The Parnell Affair (12 page)

He dismissed this with a shake of his head.

“Who showed Joe these Niger documents at the White House?” he asked.  “He said there were several people present.”

“I'll have to ask him,” she said.

“Do that and let me know,” he said.  “Please,” he added with a smile.  “Because whoever told Vonka about you also told him about the contents of the Niger docs.  Whoever had them in the White House might give us a clue to their, uh, well to who had access to them.”

“Right,” she said.  “This wasn't revenge on their part, was it?”

“Not entirely,” he said.  “WMD had dropped off the map until Vonka's piece.”

“And now it's front and center,” she said.  “A clever use of the absence of fact.  Somebody's plan had been derailed by Joe's report to Congress and they sacrificed me to get it back on track.”

“It looks that way,” Tobias agreed.

“They couldn't know those documents are false and still press forward toward war?” she said.  “Why—”

“One thing at a time,” Tobias said, raising a hand.  “First, let's find the son of a bitch who outed you.”

They said good bye and Sally left, promising to send Tobias the names and numbers of law professors he could talk to and to ask Joe who had flashed the Niger documents at him.  It was her turn to have appraising eyes when she said she didn't know how to thank him: Tobias hoped his subconscious wasn't writing anything explicit in rose-colored ink across his face.  Watching her through the front windows, he thought: don't be a fool, I'm not going through that again with a married woman.  Maybe their marriage is on the rocks, he mused, but she's a grown woman—and a tough cookie—she can end it if she wants to.  How Joe could possibly let
her
get away, I can't imagine.  What a baffling lot husbands are.

The cafeteria at
The Washington Observer
resided on the second floor, occupying the whole rear of the building and overlooking a small park of potted trees and benches and a few tables where people would take their lunches in fair weather.  At 9:00 am on the dot, Tobias watched Les Vonka strut his way to the 'Breakfast Bar'—a self-service buffet—from where he lurked in a far corner.  Vonka stood only about five foot four inches—even with the heel inserts he used—habitually dressed in charcoal-colored suits, and took particular care of his snow-white hair, which he combed straight back over his head.  His strangely youthful face, accented by his still black eyebrows, nevertheless showed the fine lines and deep russet color of a man who had spent much of his life around the pool.  A Tom Collins drinker, Vonka had carried the paunch of a thin man having reached middle age until his third divorce: now, consequent to his inability to cook and subsisting entirely on dining out, he'd crossed the line into flabby.  Being cheap didn't help: he ate short-order food at the lowest price and little else.  Though a morning didn't pass without his complaining about something, he was a cafeteria regular.  Tobias had even seen him stop in on a Saturday dressed in golf clothes.

Possessed of his plastic tray of fried foods, Vonka chose an empty table for six near the windows and sat with his back to the room.  Tobias—who had always inadvertently walked without noise—sat down opposite Vonka, making the other man jump as he sipped his milky coffee.  Tobias had planned a breakfast ambush because he didn't want to try to blow passed Vonka's secretary (Les had a corner office with secretary's adjoining) and knew Les would never abandon his meal.

Tobias reached for a tater-tot at the top of the mound that walled off the scrambled eggs from the sausage.  Vonka swiped at his hand with a fork.

“Get out of there,” Vonka growled.  “It's after 9:00 am; by this late hour, who knows where your hands have been.”

Office rumor (which Vonka authored and solely believed) had it that Tobias was a frequent and illicit user of the supply closet.  Tobias—after lecturing himself all morning about patience and not being baited—suppressed the urge to make a comment about the cleanliness of Vonka's ex-wife (not that he had experienced it).

“What the hell are you doing here, Toby?” Vonka said.

“Don't be like that, Lester,” Tobias said.  “A little grumpy?  Got up on the wrong side of the coffin this morning?”

“Fuck you,” Vonka said around a mouthful of eggs.

“Oh, you flirt,” Tobias said and then tried to get a hold of himself.  “Take it easy, for Christ sake.  I just came over here to congratulate you on your WMD story.  I'd been working on a similar story—even interviewed Joe Parnell—but you got there first.”

