Ballots and Blood (15 page)

Ross and Andy exchanged disbelieving glances.

“So what's the bottom line, Don?” asked Andy, pushing himself away from the table and crossing his massive legs. “What do you need from us?”

Jefferson wore the expressionless mask of a high-stakes poker player. “Three things,” he said, raising three fingers. “One, I'd like your PAC to endorse me, max out, and bundle contributions from your members.”

“That's three things right there,” joked Ross.

“No, that's just one,” laughed Jefferson. “Second, I'd like you to have me on the radio and the television show whenever you can.”

“I can do that,” said Andy. “The IRS is all over me, so we'll have to do as much of it as we can before you formally announce. Afterward, we can book you as a member of Congress talking about a legislative issue.”

“You can have him on to talk about the campaign as long as it's legitimate news,” said Ross.

“I know . . . we just have to be careful,” said Andy. “I've got to get this cotton-picking IRS audit behind me. It's a bear.” He turned to Jefferson. “Alright, what's the third thing?”

“I'd like Faith and Family Federation to play in the primary, with voter guides, phone banks, door knockers, the whole nine yards.”

Andy turned to Ross. “Can we do that?”

“We can,” said Ross. “But I don't recommend we talk about it with Don. Legally we can't coordinate. There has to be strict separation of church and state.”

Andy's face fell, but Jefferson nodded knowingly. “Once we get up and running, we'll post all the facts on Lightfoot's record on a Web site so it can be publicly accessed by any third party group who wants to play,” said Jefferson. “That's perfectly legal.”

“Beautiful,” said Ross.

“Lightfoot's a RINO,” sneered Andy. “I want him in the primary. Do whatever you have to do. The thought of that guy in the Senate makes me sick to my stomach.”

Jefferson reached for the pot of coffee and poured, freshening his cup. He took a swig, letting the dead air hang. “So what do you say, Andy? Can I count on you?”

“Brother, you can do more than count on me,” said Andy with a smile. “Trust me, the cavalry's coming.”

“That's what I like to hear,” said Jefferson. He looked across the table at Ross. “Talk to you soon . . . or maybe not.”

“Don't worry, we don't need to talk. We know what to do. This ain't our first rodeo.” Ross glanced at his watch in a prearranged cue. “Andy, you have a plane to catch.”

Andy rose from the table. Jefferson stood as well, extending his hand. Andy clasped it and pulled him close. “You're gonna make a great senator.”

“Thank you, friend,” said Jefferson, his eyes sparkling.

Andy and Ross walked Jefferson to the door, exchanging small talk. Then he opened the door and departed.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Andy, eyes dancing, hands clasped behind his back.

“I think we have ourselves a U.S. Senate candidate.”

Andy rocked on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

IN A CAVE ALONG THE Pakistan-China border that served as temporary headquarters for Rassem el Zafarshan and his top lieutenants, a man in his late twenties extended his arms and spread his legs as a member of Zafarshan's personal security detail searched him for weapons. After a thorough strip search, the guard nodded.

“He's clean,” he said.

The other guard escorted the young man down a tunnel with a torch, stooping to avoid stalactites and protruding rock formations. They rounded a corner, and he turned to the right into a cool chamber illuminated by lamps and candles. In the semidarkness sat Zafarshan cross-legged on a Persian rug, wearing a turban and a dark beard, his olive-colored skin shining in the flickering light.

“God is great,” said the young man. “It is a great honor to be in your presence, great leader.”

“Sit down,” said Zafarshan. The man complied, sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor. The guard remained standing, his finger on the trigger of a Russian-made Kalashnikov machine gun. “Who are you?”

“I am Afzaal Hakim. I am foot soldier in Pakistani Taliban.”

Zafarshan nodded. “What do you have for me, son?”

“I was sent to tell you that Hassan Qatani has been arrested. The FBI has him in custody. He was detained after boarding a flight from Washington to Madrid.”

“How do you know this?”

“My cousin was to meet him in Madrid and help him get to Islamabad. From there we hoped to transport him to one of our safe villages in Waziristan.”

