CHAPTER FOUR
Vice-President Biden sits in the Veep office across from the White House staring at a spotlessly clean desk. Amazing!, he thinks. When he began this job he had a stack of responsibilities. They've quickly enough vanished. Must be his great efficiency. He thinks about buying a new suit-- hasn't done so in a week, and there are a many sales about in stores right now. His sharp mind then drifts to train rides. It's been awhile since he's taken a train ride! He needs to get out, to go back out on the campaign trail. Stumping for the campaign. He doesn't ask why he's not there now. Maybe a train ride to Scranton, his home town, would be good. He supposes he should ask permission, but of late, the Obama campaign machine has been avoiding him. With a sudden insight, Vice-President Biden takes a blank piece of paper from his desk's top drawer.
As the Vice President sails a paper airplane across the room, the chief of the President's campaign staff walks suddenly into the office.
"David! Hey guy!" Biden says eagerly, like a long-neglected dog. "How are ya! Good to see ya. I was just thinking about you. Whaddya got for me? I'm ready to roll! Ready to serve the Big Guy any way I can. Just tell me what to do. Just say the word, and I'll go for it. Good ol' Joe, that's me. Need a speech? I have a hundred of 'em on file-- maybe even one or two written by myself. Ha ha! A joke. No one ever said I couldn't tell a joke at my own expense. Why, I tell ya--"
"We have a problem, Mr. Vice President," the heavily sweating Axelrod tells him. Axelrod isn't smiling.
"Problem?" Joe asks.
Suddenly other somber-faced men step into the room, forming a semi-circle behind the campaign chief. VP Biden recognizes them as a combination of campaign security staff and Secret Service officers. Every one of them wears dark sunglasses. All of them are glum.
"Death threats," Axelrod says.
"Death threats?" The Vice President answers.
"Yessir. Death threats. Many many death threats."
Axelrod points a finger directly at the Vice President.
"Death threats-- against you."
"Against me?" the Vice President squeaks. "Good ol' Joe? Who'd want to harm me? Why, I'm harmless. Everyone knows it. Even the terrorists know it! Why, look at what Bin Laden said before we took him out. He knew. A harmless goofball-- that's me. Just the same ol' good ol' Senator Joe. I haven't changed at all."
The finger continues pointing. "Serious death threats, Mr. Vice President. We have to take them seriously. The men behind me take them seriously."
"Yes, I can see," Biden says, swallowing heavily, trying to peer around Axelrod at the unsmiling men. The Vice President waves at them. "Hi guys!" he says. Not one of them changes expression.
"The bottom line, Mr. Vice President, is that we have to move you. For your own safety. For your own good."
"Move me?"
"Move you, Mr. Vice President. Now."
"Now?"
"Yes, Mr. Vice President. Immediately. Like, right now."
"But, my clothes. My suits."
"They're already packed for you, Mr. Vice President. Enough belongings to last until November anyway. Your wife has already been moved. This morning. We have a safe house picked out."
"But, gee, guys, I was going to buy a new suit today. Could we at least stop on the way and buy it?"
"We won't be able to stop, Mr. Vice President. You know. The bad guys. The bad guys might see us. They might see you, Mr. Vice President, and that wouldn't be good. Think of it as like the witness protection program. You're going into hiding-- for your own good."
"Hiding? But where?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information, Mr. Vice President. It wouldn't be prudent. It wouldn't be-- safe. Safety, Mr. Vice President. Think of your own safety. Think of the safety of the country. Of the campaign."
"Well, gee, when you put it that way," VP Biden says, standing up. "I'm a loyal guy, after all. Good ol' loyal Joe! Tell me what to do, where to go, and I'm right there. But, uh, guys, for how long? How long will I be, uh, protected?"
Axelrod shows the slightest trace of a smile. He relaxes a trifle, and so does the Vice President.
"Oh, we'll let you out for the convention," Axelrod tells him. "Maybe."
No comments:
Post a Comment