Obama's Crowning Achievement - Or

In every presidency there is always a 

The defining moment, an act, action, or occurrence that can be marked as the most historically significant for that president. No president escapes it, and many presidents have tried hard, post presidency, to redefine themselves, as well as that single thing that stands out, for in the end it is that thing that most defines their presidency and who they are in the eyes of history.

Ask some random pedestrian “What was Abraham Lincoln known for?” and the usual response will be, “He freed the slaves.” Of course the second most popular answer what that “He was assassinated,” followed next by, “Isn’t he the guy of the five?”  Other events come to peoples minds as well, such as, “He had a beard,” or “He beat the South,” and someone will remember that he delivered one of the most famous speeches in American history, “The Gettysburg Address.” All are significant, but in the end, he freed the slaves, although more indelible and important, he preserved the union (beat the South). George Washington of course was our first president and founding father, and everyone gets that right, followed by beat the British, chopped down a cherry tree, and finally – couldn’t tell a lie, although the last two acts are related and most certainly a fable.

President Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, not while in office of course, but nonetheless a crowning achievement, and that’s what most people say when queried.  Of greatest significance to his presidency no doubt was the Louisiana Purchase, which does however share some significance, coincidentally, with the current occupant of the White House. More on that later, but that does lead to defining presidential achievements that are a bit more dubious, and that their purveyors would most absolutely wish to erase from history’s memory.

The aforementioned president’s would probably accept their respective distinctions, and agree, yet one can imagine with only a nod and perhaps a hint of modesty. On the flip side, Bill Clinton would never want to be remembered for Monica Lewinsky and the layer upon layer of deceit, or outright lies that came with his denial and ultimate impeachment. Nor would Richard Nixon relish the fact that he is most remembered for Watergate and the only president thus far to resign in disgrace from the highest office of the land.

Besides Clinton, in the modern era, that is to imply the last 25 years, Ronald Reagan crushed the Soviet Union and told Gorbachev to tear down the wall. George H.W. Bush kicked Iraq out of Kuwait, and George W. Bush is defined by an event not of his doing, but by that of terrorists and the all invasions and actions associated with 9/11. So what about Barack Obama?

The single defining moment of his presidency thus far, and everything that it perpetuates is an act, and one that he really did not even author, and most certainly never read, but more assuredly has his name forever attached to it – “The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act of 2010,” 2500 pages of horse trading and sausage making, including the “Cornhusker Kickback,” and this administration’s version of the “Louisiana Purchase,” otherwise from now on known pejoratively as “Obamacare.” Signed into law on March 23, 2010 the law has been assailed on all fronts by a majority of the country, yet championed by the administration in a double down embrace that may leave Mr. Obama with a permanent albatross around his neck and here’s why – it’s a terrible law and barely ambulatory after the Solicitor General’s oral arguments in front of the Supreme Court. In fact probably won’t survive his presidency, which he should only pray that to occur for posterity’s sake. For Mr. Obama though, the law resulted in immediate scorched earth with the Democrats losing the House majority in the midterm elections of 2010 by the worst landslide in 70 years, even as a number of Democratic congressmen ran for re-election touting their “no” vote for Obamacare. The writing was on the wall.

The negative reaction to the law was hardly a surprise, however from the get go the administration felt that they just weren’t explaining it properly, which was rather difficult before being passed since they hadn’t read it. Who can forget the Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi at the time remarking to reporters “We’ll know what’s in it after it’s passed.” Huh?

The health care reform debate has quite a background to say the least and had been a major campaign issue for the Democratic contenders during the 2008 presidential primaries, and after his election Mr. Obama pledged that health care legislation would be one of his four major priorities upon taking office. The goal was very doable considering the fact that the Democrats controlled the House of Representatives and held a super majority in the Senate. Where would the push back come from then? Remember all those town hall meetings and the birth of the Tea Party?

An initial version of the House bill was passed by a narrow vote of 220-215, the measure containing an individual mandate requiring all citizens to purchase health insurance, a great deal for insurance companies. The Senate however introduced a bill of its own and thus began the devious backroom amendment deals, one Medicaid reimbursement agreement infamously dubbed the “Cornhusker Kickback” in order to secure Nebraska Senator Bill Nelson’s vote, and another $300 million Medicaid federal reimbursement compact derided the “Louisiana Purchase” in order achieve a “yes” from Louisiana Senator Mary Landrieu. A filibuster was averted, or a least one led by a Democrat, however Massachusetts Republican Senator Scott Brown’s special election to fill Ted Kennedy’s seat deprived the Democrats of the super majority. Health care was dead, or so it seemed, until that is, the Senate deemed it a law in reconciliation after the House passed it by a margin of seven votes, the individual mandate firmly in place. The proverbial fan immediately began to get hit from all sides.

The negative public opinion and skepticism was well deserved as the law failed to do most that was promised. Health care premiums were not reduced, but in fact they have gone up. As determined initially via creative accounting provided from the administration, the CBO calculated it would reduce the deficit by $100 billion over ten years, but instead it now calculates it will explode, mostly due to unfunded new entitlements and price inflation never baked into the original numbers. But it was the question of the constitutionality of the law that drew the most fire. A full 72% percent of all registered voters believed the individual mandate aspect of the law to be unconstitutional and 50% to 39% believed that the Supreme Court should strike the whole thing down. Many legal scholars and a number of jurists agreed.

State after state filed law suits challenging the law, including a 26 state joint attack to overturn the individual mandate, and failing severability, cause the entire law to be tossed. In essence what the Attorneys General from all these states were saying was that forcing an individual to buy insurance under threat of a fine if they didn’t, exceeded Congress’s authority to regulate commerce.  In an extremely well thought out decision, “"extremely deep in its discussion of principles and constitutional doctrine," a Federal Judge in Florida agreed, declaring in Florida v. United States Department of Health and Human Services the law’s individual mandate unconstitutional. Judge Vinson also noted that the individual mandate wasn’t severable therefore the entire law would become overcome by events – OBE.

