The Liberty Intrigue Read online

  “And now, as a very elderly person, I heard her tell this story on more than one occasion and invariably someone in the audience, when she was finished, would say, ‘You poor, unlucky woman. How you have suffered. What an ordeal you have been through.’ And her answer is always the same: ‘Me, unlucky? Ah, no. I am one of the luckiest women who ever lived. Twice I have lost my country. Twice I have had a country to which I can go. When you Americans lose your country, where will you go?’ I heard her ask the question more than once. I never heard a convincing answer.”

  “Our speakers tonight stood at the brink of war in defense of the young nation that they helped build from the ashes. For their accomplishments in the cause of liberty and peace, they were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the former President of Dutannuru, Xavier Mensah, and Ross Egan.”

  Mensah and Egan walked onstage to a thundering wave of applause. They shook hands with Saccary at center stage, and then Mensah moved to the lectern while Egan and Saccary seated themselves onstage.

  “Thank you,” Mensah said, beaming at the audience. “Thank you for such an enthusiastic welcome. On behalf of my good friend, Ross Egan, and myself, we are delighted to be here with you tonight.

  “The Dutannuru Miracle—a good title for a book, no? Hopeful, as miracles are good, especially for those who benefit from them. Enigmatic, as miracles are both mysterious and unexpected. And if you are a religious person, as I am, miracles inspire a sense of awe because they are the handiwork of God.

  “But is what happened one year ago truly the result of divine intervention or something more in the realm of our understanding? I would posit that the incident that turned war into peace was not a miracle. Rather, it was the aftershock of a miracle that occurred over two centuries ago—in this country.

  “Throughout history, political power rested on the ability to seize it. The right to rule was secured by force of arms and legitimized as the will of God or the gods. The Pharaohs of Egypt and the Caesars of Rome were actually deified in their lifetimes, such that offenses against their authority were both treason and heresy.

  “Europe’s Christian monarchs could not claim godhood without offending the religious sensibilities of their subjects with such blasphemy. Instead, they legitimized their claim on temporal authority as a divine right bestowed upon them and their descendants by God.

  “If I recall my instruction in classic literature correctly, the reigns of Uther Pendragon and his son, Arthur, were the result of a supernatural figure bestowing upon Uther the legendary sword Excalibur. I cannot imagine what form of government would result if the mere possession of a piece of metalwork granted the owner absolute political authority, but I believe it would not be a good one.

  “Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote a famous line in his play Richelieu: ‘the pen is mightier than the sword.’ As a statesman, I must concur. And I would rather possess Thomas Jefferson’s pen than any tyrant’s sword, including Excalibur.

  “The true miracle occurred here, when the Founders of this nation recognized that the natural flow of power is not from God to king to subject, but from God directly to each and every person, and from those individuals to governance of their choosing. What seems obvious to you and I today was a radical, treasonous thought in the eighteenth century. This nation fought two wars over the principle of individual liberty—the first to create the United States, and the second to purge the injustice of slavery.

  “The hope of the American Revolution was countered with the monstrous terror of the French Revolution. Then Nietzsche declared God dead and Marx authored a manifesto promoting revolution against the existing social order in favor of state ownership of all property, allegedly for the benefit of the workers. This ideology pays lip service to popular government, including single-party elections. Mao Zedong was brutally honest in his observation that all political power comes from the barrel of a gun. This is true of tyrannies, but not republican democracies.

  “The Americas are the new world. Africa is the oldest of the old world, home to the most distant ancestors of every person on the planet. We have in our long history experienced tribalism, imperialism, colonialism, fascism, Islamism, communism, socialism—just about every flavor of ism you can imagine. Republican democracy is a rare sight in African politics.

  “Following our civil war, the fledgling nation of Dutannuru lay in ruins. It would have been a simple matter for those of us in the ruling council to declare martial law and assume to ourselves dictatorial powers. What we did, instead, was most unexpected. We took a seed from the great tree of American liberty and planted it in the fertile soil of Dutannuru. Our miracle, if we must call it that, is a direct descendant of your miracle.”

  Mensah paused as the audience rose to its feet and applauded.

  “Thank you so much; you are very kind. Now, I wish to cede the floor to my good friend, Ross Egan.”

  Another round of applause erupted in the auditorium as the two men exchanged places.

  “They are ready for you,” Mensah said as he shook Egan’s hand in passing.

  “Thanks,” Egan replied, thinking it was like having Sinatra open for Tiny Tim. He waited until the applause waned.

  “Freedom is the ability to choose. That famous photo at the power plant was the culmination of a choice made by an incredibly brave young man—a choice between liberty and tyranny.

  “Tanu Baafi was just a boy when he was rounded up and conscripted into the Safolese army to fight in the civil war. And despite years of indoctrination to blindly obey the orders of his superiors, when the truth was revealed and Baafi found himself with the opportunity to choose, he chose liberty.

  “The Founders of this nation pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honor to secure liberty for themselves and their descendants. Baafi had no fortune to lose, but he risked both his honor and his life in an act that most of us would consider suicidal—he struck down a brutal tyrant.