“When did this happen?”

“Four days ago.”

Zafarshan's black eyes flashed with concern. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “God is great.”

The young man rose. “God is great.” The guard escorted him out.

Zafarshan's aide emerged from the shadows. “If they have him, they have not announced it. That is a not a good sign.”

“Very bad,” said Zafarshan. “He will be tortured. He will talk.”

“What do we do?”

“We move ahead with our plans. Nothing changes except the urgency with which we must carry out our mission. America, the Great Satan, will pay. This time the price will be far higher than before.”

“May Allah be glorified,” said the aide.

Zafarshan pulled on his beard, which he often did when anxious. He hoped the mullahs in Iran did not blink in the face of what was coming. For his part he intended to strike a blow so great America would wish for what happened to Harrison Flaherty and Perry Miller.

12

H
assan Qatani sat strapped in a metal chair in front of a table in the bowels of the Federal Detention Center in midtown Manhattan, leather bindings buckling his ankles and wrists to the chair. He stared straight ahead at his CIA interrogator, eyes shooting darts, beads of sweat on his upper lip. A series of photographs was spread out on the table. A two-way mirror on the wall allowed assembled CIA and FBI personnel to view the interrogation. A video camera mounted in the upper right-hand corner of the ceiling recorded the proceedings.

“Hassan, you can make this as hard on yourself as you want,” said the interrogator. “We know you murdered Senator Perry Miller. We intercepted the cell phone calls between you and your handler in Madrid.” It was a lie, told convincingly.

Hassan's eyes widened with recognition.

The CIA agent pointed to one of the photographs. It was a shot of a senior member of Zafarshan's terror network captured on a security camera at a hotel in Dubai. “Who is this man? Do you know him?”

“Hell will freeze over before I give up my brothers.”

“Suit yourself,” said the interrogator. “But your comrades don't seem to share your same devotion to the struggle. In fact, you're the fall guy.” He moved forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the table. “We have your Madrid handler in custody, and he's singing like a canary,” he lied. “He's not been nearly as reticent as you in telling us what he knows. In fact, he gave you up in about ten minutes. Fingered you so fast your head would spin. And that's not all. He's told us a great deal about Zafarshan's network.”

Hassan stared back, unblinking. “I will not betray my brothers, you infidel.”

The CIA interrogator's face hardened. “Have it your way.” He got up and walked to the door, exiting the room, and closing it behind him.

In the tight quarters of the viewing room sat two of the interrogator's CIA superiors, Patrick Mahoney, an FBI attorney, and a stenographer. The CIA agents sat slumped in chairs, watching impassively. Mahoney leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, wearing a scowl.

“He's not talking,” said the interrogator.

“So we gather,” said one of his superiors. He glanced around at the others. “I wonder how valuable he really is. He's the trigger man, to be sure. But you don't assign that job to someone indispensable.”

“He's a chump,” said Mahoney, stepping away from the wall. “An extremely valuable chump. He can lead us to others, both here in the U.S. and abroad. We need to get whatever information he has out of him by whatever means necessary.”

“Meaning?” asked the interrogator.

“Exactly that,” replied Mahoney. “Enhanced interrogation techniques. Sleep deprivation. If necessary, we waterboard him.”

The interrogator looked queasy. “That's going to require approval of the director.”

“I don't know if it'll be approved for a suspect this low on the org chart of Zafarshan's network,” said the interrogator's superior. “Khalid Sheikh Mohammed he is not.”

“You'll get the approval, or I'll get it for you,” snapped Mahoney. “This is an FBI case involving the murder of a U.S. senator that leads directly back to Zafarshan, who assassinated a U.S. vice president and currently possesses enough enriched uranium to detonate a dirty bomb in every major city in the country.” The veins in his neck bulged with anger. “If you don't waterboard him, I will.”

The interrogator looked at his CIA superior. The superior nodded. “I'll call Langley,” he said. “This will require a decision at the director level.” Exhaling loudly, he got up and left the room. Mahoney walked to the door of the interrogation room and put his hand on the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” asked the interrogator.

