Ballots and Blood (20 page)

“That cuts both ways,” said Stanley. “Jefferson wants to privatize Social Security. We'll
kill
him with that if he's their nominee in Florida.”

“We can only hope they're that stupid,” joked G. G. to a chorus of laughter.

“So what's our strategy?” asked Jensen. He surveyed their anxious faces. His presentation was having the desired effect: they were petrified.

“Turnout,” said Christy Love.

“Correct,” said Jensen. “But not just any old turnout. It has to be targeted. They have their groups. We have ours: young people, union households, single women, African-Americans, Hispanics.” He threw another slide up on the screen showing turnout figures for the four demographic groups. “When we have won in the past, those four groups have comprised 52 percent of the electorate. That's in a presidential year. But their turnout has historically declined during off-years more than conservative voters. We call them drop-off voters. The most important to reenergize is our eighteen- to twenty-nine-year-olds and minorities.”

“Don't forget about union households,” said Dick Puck, the president of SEIU, a thatch of black hair and thick moustache highlighting beady eyes and a bulbous nose that looked like it was broken in three places. “That's 15 percent of the vote.”

“Yes,
very
important,” said Jensen, scrambling to pacify the union chief. “Especially in places like Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and California.”

“How do we turn them out?” asked Christy, lips pressed into a thin line. “They've got talk radio, FOX News, the vast right-wing conspiracy.”

“Three ways,” replied Jensen. “The ground game is key, but it's only part of the answer. We need better candidates and a favorable issue mix.”

“We need to be talking about jobs and health care,” said Puck. “Right now we're talking about Iran, nukes, and terrorism. That plays right into their hands.”

“How much longer will the sanctions bill tie up the Senate?” asked G. G., his facial expression telegraphing concern.

“I'm afraid two weeks,” said Stanley, a scowl plastered on his face. “I had hoped to move more quickly, but the Republicans are going to offer a trigger mechanism amendment, and that basically turns it into a military authorization vote.”

“We still have time,” said Jensen. “But if we're talking about Iran in October, we're dead.”

“Somebody needs to tell that whack job Salami he's strengthening Long's hand politically,” said Christy, picking at a plate of cold Chinese takeout.

“I don't think Salami is receptive to rational persuasion,” dead-panned Stanley. Everyone laughed.

“There's another aspect of turnout that is essential,” said Jensen, pulling the conversation back on track. “Hatred and fear are more powerful in motivating voters than simply enthusiasm for our team. We need to demonize the right and tie Long to the most extremist elements of his coalition in order to excite our voters.”

Stanley's face assumed a putty-like plasticity. He seemed ambivalent about Jensen's brutal honesty.

“That's exactly right,” said Christy, always up for a fight, her eyes aflame. “We can't let Long continue the charade that he's independent. He's a religious right, Wall Street, tea-bagger Republican. He's a fraud.”

“Tell us what you really think,” quipped Stanley, to laughter.

“Push him right,” offered G. G. “Morph him and his candidates into Andy Stanton. Hang the extremism and bigotry of the tea baggers around his neck.”

“In 1946 Arthur Vandenberg told Harry Truman if he wanted to pass a bill giving aid to Greece and Turkey, he'd have to scare the hell out of the American people,” said Jensen, turning off the PowerPoint to eliminate the visual distraction and give his words full impact. “The passage of that bill effectively laid the seeds of McCarthyism. The right is better at frightening their people than we are. If we let them do it this time, Andy Stanton won't just control the White House and the Supreme Court. He'll control the entire government.”

“Now that's a message my guys can get excited about,” said Puck in a gravely baritone, leaning forward and tapping the table with his finger for emphasis. “This is about having a check on the far right and Long.”

Stanley stood up and walked around behind his chair, his hands grasping its edges. “Great presentation, Tom,” he said. He glanced at every face. “I think Tom has laid out very clearly what we need to do between now and November. We'll do our part in the Senate. Once we get past this Iran sanctions vote, we're going to get the Republicans on record on a slew of tough votes. Christy, I need you and Dick and the minority groups to get that message out and turn out your people.”

