The Parnell Affair (21 page)

“Ah, yes,” Gerald agreed, his brow clearing.  “That's very true.  The bit of gossip Mr. Snajder referred you to is apropos of the 'partisanship,' as you put it, that's found its way into State.  To be clear, though,” he said, raising a hand, “it's not everyone at the State Department.  As ever, the department is staffed by professional, patriotic people, who care deeply about our country.  Some of the politically appointed Under Secretaries, however,” he said and then trailed off into a shrug.  “To be fair, I have to say that bad blood has existed between Mr. Snajder and Jon Thoblon for many years, ever since Mr. Thoblon was giving evidence to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence about Iran/Contra and he had a bitter exchange with Mr. Snajder.”

The little voices started shaking the bars in Tobias's mind at the name Jon Thoblon.  Sally had told Tobias every detail of Joe's visit to the Oval Office.  The Niger docs were last seen in Thoblon's possession.

“Anyway,” Gerald continued.  “Mr. Thoblon is now the Under Secretary of Arms Control and International Security.  He's always been rather secretive and had taken to starting meetings before I arrived so he could discuss things with his trusted staff without my recording it.  I told him, of course, this was illegal but it didn't stop.  The last straw came recently—and this is what Mr. Snajder is interested in—and directly on the heels of a meeting the Secretary had.  Despite Secretary McLean pulling together all the Under Secretaries and their senior staff and lecturing us all about cohesion and focusing our efforts, Thoblon—only days later—
physically
stopped me from attending a meeting.”

“Wait,” Tobias said.  “He laid hands on you?”

“It's incredible, I know,” Gerald said.  “He blocked the doorway and pushed me.  A grown man pushing people in the hallways.  It was absolutely imperative that I attend the meeting, as well.  I had no choice: I went to the Secretary.  There's a fight going on about it now.  The Secretary wants Thoblon's resignation, I think, but he won't give it.  And as he's appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate,” Gerald said and trailed off into another shrug.

“What was the meeting about?” Tobias asked.  He could almost hear what the little voices were chanting.

“Oh, uh, it's classified,” Gerald said.  “Not as important, I would think, as his behavior and the protection he's receiving from the White House—Thoblon is definitely not in Secretary McLean's camp on Iraq.”

“But I can guess what the meeting was about,” Tobias said.  “It was about sending information to the Office of Special Plans at the Pentagon.”

“How did you—” Gerald half-said.

“Let's put everything from here on out off the record,” Tobias said.  Gerald looked suddenly very uncomfortable.  “If I use what you've told me up to now,” he said, “I'll say unnamed sources 'indicate Under Secretary Thoblon refused to cooperate with the Bureau of Intelligence and Research.'  I imagine a lot of people know this story.”

“Um, yeah, I—I think so,” Gerald stuttered.  “How do you know about the OSP?”

“I never reveal sources, Mr. Hicman,” Tobias said.  “Let me guess, the meeting he kept you out of was about sending intel to the OSP.  But if he didn't want to send something,” Tobias said, mostly to himself, “then he'd just keep it locked up.  Hmm, the other people at the meeting?  The meeting was with someone who was taking your intel back to the OSP!  That's it and Thoblon didn't want you at the meeting because he didn't want you to see what he was sending.”

“I can't,” Gerald said.  “Listen, I'm sorry, I can't confirm any of this.”  He looked at Tobias, thinking.  “I won't say it doesn't make some sense, though.  I couldn't understand why he did it.”

“But you can now?” Tobias said.

Gerald didn't answer.

“You haven't told me anything, Mr. Hicman,” Tobias said reassuringly.  “I had the details already, and should have seen where they were last month,” he said, not bothering to indicate the 'they' were the Niger docs.  “Well, I guess I didn't know there was bad blood between McLean and Thoblon, but you certainly didn't tell me anything classified.”