Oral arguments to the Supreme Court on behalf of the law did not go well for the administration, the train wreck of arguments by the Solicitor General Verrilli, punctuated with nervous coughs and stuttering causing many experts to predict that the court would in fact strike down Obamacare. Verrilli was peppered with questions form the high court, Justice Scalia starting the onslaught wondering if exercise club memberships should be mandated, since, exercising is good for your overall health:

"The something else is everybody has to exercise, because there's no doubt that lack of exercise cause -- causes illness, and that causes health care costs to go up. So the federal government says everybody has to -- to join a -- an exercise club. That's -- that's the something else." 

            Chief Justice Roberts was curious as to whether or not the government could require individuals to own cell phones:

“Well, the same, it seems to me, would be true say for the market in emergency services: police, fire, ambulance, roadside assistance, whatever. You don't know when you're going to need it; you're not sure that you will. But the same is true for health care. You don't know if you're going to need a heart transplant or if you ever will. So there is a market there. To -- in some extent, we all participate in it. So can the government require you to buy a cell phone because that would facilitate responding when you need emergency services? You can just dial 911 no matter where you are?”

            Justice Alito asked another very interesting hypothetical of Verrilli regarding the requirement to buy a burial plot causing further stammering:

“Suppose that you and I walked around downtown Washington at lunch hour and we found a couple of healthy young people and we stopped them and we said: You know what you're doing? You are financing your burial services right now because eventually you're going to die, and somebody is going to have to pay for it, and if you don't have burial insurance and you haven't saved money for it, you're going to shift the cost to somebody else.”

            It was Justice Anthony Kennedy however, that Mr. Obama should have the most concern with, and which makes the president’s statements earlier last week that much more perplexing. The noted swing vote of the court engaged Verrilli unequivocally, stating that forcing an individual to purchase insurance notably changes the relationship between the federal government and its citizens.

“Here the government is saying that the federal government has a duty to tell the individual citizen that it must act, and that is different from what we have in previous cases, and that changes the relationship of the federal government to the individual in a very fundamental way.”

            Justice Kennedy’s questioning seemed to strongly suggest that he would vote in favor of overturning the individual mandate, resulting in a 5-4 decision against Obamacare. And perhaps Mr. Obama sensed the tide had turned. But had it really? Quite often the line of questioning from the Supreme Court doesn’t necessarily accurately forecast the body’s final ruling.  At least that’s what liberal pundits are pushing in their spin of the three days of arguments. Maybe Mr. Obama didn’t get that memo though, as the former constitutional law professor had a spin of his very own, as well as a new take of the Constitution’s checks and balances established with the three branches of government.  The president wasted no time in challenging the court, and doing so with blatant inaccuracies on the glaring stage of the White House lawn.

“I’m confident that the Supreme Court will not take what would be an unprecedented, extraordinary step of overturning a law that was passed by a strong majority of a democratically elected Congress.”

            Mr. Obama couldn’t have been more wrong on both instances. Seven votes is a far cry from a strong majority and since Marbury v. Madison in 1803 the Supreme Court overturning a law enacted by Congress has 156 precedents. Yet the president didn’t stop there, the so-called “walk back” on the following day had the appearance of a doubling down, with the president implying judicial activism should the court strike the law down and lamenting the court to do the right thing since so many people were affected by the law, in other words, the ends justifying the means regardless of the Constitution. Blasting “unelected officials” served to ignite the rancor of those appointed for life across the country, resulting in a jurist of the 6^th Circuit Court of Appeals to require the United States Attorney General to produce a three page, single spaced opinion paper of the Justice Department’s view on Judicial Review, and due in 48 hours.

Why would Mr. Obama take such a stance, and do so with obvious rancor, poking at the eye of Justice Kennedy, the vote that many think would be Obamacare’s only hope, saying that the court had the heavy burden of doing the right thing and ruling the law constitutional. Wait a second, isn’t that exactly what Justice Kennedy had said, but in reference to the lawmakers, not the bench? Maybe, just maybe, one of the four liberal members of the court, one of their clerks perhaps, had tipped off the White House as to what the vote would probably be, and therefore the president was only building up his argument two months in advance of the announcement of the decision sometime in June.

Again, Mr. Obama could only be so fortunate in this election year to have the albatross lifted from his neck, the signature achievement of his administration being an example of the overreach of the executive branch, enabling a despot to dictate every aspect of a citizen’s life. It was after all liberal Justice Breyer who while aiding the hapless Solicitor General suggested that by the virtue of being born, “one enters the health care market place.” Yet the plaintiff’s lawyer Michael Carvin brilliantly replied that that would mean that Congress was omnipotent, and authorized the Commerce Clause to “regulate every activity” of a person’s life from cradle to grave. The crowning achievement of the Obama presidency was looking to be in serious jeopardy indeed, and the administration had no contingency plan they said, other than citing judicial activism and unelected officials striking down laws, which is exactly what the hypocritical Obama administration is asking courts to do in its efforts to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act, which passed in the Senate by 85-14 and the House by 342-67, a true overwhelming majority.

The president’s singular achievement is perhaps doomed regardless of the Supreme Court’s decision, as its looking more and more likely that he will be voted out of office in the fall as the economy has always been the nation’s biggest concern since Mr. Obama took office, and even more so back in 2009 when Mr. Obama went down the path of shoving Obamacare down the country’s throat.  Americans weren’t looking for a sixth of the economy to be thrust into upheaval while the nation was in a deep recession and unemployment at 10% (real unemployment closer to 15%), and fuzzy math aside, remains pretty much the same today. Should the law be repealed by a new president, or struck down before that event by the Supreme Court, what would be the notable achievement of the 44^th president of the United States? Would it be Solyndra? Maybe finally getting UBL? He will most certainly always be the first African American president in this nation’s history, an indisputable, progressive fact, but that still won’t be the thing that stands out the most. After Obamacare, should it become simply an asterisk, Mr. Obama has another very notable achievement, and that’s to adding more to the national debt in one term of a presidency than all presidents before him – combined. We salute you.

