PRESENT DAY...
COUNTRY: QURAC
Located: Persian Gulf. Borders Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Oman.
Continent: Asia
Currency: Maal (مال)
Population: 5.5 million
GDP: 93,352.02 USD
Qurac is an absolute monarchy, ruled by a dictatorial sultan and his family. The country is a former British protectorate. The nation is close ally of the United States. Also mentioned was the fact that America leases Kemal Air Base in that nation, specifically in the Tiaret region, which has been there for some time. The lease renewed in late 2005 and concludes in late 2014.
In one of the many spacious conference rooms in the Laurel Lounge in Camp David sat three men. The table, and the room for that matter was largely vacant. After all, it was early in the morning and the persons demanded at this morning conference were few and far in between. The President of the United States, well-rested and casual was sitting at the head of the shiny maple table. His normally gelled hair, lacked any hair product at the moment and was rather wavy from his morning shower. His handsome face, once covered in sexual bliss a mere hour ago, was now stern and focused.
To his right, his trusted Chief of Staff, Cyrus Beene dour and balding was combing through freshly faxed briefing material. To his left sat Jared Marshall, the Grant Administration's National Security Advisor.
ADM Jared Marshall was an old Navy friend of the President. Tall, burly with a medium brown complexion, taupe colored eyes and a friendly voice, he had held up in the looks department, much like his good friend despite his 53 years. The friendship was almost familial. They often joked that they were brothers from another mother despite Grant's wealthy politically connected background and Marshall's humble roots as a Black man from the Deep South. So when the time came to fill his cabinet, the President looked no further than one of his best friends.
Fitzgerald was godfather to Jared's boys Michael and James. Jared's wife Shanae was a good friend of Olivia's and the two had bonded over being mothers, married to powerful men and chief of all, being career-minded Black women who were often walking the halls of power alone.
Hence the Marshalls introduction into the President and First Lady's inner circle over the past 10 years. (In addition to also being among the first Democrats to jump ship during the election and endorse Fitzgerald).
The weekend at Camp David was supposed to be a gathering of good friends, drink and fun. Skeet shooting, hiking and golf for the men. Tennis, gossip and good wine for the women. However the nature of the Presidency always demanded one be on the job.
"I have to admit, I am not crazy about Shareef's statement, but we need that air base." Fitz commented on a proposal made by his venerable Secretary of State, Verna Thornton.
The husky voice diplomat had pushed for the United States to return two Guantanamo Bay prisoners in exchange for negotiating the terms of the air base. This had been her pet project and she was not fond of the President stepping on her toes.
"With all due respect, Mr. President, we are wasting time! We need-"
"Shareef's statement was one of bluster. The Quraqi forces need our air support if they are going to fight of Isis." Intoned Jeff Morton, the southern syrupy Secretary of Defense.
"With all due respect, there is hardly any intelligence that supports..." interrupted Director of the CIA, Adna Salif, the slinky former operative who had worked her way up the ranks. She was hardly a wallflower, despite her exotic looks and sultry disposition.
The three of them bickered, their disembodied voices piling on top of each other. Fitz, Jared and Cyrus rolled their eyes and exchanged meaningful looks. Typical of the National Security Council. Whether they were in person or over the phone, the defending of the turf always happened.
The many dangers of having a President with an extensive foreign policy background for most in the Foreign Policy apparatus was the inability to break through to the President. For one thing, he kept a small, elite circle of friends and advisors, keeping most at a very polite distance. Golf, state dinner, maybe even an invite for wine in the Residence, sure. But Camp David, the Vermont Ranch, no. He knew the game. The overeager Generals from his time as a Secretary of the Navy. The sketchy intel from his days as Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence. Most importantly, he was too savvy to see through the self-interest and gamesmanship of D.C.
You cannot bullshit a bullshiter.
If most were being honest, they were burning with envy that Marshall and Beene were sitting side by side with the President while they were on the phone, fighting for his attention.
Truth be told, if the President had it his way, he would be under the sheets with his wife, his face buried between her legs and exploring what he considered the "eighth world wonder."
Secret Service practically had to drag him out of bed this morning for this conference call.
So if that was the case, the question had to be asked: In a lovely weekend to Camp David with his family and friends, why had the political opportunist Jake Ballard been invited to this trip, while they were vying for his attention over the phone?
