Ballots and Blood (42 page)

“Sex sells,” said Lane.

Singer smiled. “Don't I know it.”

“That's what people will want to read about. It has to be tastefully done, of course.”

“I get that. Totally.”

“Can I ask a question about the writing?” asked another one of Lane's deputies, an earnest young man with tousled black hair wearing a designer watch that looked like it belonged on an astronaut. “Do you plan to write this book yourself, or will you want help?”

Jillian shot a glance at Simms. He nodded. “I'm best at telling the story,” she said. “I could sit down with a writer and relate anecdotes. I'll need help organizing them in chapters.” Her eyes scanned the faces of her suitors. “I've got some amazing anecdotes. Me and my girls have been with movie stars, politicians, some of the most famous CEOs in America.”

The deputy nodded, his lips curled up, satisfied.

“We'll have you talk into a tape recorder for a few days, and then we'll take it from there,” said Lane. “If need be, we can bring in a book doctor.” She rolled her eyes. “We had one author, very famous but I won't say who, suffering from writer's block. He was coming up on the pub date and had written
nothing.
I moved into his basement for three weeks. He would come home after doing his TV show, drink scotch, and dictate while I typed away on a laptop. I slept four hours a night. It was murder, but we got the book done.”

“As I recall, it sold two million copies,” said one of the editors. Everyone chuckled.

“Bob,” said the general counsel, jumping in. “I don't have to tell you this book could be a legal land mine. Once it gets out Jillian is writing, we're going to get cease-and-desist letters from every libel law firm in town. Have you thought about that?”

Simms leaned forward, clearly prepared for the question. “Yes. A couple of preliminary observations. First, Jillian's got the credit card information on almost all her clients, so it's going to be hard for them to deny they utilized the services of Adult Alternatives. Second, we could obtain affidavits from former employees. We may ask the publisher to share in some of that expense, which will be minimal, and could save us a lot of legal bills down the line.”

“You're ready to name names?” asked Lane, her eyes boring into Singer.

“Yes,” said Singer. “If the price is right.”

“Good,” said Lane brightly. “I knew I'd like you.”

They all rose from the table shaking hands and making small talk as Simms, Dowdy, and Singer breezed through the lobby.

“Bob, we'll discuss this internally and get back to you,” said Lane.

Simms nodded and hugged Lane good-bye. She shook Simms's and Dowdy's hands as they stepped onto the elevator. When the doors closed, Singer turned to Simms. “How do you think it went?”

“Home run,” said Simms. “Alex loved you. My guess she'll bid in the mid-to-high six-figures. If we're lucky, maybe seven figures.”

Dowdy's face broke into a wide grin. “Now we're talking,” he said.

AT CIA HEADQUARTERS IN LANGLEY, William Jacobs sat behind his desk wearing a frown as he reviewed the latest top secret intelligence reports on Iran. As was usually the case, they were simultaneously encouraging and disturbing. Refined gasoline imports were cut by two-thirds by EU sanctions, creating gas shortages throughout the country. Targeted assassinations of key Republican Guard and nuclear engineers continued apace. But so did Iran's rush to the bomb.

The intercom on Jacobs's desk buzzed. It was Phil Brookings, the deputy director of the Agency and Jacobs's number two. “Bill, Zafarshan has posted a video of Daniels and Levell on a Web site he's used in the past for propaganda purposes. It'll hit the press in a matter of minutes.”

“They're alive?” asked Jacobs.

“They were when the video was shot,” said Brookings. “I'd like to bring some of our top analysts from the Zafarshan Task Force and watch the video together. They can give you a briefing so you can in turn brief the president.”

“Good,” said Jacobs. “Get up here STAT.” He buzzed his assistant. “Brookings is on his way up with a group. Cancel everything else on the calendar this afternoon.”

Five minutes later Brookings walked into Jacobs's spacious office, accompanied by three senior members of the Zafarshan Task Force, an interagency group headquartered at CIA that included FBI, Homeland Security, and Pentagon personnel. They sat at the large conference table by the window. Jacobs took his usual seat at the head of the table, his jacket buttoned formally, a cup of hot tea in his hand, his deep-set eyes scanning each face.