THE FOOTPRINT

       The footprint from the surf to the dune bore proof that someone went for a swim that morning. The swimmer’s body had frog-kicked against a stiff southwest whirl, arms toting a tropical fare - a soggy bouquet of flowers bound with ceremony for the deep. The effort had been watched by a singular, seemingly vulnerable wooden cross planted in the sand. As he fought the swells beyond a second sandbar, now and then the swimmer would look with furrowed brow to the beach, the cross, visible only when cresting a wave. The two sticks, which were held together by a delicate reed, would always there though, forever tall.  And so was the footprint, a lasting footprint.

Would Atlas Shrug Now?

With the exception of crony capitalists, freeloaders, and union bosses, if there were anyone who has benefited from the Obama presidency, the three years of wealth redistribution  vis-à-vis a $5 trillion increase in the national debt, along with a heaping on of new federal regulations enough to choke the country into a second visit of the great recession, it would be the publisher of Ayn Rand’s mid 20^th century classic philosophical novels The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.  As of late, since the innauguration of the 44th president, both novels have seen resurgence of interest, and the latter, her magnum opus of fiction, has been embraced by many who feel the personal assault of Obama collectivism fervor, as well as his administration of mandated rule via left wing, know-it-all committees of ivy league intellectuals.

In the 1957 novel Atlas Shrugged Rand had explored an American Dystopian society, a United States shackled by repressive controls and enforced by politicians who "know better than the rest," and fooled the population with mandates disguised under a Utopian veil. As the government increased its coercive controls over society, the true producers, the innovators and backbone of society, led by a mysterious John Gault decided that they have had enough.

The “John Gaults” of today are the very same as those of 1957. They are the innovators, the businessmen and women that create the wealth necessary to run the society, a capitalist society being systematically strangled by an inept president, driven by his vastly inflated ego, and policed by self-serving socialistic handlers.  Let’s explore the parallels of Rand’s novel as they apply to the United States in 2011.

The theme of Atlas Shrugged is a question: what would happen to the world if the prime movers quit? What would be the result if the great innovators had their spirit ripped from them until they couldn’t take it anymore, and simply gave up – went away? Independence, integrity, pride, and ingenuity, the prime movers most important characteristics, those necessary for the advancement of society, have been thwarted by a head of state that imposes Marxist exploitation of the prime movers.

What would happen in the United States of 2011 if a president acted independently of Congress and instead through mandated executive order imposed new regulatory restrictions that stifled productivity? What would happen if those new federal regulations came at time when the country was struggling in a recession, with unemployment at its worst continuous level since the Great Depression? Perhaps things would get worse. Perhaps the economy would backslide into an even more dire situation, accelerating toward an eventual collapse. On the other hand, what would happen if there were a president, and a congress that operated under the principles of laissez-faire, a capitalistic society free from over regulation, burdensome state controls and intervention? Perhaps this nation would be free of its dependence on foreign oil, and employment surge in the Gulf States where drilling for oil would be continuing. Just maybe then we wouldn’t be subjected to getting rides in space by the Russians, a country no longer grounded as a space power, no longer incapable of launching a manned mission beyond the surly bounds of terra firma, a current malady mandated by an oppressive whim.

The protagonists in Rand’s novel are besieged time and time again by “parasites,” "looters," and “moochers,” awful antagonists that consistently refuse the work and toil that’s needed to achieve success, but instead call for the benefits from those that do succeed, demanding that the innovators “pay their fair share.” Parasites are of course are overpaid government workers. The “looters” tend to use government policy for example, to forcibly take the goods of one properly run state and give it to another state that was improperly managed. The “moochers” take the “unneeded earnings” from those that have made "too much" and give it to those unable or unwilling to earn it on their own. Both the “looters” and “moochers” continually criticize the producers for their success, making them feel guilty for their talent. The producers simply shrug and give up. So how does this relate to the current administration? That’s a rhetorical question of course, but nonetheless let us explore the notion further.

Just why would Atlas shrug today, now at this hour in the third year of Barack Obama 's presidency? What could possibly be the catalyst? The answer is obvious for sure. This president, more so than any president before him, has attempted to monkey wrench at every corner, at every turn, the primary gear that drives the wealth of our nation – self-interest. That’s right, the apparently not so virtuous vice, as Obama would have the mindless masses believe, yet the primary impetus that makes a society exceptionally great. For it is through self-interest that inventions are created, disease is cured, and a good society is promoted. Self-interest in a free market, as Adam Smith so astutely pointed out centuries ago, drives a free economy to seek and maintain equilibrium, so long as government doesn’t interfere.

But Obama has employed socialist tactics that batter self-interest, and therefore undermine the pride and determination necessary to compete effectively in a fair and open marketplace, a marketplace that Obama’s economic illiterates can’t comprehend, but can’t keep their hands off of. When there is success, Obama wants to take the rewards and distribute those rewards to those of his choosing, those that fail, and in some cases, as the case with Solyndra, distribute future success to those companies known to be doomed to fail. In that particular case, because the start up company had major investors that include campaign bundlers for Obama, the self-interest was for those chosen by Obama to be his capitalist cronies.

Could Atlas shrug in a society wherein he is told what car to buy, what food to eat, what school to send his children, what news to watch, what doctor to see, and what amount of his earnings he should be “allowed to keep?” This is the very debt gorged society that the Obama administration would want to foster in remaking the United States of America in the dystopian, bankrupt model. 

To imagine that this administration would propose to incorporate in their debt plan the abolishing of interest free municipal bonds for those making over $200,000 per year in inconceivable, yet a fact. In Obamanomics, the very people who buy municipal bonds, so that municipalities can improve roads, and build new schools, and other infrastructure repairs desperately needed, would be stripped of the primary monetary benefit for making such an investment. Would they perhaps shrug, therefore preventing infrastructure projects from going forward, undermining the employment of so many now out of work?  And even if the sale of muni bonds were successful, the spread would have to be greatly narrowed for the municipality, thus limiting the amount of dollars raised, again stifling employment. Would Atlas shrug I ask again?

