Ballots and Blood (21 page)

Marlin let out a scream, panicked. Tiny flecks of blood covered her face. “Why did you do that?”

A man with short-cropped black hair came out of the closet and unzipped a green body suit. His feet were clad with green surgical shoe covers. He walked over to the body and wordlessly placed two fingers on the neck, checking for a pulse.

“I couldn't take a chance on him seeing me. He stuck the pistol in his belt and pulled out a wallet, counting out bills with his gloved hands and laying them on the bed. “That's $2,000,” he said. “One thousand each.”

The women stared at the money, still in shock. The man said, “What—you don't want the money?”

“Yes,” said Marlin in a quiet voice. She picked up the bills with trembling fingers and shoved her portion into her bra, handing the rest to her friend.

“Pleasure doing business with you, ladies,” said the man. “If you become aware of any other customers who might be of interest to my clients, let me know.”

He walked out the door, leaving them alone with the body.

TRUMAN GREENGLASS CAME OUT OF his office and walked to his assistant's desk. “What have we got this afternoon?” he asked.

“You've got Tom Friedman doing another think piece on the Middle East peace process,” she said, her voice flat.

“Again?”

“Then the ambassador of Ghana, followed by a video hookup with General Slayton from Afghanistan.”

Greenglass screwed up his face. “Reschedule everything. Get Bill Jacobs on the phone. And find out when I can brief the president and the war cabinet.”

His assistant immediately dialed Jacobs's number and put him on hold. “Bill's on line one,” she said.

Greenglass walked into his office and closed the door. As he stepped toward the phone, he glanced at the image of a photo of his wife and children he used for a screen saver. A thought rattled around in his brain: should he have his family relocated to a safer place, maybe the Dakotas or somewhere else in the Rocky Mountain West?

“Bill, how are you?” he asked as he picked up the receiver.

“As good as can be expected.”

“How soon can you get over here for a meeting?”

“I'm already en route,” said Jacobs. “Ten minutes tops.”

“Good. I've cleared my calendar for the afternoon. We'll work around the president's schedule.”

“I need to give you a heads-up on something.”

“What?”

“I'm bringing Pat Mahoney with me.”

“That's a no go. It violates protocol,” fired back Greenglass. He despised Mahoney and had no intention of letting him in the Sit Room. Mahoney forced him to hire a criminal attorney and run up a $50,000 legal bill (so far) to deal with his fishing expedition into covert ops in Iran. DOJ and Phil Battaglia were currently in a royal spitting match over whether Greenglass would have to share classified information with the FBI.

“Too late. He's with me,” said Jacobs. “If you exclude him now, it'll make
you
look bad. And I'm going to insist he join us for the debrief because Mahoney is the one who broke Qatani.” He paused, reloading. “If you still want to try to stop it, you should know Keith Golden agrees with me.”

“Fine,” said Greenglass, his voice jagged. “But only for the debrief on the Qatani interrogation. After that, he leaves.”

“Okay, that works for me.”

Greenglass hung up the phone and stared at the photograph of his children, deep in thought. Mahoney was out of control, he reflected, and this latest development was only going to strengthen his hand. To make matters worse, Jacobs was giving the little weasel a guided tour of the West Wing. The whole investigation was turning into a nightmare for the White House.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE DOOR to the Situation Room opened, and the president strode into the room. Everyone at the table snapped to attention. Gathering for the meeting in addition to Greenglass and Jacobs were other members of the National Security principals committee: Johnny Whitehead, Charlie Hector, Secretary of State Candace Sanders, Secretary of Defense Alan Sweet, and Attorney General Keith Golden. Aides from NSC, CIA, and DOD lined the walls, witnesses to history. Also present was Pat Mahoney, his face on high beam. He and Greenglass sat as far apart as possible, having failed to even acknowledge the other when they entered the room prior to the president's arrival.

All business, Long sat in his captain's chair at the head of the table and spun in the direction of Jacobs. “I understand we've got information from this guy who killed Perry Miller. . . . What's his name again . . . Qatani?”

“Hassan Qatani, Mr. President,” said Jacobs, opening a leather- bound briefing book in front of him. “We've been utilizing EITs and they have yielded extremely valuable intel. With your permission I'd like to go ahead with what Qatani has told us.”

