The Parnell Affair (27 page)

“Did you read the same resolution I did?” Ben Butler said.

“Yes,” Karl said.  “It was not their intention, in the Security Council, perhaps, but it could be interpreted as authorizing force if Saddam does not comply with inspectors.  When the inspectors fail to find anything, we say it is because he has hidden his WMD program, which amounts to not cooperating, which triggers the invasion.”  Paul's eyes lit up but Karl didn't let him speak: “It is far from clear cut; merely an interpretation, but enough for us to say we believe it authorizes force.  If we believe it, then our actions are in good faith—we can make and maintain a case that we were authorized.”

“Heh, that's pretty good,” Ben Butler said, elbowing Paul.

“Finally,” Pete said.  He searched his desk drawers for a bottle of tomato juice.

“Not that we should have to jump through all those hoops,” Ben Butler said.

“For the love of god!” Pete said, peeking his head over his desk for a moment.

Ben Butler and Paul laughed.  Ben settled back into the couch as the VP jumped up and helped himself to the liquor cabinet.  A series of grunts determined the SecDef would take a drink, too.

“Now that that's finally laid to rest,” Pete said, sipping his juice, “how about we talk about the next step: going to Congress with the 'more evidence' we'll need to convince them to give us war powers.”

“I am
afraid there has been a complication, Mr. President,” Karl said.

“What now?” Paul shouted as he returned to the couch.

“I thought we had our confession from Abu Zubahd,” the President said.

“You said damn near two weeks ago that we had it,” Ben Butler shouted.  “Hell, I sent those two Army psychiatrists over to Pakistan to make sure the new techniques were used in full!”

“That was part of the problem,” Karl said.  “Zubahd had been badly injured when seized in Pakistan and so was not moved.  The head of the contingent who performed the raid in Pakistan was FBI.”

“Ah, shit,” Ben Butler said.

“What's he been doing this whole time?” Paul demanded.  “Reading him his rights?”

“When the Army psychiatrists arrived,” Karl continued, “they immediately employed the new Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.”

“Good!” Ben Butler said.

“But the FBI agent stopped them, called it torture,” Karl said.

“Then fire him and get him out of there!” Paul shouted.

“Where is the agent, now?” Pete asked.

“And where's that terrorist?” Ben demanded.

“The agent made complaints and reports to his regional boss, Mr. President,” Karl said, “as well as to the Director of the FBI.  He has been recalled to Washington.”

“Good,” the others said.

“Zubahd was immediately sent to a black site in Eastern Europe and is now in North Africa,” Karl said.

“Why wasn't he brought to the secured site in Guantanamo immediately?” Pete asked; he gave Karl his why-wasn't-this-done glare.

“He wouldn't have survived, Mr. President,” Karl said.  “Not the move and the new techniques.  And the new facilities were not, at the time, completed.  They are now and he should arrive within a week—strong enough to undergo renewed use of the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.”

“You said we had his confession already,” Ben Butler said.

“We did,” Karl said.  “But as long as it is connected to this FBI agent's complaints, I hesitate to send it before
Congress.  If they should get word—” he said without finishing.

“Will they be able to get a second confession?” Pete asked.

“Absolutely,” Ben Butler said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Karl said.  “It should not affect our timetable, really.  We will have to wait on the weapons inspectors' report no matter what.  That will give us a few weeks or even months to obtain another confession that Al Qaeda was in contact with Saddam.  Combined with our nuclear evidence,
Congress will not be able to afford to vote against war powers.  We could get lucky and capture another terrorist, a higher ranking terrorist, in the meantime.  If so, then that confession will not be tainted.”

“What's being done about this damn FBI agent?” Paul asked.  He'd finished his drink.

“He seems to be under control,” Karl said.  “He has no evidence.”

“Good,” Pete said.

“It may be a good idea to release to the press that we have captured Zubahd,” Karl said.  “It will show we are making progress and appear that we have only now captured him, not months ago, and that his interrogation is only now beginning.”

