The Parnell Affair (18 page)

He asked earnestly, the seriousness of their next step apparent in his voice and set of his features.  She mirrored his look, feeling the weight of her decision, knowing it would have to be said out loud and dealt with.  No half measures would do.  Then, inexplicably, she laughed.  A hilarious, mouth-covering guffaw.  He looked confusedly at her.

“Yes, I'm in,” she said, recovering.  “Though CIA never possessed the Niger docs, I'm in.  I'll do everything I can to help you find them.”  She struggled to stifle another bout of uncontrolled laughter.  “Watergate, eh?” she asked; he shook his head uncomprehendingly.  “Of all the ways you could've asked me to be your
Deep Throat.”

Claudy Lovett skipped up the steps of the White House and through the doors, glad to escape the humidity of Washington's summer.  Her thoughts briefly returned to Stanford—where she'd taught politics primarily—and its lush, temperate summers.  Bypassing security with a flash of her credentials, Dr. Lovett made her way to the Situation Room: after eighteen months as National Security Advisor, with 9/11 and war in Afghanistan and the Patriot Act and all its increased warrantless surveillance, the halls of power held no fascination, no mystique.  The meeting was last minute, something big had happened, and though tired—tired in her bones, more tired than she'd ever been and wearily accepting it as her state of existence as long as she remained with the Administration—she nevertheless hurried to the Situation Room.

Dr. Lovett opened the door to find no one except a tech removing microphones and the video conferencing camera.  The meeting was for 10:00 am; it was 9:58.  Claudy, Claudy, Claudy, they're not like that, she thought as she shuffled down the oblong conference table—the room's only furniture aside from its chairs and a podium—to a seat closer to the wall-mounted video screen.  As a professor, she'd put a sign on her door when class began: “Anyone who passes this sign will not pass this class.”  She slumped in her seat, stifled a yawn, and flipped through her folder.  She felt certain the Executive Order detailing new interrogation techniques would enter the discussion and she had questions.  Please let Nate be here, she thought.

Laughter accompanied the opening of the door, along with a subtle note of scotch.  Karl Kristiansen held the door as President Howland proceeded the VP and Ben Butler into the room.  Pete stood beside the door as the tech scuttled out, arms filled with cords and microphones and cameras.

“Thanks for the quick work, son,” Pete said, clapping the tech on the back as he passed.

Karl then entered, shut the door and locked it, and carried his open laptop to the podium near the large screen at the far end of the rectangular room.  Pete put his back to the door for a moment, to screen his hand as he unlocked the door,  and then took his seat at the head of the table, with Paul to his right and Ben to his left.

“Come on and slide down here, Claudy,” Pete said to his National Security Advisor.  “You beat us all here again.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” she said, standing and sliding her papers over a few sets to Paul Kluister's right.  The smell of scotch grew more pronounced.  “I'm always afraid I'll meet traffic on the way over.  Can't stand to be late.”

“All ready, Mr. President,” Karl said from the podium.  A graphic appeared on the wall-mounted video screen: Capture and Consequence.

“Go ahead, Karl,” Pete said.

“Secretary McLean will not be joining us?” Claudy asked.  They'd started without him before.

“He's in Israel,” Pete said.  “Last minute.  Back tomorrow.  I'll be relying on you to brief him on what we cover today. Go ahead, Karl.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Karl said, placing his palms together in front of his chest.  “We have a few points to cover this morning but the first and most important is what the President was just briefed on an hour ago.  US forces, in conjunction with Pakistani police, have captured Abu Zubahd, a highly-placed lieutenant in Al Qaeda who took part in the planning of 9/11.”

The President led a round of applause.

“How'd it happen?” Ben Butler asked.

“The FBI and Pakistani security located him during their investigation,” Karl said.  “He was subsequently captured during a nighttime raid.”

“We almost didn't get him,” Pete added.  “They went in shooting and this Zubahd guy took a few in the chest.  They thought he was dead.”

“Hrm, ex-terrorist,” Ben Butler mused.

“They found he was alive—miraculously—a couple
hours
later,” Pete said.