“Well, gentlemen, what have you got?” he asked.

“This video just went up on a radical Islamic Web site,” said Brookings. “Rather than prejudice your response with a play-by-play commentary, let me play it. It's not very long.” He picked up a remote control and turned on the sixty-inch video screen on the wall opposite the table. Also using the remote, he pulled up the Web site. The video appeared as a frozen screen. He hit “play.”

The visages of Norm Daniels and Victor Levell appeared, their images grainy and slightly out of focus. They looked pale and disheveled, with a stubble of beard growth. Daniels spoke first. “We have been told by those holding us we are being held captive for the crimes of the United States against the Islamic Republic of Iran,” said Daniels in a dull, flat monotone. “Specifically, they complain that the sanctions imposed by the West against the sovereign nation of Iran constitute an act of war. We have been treated kindly. But they say that if the sanctions are not lifted, we will become casualties in this war.” He stared into the camera, his eyes hollow and fixed. It sent a chill down Jacobs's spine.

The camera, which appeared to be on a tripod, turned to Levell, who seemed more nervous and agitated. “We hope our government will make a good-faith effort to negotiate with our captors. We believe the best outcome of the current conflict is a settlement with the Islamic Republic that would allow us to go home and Iran to develop peaceful nuclear power.” He squinted his eyes, apparently reading. “We apologize to the innocent people of Iran for the difficulties we and the U.S. government have caused. Please give our love to our families.”

A man wearing a white turban and a beard stepped in front of the camera, brandishing an Iranian flag. His brown eyes were fiery, but he looked more like an accountant than a dangerous killer. He wore glasses, his cheeks hollow, his smooth skin giving him a youthful appearance.

“Who's that?” asked Jacobs.

“Rajab Ali Marjieh,” said Brookings. “He's Zafarshan's top lieutenant.”

“Bad guy,” said one of the analysts.

Jacobs turned back to the video, where Marjieh was droning on in Farsi about the United States, the Great Satan, and its oppression of the Iranian people. One of the analysts translated.

After a few minutes Jacobs had seen enough. “Where are they?”

“They're no longer in Rome,” said one of the analysts. “Our hunch, based on the clothes they're wearing, the time elapsed since their capture, and the background of the video, they're either in Zafarshan's network of caves along the Pakistani-Chinese border, or they're in a safe house in southern Waziristan, in Pakistan.”

“How can we be sure?” pressed Jacobs. “They could have shot this in a warehouse in Italy, right?”

“Possible, but unlikely. We know of no case where they've recorded a video outside of their network of camps and safe houses.”

“How did they get out of Italy without being detected?” asked Jacobs. “The place is crawling with agents.”

“They probably got help from the inside,” said Brookings. “These guys have no shortage of money from the opium trade. They probably paid someone off.”

“Will they kill them?”

“Yes,” said the lead analyst. “There's only one way to get them out alive and that's diplomatic pressure on Iran from another country. If Zafarshan thinks he's going to get in trouble with the regime, he might release them.”

“Yes, but who?” asked Jacobs, rocking in his chair. “China? Russia?”

Brookings shook his head in disgust. “Good luck.”

“What about a rescue operation?”

“We'd obviously try, assuming we can get White House authorization,” replied Brookings. “But first we have to find out where they are.”

“Ali Marjieh is a killer,” said the lead analyst. “He's not a negotiator. They're in great danger. We don't have much time.”

Jacobs let out a sigh. “Alright, thanks everybody. Keep working it. Do everything you can to find out where this video was shot and get a team in there.” The analysts filed out. Brookings hung back, closing the door behind him.

“It doesn't look good,” he said quietly.

“No,” replied Jacobs. “The good news is they're alive. And as long as they're alive, we've got a shot.” Brookings nodded.

Jacobs picked up the phone on the conference table and dialed a number. “Truman, it's Bill,” he said. “I need to see the president. Zafarshan's released a video of Norm Daniels and Victor Levell. They're being held as hostages and Zafarshan is threatening to execute them both if the West doesn't lift sanctions.” He paused, listening. “Yes, I can jump in a car now. Should get there in fifteen minutes.”