How about the so called “Buffet Rule,” that millionaires should pay “their fair share.” Don’t millionaires already pay their fair share, as those making over $1 million in cash income paid an average federal tax rate (excluding excise taxes) of 29.1 percent while those with cash income between $50,000 and $75,000 paid an average federal tax rate of 15 percent. In fact, the “Buffet Rule” has already been invoked in California, where the left wing liberals have imposed a “Buffet Rule Plus,” lobbing on an extra tax bracket — at 10.3% — for income exceeding $1 million. If Buffet want to live by his own rule, he should sell his home in Omaha and move to California, where many are shrugging, as they are in New York and New Jersey, moving away from those highly taxed states.  That fact of the matter is that the top 1% of US taxpayers is responsible for 20% of the nation’s income and pay 40% of taxes. Higher taxes on small business and entrepreneurs would slow growth and reduce tax revenue as well as encourage greater efforts to avoid tax altogether, by simply moving or quitting – a massive shrug by Atlas, if there ever would be one.

              Today Rand’s novel has found a new home on Kindles and iPads everywhere, carried by tea-partiers, independents, conservatives, libertarians, and most free thinkers. As John Gault argued in the novel, “a free mind and a free market are corollaries,” so too is the corollary that as long as Obama is in office, book sales of the half century old novel will continue to rise, exponentially.

THE JERICHO TRIGGER

CHAPTER 1

DUSKY CLOUDS DRAPED modern Munich, hurriedly sweeping a bitter February evening. “It’s starting to snow,” he murmured to a deaf city as he stepped closer to the window, opening the curtains wide. He thought about opening the window too, but a fluttering snowflake caught his attention. With eyebrows raised he followed its dance, airborne in a pirouette for a moment before landing with a wet skid on the warm transparent stage, meandering to the sill in a blurry bow, the performer's final act. Applause came in the form of a smile, and then by his hand the curtains closed, end of show.

He thought himself as being on the grandest of stages, playing some important role he imagined, albeit a dangerous one, all the while postponing the same fate of the snowflake, and a final bow. That he was a character and performer, there was no doubt. And as a character, tonight he was playing someone new, a kind of journalist, and ironically a character for which although useful, he felt thorough disdain. Tonight he was Jürgen Kruger, the blogger from Hamburg. But he was also playing someone else, a dual role, someone very lethal, and most would believe a person without a soul. He was playing himself as a cameo. 
      Was he pigeonholed? Was this his calling, and was there to be nothing more? He’d asked those questions of himself twenty-two times before, and twenty-two times he came up with the same exact answers. The answers were no different on this night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes; searching for the kindred tribal spirits inside, the many frightened, grieving, and humiliated characters he sought in order to give him the strength to carry on. It was a ritual before performing, some séance with millions of disparaged, denigrated souls from a holocaust well before he was born. They were the only audience that he believed really mattered, and the reason, for their memory, that he would take the stage time after time, for as long as it took. It must never happen again. Their humiliation gave him justification to hate.

Jürgen Kruger’s identity had been painstakingly created out of cyberspace, partially forged, and partially faked. He had an apartment overlooking the Piaza of Schanzenviertel, a trendy quarter of Hamburg. He had a German birth certificate with a birth date of May twenty, nineteen seventy-five making him the backside of thirty-six, and a worn German passport, driver license, bank accounts, savings accounts, investments, and credit cards. He also had a carefully crafted cyber past stored in hacked and re-programmed centralized government medical computers, saved right along with the tens of millions of other medical records of real German citizens. His tonsils were removed at eight. He had a broken arm at twelve. And re-programmed in another exploited government computer were data files that verified Jürgen had been married, had two young children, and that his parents were deceased. All events were total fiction, as well an ancestral history completely web spawned. Any thorough background check would reveal a very complete academic record and work history, and that he was now self-employed as a blogger and software applications developer. Yet there wasn’t a single living person to verify a solitary fact first hand. Although all data was verifiable, it was verifiable only with more falsified data that had been stored in other compromised computers, all programmed binary code made up of zeros and ones. Nor was there anyone living that could literally stand up, raise their hand and say, “Yes, I have met Jürgen Kruger in the flesh.” His was a self-imposed insular existence, but not unusual for an introverted blogger or computer geek. It was the perfect cover, and as the ultimate cyber secret agent living in binary code, Jürgen joked that he was “double oh one - license to kill everyone."

No detail for Jürgen or his team had been left unchecked, right down to the pages on social network websites that linked four thousand nine hundred ninety-nine “friends,” and tens of thousands of followers to a mysterious conservative German blogger. The cyber press credentials gave him the cloak of credibility and entrée to that evening’s lavish set, a banquet at the former palace of Bavarian monarchs, Munich’s famed Residenz.

Munich was host to the forty-eighth Munich Security Conference. The scene that evening was the culmination of two and a half days of seminars; forums with expert panelists, and an auditorium filled each day with  two hundred fifty attendees from forty countries. Many taking comfortable theater style seats for eight hours each day were high-ranking representatives of armed forces, or scientists, or invited members of the media, all pining to hear famous diplomats deliver informative keynote speeches regarding issues of international concerns. The final evening’s discussions and presentations were to focus on the nuclear global security assessment by the IAEA. IAEA stood for International Atomic Energy Agency. The agency’s tagline was “Atoms for Peace,” their mantra was to promote the peaceful use of nuclear energy while at the same time inhibit its potential destructive use for military purposes. To date the agency had not been very adept at either. A former United States Secretary of State was on the program as a speaker that evening, as well as an address by a former Director General of the IAEA and a keynote speech by the current head of the IAEA, Dr. Adam El-Masry, an Egyptian who’d come up through the rank and file of the United Nations, and had been a visiting professor in American universities for years. Jürgen Kruger was very interested in the latter IAEA official. The Egyptian was on his list.

Bald with a large mustache, and over-sized  ears, IAEA’s swarthy Director General nodded at a guard as he briskly passed through the doorway of the Hotel Bayerisher Hof. Just lightly covered with snow after an hour of flurries, the breezy street and sidewalk however was dense with heavily armed civilian clad security, and close protection teams, former spec ops military highly skilled in observation, precision shooting, and of course, close quarter combat.  The history of Germany being what it was, Munich was familiar with such teams, which seemed to increase or ebb with the temperament of the times. Again, times were tense.