“Make it happen,” Pete said.  “Ben, let's talk about this invasion: I received a letter from the Joint Chiefs saying the current plan for 150,000 troops is inadequate and that the old plan of 500,000 should be reinstated.”

“That's bullshit, Mr. President,” Ben Butler said.  “150,000 is more than enough.”

Sally steered clear of the CIA's representative to the OSP: he was a 'movie-goer' from operations with whom she had infrequently dealt.  That is, an operations officer who had a rather fanciful vision of working for CIA.  More importantly, he was one of Ben Arnaldi's—the DDO's—favorites; after Lodge's significant look regarding the confidentiality and loyalty of the Deputy Director Operations, Sally felt she couldn't risk approaching him about leaking the Niger documents.

Instead, she focused her efforts on a few lawyers, some from the Justice Department’s Office of Legal Council.  In part, Sally thought they would be more likely to leak information—lawyers differ enormously on the parameters of privilege, she knew from her father
, a former Navy JAG lawyer—and in part from curiosity about why a seemingly intelligence-oriented office needed so many lawyers.  Before she could determine whom to approach, she needed the basics: what the possible marks looked like, where they lived and worked, and any relevant family data.  After that she could start following people around, looking for levers of indiscretion and vice, observe patterns to exploit to make contact, and begin to build a concept of how to approach each mark.

It was while digging up a picture of Office of Legal Council lawyer John Wu, from the UC Davis faculty website (where Dr. Wu had taught law prior to government), that Sally discovered a golden “in”—she'd attended Stanford about the same time that Wu had, during his bachelor's.  “Manna from heaven,” she'd murmured before leaving the GW library—where she used the public computers for her searches—to scout the Robert F. Kennedy building, where Wu worked.  After three days, she knew where he lived, his car and license plate, that his wife shouted at him loud enough to be heard in the next aisle over at the supermarket, and that he always—but always—ate lunch at a bistro on 8
th
street.

“Usually, he meets a loud little clique from Justice and together harass a very tolerant waitress, who laughs at their jokes and rolls her eyes when she turns away,” Sally told Tobias.  “But not on Thursday.”

It was Friday, a week since she hadn't gone up to his apartment.  They met for lunch and a walk around the Capital Mall.  She thought she could get away Saturday afternoon and wondered if she finally had the nerve to suggest going up to his apartment.

“What's Thursday?” Tobias asked.

“Don't know,” she said.  “But he flies solo on Thursday.  The rest of his clique didn't show and given that he brought a newspaper with him and sat further down the bar, I'd say he expected to dine alone.”

“Interesting,” Tobias said.  It had started getting cold, or staying cold throughout the day.  He watched his breath smoke in the air.  “Good time to approach him,” he said.  “Think he'll remember you?”

“Doubt it,” she said.  “We were two years apart and I took mostly business and public relations courses.  Nevertheless, it's an in.”

“A great one, at that,” he said.  “So, listen, I have to leave town in about an hour.”

“What?” she said, halting abruptly and turning toward him.

“I know,” he said, shaking his head.  “Sudden, right?  Well, you probably heard about Senator Rhowe retting caught with a hooker, home in Rhode Island.  My paper's sending me up there to talk to him.  We've always got along well; he'll talk to me.  He has to face the music if he ever wants a chance in politics again.  It's a stupidly simple story to run down but after my swanning off to the UN, I need to build up a little good will in the office.”

Sally turned and they resumed walking.  She looked sideways at him, openly searching his face.

“It has nothing to do with that,” he said.

“I said another night,” she said quietly but emphatically.  “I meant just that.  I wasn't—”

“I know you weren't,” he said and took her arm to stop them walking again.  “I've got to go do this, that's all.  It'll take maybe a week.  But how about when I get back we have dinner at my place?”

“Yes!” she said.  “After hearing—not without jealousy—about you cooking this or that gourmet dish, I'd like to get a taste.  I'm not getting my share.”