“I can't believe my ears,” Vonka said, having quickly washed down a half-chewed mouthful of sausage with already cold coffee.  “The great know-it-all has come to me for a tip,” he sneered: he was unpleasant, but he was no fool.  Vonka pantomimed looking around him as if unfamiliar with his surroundings and said: “I would have thought heaven would have had a nicer cafeteria—or has hell frozen over?”

“Neither,” Tobias said, trying to keep smiling.  “I didn't sit down to have a talk journalist to journalist.  That would be impossible.  No, this is journalist to source: I was wondering if you were going to have your tailor set you up with some of those orange jumpsuits they make you wear in court?  Or were you going to let the state furnish your wardrobe?”  Having opened his Ruy Lopez, Tobias pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket, unfolded it, and dropped it on Vonka's plate.

“What the fuck is that?” Vonka asked.  Motioning with his fork, he added: “And get it off my food!”

“That's the Intelligence Identities Protection Act,” Tobias said, crossing his arms on the table.

“Off!” Vonka ordered.  He waved his knife and fork above the paper but it wouldn't disappear.  His voice remained gruff but he was blinking rapidly.  As Tobias showed no sign of complying, Vonka pulled the sheet of paper off his plate and slammed it down next to his tray, sloshing coffee out of his cup.  He didn't throw it out of sight, Tobias thought.  He let Vonka stuff his mouth with ketchup-drenched tater-tots without comment.

“That has nothing to do with me,” Vonka barked finally.  “It says 'Authorized' in the first paragraph: I wasn't authorized so it doesn't apply to me,” Vonka said, setting his French defense.

“Accomplice, conspiracy, accessory before the fact,” Tobias said.  “Lester, you used the word 'covert' in your piece: you knew you were blowing her cover.”

“This is bullshit,” Vonka said.  “
My source
decided to make this statement.  He made his decision because—or she made her decision because—the Parnells were doing such a shitty job gathering intelligence and then were trying to cover up their incompetence by lying to Congress: my source considered the risk worth it to protect this country from nuclear terrorism,” he said smugly.

“And you went right along with it,” Tobias said.  “Knowing she was covert.  Did you ever think it might be difficult to do her job if the whole world knows she's CIA?”

“Are you retarded?” Vonka said.  “I just said she was lying in her report.  Stopping her from 'doing her job,' as you put it, stopped her from lying.”

“Which means you knew you were impeding her foreign intelligence gathering on behalf of the United States,” Tobias said.  He extended a finger toward the sheet of paper.  “Section C.  'With reason to believe that such activities would impair or impede the foreign intelligence activities.'  You'll notice there's no mention of 'authorized' anywhere in section C.”

Vonka read the section through, put down his utensils and read it again.  His face grew gray.

“Bullshit,” Vonka breathed.  “There's no 'pattern.'”

“You developed a relationship with the source,” Tobias said.  “You contacted the source, you authored the outing, you printed the outing.  You openly support the Administration's march toward war.  Looks like a pattern to me—and will to a jury.”

“I didn't contact hi—” Vonka cried then got a hold of himself.  “Fuck you.  What, are you trying to scare me?  Even if it went to court, they couldn't prove I had a 'reason to believe' and so it falls back on my source.”

“You just told me you knew it would stop Sally Parnell from, what you called, lying,” Tobias said.  “What?  This conversation is
not
off the record.”

Vonka shot to his feet.  “This is total bullshit!  I'm going straight to Chuck Ailes,” he hissed; the Editor-in-Chief.

“Then you'll meet him on the beltway,” Tobias said, also standing, “he doesn't get in until 10:00.”  He put his hands in his pockets and tried to maintain his cool exterior, as if all was going to plan—but it wasn't.  As loud and course as Vonka behaved, he'd not let anything slip other than that the source was male.  Given that only three women could be considered within the Administration's inner circle, that didn't narrow things down much.  One last gambit: “You're hip deep in it, Lester.  The Parnells went to Justice, have consulted attorneys, and Mrs. Parnell asked me to personally look into your involvement.  She sends her regards—or something like that.  Your only hope now is that someone discovers your source and shifts the focus off you,” Tobias said.  He knew Vonka couldn't stand to openly concede to a demand: Tobias hoped Vonka would let slip the source's name to someone who'd bring it to him.