Greenglass could hardly believe his ears. Jacobs and the Agency dragged their feet on using EITs on Qatani, and did so only when DOJ, the Pentagon, and the White House insisted. In a typical CIA maneuver, Jacobs demanded a presidential authorization to do so . . . and now he was taking credit for their success!

“Proceed,” said Long, all business.

Jacobs clicked a remote control with his thumb, illuminating the screen on the wall opposite the president with a photograph of Qatani. With black hair, a beard, and hollow eyes, he looked disheveled, his stare vacant. “Qatani is a Saudi national who trained in Yemen with an offshoot of al Qaeda. The underworld of Islamic terrorism is rife with personal rivalries and schisms tactical and theological. It looks like he switched teams after the assassination of Harrison Flaherty, believing Rassem el Zafarshan was more creative—and had more financial resources with which to fight.”

“That's been the problem with the fixation of the intelligence community on al Qaeda,” said Long firmly. “It's not the organization that is the enemy; the real enemy is Islamic radicalism.”

Heads nodded around the table.

“So how did this Qatani guy get into the country?” asked Long.

“Student visa,” said Jacobs.

“Unbelievable,” said Long, shaking his head. “I can't believe we're not catching these guys when they enter the country.” He caught Greenglass's eye, who shook his head in disbelief.

“They're getting more creative about who they recruit,” said Jacobs. “Qatani was an ideal candidate. He came from a prominent Saudi family and had no known terrorist ties.”

“They're also going aggressively after Americans,” said Golden. “They're trying to puncture our security cordon.”

“What's Qatani saying?” asked Long.

Greenglass jumped in. “He's confessed to the murder of Senator Miller. He claims he acted with the full knowledge and funding of Zafarshan. He said the original plan was to kill Miller when he arrived home one night. Qatani said it was only after he saw Miller leaving the townhouse in Georgetown that he went back to his handlers and recommended staging it there.”

“You're telling me Qatani was going to the same dominatrix and just bumped into Miller one day?” asked Long, incredulous. “This was a total coincidence?”

“Yes. He never physically encountered Miller but saw him leaving the townhouse.”

“Incredible!” exclaimed the president.

“If I may, Mr. President,” said Jacobs, “I'd like Special Agent Pat Mahoney with the FBI to take it from here. He participated in the interrogation of Qatani.”

“Tell us what you've found out, Mahoney,” said Long.

Mahoney stood to his feet, buttoning his blue suit coat. “Mr. President, we at the FBI felt from the beginning there were aspects of Senator Miller's death that simply didn't add up. We began by checking the client list of the dominatrix service, which was how we traced Qatani. We found him from disposable cell phone calls. He also visited the service's Web site, so we traced the cookies to his laptop.”

“What's a cookie?” asked Long.

“It's a digital fingerprint that allows us to track where someone goes on the Internet,” said Mahoney. “Anyway, we ID'd Qatani but still had no motive. We never thought the sex worker did it. And once we began to delve into Miller's involvement in funding covert activity in Iran, we had the motive for what we now know was a political assassination.”

“Just like Harrison Flaherty,” said Golden.

“Yes, sir,” said Mahoney, deferring to his boss. “Zafarshan's MO is to strike fear into political leaders by making it clear there will be retribution if they act against regimes favorable to radical Islam. Where feasible, that means murder.”

“Well, it won't work with me,” said Long.

“He's murdered two prominent U.S. politicians already. I can't imagine he's going to stop there,” said Secretary of State Sanders, her blondish-brown hair pulled back from her face.

“Qatani says there are other targets,” said Mahoney. He clicked a remote control and a slide came up with a list of names. “Truman, Speaker Jimmerson, Secretary Sweet, the chairman of AIPAC, Reverend Andy Stanton.” He paused. “Mr. President, both you and Vice President Whitehead are targets.”

“Is he serious?” said Long, his eyes searching the faces around the table.

“Dead serious, sir,” replied Mahoney.

“Well, Keith, we need to alert these targets and provide them with enhanced security,” said Long, pointing at Golden.

“We're on it, sir,” replied Golden. “Every target is being notified as we speak.”