At the curb waiting for El-Masry was a sleek black Mercedes sedan, queued  in the middle of scores of others, a number short-tempered on the horn.  “Good evening Dr. El-Masry,” the valet said with a thick German accent.
      Pausing at the open car door as he finished buttoning his long coat and donned fur lined leather gloves, El-Masry looked at the valet and smiled, responding to the greeting with a voice emanating deep from the diaphragm “Guten Abend." Handing the valet twenty Euros, he winked and slid onto the seat, joining his Swedish predecessor at IAEA, Anders Olin, enjoying the music of Mozart inside the warm car.

Secluded from the noise of the street with a shut of the soundproof door and surrounded with the march-tempo allegro of Eine Kleine Nacchtsmusik, Olin politely encouraged the chauffeur along with a soft tap of the shoulder. "Okay, then let’s go."

Standing on the sidewalk, absorbed in the middle of the strapping security was the frail, bundled figure of an octogenarian in the later part of that decade of life. He’d stepped outside to have a rare cigarette. Less of a habit, it was more of a convenience for the moment, since he was also keeping an eye on the Egyptian. Smoking, which had been banned from public buildings everywhere it seemed, was the best excuse to be outside in the harsh cold when there obviously was none other. As the car pulled away, the old man watched, putting a cigarette to his lips.  
      “Do you mind if I have one of those? I’m out,” the old man was asked by a stocky, square-jawed member of the security detail.

“Sure,” the old man said offering him the pack. “Need a light too?”

“Yeah, thank you sir.” The old man lit his own cigarette first, and handed the lighter to the security man, who while admiring the shiny steel case added, “You don’t see many of these anymore, now do you? It’s a Zippo, isn’t it?”

“Yep, that’s right,” the old man replied, taking his lighter while watching the taillights of the Mercedes narrow.

The Mercedes drove west down the street in the midst of a steady procession of sedans, limousines, and black SUVs, all bound for the same downtown destination, the Munich Residenz, a short one kilometer drive from the hotel consisting simply of two right turns. Earlier El-Masry had frowned at the organizers for arranging limousine service rather than shuttle busses. "It would be more efficient," he'd written in a text to an organizer. He actually believed they would have been better off walking and had said he intended to do so when informed of the evening’s travel plan, but security would have none of that, and for his safety he was overruled. With more automobiles than necessary a bottleneck was sure to occur El-Masry predicted, "And increase the security risk, not lower it," he argued to no avail in the text. His would prediction prove to be accurate.

Their sedan braked hard suddenly, coming to a choked halt at the first congested street corner. “My god, just as I said,” El-Masry blurted as he and Olin were both lurched forward.

“I think we’re turning here,” Olin said peering past the head of their driver. What he saw were dozens of red taillights, blurred by the sedan’s intermittent wipers as they swept a heated wet windshield. Looking through the front passenger window, he saw more red lights arcing about the right turn down Maximilians Platz as far as he could see, his picture softened by schools of tiny, flying snowflakes.

“I tell you, it would have been preferable to simply walk,” El-Masry said with a furrowed brow. He glanced at his watch. It was nineteen hundred hours on the nose and the bar had to be serving by now, he calculated Although a practicing Muslim by perception, he was by no means devout, and the idea of sneaking a vodka martini before anyone arrived to witness seemed warmly appealing. “We have to turn up here and drive for two blocks and then turn again. But it’s only just two or three city blocks the other way,” he added looking over his shoulder back at the hotel. A thought crossed his mind.

“I can’t seem to see exactly what the hold up is,” Olin said, craning for a better view.

“I’ll tell you what the hold up is my friend – it is this conference,” Dr. El-Masry huffed with an attitude reserved for those closest to him. Being gruff was his private manner, and admired by his subordinates, personality shared only with his inner circle. Tact in public persona was his forte. Although considered scary smart academically, he was the master of the universe when it came to diplomacy and the politics of power. Without a hitch in his career, at sixty years of age he’d reached nearly the top, confident in knowing not only how to get there, but how to hold on, and go higher. “Maybe the top UN job,” it was predicted by Anders Olin.

Olin sat back in his seat and relaxed, bobbing his heavy, blond-gray head to the catchy Mozart tune. With an extended smile he offered, “I can’t say I don’t disagree with you Adam.” He was used to the hard charging Egyptian’s legendary impatience, having been a fatherly mentor to El-Masry for the many years before his successor took control. And as the learned father, he often provoked. “I’m sure that’s not the real thing irritating you though,” Olin added.

“No, of course it’s not. Although these conferences are important, but honestly, what do we really get accomplished here Anders? This is simply a political show that doesn’t have much of a bearing on what’s really going on out there,” El-Masry said, pointing out the window.

“You don’t believe Iran one bit - do you?” Olin asked.

“Ha - for civil purposes only? Not in the least, and why should I, or anyone believe them? In fact my good friend, I would do it too if I were in their shoes. And here is but just one reason my friend - the Ayatollah has no idea when another madman is going to suddenly surface next door to him.”

“Or the madman sitting on the Ayatollah's lap,” Olin interrupted with a chuckle. “I must say that it is getting rather irritating that each announcement for the groundbreaking of a new enrichment site has to start with the little shit saying, ‘God willing, we may now start the new construction.’ As if God has anything to do with the Ambassador of Death.”

“Quite. Then of course there are the Israelis. We can never forget the instigators of our Middle East nuclear chase, now can we? But I’m not an Iranian - so taking their side is not really my job, nor was it yours Anders. Israel and Egypt made their peace many years ago when we were younger men. We both must therefore be impartial observers, although I am sympathetic of the facts. No matter what the Iranians are or are not developing, we must prevent…”

Olin interjected again, “Yes – prevent more air strikes on Iran’s nuclear plants.”

“Air strikes?” El-Masry laughed deeply. “Please Andres, I wish as God is my witness that the sum of my worries were airstrikes ordered by Israel. That would certainly be somewhat of a less troublesome worry, now wouldn’t it? Something such as that in fact, could happen every few years or so, just as it happened only two years ago - and well, yes – it’s agreed that such action would be much less worrisome. Problematic certainly, but much less worrisome.”

