Tehran Decree by James Scorpio Page B

turned to his chief of staff with a
wistful expression.
    ‘You know...one day, I’m going to come here in
cognitio, and give this place the tourist thrashing of its life.
When you’re president you get to see nothing but police barriers,
security staff and blurred faces. I just want to see the place for
what it is...warts and all.’ The driver pushed a clean air button
on the fascia panel and a near silent fan started to extract the
remnants of the cigar smoke. The president looked askance at the
driver as if the very action of cleaning his cigar smoke from the
car amounted to the wanton destruction of a sacred substance. He
was about to chastise the man, then thought better of it --
president Garner had taken a course in personal paranoia, and how
to control such vexations in the face of annoyance. He turned away
from the driver and induced a smile which spread across his face
like butter on hot toast. The great trick with motorcades and the
ever ogling public, was to actively enjoy it, regardless of how
your actual feelings were.
    The crowds and cheering increased as the motorcade
pulled onto the Darling Harbour concourse and slowly made its way
to the Museum. American flags abounded with blotches of Australian
flags thrown in, providing a glitzy, polka-dot background. A sense
of excitement pervaded the president’s limousine and the president
continued to smile behind an increasing feeling of sickness in his
stomach. ‘Why did stomach disorders have to be so bloody
debilitating,’ he mouthed under his breath -- which immediately
made him think of his other great affliction the common toothache
?
    He instantly brushed it off for the second time, it
was the very last thing the USA’s top statesman needed at such an
important occasion. He pointed at one of the main museum buildings;
he remembered the steel and stone edifice from brochures he’d
studied back in the States. The car stopped and Garner alighted,
swaying slightly, as the cigar smoking incident took its toll on
his brain cells. Determined to make a good impression, he strode up
to the Museum entrance, surrounded by a bevy of security men. He
felt secure, cocooned with his own human shield, who helped to prop
him up, even though his guttural senses were now riding him
ragged.
    He clung discreetly to his two lateral security
agents just in case his visceral reactions got the better of him. A
vomiting spree in public was a dreaded faux pas to any politician,
especially a US President, and to be avoided at all costs. A
discrete water proof vomit bag, carefully folded, had been placed
in his side pocket for easy retrieval; but only to be used as an
absolute last resort.
    Ellen Monard along with a handful of agents brought
up the rear keeping close to the president’s back, shielding him
from possible assault from behind. Monard pushed her head forward
whispering discreetly in the president’s ear.
    ‘Breath in deeply sir, the air is fresher around the
harbour area, it’ll clear the cigar smoke from your lungs,’ Garner
did as he was told and breathed in heavily sticking out his chest
in the process. His face took on a gray pallor and slowly began to
turn white. Garner continued putting on a brave front but realised
the damage was done and an incident wasn’t too far away. The horror
of the occasion was that he couldn’t turn back without creating a
media incident; he had to go on.
    The only option left to him was self control. Garner
knew it was possible to prevent regurgitation of the stomach
content, but it needed intense control via self suggestion, which
was the basis of all hypnosis; but in spite of this, sooner or
later, the body would probably have its way.
    If he could control himself until he managed to get
back to the reinforced presidential vehicle; he could throw up for
all he was worth. Many underlings would be all too please to clean
up after the president; it would be a memory worth saving for the
grand kids... ‘ Believe it or not ... I