"I don't like him." Alicia Grant gripped as she poured a shot of cognac into her Earl Grey.
Olivia giggled as she observed her disgruntled sister-in-law across the breakfast table. James, Abby, Olivia and Alicia. The old gang, plus a new member Shanae Marshall were gossiping and giggling over a delicious spread of devil eggs, fried oysters and pumpernickel toast.
The group had been having a good time dishing it out ( A Senator was screwing his intern, Abby was dating a new guy and James was entertaining a pundit gig on BNC). However the topic of conversation had turned to the odd man out, Jake.
It was day two at Camp David and so far everyone was having a blast. The kids were getting along splendidly, bringing back memories for the old gang about their youthful exploits. Shanae lived for hearing about how crazy everyone had been before she had befriended them. Their husbands were finally unwinding from their stressful jobs, despite being locked away in the conference room for prolonged periods of time.
However the one point of contentious was Jake. Despite his shiny veneer of political prowess in front of cameras, socially the guy was a joke. Secretly Olivia had enjoyed every minute of the poor bastards humiliation. He was so out of his depth being around so many accomplished (specifically women) people who were not impressed by him. The Marshalls sneered, The Beene-Novaks rolled their eyes at his frat-boy attempts at humor at the dinning table and the kids ignored him.
"Honey, you are preaching to the choir." Shanae said, flipping her dreadlocks over her shoulder as she reached for the oysters.
"Mm. Seriously Liv, the guy is a douche."
"With a capital D."
"Double D's with those tits he calls a chest. Word to the wise, never go running with him EVER, gross." James snarked. The table was raptured with laughter. Olivia laughed the hardest.
In war, first, you must isolate, then you ambush. Her and Fitz's friends were the cream of the crop. The folks who made Washington D.C go around. For a guy like Jake who's whole identity was wrapped in the artificial and his proximity to power, there would be nothing more demoralizing than this weekend.
Sure, it was high school and juvenile on Olivia's part, but he needed to learn his place. He needed to know that the glittery world of power existed and that after this weekend, he would never savor the sweet taste of being a part of it.
Inmates on death row were given their last supper. Why not torture the bastard one last time before they fired him.
Last Night...in Washington D.C
Quinn Perkins was at Founders, a popular watering hole for D.C movers and shakers on Connecticut Ave. It had all the cliché elements of a D.C hotspot. White table clothes, overpriced menu items and the smell of overcooked meat.
The grey-haired Senators, journalists and strategist were making deals and sharing war stories.
But the young brunette had little to no patience to ass-kick. Going home to her lonely apartment after a week of 18 hour days was not appealing. She would love to get laid, but the talent in Founders was non-existent. Married men were so Stanford and her vibrator needed a new set of batteries.
Bourbon it was. She was only on her second glass when she had noticed a familiar bad dye job out of the corner of eye.
Chandler...
However, it was not just Chandler. It was Chandler at a table looking close, hell more than close with none other than Congressmen Shaw, the fresh-faced Democratic back-bencher. The guy had screwed more women in his short time in this town than he had passed legislation.
Though that would not stop Chandler from hitting on him. Quinn wondered how Jake would feel...
She slid off her bar stool, smoothing out her navy Bill Blass skirt suit and made her way over to the adjacent table. Why not fuck with her food before eating it?
"Hi!" Quinn said, her face breaking into a forced smile. The occupants reaction to her presence could not be more diametrically opposed. Congressman Shaw's handsome face was beaming. His dark eyes taking in Quinn's wavy hair, curvaceous form and inviting dimples while Vanessa Chandler steamed with anger. Her brown eyes were simmering with jealously. Leave it to Perkins to steal the show.
"Quinn, fancy meeting you here!" Shaw responded, getting up to plant a friendly kiss on her cheek. His hand brushed a little too low on her back when he greeted her.
Quinn smiled so wide, she looked demented.
"Yeah, well, you know me, a good pour and I am here. How is it going? With the-"
"The Congressman was just leaving." Vanessa cut in, trying to end the exchange.
Quinn looked down at Vanessa, subtly raising her left eyebrow. How insecure was this chick?
There was an uncomfortable silence that had befallen the threesome. Awkward.