Christy and Puck both nodded. Stanley walked around the table shaking hands and hugging necks, his body aide hovering at his side. As he departed the room, he signaled for Jensen to walk out with him. “Excellent,” he said. Jensen beamed, walking step for step with Stanley. “Can you do this same PowerPoint at the caucus lunch next week?”

“Absolutely,” said Jensen.

“Good. I think every member of our caucus needs to hear this.” He stopped, his eyes boring into Jensen. “What keeps you awake at night?”

Jensen thought a moment. “A military strike against Iran. It would rally the country the way the Cuban Missile Crisis did for JFK in 1962. The Democrats were going to lose ten House seats. Instead, JFK's job- approval rating shot up, and they gained two.”

Stanley nodded. “Me too. And I wouldn't put it past Long and Noble to do it so it was timed for maximum political benefit.”

“He won't think twice,” said Jensen. “First he puts Marco Diaz on the Supreme Court. Now he's threatening to start another war in the Middle East. This guy has got to be stopped.”

“I tried, remember?” replied Stanley morbidly. With that, he was gone.

16

I
n a warehouse somewhere outside Newark, New Jersey, one of the CIA's so-called “black sites” for the interrogation of terrorist suspects, Pat Mahoney lowered the wooden board on which a blindfolded Hassan Qatani's was strapped, his legs and arms immobilized by leather restraints, and laid a wet towel over his face. He leaned forward, his mouth inches from Qatani's face.

“You either tell me what I want to know, or you're going to drown to death right here and now,” he said through clenched teeth. “I'm only going to ask one more time: who else was part of your cell in the United States?”

Qatani breathed with great difficulty, the wet towel sucking against his mouth each time he inhaled. His fists were clenched tightly, his body shaking with fear, his brow furrowed. He was in great distress. Mahoney glanced at the CIA operative who was assisting him and nodded. “Do it,” he said.

The operative held a metal pitcher filled with water up at a distance of about two feet and began slowly to pour it over the cloth enveloping Qatani's face. He tried to shake his head from side to side to no avail, his screams muffled by the towel. The operative poured half the pitcher over the towel, creating the sensation for Qatani that he was drowning. After about ninety seconds of screaming and crying, Mahoney raised the board back to an upright position.

“Have you had enough yet, Hassan?” He paused as Qatani choked and gasped for air. “Because I'm just getting going. And don't think for a minute I'm going to stop until you start talking. Because I
enjoy
this. I
relish
watching you suffer. That's what you did to Perry Miller, and that's what you and your compatriots want to do to as many Americans as you can.”

Qatani remained silent except for his labored breathing. The veins in his neck bulged, his vena cava protruding, his nostrils flared, every fiber in his body straining for oxygen. Mahoney walked to the other side of the room and looked through the glass into the observation chamber, where the CIA black-site supervisor and a colleague observed the proceedings. He shrugged his shoulders as if to ask, “Do I keep going here?” The supervisor stared back impassively, raising a mug of black coffee to his lips. They were reaching the end of their rope in terms of CIA protocols governing EITs, or enhanced interrogation techniques.

Mahoney made an executive decision. He pulled his gun out of its holster and put the cold, nickel-plated barrel against Qatani's temple.

“Tell me what I want to know, NOW!” he shouted. “Who are the other members of your cell? Who are your handlers? Tell me, or I swear I'm going to kill you by either drowning you or pulling this trigger!”

Qatani's facial muscles twitched involuntarily. The CIA operative running the water board looked at Mahoney with a mixture of genuine concern for his physical safety and professional detachment. Mahoney knew neither the operative nor the Agency was happy with the way things were going.
I'm living on the edge,
he thought. But this was his interrogation, and it was sanctioned at the highest levels of the government, including the White House.

“Drown him,” he muttered.

The operative began to lower the board back in a reclined position. He took the damp towel, methodically folded it, and began to lay it across Qatani's nose and mouth.

