The Land of the Free Read Free Page A

convenient smidgeon of Native American blood.  His complexion was light, his
features Caucasian, yet in the race conscious cauldron that was America, he was
considered multiracial.  He was a tall man with obvious muscle tone and a
square jaw.  His credentials were perfect on a superficial level to qualify him
as President of the United States.  But his strong look could not completely
cover the deep insecurity he carried in his role.  He was afraid of the Cobra,
and he was even more afraid that she saw it.
    “Good morning Hanna,” opened Torres
with an apprehension he hoped to hide, trying his best to appear confident. 
“It’s always a pleasure to see you first thing,” he added with only the
faintest hint of irony.  The Cobra made no effort to acknowledge the greeting
or break her permanent frown.  She merely tilted her head downwards slightly,
so the glasses on the end of her nose gave way to her unobstructed glare.
    With Torres still cringing,
Morgensen sat down opposite him at his desk and opened the folder she was
carrying.  “You need to get two points across to the Chinese,” she opened. 
“First, if they want continued access to our markets, they have to recognize
the difficulty this causes us with our trade deficits.  The capital flow from
us to them has to be re-circulated.  Accordingly, we expect their purchases of
Treasury securities to continue at their present percentage of trade.  Second,
we expect them to revalue the Yuan with respect to the Dollar.”
    “But that’s impossible,” objected
Torres, leaning back in his chair to try to put himself at ease.  “The very act
of buying our debt increases the value of the Dollar with respect to the Yuan.”
    Morgensen was unmoved.  “Then
they’ll have to get creative in other ways.  They can sell Euros, for example. 
If they don’t like that, they can invent their own solution.  But they will
revalue the Yuan.  Our position is final.”  She looked at him over her reading
glasses as if to further drive home the point.
    Torres wondered whether her
definition of “our position” held any regard for what he thought.  He fidgeted
in his chair and gripped his pen tightly enough to flex it visibly.  “Is there
anything else?”
    “You will be firm with them.  Use
threats if you must.  They have to see that you’re serious.”
    Torres said nothing, but inside his
head he was shouting:  I could send you to Beijing.  That should scare them
quickly enough .
    The Cobra rose and started towards
the door while Torres bid her goodbye with “Thank you, Hannula. ”
    She quickly turned and gave him a
glare that could cut through inch thick steel.  She hated her formal name, and
was sure that Torres knew that.  She turned her back and walked out the door
without any further comment.
    Torres was as entrenched in the
establishment culture of America as most holders of that office have been. 
Born in Charlottesville, Virginia, where his father was a visiting scholar at
the University of Virginia History Department, Torres was schooled in the
private schools of New England.  He then attended Yale, where he developed good
working relationships with many future power brokers.  The establishment
interests saw in him a perfect blend of their values combined with a background
that they hoped could bring together different cultural groups to build
consensus on issues of importance.
    Next in to see Torres was National
Security Advisor Mansour Kurdistani.  “Kurdi,” as he was known, had been
brought in for his knowledge of the peoples of Southwest Asia, while having
also proven his allegiance the progressive Western political and economic
orders.  Kurdi was always a welcome reprieve after Morgensen.  He was slightly
shorter than average with dark straight hair and a full mustache.  He walked in
a gentle rocking manner that had a way of putting people at ease.  He remained
on his feet as he began.  “Mr. President, I’ll leave the