“Fuck you, you punk,” Vonka said.  He snorted.  “Justice?  You that stupid?”  He turned and walked off.

“There's always civil court,” Tobias called.  An empty threat, which earned him barely a hitch in Vonka's stride, but it was all he had left.  “Damn,” Tobias breathed.

Fishing his cell phone out of his jacket he called Sally with the news.  Not having ba
ited out the information they wanted, Tobias tried to sound hopeful about Vonka deliberately leaking the source's name via a method he could deny.  Sally's reaction indicated nothing of what she thought or felt.  She asked Tobias to walk through the conversation but made no comment other than to wonder if Vonka would call his source immediately.  There was plan B to consider.  Tobias knew Vonka didn't use phones often (some sort of espionage-like pretension), and said if Vonka did contact his source it would probably be in person.  A noticeable pause followed this thought.  He chuckled and said that, if nothing else, it would keep his attending the White House daily brief unheralded.  It was at a quarter to one; Tobias had already ensured his pass was up to date.  Sally began to thank Tobias but instead asked if he'd call her right after the brief.  He would and suggested she catch the brief on c-span.

The White House daily brief took place in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, a cramped, low-ceilinged, stuffy little dungeon slapped together over what had once been the White House's indoor pool.  Below a false floor, the electronics for all the cameras, lights, and mics now hummed amid the subway tile as cords snaked ubiquitously.  The podium and stage only partially concealed the room's charm, with their curtain and Presidential seal.  Disgruntled cameramen would occasionally pan up enough to catch the six-eight ceiling.

Tobias was by no means a regular.  Through good fortune, he arrived at the White House at the same time as a rival paper's note-taker (a former intern at
The Observer
), saving Tobias from getting lost on his way to the briefing.  Inside, squeezing past people and equipment, Tobias went unnoticed at first: the crowd of mostly television people might vaguely recall his name but never his face.  Once he reached the folding chairs at the front of the room—not that he found an unoccupied one, and thus stood against the wall—Tobias received enough waves and calls of hello that even the television people pricked up their ears.  A Hill reporter—particularly one of Tobias's standing—wouldn't normally attend such a brief.  Something was up and the few seasoned reporters present showed every sign of scenting it on the wind.

At 12:47 pm, Donald L. LeGierz, the White House Press Secretary, took the podium very much in the manner of a grad student about to lead an undergraduate study session in his professor's absence.  He took only a few clarifying questions as he read through his list of announcements, few of which excited any interest in the gallery.  His chores finished, Don opened the floor to questions.  Unlike a Presidential press briefing, in which gotchya questions and policy explanations were the norm, the daily brief was a mostly collegial affair where the Press Secretary, as often as not, recorded the questions posed to him and promised to get back to the inquiring reporter once he discovered the answer.

The usual White House correspondents received LeGierz' first-name invitations to speak but as each one glanced at Tobias before and after their questions, Don got the hint and called on him.

“Um, Tobias,” Don LeGierz said, “welcome to the pit.”

A few dutiful chuckles.

“Thanks, Don,” Tobias said: he'd never met the man in his life but was glad he didn't get “Toby'd” on camera.  “I have a question in regard to a piece that appeared in
The Washington Observer
about a week ago, which detailed the Administration's assertion that Saddam Hussein is actively seeking Weapons of Mass Destruction.  In it, Les Vonka wrote: 'Sources within the Administration have revealed . . . Mrs. Sally Parnell is a covert CIA operative specializing in Weapons of Mass Destruction,'” Tobias read from a copy of the paper he'd brought along.  Withdrawing a copy of the law, he continued: “According to the Intelligence Identities Protection Act, it's a felony punishable by ten years imprisonment for an authorized person to reveal the identity of a covert agent.  Who are the 'Sources within the Administration' who violated the Intelligence Identities Protection Act?”