“WELL, JENNINGS,” THE PRESIDENT HAPPILY ANNOUNCED AS his guest and friend came into the Oval Office, “you seemed to have done a good job in Germany. What did you think of Duitsman?”
Provost shook Richard Fulton’s hand and then took a seat in front of the large desk that had once been Lincoln’s. After Fulton sat down in a blue leather chair, Provost pulled a file from his briefcase and handed it to the sixty-year-old leader. He waited for the distinguished gentleman to glance over the material; then, only when Fulton’s brown eyes left the papers and met his own did the vice president begin.
“I will tell you this, Richard: he is bright and quick. He has sensed the mood of the German people and responded to it. I think he’ll keep his country in NATO for now, but the border issue is one we’re going to have to live with. He simply will not allow any more immigration. He’s also going to begin to move foreigners working in Germany out of the country.”
“How do you feel about that?” the president asked. “What do you think we need to do? There are a lot of refugees trying to escape the growing conflicts in the Middle East, as well as those feeling the economic problems in Africa. If they close their borders to these people, then they’re going to have to go somewhere.”
“I understand that,” Provost replied, “but Duitsman made a good point. He stated that as Germany was not responsible for the problems that have forced these people to leave their homeland, so he felt he had little responsibility to help them. He feels that allowing them into Germany is hurting the German people, putting too much of a burden on the nation’s budget, and changing the very fabric of a culture that is centuries old.”
Nodding his head, Fulton slowly spun his chair around and stared out the window to the White House grounds. He continued to look out even as he spoke, “Then who is responsible? Aren’t we all made in the image of the same God? Hasn’t the world grown small enough that we must help those in need no matter where they’re from?”
He turned back to face the man he had picked to serve as his second in command and ran his hand through hair that had seemingly turned gray overnight. There were deep lines in his face and dark circles under his eyes. He was obviously troubled.
“I can’t understand why we cannot forge a peace in the Middle East,” Fulton said. “Think of it, Jennings—a half a dozen times we have been so close. Then from out of nowhere, a bombing attack, or an act of sabotage, and everything falls apart. I sent two former presidents over there just last week, and neither of them could accomplish anything. I just can’t figure out where this cauldron of hate is brewing. Everyone seems irrational. Why, just today another Palestinian family was blown up as they participated in morning prayers. A Jewish nationalist group, supposedly based right here in this country, took credit. Yet the FBI cannot seem to find anyone who knows anything about this group.”
Provost shook his head in a serious manner, but inside he was laughing. He had been the main orchestrator behind the plot to destroy the peace effort. His people had supplied money and arms to radical Palestinians. He had helped invent the fictitious Jewish nationalist group. He had worked with Arab contacts to raise the price of oil and cut back its production. He had been the brains behind destroying Israel’s image while wrecking the economy throughout the free world. And no one knew his face or voice. He, Duitsman, and the rest of the former SS members had raised no suspicions and left no trails that could be traced back to them.
“Israel must be protected, sir,” Provost finally interjected with false sincerity. “We owe it them. Besides, we have to keep the conservative Christians in our camp.”
“I know,” Fulton replied. “And I’ll keep my pledge. But at what cost? I mean, look at the attitude of our own people. They are beginning to blame the Israelis for everything, from the high price of goods and services to the double-digit inflation and growing unemployment.”
“The people don’t see beyond their own pocketbooks,” the vice president observed. “But you and I know the key to a secure world lies in a secure and peaceful Middle East.”
Provost studied Fulton from across the desk. He was sure the president would not back out of his commitment to Israel, even if it meant taking the nation to the brink of war. And the longer Fulton and his confederates in Congress continued to side with Israel, the faster he, Duitsman, and the others could put their plan into action. At the rate the fuse was burning, by Christmas there shouldn’t be an Israel to worry about, the economy would again be stable, and Provost would be the most powerful man in the world.
“Mr. President,” Provost said, “no matter how you look at it, we must punish those responsible. The Arabs have us over a barrel. They’re the ones who have stirred this problem into a world economic disaster. They should pay.”
Every word Provost spoke was a lie. He wanted Israel punished. But the best way to accomplish this goal was to turn the whole world against the tiny nation. As gas prices continued to rise, with Israel seen as the reason the free world markets were being punished, then the hostile actions against Jewish people in Europe and the United States would continue. Soon, even Christian conservatives would be looking at every Jew as the enemy who was robbing them of food on their tables, their jobs, and their ability to travel. With inflation spiraling upward, peace, no matter what the cost in the Middle East, would become the answer to the problem. And Provost and his people would bring that peace at that point, giving the Middle East back to the Arabs and, in the process, finish putting together a puzzle that had been more than ninety years in the making.
“I hope you are right,” Fulton said.
Provost smiled and assured the president, “I’m sure I am. Now you have appointments, and I have a few things to do as well.”