Page 89 of The Presidents Shadow

HERE’S THE DEAL that I decide to make.

And, yes, I know that it is horrid and frustrating and humiliating. But I must.

I cannot halt the spread of Newbola. I cannot prevent Glenn Ambrose from destroying huge pieces of the world. Worst of all, I cannot get to Dubai to help Maddy.

So I do what I never, absolutely never, wanted to do.

I make arrangements to meet with President Townsend. He welcomes the opportunity to meet with me, his highly troublesome enemy. But I cannot think of any other solution.

I am steadily growing physically weaker, and I have no idea why. I am steadily losing my intellectual ability. Much as I detest Townsend, I don’t have a viable alternative.

So here I am, standing in the presidential office.

When Townsend was illegally elected president by an illegal vote in the illegal world congress, one of his first acts was to rebuild the Oval Office as the Square Office.

A simple redo, all that was needed was four new walls, arranged to hide the historic curved walls of the past few hundred years.

Another “personal” touch from Townsend was his portrait enshrinement of the former presidents whom he particularly admired: Richard Nixon, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Andrew Johnson, and, predictably, Donald Trump.

“How do you like the place?” Townsend asks me.

“It suits you,” I answer. We both know, of course, that this is my first visit to the presidential Square Office since Townsend was elected.

“Certainly took you long enough to get here,” he says, extending his hand for me to shake and then motioning to the armless visitors’ chair abutting his desk. Seated there I feel like a recent college graduate on his first job interview.

Although I am having difficulty breathing, and although there is significant pain coursing up and down my spine, I present myself as a friendly, hearty sort of guy.

Townsend does the same thing. If you were to watch us together you’d think that we were the closest of friends. But Townsend and I know otherwise.

This is an act. Our smiles are too wide. Our handshakes are too firm. Our voices are too high and happy.

Then, as if we have cut to a brand-new scene in a movie, the warmth and friendliness are sucked out of the room.

“So, my instinct and my sources inform me that you are here for a very specific reason,” Townsend says seriously.

“Then you’ll be glad to know that your instincts and sources are correct,” I respond, and I am as somber as Townsend.

I add, “I am here to ask a favor. A favor that will impact the preservation of the entire world.”

“What makes you think I’d be interested in preserving the entire world?”

“Because we both have so much invested in this universe. Our interests are completely different, but we both require the world to remain in existence, if one of us is to succeed.”

“We cannot play football if there is no field,” says Townsend.

I am wishing he would spare me his corny, lame metaphors.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I say.

Then he flashes the tiniest of smiles and speaks.

“I know why you’re here. You need help. Specifically, you need my help. More specifically, you need the help of the World Associated States to combat the Newbola disease and the massive ecological destruction.”

In a split second I realize that Townsend knows as much as I do about these two horrid situations. He may actually know even more.

Finally he smiles, a full grin stretching from ear to ear.

Then he says, “Am I right, Mr. Cranston?”

“You are absolutely right, Mr. Townsend.”

The new smile disappears.

“I will help you. But as I’m sure you suspected, we will first have to do a small bit of negotiation.”