“Ah, I see that we are stuck again on this recurring subject of Israel and Iran,” Olin said with a smirk.

“Yes, the recurring bad subject. Iran could spin their centrifuges like a carousel on the schoolyard, making as much of the weapons grade uranium as they care too, and doing so above ground, or underground for that matter - and then every few years just when they had enough for a warhead, bring uranium to the surface, announce ‘Voilà l'uranium, here it is for you Israel’ – and then Israel launches a strike and destroys the facility, just like tearing down the spider’s web in the afternoon and leaving the spider alive to build the web again during the night. Only problem is that the uranium destroyed is not the weapons grade uranium and the centrifuges are still spinning underground, now more like tops. Two years later everything is repeated once again. That would be fine but not what I am speaking of. The concern, and what we should be very concerned about here is - Israel getting very angry – very angry, and very impatient in fact, and untethered as they are - going over the edge, provoked to the point of no return by a man of very questionable sanity – maybe mad as you say, but resulting in the launching of their Jericho at all of Iran’s nuclear facilities, and possibly Tehran as well, or perhaps the entire Middle East,” El-Masry monologued his predecessor while shaking his head, something Olin was accustomed to, and expected. He also knew the frustration.

El-Masry, as Olin before him, was frustrated with what he believed was the preferential treatment afforded Israel over other Middle East countries. In fact, as it stood, any country in the world that was engaged in nuclear energy development would be forced by the threat of sanctions, unless they complied with mandatory inspections of their nuclear facilities. There would never be any such inspections of Israel’s facilities, at least by the IAEA. Officially, Israel’s nuclear program, which was at least forty-five years old, didn’t even exist, a circumstance known as Nuclear Ambiguity. Everything the tiny country did with regards to nuclear activity was undeclared and out of bounds, off limits. No inspectors would ever set foot in Israel’s underground nuclear weapons factory at Dimona. And it was no secret that it upset both El-Masry and Olin that the United States had never officially given approval or encouraged Israel for its own nuclear weapons program, and even worse in El-Masry’s opinion, the United Sates had also refused to do anything to ever discourage Israel from developing nuclear weapons. "Not the case of Muslim countries in the Middle East, however," El-Masry had complained to several American delegations. 

El-Masry was certain that Israel had at a minimum of one hundred fifty, perhaps as many as four hundred nuclear weapons stockpiled. The weapons included bombs for fighters such as Israeli F-fifteen’s, and other tactical nuclear weapons, but most importantly, and most dangerous were the thermonuclear warheads for mobile Jericho One, Jericho Two, and Jericho Three missile systems. Jericho targeted all of Israel’s possible enemies within seven thousand miles and could effectively counter any large-scale coordinated attack by her traditional enemies, assuring their total annihilation. Even if Israel was also obliterated during first strikes, they could still launch a second wave from Dolphin submarines. Such a massive retaliatory strategy of last resort by Israel was known as the Samson Option. A nothing to lose scenario, it was so named for the biblical Israelite hero who after being blinded and enslaved, pulled the pillars he was chained to down, causing the roof of the temple Dagon to collapse, killing more Philistines than he’d ever killed before. Samson unfortunately also killed himself in the process, which was his option.

“That would certainly put an abrupt end to an escalating Middle East situation on the brink,” Olin said with a halfhearted sarcastic laugh.

“Would it? Well, maybe I suppose so – and with the ultimate terrible price I’m afraid - but that’s something we’re not going to solve here in this traffic,” El-Masry said, finally losing all patience. He looked at his Blackberry as he announced, “I’m going on foot.”

“You can’t be serious. It’s debilitating out there,” the seventy-five year old Swede stated thinking it was far too cold even for Viking blood.

El-Masry smiled and patted Olin on the leg. “I’ll be fine Anders. Stay put, and stay warm. Just call me if something happens that I need know about. And if I get lost and need a lift, I’ll call you.” With that El-Masry then double wrapped his wool Hermès scarf, opened the door and jumped out.

His shoes making hard, crunching noise on the frozen pavement, El-Masry backtracked east on Pacellistraße, which had been closed for security reasons to eastbound traffic, along with all streets for two blocks east from the hotel to the Residenz. To avoid being recognized and then possibly  bothered with an explanation for his unescorted solo romp, he opted to cross the street to a tree-lined grassy medium, staying under the cover of dark shadows from the pines trees paralleling cable car tracks. He passed the front entrance of the hotel, busy still, but the armed security had thinned. He noticed that the old man was gone, looking twice to be sure.

The wind blowing straight into his face felt much colder to El-Masry than the advertised twenty degrees Fahrenheit, which was certainly cold enough. He’d wished he’d taken a hat. After only a  minute he was feeling the biting numbness on his large ears and hummed Mozart to blank the freeze out. The cadence of the melody hastening his pace, he moved deeper into the shadows, eventually stopping at the street corner to get his bearings. Summoning up the GPS on his cell phone, he confirmed the quickest path was an immediate left turn, followed by a short walk two blocks, a right for one block, another left for one slightly longer block, and then he would be there at the main entrance of the Residenz. His navigation plan was abruptly interrupted by a call from Olin.

“Adam it appears that what’s happened is that there’s been a minor fender bender between limos. The police have stopped the procession. I can see a uniformed motorcycle officer from here. It looks as though they’re going to redirect the queue sooner or later, but I’m afraid we’re at a dead standstill,” Olin reported.

“Good thing I decided to walk then - I’ll beat you to the bar for certain,” El-Masry replied.

 “I’m quite sure,” Olin said with a laugh, admiring El-Masry’s tenacious spirit.

“See you there,” El-Masry said disconnecting the call as he noticed someone wearing a hat approaching from the opposite corner.

“Hallo - Guten Abend,” a tall man in a large brim fedora said, greeting El-Masry from the middle of the street. The stranger’s presence in the dancing flurries of snow was surreal, if not ghostly. The man’s exhale, along with the shadow of his hat cast by the streetlight, conjured up an unearthly image, yet one that eerily intrigued. The man waved at El-Masry before slipping gloved hands into the pockets of a long, heavy overcoat.