DON JEFFERSON SAT AT THE head of the table in a private dining room at The Caucus Room, one of the more popular watering holes in DC for members of Congress and the K Street Crowd, where everyone gathered to drink too much, harden their arteries, and see and be seen. Gathered around the table were Jefferson's chief of staff, his campaign consultant, his wife Lila, and Max Stampanovich, his election-law and ethics lawyer. Stampo, as he was known, numbered Speaker of the House Gerry Jimmerson and Andy Stanton among his clients.

The timing of the meeting was urgent. Two days earlier Jefferson received a document request from the House Ethics Committee asking for e-mails between him, any member of his staff, any individual on his campaign, and any family member with his former chief of staff (a top lobbyist with PMA), employee of PMA, or any consultant or registered lobbyist hired by PMA. The Ethics Committee was not taking a backseat to Justice in the mushrooming scandal surrounding PMA, and Jefferson threatened to get sucked into its vortex.

Jefferson dug into a New York strip steak floating in its own juices, creamed spinach and sautéed mushrooms piled high on his plate. His wife ate a salmon Caesar salad. The dinner conversation alternated safely between small talk and campaign gossip until Jefferson signaled he was ready for the strategy session to begin.

“Rut-roh! Rut-roh!” Jefferson suddenly exclaimed. “Scooby Dooby Doo!”

Everyone at the table stopped eating, a few frozen in midchew. Lila shot him a look of disapproval seasoned with the experience of a veteran candidate's wife who was no stranger to her husband's occasionally juvenile outbursts.

“Well, what do we do, Stampo?” asked Jefferson, his eyes fixed on Stamponovich.

“You talking to me?” asked Stamponovich.

“Yeah, Bobby DeNiro, I'm talking to you,” replied Jefferson. “I'm paying you a lot of money to keep these guys off my back while I'm running for the Senate. What's your plan?”

“I've talked to Gerry about it,” said Stamponovich, who dropped the Speaker's name at every opportunity. “He says more than likely the committee will bring in an outside investigator, take several months on discovery, and take another two to four months interviewing people. He doesn't think any shoes will drop until after the first of the year.”

Jefferson smiled. “I love Gerry! The guy's got gonads.”

“Totally,” said Stamponovich, beaming. “By then, you'll no longer be in the House, so it won't matter. The Ethics Committee has no jurisdiction at that point.”

“We still have banner headlines that Don's under investigation,” said Jefferson's consultant, staring morosely at his steak. “Common Cause has filed a formal complaint with the committee. Lightfoot's going to plaster television with it.”

“Understood, but it's highly confidential,” said Stampanovich. “Unless and until the committee staff makes a recommendation, it's locked up tight as a drum.”

“The editorial boards will kill me,” observed Jefferson. “Is there anything that can be done in the interim?”

Stamponovich furrowed his brow, thinking. “Well, I had a client who was running for governor when he got hit with something similar. The campaign asked three retired federal judges to review the evidence. They issued a report saying he was innocent.” He shrugged. “It's a thought.”

“I guess it depends on who the judge is,” said Jefferson.

“Did he win?” asked the chief of staff, a brainy, pale, and wan whiz kid who ran Jefferson's life and kept the trains running on time while he campaigned.

“No,” said Stamponovich.

“Great strategy, Stampo!” shouted Jefferson. “You got any other brilliant ideas from losing campaigns?”

“I'm just brainstorming,” protested Stampanovich.

“You can't trust Gerry, and you can't trust the committee,” said Lila, who had hung back while the others dominated the conversation. Her brown hair was pulled back behind her ears, which were studded with diamond earrings. She had feline eyes, fine features, and thin lips.

“Why do you say that?” asked Jefferson, surprised.

“Gerry's focused on holding the House. Your seat is safe. Whether you go to the Senate is no concern of his,” answered Lila, her features hard, eyes fixed. “Smith has the backbone of a chocolate éclair. He won't stand up to the Democrats. He's a quiche eater. He'll throw you under the bus so fast your head will spin.” Arthur Smith was the ranking Republican on the Ethics Committee.

“Wow,” chuckled Jefferson. He put his hand on Lila's shoulder. “How does a woman who looks so
nice
and
petite
pack so much acid?”