“Miraculous, indeed, Mr. President,” Karl said, touching his lips with his outstretched index fingers.  “He could be called a gift from god.  He is the perfect subject for phase two,” he said.  Paul clapped a few times; Ben smiled at him but the President maintained a stony expression.  “It may take a week or two before Zubahd is healthy enough to undergo the newly issued interrogation techniques,” Karl continued.  “But when he does—”

“Um, ex-excuse me,” Claudy mumbled, raising and lowering her hand.  Karl put his hands at his sides and looked at her.  “I'm sorry,” she said, eyes flitting between Karl and the President, “should I hold my questions until the end?”

“Go right ahead,” Pete said.  “That's the big news: we caught this son of a bitch.  What's on your mind?”

“These new Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, sir,” she said.  “I had a talk with Secretary McLean about the executive order allowing their use and he had a few concerns as to their meeting our Geneva Convention responsibilities.”

“Geneva does not come into play,” Karl said.  “These techniques are to be used on Enemy Combatants, not soldiers.”

“Of course, of course,” Claudy said, not meeting his eyes.  “But, well, 'Enemy Combatants' doesn't appear in Geneva—”

“Which is exactly why it does not apply,” Karl broke in.

“Yes, of course,” she said.  “But that's the rub—a court may not agree with that argument.”

“A court?” Ben barked, throwing up his hands.

“There's particularly this one technique,” she said, appealing to the President, holding up her copy of the Executive Order, “waterboarding.  The United States has prosecuted our own soldiers at times for using it, as well as prosecuting captured enemies from the Philippians Insurrection through World War II to Vietnam for using waterboarding by and against our soldiers and civilians.”

“Look, we don't have time for this crap,” Ben said, laying a pointing arm across the table.  “We need a technique that'll get results fast: waterboarding is it.  Hell, whose side are you on?”

Claudy flushed.  “I serve at the pleasure of the President,” she breathed.

“Come on now, Ben,” Pete said.  “We're all in this together.”

“And whatever the President determines is our course, I support him and it 100%,” she said.  “I'm simply offering the concerns I've discussed with the Secretary of State.”

“And I'm glad you have, Claudy,” Pete said, restraining Ben and Paul by taking their wrists.  “I want you to always speak your mind and never let these two bulldogs bark too loud.”  He smiled and the others obliged him enough to return it dutifully.  “Now, the Justice Department lawyers have assured me,” he said, “that those techniques are legal and ethical.  But if you and Nate have some questions, some doubts, then maybe we ought to have another meeting to hash it out.  Karl, when Nate gets back, set up a meeting: everyone here plus Lodge—”

“Lodge!” Paul coughed.

“Yes,” Pete continued, “and we'll need some lawyers.  Ask White House counsel and that boy from Justice, and—oh what's his name, Ben?  Over at this new OSP, who runs the thing?”

“Dutch Faith,” Ben said.  “My deputy.”

“Him, too,” Pete said.  “We'll need those folks around.  The AG's still in the hospital, poor devil; have to bring the acting.  Okay, Claudy?” he asked with a smile.

“Okay,” she said.  “I don't want to be—”

“You aren't,” Pete said.  “I don't mind telling you this was the toughest decision I ever made in my life.  Tougher than war.  But I believe it's in our best interest.”  And maybe I want to be convinced again, he thought.

“I will make the arrangements, Mr. President,” Karl said quietly.

“You're not going to hold up their deployment, are you?” Ben asked in his loud voice, raising and shaking his copy of the Executive Order.

“No, I want you to get that out to our interrogators right away,” Pete said.  “Alright, Karl, go on.”

“Once the interrogations begin,” Karl continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, “Zubahd will admit to a link between Al Qaeda and Iraq.  At this time, I don't think we should include the confession—if it's obtained in time—in Secretary McLean's address to the UN.  I think it better, more effective, if we wait until after the UN fails to act decisively and then take the confession to
Congress, demanding war powers.”

“Hear, hear,” Paul said.  “They'd want to butt their noses into the thickness of his pajamas and not give a damn about his trying to get a nuke from Iraq!”

“How is the case for war going?” Claudy asked.  “We've been sending all our information at the NSA to the Office of Special Plans as requested.  I hope everything is going well.”