“Oh, yes. Guten Abend,” El-Masry responded apprehensively. The stranger was alone and quickly approached him on the corner of Pacellistraße and Faulhaberstraße. The man’s gate was long and graceful, almost panther-like.

“Oh – I’m sorry. I thought you were a friend of mine. Are you an American?” the stranger asked as he arrived at the curb. 

“No I am not,” El-Masry answered, unconscious of the fact he seemed somehow to be waiting for the stranger’s arrival to his side, sucked in as if by curiosity. He was looking squarely at the man, who he figured to be at least six feet, if not an inch or so more. His angular features were partially obscured by the darkness and shadow of the hat, but El-Masry could see he was much younger, early thirties he reasoned.  "A poster boy Arian," he thought.
      "Entschuldigen sie bitte. It was your accent."
      "Yes of course." It was a common mistake. Adam El-Masry was in fact half Egyptian, his mother being an English diplomat and father from Cairo. El-Masry’s English had the pitch of an American though. The twenty years he'd spent in the domain of American academia, and at the UN re-enforced the Yankee twang. As for the stranger, El-Masry thought his accent and usage belied a perfect knowledge of English, but the man was most certainly German, he was sure. Very German.

“My apologies. You must be in need of directions somewhere,” the stranger said, pointing at El-Masry’s Blackberry, still brightly displaying the GPS Map of Munich.

“Well, yes in fact – I suppose I am. Hmm, I’m on my way to Residenz, but I think…”

Cutting short El-Masry’s response, “Oh, then you are attending the conference dinner as well. It’s just up here, you can walk with me – I’ll show you the way,” the stranger offered courteously, pointing down the ghostly vacant street.

 Noticing the words “security conference” on the partially exposed red ribbon hanging around the man’s neck, presumably attached to a conference badge under his scarf, El-Masry nodded agreeably. The stranger seemed friendly enough, certainly refined, and probably smart too, and anyway, El-Masry enjoyed meeting new people. A little intelligent conversation on the short walk would be pleasant enough, and keep his mind off the cold.

“Thank you, perhaps I can use some directions. And nice to meet you,” the Director General said in German extending his hand.

“Sprechen Sie deutsch?” the stranger asked motioning again in the direction they needed to walk before receiving the handshake with dominance.

“Ja, ich bin immer noch Deutsch lernen - I’m still learning German, so if you don’t mind,” El-Masry said, thinking the man had more of a northern German accent, but definitely not from Munich or the south. His accent was harsher than the  softer delivery of a Bavarian. El-Masry, who was fluent in several languages - his native Arabic, English, and French, as well as at ease with Spanish and Italian, struggled with German. The words that jumbled in his mouth were a torment, and a few came to mind that were ridiculously long compared to its English counterpart. The German word for speed limit was Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung, and another he detested more than any was the German word for C.P.R., Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung. The literal translation of the procession of the alphabet to English worked out to be "heart-circle-run-again-enlivenment," which was simplified to C.P.R., just three letters, not twenty-six, making it almost nine times longer to spell or say in German. In a time of emergency the utterance needed to be very short and sweet - "CPR." He mused that surely the afflicted person needing the life-saving treatment would slip beyond the point of no return before the stream of German could leave the attending Emergency Medical Tech's mouth. Nevertheless, he practiced on.

“No I don’t mind – not at all. Pleased to meet you,” the stranger continued on speaking in German while shaking firmly. “Ich bin – wait, you are Dr. Adam El-Masry, the Director General of the IAEA” the stranger suddenly announced. The man looked coldly into El-Masry's eyes, his lips forming a friendly cocked grin, an uneasy contradiction for the Egyptian to absorb. 

“Yes, this is me in the flesh all right,” El-Masry peacocked, trying in earnest to return a firm shake of his own, but to no avail, his grip being late.

“This is a fantastic honor,” the stranger said slowly, still gripping El-Masry’s hand, now using both of his own, the second hand on the wrist, doubling the intimidation.

“I don’t know how fantastic it really is, but I thank you nonetheless,” El-Masry answered graciously, his voice deepening. To El-Masry's relief, the stranger let go of his hand, but felt a slight, yet sharp, momentary pain that shot up his wrist and forearm. The man’s grip had been strong, he thought and must have pinched a nerve. Stereotypical aggressive behavior of Germans, he concluded. 

“So, you are on the speaking list tonight,” the man stated.

“Ja, I’m afraid I am. The former Director General of the IAEA is speaking, along with a former American Secretary of State and lastly, myself.”

“Oh, I see. And can you tell me some things of the topic? A preview perhaps?”

“I’m sure sir, you will hear a little bit about everything tonight,” El-Masry said leaning forward slightly as they walked, eyeing for a glimpse of the German’s badge, and a name. “Certainly IAEA’s role in the use of nuclear power for developing countries.” It was a vague preview at best. The intent of his veiled prepared remarks that evening was to castigate Israel unsparingly for their insolence regarding the IAEA, a slap in the face of their authority since the body’s inception. He was simply going to reference Israel without a name as “… the belligerent denial of just one spoiled country in the Middle East.”

“Your role for nuclear power for developing countries? I see. That’s a very interesting notion when one considers Iran,” the stranger said. 

“’Interesting’ is not the word I would use,” El-Masry said. He wondered if the German was a reporter. And he wasn't fond of reporters, especially western journalists who tended to criticize the IAEA mercilessly, citing his supposed lenient treatment of Iran, if not his outright favoritism. He took it personally.

“Perhaps I was a bit understated,” the German said politely.

“Not at all, in fact I pride myself in carefully selecting words before expressing opinions, especially when speaking with strangers - and what exactly brings you to the conference with such an enquiring mind, Herr...?”

“Bitte, My apologies – I am…”

“Dr. El-Masry,” a voice called out loudly before the German could finish. 
El-Masry looked to see what appeared to be Anders Olin thirty yards ahead, standing at the next corner, bundled up and waving at him. It certainly sounded like the Swede. El-Masry raised his hand in return, assuming his bald pate made him an easy spot.
“I decided not to wait either – there’s no telling when the traffic will ease. The entrance to the Residenz is very close. We are almost there,” Olin yelled to him.