“It'll be a pleasure,” he said.  “I'll use my time travelling to think up a menu that'll knock your socks off.”

Neither of them intended any innuendo, which only made their subconscious additions the more glaring and the more sincere.  Tearing herself away from the pleasant path down which their conversation had turned, Sally took his arm, resumed their walk and said she'd tackle John Wu in the interim.

The next Thursday, Sally sat in the middle of the bar of John Wu's usual bistro.  The room combined the heavy stained wood and plush leather upholstery of an old school steakhouse with the airy floor-to-ceiling windows and outdoor seating (though closed for the season) of a café.  The menu, Sally discovered as she waited, was no less eclectic: dry-aged prime rib across the page from eel and avocado sushi rolls, the potato au gratin could be served vegetarian upon request, and even lunchtime sandwich orders must specify hard roll or wrap.  Sally ordered a glass of unusually sweet Graves Bordeaux and a glass of water and waited.

John Wu arrived at his accustomed time and—as Sally expected—took a seat at the corner where the bar turned in and ran toward the back wall.  From here, of course, he could look over the top of his paper and admire her figure—appointed to advantage as it was by her form-fitting velvet dress, which though wrapping her from neck to mid-thigh, seemed to be missing fabric for her shoulders and from the bottom of her throat to the middle of her bosom.  Joe had always loved that dress—she hadn't worn it for years—but had also teased her about its “cleavage window.”  Men seemed to do a lot of blinking and looking over her shoulder whenever she wore that dress.

Sally waited until John Wu had ordered his usual glass of vodka and tonic and the waiter brought it over before she
negligently turned to notice him.  The physical play of human interaction rivals any mating dance and plumage ruffling found in the animal kingdom, made seemingly fresh and not formulaic by familiarity alone.  Sally's eye, casually drawn to the waiter's movement, doubled back on John Wu as he lifted his glass.  A flutter of his eyelids indicated he thought he'd been caught staring at her.  He put down his glass and returned to his paper, checking to see if she had stopped looking.  She hadn't; her head was on one side now and she'd turned her body slightly toward him.  He blinked back to his paper and didn't see a word on it.  There are many beautiful women around Washington but they don't often stare at the city's John Wu-s.  He looked up, attempting his own incidental catching of her stare but she didn't drop hers.  He smiled and managed a mouthed hello.  Sally took her glass and walked down the bar and placed it in front of the seat around the corner from John Wu.

She
leaned into a contrapposto attitude of contemplation and asked him, “Did you go to Stanford around '79, '80?”

“Yes!” he said.  His face had colored as Sally approached but lit up and cleared when she spoke.  “Yes, I did.  I did my undergraduate there.”

“I thought you looked familiar!  But I couldn't place you,” she said as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world to forget someone's name.

“I'm John Wu, not the movie director,” he said with a good-boy smile and outstretched hand.

“Ha, ha, that's hilarious,” Sally said, leaning forward and closing her eyes in feigned laughter, giving his eyes a moment to wander where they would, unobserved.  She took his hand—a bit moist—and parted her lips to offer her name but seemed to catch herself.  “Wait, John Wu?” she said, letting him see her think.  “Do you, do you work at the Office of Special Plans?”

His smile slipped off his face, dragging his coloring with it.  He blinked a few more times but didn't manage to say anything.

She smiled reassuringly, shaking his hand, and said, “I'm Sally Parnell.  Maybe you remember my name from a piece in
The Observer
?”

“Oh, right,” he said.  “I do remember that.”

“A piece of you-know-what in
The Observer
,” she said.  “They did not have all their facts straight.”

“I thought it all sounded, you know, too fantastic to be the absolute truth,” he said.  “More like a TV movie than real life.”

She thanked him with a smile and indicated the chair she stood next to.  He said please, and she slid into it crossing her legs, slowly, and looking at her wine glass so he could watch unfettered as she did it.