Another short story

Every one heaved a sigh of relief when Air Force One taxied to a stop at the Andrews tarmac. It had been a nerve-wracking month. The first visit by the Prez in war-torn Iraq, a President committed to creating history, driven by a genuine urge to do something worthwhile for global peace, an entire world holding their collective breaths, walking on a razor edge where even the tiniest incident could trigger cataclysmic consequences.

No one knew it better than Special Agent Scanlon, in charge of the president’s security detail. ‘The devil is always in details’, was what he swore by, and the security measures taken for the past month were close to ridiculous. Daily life was totally disrupted for 15 days in an already chaotic Baghdad, and the public grumblings had started to become menacingly violent. Iraq’s capital was virtually turned into a fortress with security forces taking up positions at vantage points and American helicopters hovered constantly over the route the presidential convoy was to wind its way from the airport to the meeting venue. The entire neighborhood surrounding the meeting venue had been cordoned off and residents forcefully evacuated to temporary shelters.
Human rights organizations had pitched in, calling for protection of the basic rights of the Iraqi people and there were growing support for these voices within the Senate itself.

‘Yes, it had been tough in the end’, Scanlon thought. But now, as the president’s envoy entered the White house gate amid thousands of screaming, flag waving loyalists, he thought he would receive some accolades as to how he had handled the toughest security detail in the history of mankind.

‘Great job Scanlon’, the Man said, giving the crowds a final wave before going inside. ‘Maybe you should take a month off and be with the wife’.

‘Yes sir, you should also retire for the night sir. Its been a long week sir’.

‘ I think I will do just that. Thanks again and good night’.

As he entered the bedroom the President thought about what he has achieved. It was the crowning achievement of an illustrious life and he was perhaps the proudest man in the world at that moment. Looking at the sleeping First Lady he thought ‘if I can achieve what I did this week, perhaps I can even make my marriage work’. He reached for her and she turned away, just like it had been for the last 5 years of their marriage. ‘Not now Bill. Good night’.

‘Some things never change’, he thought with a rueful shake of his head and shut his eyes. ‘Iran is the next problem and I just have to find a way’, were his last coherent thought as sleep started to envelop him in her soothing grasp.

A pale hand holding a sharpened Black Berol Beauty pencil streaked down through the dark and plunged itself down his throat. And the last thing he heard choking on his blood was his wife whisper, ‘that’s for Monica you bastard’.