“I believe that the gentleman over there wants to join us,” El-Masry said to the stranger.

“And how fortunate I am then.” 

“How’s that?” El-Masry chuckled.

“Well, to have the opportunity to meet not only you, but also your predecessor – here on this lonely street – the two of you. That is Herr Olin, isn't it?"

“Remarkably, you’re correct. You have very keen eyesight - that is Anders Olin, but let’s just keep that between us. We aren't supposed to be out here wandering the streets alone. This is very verboten.” 

“Ja, I am sure.”

“But speaking of meeting – I still haven’t learned your name yet.”

“Entschuldigen Sie bitte! Please excuse my rudeness…”

El-Masry paused their chilly walk as he interrupted again, frowning slightly, “Oh, by the way, before you answer, I do know exactly where you are from – I am absolutely sure of this.”

“Is that so? And where would that be?” the stranger asked with a raised brow and a jut of his jaw.

“Hamburg,” El-Masry blurted, smiling.

“Das ist sehr gut, Herr Doctor – very good indeed. How did you know - you can tell this from just my accent?”

“I knew I was right, and I’m not finished yet - I’ll also wager you a hundred Euros that I can guess your name as well,” El-Masry declared.

“That is amazing indeed if you can, although I might add the wager is very rich for me, a poor blogger."

“Jürgen Kruger from Hamburg,” El-Masry said smiling wider and pointing at the now exposed conference badge dangling from the red ribbon.

“Ah ha – you certainly got me,” Jürgen Kruger admitted with a loud laugh and slow, dull clap of his gloves.

“And what is it that you do Herr Kruger that makes you a man of so many question?” El-Masry asked with a congenial pat on Kruger’s back.

“Oh yes of course, my apologies once again – I am a journalist, a blogger. A conservative blogger,” Kruger said with a wink.

“A blogger you say? That explains everything, now doesn’t it?” El-Masry summed up while removing the glove from his right hand. He stretched the hand. It was cramped.

“Ja with all of my questions – I suppose it does at that, Herr Doctor,” Kruger said with a wry smile. “Is there something wrong?” he asked pointing at El-Masry’s bare hand.

“I don’t think so, just a cramp from the cold perhaps.”

“Ja, from the cold.”

Jürgen Kruger had just played and won a brilliant game of cat and mouse using favorable odds. Manufactured circumstances and human nature were the keys. As in a poker hand, closely studying others in the game and predicting their behavior using mathematical odds more often than not derived the best possible outcomes. The “tell” of those holding power was their Achilles’ heel, and those with the prerequisite commanding personality to attain power all displayed it in some form or other, El-Masry more than most. An aloof, poker-faced enigma would never attain such towering heights of authority, too solitary. Better for playing the cat. And under the right circumstance the powerful made for easy targets, similar the mouse. A disruption to the choreographed flow of limos from point A to point B created unplanned confusion. Impatience led to an odds-on favored decision by El-Masry that he would go the short distance on foot in spite of the cold. That Anders Olin would follow was coincidental and unplanned for, but nevertheless effectively dealt with, however unfavorable for him. It was nearly the exact circumstances that Kruger desired and designed to win the hand and the deadly game.  The weather, which Kruger satirized he could not always control, yet certainly use in his favor, only made things easier.

With a signal on a cell phone, the German motorcycle cop stopped the redirection of traffic and abruptly left the scene of the minor collision. The two vehicles involved began moving also, turning left at the next street instead of making the necessary right to the Residenz. Within twenty-four hours the sedans and motorcycle would disappear, chopped into spare parts and sold away by a local Munich gang. The team’s pre-paid international cell phones were bought in cash, all calls untraceable and discarded SIM cards worthless. The sole evidence that would remain of the troupe and Kruger’s actual existence would be brief, unrecognizable images of expertly disguised characters captured by a few security cameras. Kruger’s true identity would be impossible to trace. Absent a computer hard drive for authorities to search or browsing history to track, the manifested Hamburg blogger remained as an avatar in the hosted world of cyberspace, never to be embodied again. Poof, Jürgen Kruger, “double oh one,” would simply vanish, his scythe in hand.

Inside the ornate, baroque Residenz palace and ninety minutes into the dinner of fish, green peas, and assorted mashed potatoes, the distinguished Anders Olin was at the podium delivering his speech to the respected crowd of  two hundred, many of them dignitaries, some heads of state, when the fatal tetrodotoxins of the white-spotted puffer fish Arothron hispidus really began their onslaught in earnest. Becoming unexpectedly tongue-tied, a typical symptom, he hurriedly finished his remarks to puzzled looks, and rejoined those seated at the head table, taking his seat next to a heavily perspiring Dr. Adam El-Masry. Bewildered somewhat over his shortness of breath and the tingling sensation emanating throughout his limbs, he loosened his tie as the neurotoxins with no known antidote suddenly accelerated the numbness and paralysis from a creep to mad dash.

Before the former American Secretary of State could get passed failed jokes and into the heart of his pithy comments, both El-Masry and Olin collapsed, heads clanging into their plates of food, each with eyes wide, and mouths gaped open. However, suffering a sadistic, cruel and prolonged meeting with the Grim Reaper, neither was dead, not yet. Instead, they were completely paralyzed, and very much alert, with the mutual disbelief, but wretched certainty that they were both being assassinated, one man unknowingly being an unlucky collateral casualty. Staring at each other oddly, sad clown faces frozen in macabre, grotesque horror, speckled with the main course, both men could clearly hear the gasps of shocked diners and the loud cacophony of scooting chairs, banging tables, and clattering cutlery on china, yet both were incapable of telling a single soul who their assassin was. 
     And then in one final callous twist of fate, El-Masry heard a word yelled by someone he couldn't see, a word blurted with perfect clarity and correct pronunciation the way the eight syllables should be, and the way that he would never master, the hated German word that would be the last he would ever hear, "Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung."