by Samuel Cobby Grant
On one cold morning, three men were having a hush-hush meeting on a Scottish beach. They were heavily clothed to shield themselves from the extremely cold weather.
One was British, another German and the other a Frenchman. Though they were outdoors in a remote area where there wasn’t anyone around, they huddled closely together and spoke in undertones to prevent the unlikely chance of anyone eavesdropping on their highly secret conversations.
“How is our visitor doing?” the Frenchman asked.
“He’s OK. We are keeping him until it’s time,” the German replied harshly.
“I told you there was no need to abduct him,” the French said harshly, his annoyance evident.
“He would have been a torn in our flesh if he were free. Moreover, he can help us with information on how to penetrate the Gold House,” the German said impatiently.
It was quite obvious that they had gone through this argument before.
“So how do you intend to get him to give you this valuable information?” the Frenchman asked as if he were talking to a child.
“We have our methods,” the German said, raising his voice a bit. He was aghast that anyone could dare criticize him.
The British looked at them with disdain.
“Idiots” he mused, his gloved hands buried deep in his pockets.
“I hope your plan works,” the Frenchman said, ready to go with him.
“So when do we put things into high gear?” the British said, wanting to get out from the cold.
“Let’s see what our moles in the various pressure groups can conjure.”
“Haha,” the Frenchman scoffed at this seemingly childish assertion.
“Well, we also have the Vice President and the Party Chairman in our grip,” the German said, sounding condescending.
They looked at him then, with some respect.
“How so?” the British asked him with wonder.
“Let’s just say we made a movie of them doing something they ought not to have done,” he said with a smug.
They huddled closer and spoke for a time, working on modalities, agreeing on them, especially, on the modus operandi.
The beach resort Ataa Adjoa had gone with David Muller was a very popular one. It was always heavily patronized, whether day or night. They swam for some time before going to relax on the mats they had spread on a corner of the beach. She had put her head on his chest, sometimes on his belly as they rested without thinking about the effect she was having on him.
In the late afternoon, when the crowd was at its thickest, they decided to just take a stroll along the beach, meandering their way through the crowd. She deliberately fell behind and gave him a slip. She hid behind a coconut tree to spy on his futile attempts to locate her. She went in the opposite direction and sneaked into a small inconspicuous tent. It was just like any of the numerous tents on the beach
“What kept you,” Squadron leader Kofi Frimpong asked, arching his right eyebrow at her.
“I had to wait for the opportune time,” she said her face deadpan.
“What do you have for me?” he asked, curtly.
“I have a strong suspicion that I might have witnessed Issah Musah’s disappearance,” she said and went on to describe what she had seen on that fateful day. Of the sand disturbance and what she thought was a splash of a sub diving into the sea.
“I see,” he said rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Tell Abu to keep on keeping tabs on both the Veep and Siriboe. They are the jokers in the pack.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, straightening the helm of her bikini in readiness to leave the tent.
“Now that you are here, why don’t we…”
“In your dreams,” she said angrily and stepped out of the tent.
Despite the major successes President Awuku had chalked as a President, his detractors were not letting up on the pressure being mounted on him and his government at every turn.
He was being blamed for the rising cases of the Video Virus and for not doing enough to find a cure for it, though he was instrumental in getting a complete cure for AIDS even before he became President.
In fact, there was not even a single HIV case in the world due to the leadership role Ghana had played in getting rid of the virus. And he was not being allowed to have any leeway for not solving the Abena Dompey and Issah Musah issues.
He had no doubt on his mind that the secret sponsors of the pressures being exerted on him knew more about the cases, especially the Abena Dompey issue, and finding them could help crack the case.
He, as an astute leader, had had all codes and passwords Issah Musah knew of changed to prevent the security of the state from being compromised. He had even had all Safe Houses and moles offered more protection to forestall any breach.
He had ‘sleepers’ (a term for spies doing only legitimate business until they are asked to do more) who were in foreign lands to do all they could do to garner any information that could help unravel this puzzle.