“No, of course not,” Gerald said, smiling superciliously, as if embarrassed for Tobias.  “In any event, I don't believe the existence of the OSP is classified.  The particulars of what is sent to them, maybe, but not its existence.  And those particulars won't be secret for long, either: the OSP is writing the definitive opinion on Iraq's nuclear threat, which they will brief to the Secretary who will, in turn, take it to the Security Council.  Don't quote me on that just yet, I don't think it's been officially announced.  It will be soon, though.”

“I'd heard a few rumblings about more sanctions,” Tobias said, “possibly a call for military action.  The Secretary of State will make the case to the UN?”

“That's the scuttlebutt,” Gerald said.

“And the OSP is writing the brief he'll give?” Tobias asked.

“They're assembling all the useful data from the relevant organizations, yes,” Gerald said and took a breath as if to launch into another long description.

“But the office is at the Pentagon,” Tobias said.  “Why there if they're not ultimately planning for war?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Gerald said.  “The office space had to be found somewhere, and the Pentagon obviously provides excellent security.  It happens.  We once had a large project and couldn't find the space at Foggy Bottom and so ended up using rooms at the Department of Agriculture.”

Tobias wound down the conversation, allowing Gerald a few more long explanations.  They parted with a handshake and Tobias went in search of a cab.  He passed several as he thought through what facts he possessed and the assumptions he'd built upon them.  You knew the whole time, you idiot, he thought, and now they're inside the Pentagon.  Good luck finding a leak there.

It had hung in the closet long enough to put a crease through the knees of the trousers.  Tobias checked the clock on his night table for the sixth time in ten minutes.  She'll be here in an hour, he thought, but you better figure this out now.  You have to wear a suit, he thought while examining its creased knees: it's bound to be a nice place and, anyway, you're always better off over-dressing than under-dressing.

“Why don't you rent a goddamn tux, then?” he said as he thrust his charcoal suite back into the closet and chose another one.

Where in the hell is that slack-jawed, squealing little soccer mom, Sally raged at the window overlooking her front lawn.  I have to be out the door in thirty minutes and haven't even started my makeup.  She still wore her running shorts and t-shirt, though she had a full mental inventory of what she would wear and bring with her.

This has always been an interesting shade of blue, Tobias thought as he made room in his closet with outstretched arms.  His eyes flicked over to a black suit at the far end of his closet, the blood-red shirt he'd always worn with it inside the jacket.  It is not 1987, he told himself firmly, and even if you could fit into that perfect example of Italian sex-machine—he unconsciously thumbed the material—she could be taking you to a crab shack!  No, no, it'll be nice—but it won't be a disco!

“Mom, Jenny's here,” Lucy called from the steps as she came up.  Sally jumped from the window—where she'd been sighing in relief—and assumed a stretching position.  “What are you doing?” Lucy asked from the doorway.

“Still a little tight from this morning,” Sally said.  “Thought I'd do another stretching routine.”

“Oh,” Lucy said.  “Do you want anything from the mall?  Or have you bought enough
already?”  She reached out to slide the wall closet door open an inch.

“Watch it, you,” Sally said. “Haven't you borrowed enough of my things?  We'll have to go shopping soon, just the two of us.  The fun is in the finding and taking home, not the getting.”

“Getting presents can be fun,” Lucy said.  “Depending on how they're given.”  What was that look in her eye, Sally thought, what was that look?  “Give me a present sometime and I'll show you how.”

“I'll give you a present, alright,” Sally said, covering her sudden unease.  Does she know something?  “Go on,” she said.  “Don't keep Mrs. Ficklebaum waiting.”

Lucy rolled her eyes.  “She could have let us drive and then she wouldn't have to wait,” she said and left the room.

“She's just a little cautious, dear,” Sally said, following Lucy to the top of the stairs.  And an overprotective git, she thought.  “Try to be cool about it.”

“I will,” Lucy said, going downstairs.

“Have a good time, babe,” Sally said.  “I love you.”

“Love you, too; bye,” Lucy said.  The front door closed a second later.

Finally, okay, that's it, now don't change your mind, Tobias thought, holding up his charcoal suit again.  Is she really going to look at your knees?  Man is it ever easier to take out a woman six or eight years younger, he thought and then paused in his sifting through ties.  He continued a second later, thinking: nope, not going to open that can of worms right now.  What is wrong with the air conditioning!

