The Obama Identity Read online

  Copyright © 2010 Edward Klein and John LeBoutillier

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1453792899

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61550-808-2

  EAN-13: 9781453792896

  LCCN: 2010913137

  “Obama is George W. Bush’s fault.”

  —Anonymous

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  PROLOGUE

  “The-o-dore, hightail it over here and don’t fanny around!”

  There was no mistaking the husky faux-British accent on the other end of the phone line. It belonged to Whitney Nutwing, my boss at the CIA.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Command performance!” he replied. “Very urgent.”

  I slid into my 1964 Bentley Continental “Chinese Eye” Fixed Head Coupe with the luxe mahogany cockpit and drove over to Nutwing’s office. He operated out of a safe house on Tracy Place in the fancy Sheridan-Kalorama section of Washington, D.C. The place was practically a CIA Historic Landmark. Each June, Nutwing threw a cocktail party in his corner office overlooking Dupont Circle. A select group of agents was treated to drinks, canapés, and a bird’s-eye view of the Capitol’s annual LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender) Pride Parade. While we watched the parade, Nutwing played his favorite CD—Dropkick Murphy’s Citizen CIA.

  When I arrived at Whitney Nutwing’s office, he was waiting for me at the door with an outstretched arm and a moist handshake.

  “Good to see you…good to see you,” he said, repeating himself, as was his habit. “Come right in…come right in. Join me by the window, The-o-dore. You’ll be more comfortable there… much more comfortable.”

  Nobody ever called me Theodore except my mother, and then only on the rare occasion when she was completely sober. Whitney Nutwing’s drawn-out pronunciation of my Christian name was getting under my skin. Which, knowing Nutwing, was exactly what he intended.

  He was a living legend in the CIA. He had made his bones in Rome, where he had garroted his KGB counterpart with a piano wire and dumped the body into the Tiber with a note that said: Sic semper tyrannosaurus. His admirers conveniently overlooked the mangling of the Latin phrase Sic semper tyrannis. He was also famous for staving off a Communist takeover of Italy, thus clearing the way for the sixty-two incompetent and corrupt pro-American governments that have ruled Italy since World War II.

  As Nutwing led me across his office, I noticed the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. They were part of his collection of memorabilia from the execution of Benito Mussolini. Those two meat hooks had been used to hang the bodies of Il Duce and his mistress, Clara Petacci, upside down at a gas station just outside Lake Como in 1945. Word around the office was that Nutwing identified with Il Duce, and that he kept the meat hooks on prominent display as a reminder of the fate that lay in store for those who ran afoul of his intimidating Il Duce-like outbursts of temper.

  And he was an intimidating figure—a blimp of a man who weighed more than three hundred and fifty pounds. Like a lot of overweight people, Nutwing could exude good humor, bonhomie, and a kind of deceptive innocence. He reminded me of the cartoon character Baby Huey, the diapered, oversized duckling in Quack a Doodle Doo, who would exclaim, “I think you’re trying to kill me” just before he finished you off.

  He wore a baggy off-the-rack suit that didn’t quite make it around his enormous midsection. As a devoted follower of men’s fashion, I knew Nutwing would look much smarter in a made-to-measure Brioni. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. One of the first things I was taught when I joined the CIA was not to give away precious information.

  Once Nutwing seated me on his plush sofa, right under the meat hooks, he looked at me for a long time before speaking.

  “How are you…The-o-dore?” he asked, every drawn-out syllable dripping with false sincerity.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “But call me Higgy.”

  “Oh, yes, how absentminded of me… how absent… minded,” he said. “Higgy it is, of course! Theodore J. Higginbothem III. A fine name! A glorious family lineage! Well… Higgy… Do you know what next Monday is?”

  “The beginning of the work week?” I guessed.

  “It’s Labor Day, 2008,” he said. “The presidential election campaign is about to shift into high gear. I sent for you because I want you to go to Phoenix for a meeting with John McCain, who’s trailing Barack Obama badly in the polls. Nothing less than the fate of our Republic hangs on the outcome of this presidential election. I trust you will accept the assignment… I trust…”

  “I accept,” I said, glancing up nervously at the meat hooks.

  “Well then, Godspeed, The-o-dore….um, I mean Higgy. Godspeed! And remember what that great American rocketeer, Wernher von Braun, said: ‘Scheitern ist keine Option!’ “

  I nodded glumly. I speak several foreign languages, including Wernher von Braun’s native tongue, Waffen-SS. With the English translation of his immortal words ringing in my ears—“Failure is not an option!”—I set off on my new mission.

  When I returned to my house—my empty house, now that my wife Taitsie had absconded—I packed my enormous suitcase. Notwithstanding the blistering heat in Phoenix, I never traveled without at least three suits, with six matching ties to suit my mood. By the time I closed the suitcase, I could barely lift the monster. I cracked a private smile. The airline might charge for my luggage, but I was going to get my money’s worth.