“Istanna, istanna,”
said Qatani in Arabic. “Wait, wait!” His voice was muffled through the wet towel.

“Are you ready to talk?” asked Mahoney, putting his revolver back in its holster.

Qatani nodded his head violently; the motion restricted the restraints holding his skull to the board. Mahoney looked at the operative and nodded. The CIA operative removed the towel from Qatani's face.

“Naam aaywa,”
Qatani replied. “I will talk. Just please don't put me under the water again.”

Mahoney glanced back at the glass separating the observation room. He allowed himself a little smile. The CIA guys stared back, their faces like stone. They didn't like Mahoney's tactics. But they liked the results.

IN A SEEDY, SMOKE-FILLED BAR in a seedy section of Damascus, not far from the old city, a middle-aged Iranian man ordered another shot of vodka, tapping the top of his glass with his index finger. The bartender nodded and pulled down a bottle of Russian vodka, which had become the drink of choice during the Cold War, and poured. The glass filled slowly with the clear liquid.

Just then a petite woman in a short black dress, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels walked from the end of the bar and slid onto the stool next to the Iranian. She had been eyeing him for some time, their eyes occasionally locking. Her dyed blonde hair was teased into the mop top of a Kewpie doll, her large red lips projecting a sensual allure, the rose tattoo on her left shoulder blade suggesting exotic wanderings. She opened her small black purse and pulled out a cigarette, placing it between two fingers.

“Where are you from?” she asked as the bartender placed the glass of beer down.

“Tehran,” said the man.

“And what do you do in Tehran?”

“I'm an engineer.”

She placed the cigarette in her mouth and leaned forward, inviting him to light it. He picked up a pack of matches out of a nearby ashtray and lit her cigarette. She inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke into the air above his head. “An engineer. That sounds important. What kind of engineer?”

“I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you,” said the man, smiling.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Aaaah, a secret! So tell me your name, Mr. Secret Agent Man.”

He extended his hand. “Nasrin.”

“Good to meet you, Nasrin. My name is Marlin.”

“Marlin?” he asked.

“Yes, as in the fish.”

The man became aware of a presence to his right. He turned to see a thin, wiry woman in a black lace dress, jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes covered with mascara so thick she resembled a raccoon. She crossed her legs and leaned in his direction, her black pump tickling the back of his calf.

“This is my friend, Jasmine,” said Marlin.

The man shook Jasmine's hand. She giggled.

“So . . . would you like to party with us?” asked Marlin.

“What kind of party do you have in mind?”

“Whatever you like,” she said. “We can dance for you. I can give you a massage. We can do whatever we want.” She looked over at her friend, who giggled again.

“Sounds good. Where can we go?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Beit Al Mamlouka.”

“I know it. Very charming. Why don't you get a check, and we'll go there together.” The man agreed. She pulled up her dress, allowing him to gaze briefly at the garter belt holding up her stocking. “Like what you see?”

“Yes,” he replied. Having seen the goods, he waved for the tab and paid for their drinks. They stumbled out of the bar, the man thoroughly inebriated, and walked arm in arm to the hotel, cruising through the lobby and up the stairs to his room. Once inside the room, they raided the minibar, and he uncorked a champagne bottle, filling three plastic cups.

Marlin stood on the bed and began to do a slow dance, rubbing her hands up and down her body. “Put on some music,” she said. Jasmine kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed, stroking Nasrin's leg.

Nasrin swung his legs over the bed and reached across the bedstand to turn on the radio, fiddling with the dial. As he leaned forward, the closet door slid slightly open. The barrel of a .45-caliber pistol with a silencer held in a gloved hand peeked out. He never saw it.

Two shots were fired. Both bullets hit the victim in the back of the head, blowing the top of his skull off and pulling back a flap of his scalp, spraying the wall with blood, bone chips, and gray matter. His body lurched forward and slammed into the wall, crumpling to the floor, lifeless. His legs were splayed awkwardly to the side, his torso twisted away from the wall, his eyes stared unseeing, his head turned at an impossible angle.