Also, he had decided to make the European countries suffer for contiguously sabotaging his government.
“Atinga beyere Atinga,” he said to himself and smiled but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
He almost didn’t see his secretary enter the office.
“Sir, the US President requests a Hotline Call with you,” he said.
President Awuku thought for a little while.”OK, set it up,” he had said coming to a quick decision.
Setting up of the hotline took close to 2 hours to complete. His team was quickly assembled, and they included geopolitical analysts, psychologists, intelligence operatives and of course, a stenographer. Hurriedly, he refreshed himself, and the call was made. The image of the US President appeared on the screen.
“Good afternoon, Mr President,” the US President greeted courteously.
“Good afternoon, Mr President. To what honour do I owe this sweet call,” he said.
“It’s about the long withholding of aid from you concerning our development projects,” the American said and the worry lines on his face indicated that he was under a lot of strain.
“That’s all being arranged. It’s before Parliament but it will help a lot if your human rights record is without blemish,” President Awuku jabbed at him.
“We are on it. Our government’s policy of everyone being equal before the law is without question.”
“I know all that but your treatment of the native Indians is abhorring.”
The American said nothing but his mouth quivered, making him have some sympathy for him. He liked the man, he was a good man. One of the best US Presidents in recent years.
“How’s your family?” he asked gently.
“They are fine, thank you.”
“And your daughter. How is she now?” he pressed.
“Not doing so well, Mr President,” he said sadly.
President Awuku felt the man’s pain. His daughter had been battling some rare sickness for some time now and her doctors had not been able to treat her.
“Can you arrange for her to be brought here for treatment?” He said, realizing that could be one of the main reasons for the hotline call.
“That would be arranged at once,” the American said, his emotions soaring high. “Thank you for your humane nature. “The First Lady and I would be most grateful.”
“Don’t worry. I have a daughter too and I wouldn’t like anything to happen to her.”
“I will never forget this kind gesture, Mr President.”
“That’s alright, my private jet would touch down at JFK Airport in the morning to bring your daughter down for the best treatment we have,” he said assuring him that his daughter was going to be fine. The hotline came to an end.
He was suddenly distressed and after attending to affairs of the state which kept him in the office till evening, left to be with his own family.
“Daddyyyy!” his happy kids screeched and hugged him while his wife, the First Lady stood with her hands akimbo smiling at them. “Dinner will be served in about ten minutes,” she said and left them to their devices.
“So how was school?
” he asked them after they were done with dinner.
They were sitting in the Family Room catching up on their daily activities. The TV was off, but the tiny speakers were blaring choral music by Ephraim Amu and other musicologists.
“School was nice. We went to a museum,” Aba, his daughter, said enthusiastically.
“Wow that was awesome, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, we saw many wonderful things including the 12-yard sleeping cloth of Dr Kobina Ackon.”
“I see,” he said smiling. Dr Kobina Ackon was the first President to really embrace and implement domestication in its advanced form.
“Dad, do you know that Dr Ackon used to cover his women with the 12 yard cloth when they visited him?” Aba said, her innocent face looking up at him.
“Yes, I heard about it,” he said and smiled at his wife who had her head on his shoulder.
“Daddy, Atta Panyin says he wants to be a gynaecologist when he grows up,” Atta Kakra, the other twin said in the cute voice kids tend to have.
“Wow is that so?” their Mom said, joining in on the conversation.
“Yes, Mom. My friend said his father married his mother after looking at her vagina,” he said fiddling with his toy car.
“As for me I’ll be the President when I grow up,” Atta Kakra said, bright-faced.
“That’s great but before you become the President, you must be something else first,” he told his son.
“OK. Then I’ll be a gynaecologist too,” he said and smiled a secret smile at his twin brother, and their parents gaped at them with amazement.
“And what about you, young lady?” he asked his daughter.
“As for me I will be two at the same time. I will be a surgeon and a good mother like Mom,” she said and smiled at her mother.
“Awwwww, that’s so sweet,” her mother said and embraced her.
The first family shared quality moments till it was bedtime.
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