  “When I asked Baafi why he killed Cudjoe, he replied: Se wokum owo a, na woatwa ne tiri preko. It means: when you kill a snake, cut off its head to ensure that it’s dead. Cudjoe was greatly feared, and for good reason. Taking the head off that snake proved to all that it wouldn’t ever come slithering back.

  “The essence of freedom is choice. Years ago, I remember watching a movie about a saxophone player with a Russian circus who defects in New York City. There’s a scene where he’s in an American supermarket for the first time and the aisles upon aisles of shelves, fully stocked with the dizzying array of products, overwhelm him.

  “I’ve spent the better part of my adult life living outside of the United States, and this, too, was a choice. My wife and I were both born in the great state of Michigan, but the dreams of youth can take you to the farthest corners of the world. I’m still a US citizen, and I’m proud to say that I’ve voted in every election since I turned eighteen,” Egan chuckled. “And all by absentee ballot.

  “I worked in Safo before the coup and the civil war, and in Dutannuru thereafter, and that experience has made me appreciate our freedom to choose our leaders. Honestly, I have to shake my head in wonder that so many people in this country take that freedom for granted. Tanu Baafi proved just how important the choice of one person can be, and while I hope that none of you ever has to make that choice, I encourage you to elect those who will defend all of your rights. Thank you.”

  Egan nodded to the applauding audience, then joined Mensah and Saccary at the seating area. Stagehands swiftly removed the lectern to provide the entire audience with a clear view for the question-and-answer session.

  “To get this portion of the program started,” Saccary announced, quieting the buzz of conversation in the audience, “I would like to ask the first question. And as a good lawyer, I already know the answer, but I thought you might find it as interesting as I. Gentlemen, how is it that you decided to launch the international tour supporting your book, The Dutannuru Miracle, at Hillsdale College?”

  Mensa
h turned to Egan. “If I may?”

  Egan nodded his assent.

  “If I am to answer this question properly, I must start by directing your attention to the beautiful woman seated in the front row. Please stand, dear.”

  A statuesque woman clad in a tailored suit accented with a patterned scarf and distinctly African jewelry rose and wagged a finger at her husband, before turning around to face the audience.

  “This is my wife, Esi. In addition to bringing much joy to my life for many years, for which I am thankful each day, Esi is also a woman of great accomplishment. Before she was the First Lady of Dutannuru, my wife was an economist. She consulted with many private and public institutions and was published widely. She also taught economics for a few years, here at Hillsdale College.”

  The audience applauded Esi Mensah, recognizing her as one of their own. Esi bowed her head and then returned to her seat.

  “President Mensah is being modest,” Saccary offered. “I am certain that our economics faculty and many of the students in our higher-level courses recognize her name. Dr. Esi Mensah is a distinguished scholar and an expert on both the theories and practical application of Austrian economics. Her work is most clearly evident in the astonishing economic recovery made by Dutannuru in the past decade and serves as an impressive, ongoing case study.”

  “That is where I pick up the story,” Egan said. “My wife, Maggie, was an economics major at Hillsdale when Esi was teaching here. Naturally, their paths crossed, and beyond the student-professor relationship, they became close friends. It was through Esi that Maggie, a girl from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, fell in love with a small but wonderful place in West Africa. Maggie did a stint with the Peace Corps in Safo, and I followed her there after we were married. The rest is laid out in the book, but the point is that our part in the Dutannuru miracle can be traced back to a classroom on this campus, where my wife first met her dear friend and mentor. We chose to launch our book tour at Hillsdale College because this is, for us, where the story began.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CAMBRIDGE, MARYLAND

  JANUARY 25

  The bald eagle glided effortlessly across the sky, the undersides of its outstretched wings aglow with the first rays of morning sun. The light wind bore the majestic bird on a straight line over the cornfield toward the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge.

  “That’s something you don’t see every day,” Frank Crusca said admiringly. “It’s a good sign.”

  “Assuming you don’t shoot it,” the Vice President replied. “Then my protective detail would be obliged to turn you over to Fish and Wildlife for prosecution.”

  The two men were alone in the blind—a lidless wooden box measuring twelve feet long by four wide and four deep. The box was set a few feet into the ground and the exposed sides were camouflaged with dry cornstalks.

  The acres around the blind were littered with the stubble of last fall’s harvest. Interspersed in the ruin were patches of snow and a large flock of decoys staged to lure Canadian geese. The Vice President’s Secret Service detail reclined in insulated ground blinds, scanning the area for threats instead of migratory waterfowl.

  “If old Ben Franklin had his way, the turkey would be our national symbol instead of that bird,” the Vice President continued, “the wild kind, not what you get at the supermarket.”

  “I prefer the kind of wild turkey that comes in a bottle. Speaking of which …”

  Crusca retrieved one of the two identical, stainless steel Thermos bottles from under the bench and filled his mug with a steaming brown liquid. The Vice President held out his mug and Crusca topped it off. Both men had brought a supply of coffee to the early morning hunt, but only the Vice President had fortified his with a healthy dose of Irish whiskey.