  My mood sobered, however, during the long flight. By the time I arrived in Phoenix, I was feeling pressure in the base of my neck and the pit of my stomach. I get like that when I accumulate a lot of stress, which builds up toxins and weakens my immune system. And so, in preparation for my heart-to-heart with the R
epublican nominee, I booked a 90-minute lymphatic massage and colonic irrigation in the Alvadora Spa at the Royal Palms Resort, a five-star hotel in Phoenix.

  After the spa treatment, I slipped on a fresh yellow-and-blue striped shirt with a white spread color and cuffs, a tartan plaid necktie, and a tan-and-brown Italian linen houndstooth sports jacket. Thus attired, I felt confident I was better dressed than anybody in the Greater Phoenix Metropolitan Area, especially those illegal immigrants who put the money they saved by dodging taxes into their wardrobes. I took the elevator down to the Royal Palms’ lobby to wait for the McCain campaign escort who was scheduled to pick me up.

  I was expecting the usual nearsighted poly-sci major in torn jeans, flip-flops, and unwashed hair. But the woman who approached me certainly didn’t fit that description. She was a cotton-candy-hair blonde, and she was dressed in a Spandex cheerleader’s uniform—short shorts, a skimpy, navel-baring halter-top, and knee-high white leather boots. I couldn’t help thinking what good taste Senator McCain had.

  “Hi, I’m Skylar,” she said, “and I’m here to take you to see The Boss.”

  “H-hi,” I stammered, flustered by her bodacious appearance.

  “That’s Skylar with an a not an e,” she informed me.

  I never quibble about spelling when my mouth goes dry, and I let her lead me outside to a black Chevrolet Suburban. Leaning up against a fender was her friend, a tall brunette by the name of Tara.

  “Hello, Handsome,” Tara said.

  “Doesn’t he look just like George Clooney?” Skylar asked.

  “Better,” said Tara. “He’s not so swarthy.”

  I had never thought about it that way, but she was absolutely right. I got in the back, and the three of us set off for the trip to Sedona. With my usual sleuthing skills, I gathered from their endless prattle that Skylar was my sole escort. She had asked her friend to tag along to recruit Tara for the Arizona Sparrows cheerleading squad. During my career at the CIA (which I like to think of as the cheerleading squad for the U.S. of A.), I’ve done my share of recruiting. So I had a professional interest in listening to Skylar make her pitch.

  “I’m so blessed to be on the cheerleader squad,” Skylar said. “It’s given me, like, so many amazing opportunities in life.”

  “Opportunities?” Tara asked. “Like what?”

  “Like going to the jungles of Guatemala to shoot the 2008 Sparrows Cheerleaders Calendar.”

  “Omygod!” Tara said. “That’s totally radical.”

  The jungles of Guatemala were also a big seller with CIA recruits. But the CIA didn’t put out an annual calendar. Maybe we were missing out on something. I’d have to talk to Nutwing about that. I wouldn’t mind seeing Valerie Plame on a “Girls of the CIA” wall calendar.

  “And,” Skylar added, “like being given the fabulous opportunity of being the month of August.”

  “You’re THIS month?” Tara said.

  “Yes,” Skylar said, “this MONTH!”

  And she started squealing.

  And then Tara started squealing.

  And then both of them were squealing at the top of their lungs, and jiggling in their seats, and waving their fingers in some kind of secret Arizona Sparrows’ hand signal, and letting out earsplitting yelps.

  “Go Big Purple! Go Big Purple!”

  I tried to tune out their conversation, but that proved harder than expected, since every few minutes, Skylar shouted out another “Go Big Purple!” and pounded the car horn, jumped up and down in the driver’s seat, and jerked the steering wheel violently. From my perch in the backseat, I could only hope the rapture would subside soon.

  After a while, Skylar reached into the glove compartment, and produced a bottle of crème de menthe. As she and Tara took turns drinking from the bottle, I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. Where had I met these two before? Then I realized that they reminded me of Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis in Thelma & Louise. The resemblance was accentuated when Tara (the Thelma character) stuck her bare feet out of the passenger-side open window and shouted: “No matter what happens, I’m glad I came with you!”

  “Me, too,” I said, lying. I felt certain the car would soon be hurtling over a roadside cliff.

  It was obvious that Skylar and Tara had not a clue about the purpose of my visit with The Boss, as they called John McCain. My meeting was so hush-hush that no mention of it had been put on McCain’s daily schedule, which was handed out by his press secretary to the dozen or so print and TV jackals that stalked him wherever he went. It was my guess that McCain used girls like Skylar to throw the media off the scent when he had a secret visitor like me.

  For the next couple of hours, I settled back and eavesdropped on Skylar (“growing up, I took, like lots and lots of classes in cheerleading”). I idly watched the red rock slopes and the sweeping valleys of Scenic Route 89A whiz by—sometimes on two wheels—at 75 miles per hour.

  As we neared Sedona, Tara twisted around in the shotgun seat and faced me.