Like the consummate politician he was, Shaw buttoned his blazer, cleared his throat and nodded.
"Ladies, have a lovely night. Vanessa, I will see you next week." Vanessa and Shaw exchanged a meaningful look, leaving the two young women in a daze of his delicious cologne.
Quinn plopped down across from Vanessa and took a long gulp of her drink.
"So...you two look cozy." Quinn sneered as Vanessa readjusted herself in the seat.
"Save it, Perkins. I know what you are thinking." She snapped back, folding her arms over her busty chest.
"What? I have not said anything. Though I do wonder how-"
"We are not exclusive."
"But he gives you exclusives, right? Or is that just work? That's how it works with all of them. Jake, Shaw, the guy at the State Department." Quinn giggled cockily, taking another sip. Fuck, this bourbon was good.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed to slits as she leaned in, giving Quinn a better idea of how inappropriate the little black dress Vanessa was wearing was for a place like this.
"You know you act like you are sooooo innocent. Like you haven't fucked powerful guys to get ahead."
Quinn giggled a little too loudly, drawing attention to their table.
"I fucked powerful guys because they were there. I am a busy girl with no time for relationships. I have been since I landed a White House internship sophomore year. You really think I have the time to sift through the dating pool of men our age? I want to be Chief of Staff of the United States by the time I am 40. Pretty darn realistic seeing that I am the First Lady's Chief of Staff and I am only 28. So no, I don't fuck men for power. I fuck them for amusement, unlike you who makes Rush Limbaugh look like a fucking Peabody award-winning journalist. I have my clout in this town because of hard work and ambition, but who am I to slut shame."
Vanessa rolled her eyes, feigning boredom.
"That's the problem with all you Grant sycophants. Too busy drinking your own Kool-Aid."
"That still does not explain why you are busy making googly eyes at Shaw. Nice of you to fuck my sloppy seconds."
"For your information, I am not fucking him. I am interviewing him for the Sunday edition." Chandler was so full of herself that Quinn would enjoy knocking her down a peg before finishing her glass and getting the fuck out of this cesspool.
"Look Perkins, I don't know what your beef with me is, or your boss's for that matter-"
That. There. The delusions of women and men like Jake and Vanessa. Always fighting to get inside the bubble, yet battling against those who hold the keys.
So Quinn laughed. She laughed because she was tired. She laughed because she could not wait until the article that was to be published in New York Magazine profiling Chandler's trashy unethical ways.
"Look, you are collateral damage. If the Big Boss wanted to come for you, she would have destroyed you and that tacky T.J Maxx clerance rack dress you are wearing. If I were you, I would be very careful."
Quinn downed her drink and went for the kill.
"You should know, the Grants, they are on to you. I am not a pawn or a delivery girl. Just a messenger. If I were you, I would pack my ball up and go home. You are done in this town."
Vanessa's pretty face was clouded with confusion. She really had no idea.
"You see, the Grants are pretty smart. I've been a part of their circle from the beginning so I know how this works. They keep a three-tier social order. Almost like colleges. Tier three, the donor class. Movie stars, Hollis Doyle, Wall Street barons and the like. They keep the coffers full, grease this machine. They get invited to state dinners, the residence and big events like Fitz IV's christening. They are made to feel important, even though they are merely necessary evils. Tier two, the D.C set. Politicians, lobbyists, and journalists. They get invited to the Cali home, play golf with the President when he wants an extra provision in the budget of if the First Lady wants to assuage the crazies in the party. Then there is Tier one. The platinum circle. The folks in Camp David now. We all know your little boy toy Jake is not worthy of such company. So if I were a betting woman, I'd say, they were buttering him up until they give him the walking papers."
Quinn said all of this with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for children on Christmas Day when opening presents. Chandler's bewildered expression was the icing on the cake.
"Look you are drunk, so I am going to ignore the crazy you just spewed. I know for a fact the President adores him."
"Do you, or is that what he tells you when he's hittin' it? Look, I am just telling you because I have some semblance of sympathy. Jeanne has already cut you access in the Briefing Room. Cut your loses and dump the loser. He's not that good in bed from what I have heard."
With a mocking smirk, Quinn downed her drink and left a confused Chandler with the tab and a lot to think over...