“Zafarshan's ambitions don't stop there,” said Mahoney, clicking another slide in the PowerPoint, this one showing the journey of enriched uranium from Iraq that a Zafarshan-funded crew of pirates hijacked. “Qatani indicates Zafarshan plans to smuggle the enriched uranium stolen from the tanker last summer into the United States and detonate a dirty bomb in either New York or Washington, DC.”

“Is it here yet?” asked Golden.

“Qatani says he doesn't know. He says these operations are highly compartmentalized,” answered Mahoney.

“When?” asked Long.

“Not clear. But Qatani says it won't happen in isolation,” replied Mahoney. “He says it will be detonated in retaliation for a U.S. or Israeli strike against Iran's nuclear facilities.”

The room fell silent as everyone around the table absorbed the news.

Long turned to Jacobs. “Bill, does Zafarshan have the technical ability to build and detonate a bomb?”

“We don't know for certain, Mr. President,” said Jacobs. “But the information on how to construct a dirty bomb is readily available on the Internet. He has the fissile material. It's not a big leap from there to a weapon carried in a suitcase, a briefcase, or the trunk of a car.”

“Like the Times Square bomber, only competent,” offered Hector.

“Exactly,” said Jacobs.

“Well, the United States cannot be blackmailed by some rogue terrorist into not taking military action against Iran,” said Long, his facial features hardened. “We're going to have to do whatever is necessary to cripple Iran's offensive nuclear capability. We need to harden all targets and protect the homeland. Because assuming Qatani's not lying, that's when Zafarshan will hit us.”

“We do have some good news on the Iran front, sir,” said Jacobs.

“What's that?” asked Long.

“Two nights ago in Damascus, we took out Nasrin Bahmani, the number-two engineer on the Iran nuclear program. He was a major player in Iran. They will feel his loss sorely.”

The corner of Golden's mouth turned up. “Any truth to the rumor he was lured into a trap by two prostitutes working for the Agency?”

“Oldest trick in the book,” replied Jacobs with a smile. “It works every time.”

“Good job, Bill,” replied Long. “Keep it up. If we're lucky, maybe we can slow down or cripple the program enough so sanctions can work. Otherwise, it's us or the Israelis taking them out by force.”

Greenglass glanced at the pensive expressions on every face. It struck him that what started as the death of a senator in a Georgetown dungeon had turned into a lot more than anyone bargained for . . . and might yet lead to World War III.

17

A
t a mansion in the Pelican Beach neighborhood of Newport Beach jutting out from a cliff and offering spectacular views of Newport Bay and the Pacific, the Orange County monied set lavished love and cash on the new “It” girl of California politics. Heidi Hughes was the former minority leader in the California Assembly who was now a state senator and was challenging the most despised Democrat in the Golden State, Senator Kate Covitz. An antitax, Tea Party, bomb thrower who counted Ronald Reagan and Sarah Palin among her heroes, Hughes was locked in a bitter primary with two nondescript white guys in suits. She was the hottest political commodity in the country among conservatives, as hot as the sun that hung in the late-afternoon sky, its rays burning through the mist blowing in off the Pacific.

The back deck and pool area were filled with tanned men in blue suits and polo shirts, accompanied by bejeweled, botoxed women in low-cut, sleeveless cocktail dresses, showing off their ripped biceps and calves chiseled by a daily regimen of yoga and Pilates. They towered in their designer heels, flashing jewelry and implants, some hiding recent eye jobs behind Prada or Chanel sunglasses. Everyone paid $2,000 a couple for the right to attend the reception and valet park their Mercedes, Range Rovers, and an occasional Lamborghini. The host committee raised or gave $10,000.

Hughes worked the room like a seasoned pro, standing by the pool in a striking off-shoulder yellow Bottega dress with black trim and open-toed black heels, hemline properly just above the knee, chatting up the donors and posing for photographs. Two decorative Styrofoam floats filled with orchids and lilies skimmed across the surface of the pool, blown about by a steady ocean breeze. A makeshift click line snaked across the patio and into the house. Inside, wide-eyed revelers roamed through the twenty-six-thousand-square-foot house, gazing at the expensive art on the walls and admiring the state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen and the breakfast nook overlooking the ocean.