  “Are you actually going to meet The Boss?” she asked, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied.

  “Skylar’s a campaign volunteer in the McCain campaign,” Tara said. “Can you imagine that?”

  “No, I can’t,” I said, this time telling the truth.

  “But she’s never actually met The Boss,” Tara added.

  “That’s right,” Skylar said, flashing me a sad smile in the rearview mirror. “Like you’re blessed to be able to meet The Boss. He’s so Chuck Norris.”

  We soon pulled up at our destination a few miles west of Sedona on the banks of Oak Creek. The sun was high in the western sky, and its rays reflected off the brass-colored navy flight wings stenciled on the mailbox, which marked the entrance to McCain’s ranch. The place was crawling with Secret Service whispering into their sleeves and wearing their customary Ray-Bans.

  We headed down a dusty dirt road past the parking area, where I noticed a black Escalade with its tailgate down, and two Secret Service chase cars. The Escalade displayed a flag with eight gold stars, forming the Big Dipper and the North Star, on a dark blue field. My son Vier’s seventh-grade class had recently studied the flags of the fifty states, and I recognized the pennant on the Escalade’s bumper as the state flag of Alaska.

  That struck me as strange. What was even stranger, however, was the presence of several giggling teenagers—one of them obviously pregnant—and their mother, an attractive woman in her mid-forties who, despite the wall-to-wall security, was sitting on the edge of the tailgate, her pencil skirt hiked up to mid-thigh, cleaning a Remington shotgun.

  As my car slowed down to make a turn, Tara pulled in her feet and pointed out the open window at the woman with the shotgun. “I’d like to do my hair just like hers.”

  “That’s a snap,” Skylar said. “You just gotta back comb your hair, then smooth it, make a half ponytail, clip it up, and arrange the hair so the clip doesn’t show.”

  “Since when are you Harriet Hair-Do?” asked Tara.

  “When you’re one of the cheerleader captains, you’ve got to know lots of stuff,” Skylar replied with undisguised pride. “Hey, “she added, nodding toward the woman with the up-do hairstyle, “check out her peep-toe shoes. How cool is that?”

  The question was still echoing in my ears as we approached what Skylar described as The Boss’s guest bungalow—a sprawling adobe house that was more elaborate than any bungalow I’d ever seen. Two more Secret Service agents stood guard and when I got out of the car they wanded me and took away my BlackBerry. I guessed The Boss didn’t like people checking their messages while he was talking.

  Skylar hopped out of the car, adjusted her halter-top so only the top half of her breasts were showing, and led me to the front door.

  “Wait inside, Handsome,” she said. “The Boss’ll be over to see you in a jiff.”

  She reached up and gave me a peck on the cheek, and slipped me her Arizona Sparrows Cheerleaders business card.

/>   “Give me a call sometime,” she said with a wink. “My cell phone number’s on the back of the card.”

  As I watched Skylar shimmying down the front path in her Spandex short shorts and knee-high white boots, I knew that I would not be calling her. Maybe other men would crave a roll in the hay with a statuesque and willing blonde like Skylar, but I had higher standards. I would only allow myself to stare ravenously until she disappeared from sight.

  I walked inside the guest bungalow, making note of the Native American rugs on the floor, the potted cactuses, the walls covered with photographs of famous people—presidents, world leaders, and Arizonan sports stars like Randy Johnson, Curt Schilling and the boxer Mike Tyson. (I recalled that McCain loved boxing and wanted the Feds to regulate it.) With mild horror I perused some photographs of McCain’s wife dressed in bright neon-colored leather outfits.

  My tour was interrupted when I heard the front door open and close. Two Secret Service agents came into the living room, both in casual attire. They did a quick visual sweep and disappeared. I merited no more interest than one of the potted saguaro cactus. A moment later, in walked McCain himself. He was a lot shorter than I remembered from the few times I had stood in the back of Senate Intelligence Committee briefings, while he sat up on a raised dais. Close up, you could see the throbbing muscle in his jaw. His fists clenched and unclenched. He looked like he wanted to smack somebody in the face.

  I had expected a nice handshake and a little casual chitchat. After all, he had been running for elective office for the past twenty-six years. You’d think he had the personal smalltalk stuff down pat. But apparently not. All he said to me—without even making eye contact—was: “Let me see what ya got.”

  He sat down across from me in a worn leather chair. I opened my briefcase and removed a three-inch-thick black notebook—the focus of my work for the past four years. The cover was stenciled with a title—The Obama Identity—and the contents were tabbed and divided chronologically, from birth to the present.

  With his short, bent arms, McCain grabbed the notebook out of my hands and plopped it down in his lap. He started to read the file. I noticed he twitched a lot. His beady little eyes darted all over the place. He read without emotion. No head nodding, no head shaking, no nothing.… After a while, he stopped reading and started skimming the file, rapidly turning the pages without possibly being able to absorb its contents.