Okay, okay, that looks even, Sally thought while examining her face in the bathroom mirror.  I can barely see this eye shadow, she thought, no no leave it, less is more.  She arranged her hair at her shoulders and then flung herself from the room.  No time; thanks, Mrs. Ficklebaum.  She peeled off her running shorts, climbed into her dress—a very pale peach colored silk, daring in length and cut, and too close fitting for underwear—grabbed pumps and purse and ran down the stairs.  She shuffled through the contents of her little clutch and then paused to remember putting her sneakers in her car.  Her champagne-colored sable coat was over her arm as she passed the hall mirror—she froze.

You look good, you look good, Tobias silently told his bathroom mirror.  He'd selected a shirt that appeared black or deep purple depending on the lighting and angle; it contrasted nicely with the more predictable color of his suite and made an excellent backdrop for a brilliant azure tie.  Now if your hands would quit sweating, you'd be ready to go.

He's only a reporter, Sally thought while holding her sable coat at arm’s length.  How's he going to feel if you show up wearing half his salary?  Damn it, Joe.  She hung it back up, clutched her purse between her knees, and rifled the closet.  Is it really going to be that cold?  You need the coat to cover the dress upon re-entering the house later tonight.  This puffy down coat would look real sexy, all right.  Sally came to a long tweed coat her older daughter Anna had inadvertently left behind.  Why does this feel like stealing from my mom?

Perfect, absolutely, keep pacing like a maniac until you sweat through your shirt, Tobias told himself as he
re-crossed his living room.  Alright, Zep, now more than ever, baby, he thought as he reached his Hi-Fi.  He played
Whole lotta love
but not very loudly.  You put that on to sing along with “I want to be your backdoor man,” didn't you?  Bet kids today think that's hysterical, backdoor meaning something else now.  For crying out loud, they're separated!  He's got a mistress he's going to marry.  Leave it alone already.

Of course you're here you son of a bitch, Sally thought at Mr. Thisleworth leering at her from his garbage pail: why don't you climb into that thing?  A few blocks from home, she took a deep breath.  Just relax, she told herself, this is going to be great.  She began to believe it.  So you're nervous; you should be.  But it's going to be fun.  This is
not
an operation.  It's a hot date with one hell of a sexy man.  A man whose been working hard to get you a little justice, maybe risking his job—he was really something, calling them out on c-span that day.  And anyway, tonight will be away from the city, nothing to worry about—god, it's been too long.  I bet he's nervous, too, she thought: he seemed nervous that afternoon with the champagne.

“You been foolin', baby I been droolin', all the good times baby I been misusin'!” Tobias belted out in accompaniment to his third iteration of
Whole lotta love
, now turned up full blast.  He didn’t hear the buzzer the first time, though luckily Sally hit it twice and he caught the tail end of the second.  She was in front of his building.  He slammed out of his apartment without answering it.

He came down the stairs two at a time and to a skidding halt opposite the foyer doors with Sally looking through the glass at him.  She pointed; she'd caught him.  He made the disappointed gesture of a sports fan whose team missed a field goal, but his face gave it the lie.  No calculated grin but a beaming smile met Sally as he joined her on the front stoop.  That is until the thought confronted him: fuck, fuck—kiss or shake hands, kiss or shake hands?

She kissed him on the cheek.  He sighed with pleasure and relief and then stepped back to arms length.

“You look amazing,” he said.  She'd left the tweed coat in the backse
at of her Audi A6.

“Thank you,” she said.  “You, too.  I love this tie, great color.”  She wasn't looking at his tie.

“Beautiful,” he murmured and then shook with a silent laugh.  “Listen,” he said more soberly, “before we head out: I don't want to spend the whole night talking shop—and I know you don't either—”

“No,” she agreed.

“But I have something that won't sit still in my mind,” he said.  “I think I know where the Niger docs are.”

“What?  Where?” she said.