Fractured rays of early morning sun oozed through the cracked curtains and danced across the Resolute Desk—the only light offered in the ornately styled oval room. His untouched breakfast tray sat on the right corner where the chef had placed it earlier that morning at six.

Niko Volkov, known to the free world as Barry Soetoro, The President of the United States of America, had other issues on his mind, and eating wasn’t one of them. He had barked his final orders at his detail, demanding not to be disturbed for any reason. That is, until eleven-forty-five because at noon, as the snow fell on an otherwise blustery January day, he would relinquish his role as POTUS to the first woman, to hold the title of President of the United States.

His attempt to shape the Supreme Court to his liking fell on deaf ears, as had his attempt at a third term, when the people who demanded real change, voted their voice. Nevertheless, the man shaking hands with the new President, Dr. Elizabeth Hirt, would not be him. Niko would be long gone. His next assignment was already in the works, and in less than a month, he would assume a new identity and attempt to install the New World Order’s Socialistic agenda on another nation of wealth.

Contrary to popular belief, the Resolute Desk did not have any secret compartments that Niko could find, but the escritoire, an extravagant piece of engineering workmanship that was built into the center section of a three-piece bookcase, held plenty of hidden secrets.

Niko pulled a series of drawers and knobs on the escritoire, and the center section of the bookcase moved forward to reveal a metal door. Earlier in his first term, he had engineered a tunnel running under the West Wing of the White House to the basement of the Smithsonian National Museum.

At eleven-thirty, his replacement would arrive, and Niko would leave and blend into the DC crowd blocks from the White House. Until that time, Niko was more interested in the secret compartment that protruded from the spiraled newel on the leftmost bookcase. He extracted a bottle of Stolichnaya Elit Vodka, two rock glasses, and a leather-bound satchel that held all his secrets. He retreated to the soft leather chair at his desk and poured himself a glass of the finest Russian Vodka, while he studied his next assignment.

Niko thought back to the beginning of this assignment. The abduction and supplanting of Barry Soetoro went off like clockwork. Niko attended as many events as he could to perfect Soetoro’s speech and mannerisms, notwithstanding his obnoxious air of entitlement, or his overzealous Kevin Bacon double-step shuffle. Niko, a full-blooded Russian, was chosen by The Order to become the replacement. At six-one and one-hundred-eighty pounds, he had the same measurements of Soetoro. His rare tawny-weathered skin color sealed the deal, and the Good Doctor, a master of facial and cosmetic surgery, felt the adjustments would be minor.

For his part, Barry, who played golf almost every day, induced his own demise. His arrogance oozed with entitlement. He was a downright cheater, and nobody—wanted to play golf with him more than once. His treatment of all those who he felt were beneath him, disgusted his Secret Service detail, and they paid less and less attention to their charge.

Barry’s normal drive from the tee sliced deep into the thick woods, and while his detail searched for the ball, he would walk further ahead of the group. Out of view, he would drop a ball—just off the fairway into the manicured ruff. The detail knew this and always searched well into the woods. Maybe too well… until one day, the switch went off without a hitch.

Niko turned toward the bookcase when he heard the knock. He pressed a button on his laptop, and his monitor filled with the face and torso of the man on the other side of the door. The Good Doctor had outdone himself once again and would receive a just reward. Niko’s double was his spitting image, and as well—a duplicate of the late Barry Soetoro.

Niko stuffed his laptop and leather satchel into his attaché case. With a remote device, he adjusted the room’s lighting and opened the secluded escape door. His carbon copy entered.

Niko and the new Barry Soetoro had rehearsed this day in advance, but he ran through the procedures once last time. “At a quarter to noon, summon the detail. They will be just outside that door. Show your face at the Inauguration and disappear.”

The man nodded.

Niko sat at his desk for the last time. He filled the two rock glasses and handed one to the impersonator—that one, lined with Polonium-210.

“To Mother Russian,” Niko said.

“Dasvidaniya,” said the double.

The two men shook hands, and Niko pointed to the presidential chair. “Have a seat Mr. President.”

The new President Soetoro took his seat. Seconds later, his head began to shake, and then he choked. Niko activated the escape door and walked toward it. A smile spread across his face as he pocketed the two empty rock glasses and placed the bottle of vodka in his attaché. Yes, good-bye, he thought. However, we will never meet again. Niko watched from the tunnel as the door mechanically closed, and then pressed another button to seal the bookcase. From his jacket pocket, he removed his disguise kit and began to apply it.

When the Secret Service entered the Oval Office at eleven-forty-five, President Soetoro would be slumped in his chair—dead. Months later, the autopsy report would list the cause of death as cardiopulmonary arrest.

At noon, on January 20th, Dr. Elizabeth Hirt, America’s sweetheart, was sworn in as the President of the United States.

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