Foreign Enemies and Traitors Read Online Free PDF Page A

keeping tabs on my travels , thought Krantz.  That’s good to know .  Robert was Robert Waylen, an old friend to both of them.  Waylen was now professor emeritus of American History at Columbia University, but he had been famous decades before as a radical anti-war activist and some said, a terrorist bomber.  Krantz responded breezily, in the spirit of conversation-opening small talk.  “I did see Robert.  He sends his greetings.  He’s sorry that he can’t see you anymore.  He said he misses your old conversations.”
    “How is he doing?  I hear that his health is failing.”
    Krantz wondered how much the president really knew about Waylen these days, to ask that question.  If the president had even an inkling about a certain videotape in Waylen’s possession, both of them could wind up in public parks like Vince Foster, or wrapped in chains at the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay.  Was the question about Waylen’s health sincere, or something more, a hint of suspicion or a hope that Waylen would soon be departing for the great beyond?  “He doesn’t look too well.  He’s lost a lot of weight and he doesn’t get out much anymore.  He walks his little dachshunds, and that’s about all he can manage.”
    Robert Waylen lived alone in a posh three-story brownstone on West 11 th Street.  Jamal Tambor had been a student at Columbia when he came into Waylen and Krantz’s orbit.  Now Waylen was in his seventies and battling cancer, while Jamal Tambor had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday in the White House, in nearly perfect health.  Tambor could thank his Malaysian mother for his youthful demeanor, good looks and overall fitness.  He had been born in California, but raised mainly in South Asia, while his father worked a series of jobs as an engineer.  Only a rapidly receding hairline and a few lines around his eyes and his mouth betrayed the age of America’s first mixed-race president.  He was in decent health, even considering his pack-a-day cigarette habit.  At least smoking kept him thin.  He wasn’t as cute as he had been when Krantz had first known him at Columbia, but he was still a very handsome man.
    The president dropped his discussion of their old acquaintance and turned to current affairs.  “Sidney, we need to finish our recovery operations in the earthquake zone before summer, or the Northwest campaign will have to be pushed back until next year.  And if we can’t bring the Northwest back into the fold this year…well, we may lose it for good.  The Chinese are not waiting.  We can either be their partners, or watch them make their own arrangements.  The Northwest may even formally secede, and frankly, we won’t be able to prevent it.”
    “Well,” Krantz responded, choosing his words carefully, “the Chinese Navy is already there.  Officially, the Chinese naval vessels are only visiting Seattle and Vancouver.  There’s nothing permanent about their presence, nothing official—”
    “But how long can we maintain that fiction?  Friendly naval port visits don’t last for months on end and stretch from one fleet to another.”  The president turned from the wall map, sighed, and slid down into his black leather recliner.  Krantz took the matching leather wing chair across from him.  The president opened a silver case from the side table, extracted a long cigarette and lit it with a matching silver lighter.  He snapped the lighter shut and took a deep drag.  He was never photographed smoking: this was another reason for the private reading room, with its special ventilation system.  Maybe the main reason.
    “The Chinese aren’t asking for my permission, no matter what we pretend.  It’s Hong Kong all over again, only this time, China is playing the role of Great Britain and we’re the old Mandarins.  Sidney, we have to regain actual control of all forty-five states this year, and to do that, we’ll need help from the Chinese.  And not only from the