  “A wee nip to cure what ails you,” the Vice President offered before taking a cautious sip. “This the Micks got right.”

  As he nursed his coffee, Crusca scanned the sky and scratched the head of the Labrador retriever seated by his leg. His weapon this morning was a twelve-gauge Benelli Super Black Eagle II loaded with number-two steel shot. The Vice President opted for his trusted Remington 870 Wingmaster.

  “Perfect morning, even if it is a bit on the cold side,” Crusca said. “Thanks for inviting me to join you.”

  “Given all that you and the union have done for me and the President, it’s my pleasure.”

  The Vice President tapped his mug against Crusca’s in a light toast, and then took another sip.

  “You and your boss have done a lot for us, and we plan to back you hard all the way to November.”

  “I appreciate that,” the Vice President said warmly. “And so does the President. We’ve made solid gains for working people in our first term, but there’s a lot more left to do.”

  “Preaching to the choir,” Crusca said. “But there is something the union would like you to handle for us.”

  “We all but gave you two auto companies,” the veep chided.

  “I’m serious. Eisler is going to introduce a bill in the Senate that negatively affects our pension fund. A similar bill will be introduced in the House. We expect the Senate vote to split on party lines, and there’s a good chance Ward’ll break ranks and vote yes.”

  The Vice President nodded. Ward was a one-term senator from a normally conservative district, and a no vote on stronger regulation of union-managed pension funds would end his chance for reelection.

  “Breaking ties in the Senate is one of my many important duties. And I’ll do what I can to keep the troops in line when it comes time to vote. After all, that’s what friends are for, right?”

  Crusca nodded.

  The Vice President reached under the bench and picked up the union leader’s heavy Thermos bottle. He unscrewed the top and poured off little more than a cup of coffee onto the ground, quickly emptying the flask. With a half-turn, the shallow insert twisted out to reveal a hidden chamber containing a six-inch stack of one-ounce gold coins. At current prices, the coins were worth over one hundred thousand dollars.

  “Yesiree,” the veep said as he reassembled the flask, “that’s what friends are for.”

  A goose call dangled from a lanyard around Crusca’s neck. He set his mug down on the bench and, with both hands, pressed the reed to his lips and blew into the instrument. Instead of a melodic tune, the union leader modulated his breaths to produce an incredibly realistic imitation of a goose. He paused for a moment and then repeated the call.

  The dog was up on all fours, head cocked, listening. In the distance, both men heard the reply. Crusca called again, and the veep scanned the horizon, trying to pinpoint the direction of the response.

  “Just below the top of the west tree line,” the veep said.

  “I see ’em.”

  A ragged line of eight geese flew along the property line that the farm shared with the nature preserve. Crusca played out another series of calls and the flight turned, circling in on the faux gaggle in the surrounding field. Both men shouldered their weapons and waited for the birds to come into range.

  “Next pass,” the veep said, aiming his shotgun at the large goose near the rear of the flight. “You take the front of the line. I’ll shoot at the back.”

  “Got it,” Crusca replied, selecting his target.

  A gust of wind altered the flight path of the incoming geese. The birds quickly lost altitude and the Vice President bolted up to clearly track his target over the cornstalks surrounding the blind.

  The dog spun at the sudden movement and its thick tail slapped the side of the Thermos filled with Irish coffee. The flask spun, then toppled forward onto the plywood floor. The loose cap flew off, ejected by a rush of steaming liquid. Both hit the dog’s hindquarters. The eighty-pound Lab bolted forward with a yelp and rammed headfirst into the Vice President’s groin.

  The jolt of pain that accompanied the canine punch below the belt momentarily blinded the Vice President. Every muscle in his body seemed to cont
ract. As he folded over, knees buckling, the Remington discharged.

  A dense cloud of steel shot tore into the left side of Crusca’s rib cage—the area exposed as he trained his weapon on the geese. The pellets shredded tissue and shattered bone, the blast destroying the man’s lungs and heart. Falling limply with the blow, he was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Oh my God!” the Vice President yelled. “Help! I need help, now!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “…made great strides these past three years and the spirit and determination of this great nation remain strong.” The President paused for dramatic effect, imagining the applause echoing in the House chamber. “Thank you. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”

  “Time,” David Wagner, the White House Director of Communications, called out.

  “Fifty-two minutes and four seconds,” an aide with a digital stopwatch replied.

  “Factor in the applause and we’re still under an hour. That’ll keep the networks happy. They can squeeze in a few commercials before the opposition rebuttal.”

  “Who’s handling that?” the President asked.

  “Winfield,” Wagner replied.

  Emory Winfield, a three-term Republican senator from Ohio, was the Senate minority leader. His party’s gains in the midterm elections had erased the Democrats’ supermajority and divided the upper house fifty-fifty. The even split evaporated before the new Congress could be sworn in due to the sudden death of a Republican senator from Arkansas during the Christmas break that year. The Democratic governor appointed himself to fill the vacancy.

  “What do you think, Mr. President?” Wagner asked.

  “Those last changes are good. I think we got it.”

  “Then we’ll lock it down and get it set for tonight. Thank you, Mr. President.”