent. ‘How are you this fine morning, Mildred?’
‘Fine, sir. Thank you.’
‘How is the new Little Sister coming along?’
‘She’s good, sir. A bit of a handful at times, but I enjoy taking her places.’ The young agent had recently signed up to be a Big Sister. Webster had provided the letter of recommendation that had sealed her sponsorship.
‘Excellent, Mildred. I’m glad it’s working out for you.’ Webster rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Well, I guess I should find out why the president called me out of my meeting this morning.’
Vincent nodded, then turned and knocked on the door of the Oval Office.
‘Yes,’ a deep voice answered from within.
Vincent opened the door and said, ‘Mr President, Vice-President Webster is here to see you.’
On the other side of the room, President Michael Waggoner rose from behind his paper-strewn desk. He was a tall, gaunt man with dark hair that had gone grey at the temples while he’d been in office. In college, he had been a basketball player – had, in fact, almost gone pro – before enlisting in the Marines and putting in twenty years service. Some people believed Waggoner had joined the military to avoid his father’s political dynasty. Senator Kendall Waggoner had been in politics his whole life, and had died while still in office. On his deathbed, he had asked his son to finish out his term. Everyone had known about the illness that had eventually killed him, and his death had come as no surprise.
What had been a surprise to most people was how well the son had served the senator’s last two years. That service had also changed Michael Waggoner’s view of politics. It had got into his blood and he had made a career of it. Another term and a half later, he’d had the Democratic nod to run for president, and had swept the nation. Especially after he’d added Elliott Webster as his running mate.
Waggoner’s popularity remained high in the polls and everyone agreed that he was one of the best presidents who’d ever served. But it had taken its toll on him.
‘Good morning, Elliott,’ Waggoner said as he walked round the desk. He wore slacks and a shirt, but his tie lay in a wad on one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
‘I’d say good morning, Mike, but this looks more like a long night.’ Webster took the offered hand and shook it. Then he sat in the unoccupied chair in front of the desk.
‘It has been a long night,’ Waggoner agreed as he crossed the room to the coffee service.
‘You could have called, you know.’
‘I did. The minute I was sure I needed you on this. You’ve got a host of duties to perform, too. Don’t think I don’t know that. I knew I was going to be working late and I wanted one of us with a clear head.’
‘Me?’
‘Yours is usually the clearest in the room at any given time anyway,’ Waggoner said with a smile. ‘But, yes, you. Coffee?’
‘Please.’
The president poured and served. He didn’t bother sitting, though. He blew on his coffee and sipped, but Webster didn’t think Waggoner even tasted it.
‘What’s the problem, Mike?’
‘We’ve got an unconfirmed report from Riyadh that someone assassinated King Yousef bin Abdul Aziz and Crown Prince Muhammad bin Abdul Aziz last night.’
Webster placed his coffee on the desk and sat back as he contemplated what that meant. ‘Is anyone taking the credit for it?’
Waggoner ran a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘We haven’t got anything solid yet. It’s still too early, but this looks like the real deal.’
‘What happened?’
‘Things have gone crazy over there. Despite the amount of oil Saudi Arabia has and how much it’s able to produce, those oil fields can’t keep up with the demands put on them by the western world, India and China. Everybody wants a piece of the petroleum pie, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make sure they get their share. More, if they can get it.’ Waggoner folded his arms across his chest. ‘We’re just as guilty as anyone else in this, Elliott. We’ve wooed the royal family for generations. At that time, we were the only ones with economic and military means to protect them. With China, India, Pakistan all emerging this century with strong economies as well as strong military forces, we’ve lost ground. Our economy is shaky and our protracted military engagement in the Middle East bleeds us dry. Iraq was just the beginning there.’
‘Where did you get the report?’ Webster asked.
‘From the CIA units working on the ground in Saudi. They got the information from one of their assets near the royal family.’
‘What happened?’ Webster’s excitement and anticipation grew but he didn’t let it show. He had known that the Middle East would be the ignition point for the conflagration that would sweep the world. He had counted on it.
‘What we’re getting is that the king and crown prince were having a meeting off the books in King Abdullah Economic City.’
‘A meeting with whom?’
‘We’re not sure of that, either. Possibly a coterie from the Indian government.’
‘Renegotiating deliveries?’
Waggoner shrugged. ‘Possibly brokering a deal for a pipeline across their country.’
‘That’s supposedly been in the works for some time.’
‘I know. And if they do that, it’ll change the economic model we’ve been working from. A lot of people I talk to are nervous about this.’
‘I know. I’ve been talking to them, too.’ Webster thought for a moment. ‘You know, Mike, as a businessman, I can’t blame the royal family for wanting to negotiate this deal. No one knows for sure how much oil they’ve got in their reserves. No one outside the ruling family knows. Maybe they’re reaching a point where they’re going to have to cut production. They may be afraid that the United States will take their business to South America or Africa.’
‘Or that we’ll finally be motivated enough to find an alternate fuel source since our economy has flatlined for a while. A viable alternate fuel source would change the United States, but it would really change the entire face of the Middle East. That possibility has to be on their minds.’
‘It is,’ Webster acknowledged. ‘The way the Middle East is set up now, in order to be successful, they’ve got to export oil. They don’t have a lot of other options – no manufacturing base, limited water, limited other resources. If another fuel source becomes viable, the distance we have to go for oil and the price we have to pay is counterproductive to us as an economy and a military force. We can afford to have our Middle Eastern fuel lines cut if push comes to shove.’