“I'm going to talk to Qatani.”

“You can't do that.”

“Watch me,” said Mahoney.

“You walk in there, and I'll file a formal complaint with the DNI,” said the interrogator, referring to the director of National Intelligence, the senior official in the intelligence community, who supervised the Counter-Terrorism Center. “You'll never work a covert investigation again.”

“You do that,” said Mahoney through clenched teeth. “Golden and Whitehead have both been briefed on this investigation, and they'll back me 100 percent.” He turned the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped into the interrogation room. Qatani looked up, his eyes flashing with anxiety.

“Hassan, I'm Pat Mahoney with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to ask you a few questions. I should warn you I'm not as patient as the CIA when it comes to getting answers. Do we understand each other?”

Qatani stared back, his black eyes unmoving.

“I want to know who ordered the murder of Senator Miller.”

Qatani pressed his lips together and pulled at the straps around his wrists.

“I'm only going to ask one more time: who ordered the murder of Senator Miller?” He reached across the table and grabbed Qatani by the back of the head, pulling on his hair and yanking his skull forward until it was inches away. “Answer me!” Silence. Mahoney leaned over and whispered in Hassan's ear. “You will either tell me who ordered Miller's killing, or I swear I will make you wish you never heard his name.” Letting go of his hair, he grabbed him around his neck with his hand in a modified chokehold. “Tell me now!”

BEHIND THE TWO-WAY MIRROR, ONE of the CIA interrogators became agitated. “Get Mahoney out of there,” he said. “He's losing it.”

“No he's not,” said one of his colleagues. “He's making Qatani think he'll do anything to get the information from him.”

“And if Qatani gets a lawyer and claims he was tortured, this whole interrogation is going to be subjected to congressional inquiry. Someone's going to get blamed.”

“Better Mahoney than us.”

QATANI'S EYES BULGED AND HIS face turned red from the pressure Mahoney exerted on his throat, but he still said nothing. Mahoney let go of his neck. Qatani gasped for air, his breathing labored. Mahoney walked over to the door and knocked twice. The door opened and a detention facility guard appeared.

“Take him to EIC,” said Mahoney, referring to the Enhanced Interrogation Center. “Put him on the waterboard.”

“Yes, sir,” said the guard. “But I'll need authorization before proceeding.”

“You'll have authorization.”

A second guard entered the room, and they began slowly to unstrap Qatani from the chair, then had him stand up, handcuffing his hands behind him. A third guard stood to the side, his sidearm holster unsnapped, index finger on the gun handle. The guards pulled out shackles and attached them to Qatani's ankles. They led him away, his ankle shackles clanking on the concrete floor as they departed.

IT WAS 8:10 A.M. AND the senior staff meeting was wrapping up in a conference room off the West Wing lobby. Charlie Hector kept his watch propped up in front of him as he ticked through the agenda like a NASA astronaut doing his final checklist before launch.

“Okay, go to the order,” said Hector, the bags under his eyes dark against his brown skin, nearly matching his shock of black hair. “Anybody got anything?”

“I've gotten a few questions about a terrorist detainee named Hassan Qatani,” said Lisa, her blue eyes intense. “Is he being interrogated? Does he have counsel? Those kinds of things. What should I say?”

A look of concern crossed Hector's face as if to say, “No one is supposed to know about this.” He turned to Truman Greenglass. “Can you get Lisa some guidance?”

“Not much,” said Greenglass with a sigh. “We're not yet publicly acknowledging he's in custody, though we will at some point. Legally, he's an enemy combatant, and he's being questioned about his involvement in the murder of Perry Miller as well as his connections to Rassem el Zafarshan.”

“Can I say the interrogation procedures utilized by the FBI have been reviewed and signed off on by DOJ?” asked Lisa hopefully.

“If it makes you feel better, sure,” joked Greenglass. Chuckles rumbled up and down the table.

“Guys, come on,” said Lisa, throwing up her hands in frustration. “I've got Amnesty International all over me and State like a banshee in heat. They've got the
New York Times
eating out of their hands. Give me something—
anything.
”