DUM dada dada . . . BISH dum dada dada . . . WOO . . .
Colin Powell, the Secretary of State, was still talking, but the President wasn’t taking in a word. His head might nod, his mouth might go “mmm”, but in his head, all he could hear was the theme tune of the film he’d seen last night. Man, that woulda been a time, all right. Forget this leader of the free world guff, he shoulda been a secret agent. International Man of Mystery. “Mojo baby, yeah!” He shouldn’t be in this limo on the way to the airport. He should be outside, running, flipping, dancing . . . dum dada dada . . . KAPOW . . . dancing, in a suit of crushed blue velvet. Dancing in a frilly cravat. Turning backflips, frontflips, sideflips, all the way down the highway. Girls streaming behind him, girls in Union Jack miniskirts, Japanese girls, screaming. The police and the security men, hell, they’d be dancing alongside. “Yeah baby, yeah!”
Up ahead, by that building, he’d come face to face with a man with a beard, in a turban and an army jacket. The music would stop, everyone would freeze. Then suddenly they’d both start dancing again, leg in, leg out .
“Mr President? MR PRESIDENT!” The President turned his head with a start. The SoS was peering at him. “You were humming,” he said. “Oddly. Sir, we’re nearly there. Air Force One is just up ahead.”
Air Force One, thought the President glumly. That was one hell of a dull plane. Should be pink and green, all Technicolor. A jumbo jet with a revolving circular bed. “Yeah baby, yeah!” He blinked. The SoS was still talking. Saddam, Iraq, whatever. He’d heard it all before. His nemesis, Saddam Evil. Holding the world to ransom. What was it he had wanted? One meeellion dollars? That Saddam, he was one way-ungroovy cat.
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“Sir!” barked the SoS. “This is terribly important. As I was saying, we still haven’t found the weapons of mass destruction . . . ”
Well, of course they hadn’t. The weapons were there, but just out of sight. Every time a rocket popped up, someone would be holding a pen just in front of it. Barrels of chemicals appear on the screen side by side, only to be obscured by two people drinking mugs of coffee. Scud missile platforms would extend, barely discernible behind people eating similarly-shaped items of fruit. The oldest trick in the book . . .
The SoS helped him out of the car and ushered him towards the aircraft. “Please concentrate, Sir. They must have them. We know what weapons Saddam likes: anthrax, sarin, mustard gas . . . ”
“Sharks,” said the President, dreamily, “with frikkin’ lasers on their heads.”
“We . . . uh . . . have no intelligence to suggest that,” said the SoS. “Even the British have no intelligence to suggest that. Mind you, it might not be a bad idea to cook some up. Can you get them in Niger? I’ll get Prime Minister Blair on the phone.”
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Ah, the British, thought the President, as he skipped lightly up the steps into Air Force One ( . . . dum dada dada . . . WHOOSH . . . ). The British, with their wacky clothes and prominent teeth. Perhaps he should have a British love interest on this mission. Someone famous, with a double entendre for a name. Tiny Burr? No. Wrong sex. Queen Elizabeth perhaps? “Yeah baby, yeah!” That could work. Regina by name, Regina by . . .
“Sir?” The SoS pushed a mobile telephone into his hand. “Sir, I have Prime Minister Blair on the line. He’s intrigued by your ‘sharks with frikkin’ lasers on their heads’ idea. He wants to announce that this was how Saddam was intending to attack the free world. The British press might buy it. For one thing, they had a shark sighting just last week, off the coast of Devon. And it’s August. They’ll buy anything.”
“Yeah baby, yeah!” the President murmured into the phone. “Does it make you horny, baby?”
“Um, yes,” said the Prime Minister. “Yes, baby. Actually it does.”