“Things are going very well,” Karl said.  “Intelligence from every service in the United States has been sent and the OSP has been staffed with the best minds in the field.  They are writing and will provide to Secretary McLean the best case for war since the attack on Pearl Harbor.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Ben said.

“And that case will demonstrate definitively,” Karl said, “that Saddam Hussein has an active WMD program, has attempted to procure uranium, as well as develop other WMDs.  After the UN, when we take the case to
Congress, the confessions we will obtain from Zubahd will irrefutably link Saddam's nuclear capacity with Al Qaeda.”

“Then we'll see if anyone dares to vote against war powers,” Paul said.  “But this OSP thing still has me worried, Karl.  That include CIA?”

“It does, but—” Karl began.

“Hell, we can't trust them,” Paul spat.  “How do we know they're playing straight with us?  That goddamn Lodge has betrayed us before with that, that woman.”

“Easy, Paul,” Pete said.  He didn't like the confused look on Claudy's face.  “Let's not throw around words like betrayal, alright?  Lodge thought he was doing right and he's made it up to us with those SAD teams, hasn't he?”

“In any event, Mr. President,” Karl said, “they don't have any direct involvement in the OSP, except for a trusted agent Ben Arnaldi, the DDO, sent over as liaison.  CIA—like everyone else—is sending raw intel, not their opinions.  The OSP is developing our opinion.”

“That's something, I guess,” Paul said.  His skin having turned a little purple, he forced himself to calm down.  “I have a feeling they're just bidding their time, waiting to stick one in us again.”

“Not this time, Mr. Vice President,” Karl said.  His grin spoke volumes to those familiar with it.  “Another meeting about the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques or not,” Karl said coldly, not looking at Claudy, “the Executive Order has been issued.  It
will
be disseminated to the agents and soldiers in the field.  Once CIA agents at Guantanamo and elsewhere—Zubahd will be going to Poland's black site first,” he said to the President, knowing Claudy wasn't cleared to hear it mentioned—“once they receive the order to use these techniques that have made Dr. Lovett nervous, they
will
use them.  They will not be able to resist.  Particularly when we keep pressing them for results.  And once they do, they're ours,” he whispered.  He seemed almost to kiss his index fingers as they pressed his lips unconsciously.  “You see, Mr. Vice President, it is only our legal opinion that makes these Enhanced Interrogation Techniques legal; if CIA, having used them, ever undermines us, we could withdraw our opinion, making their actions illegal.”

“Ha!  They're in the same boat with us now,” Ben Butler said.

Paul nodded his head, breathing sonorously.  “They're tied to us,” he said.  “They better hope we succeed because if things go bad for us, they'll go a lot worse for their agents.”

“Precisely,” Karl said.

The whites of Claudy's eyes could be seen all the way around her pupils as she turned from the Chief of Staff to the President.

“Karl's always thinking of these political considerations,” Pete said to her.  “I'm glad he does: keeps me from worrying about them.  But as I said, the Justice Department assures me these techniques are legal and won't cause any permanent injury,” he said, wrinkling his nose.  “It's my decision and I've made it; I believe this to be what's best for the country.  I'm happy to have another meeting, to walk through the details, but I hope I can count on your support.”

“You can, Mr. President,” she said.  “100%.”

Though they had said far more than either had expected to that day at
Victor's
, after the effects of the wine had diminished, Tobias and Sally had grown quiet: he knew she had never before revealed so much to a potential lover and so—likening this moment to Mary's coming out, which was on his mind—wanted to go slow, give her space: she inexplicably thought of Joe and, though intellectually recognizing she could not describe herself as adulterous, had become hesitant.  The next day, however, she cursed herself for not having gone home with Tobias and then laughed and wondered if she had the nerve.  On her morning run, which she extended, she wondered if he would pursue her, knowing the mess into which it would take him, with her failed but still un-dissolved marriage.  She tried to shrug off the worry; compared herself to Lucy pacing in her room and moping around the kitchen waiting for a boy to phone.  Joe had said, on that occasion, that no seventeen-year old—no matter how many girls he's asked out—has one iota of experience and was no doubt paralyzed by fear.  Sally, returning from her run, thought of her forty-two years and how little they mattered.  In particular, they seemed to have no tranquilizing effect when Tobias called her that afternoon.