The Parnell Affair (3 page)

“Only the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence,” Jim said.  “Maybe Energy.  Most staff haven't seen it, though.  They don't need to.  The Committee members' actions are enough to tip off the rest of the Senate.  Joe has a good reputation,” Jim said, then looked over quick, thinking he'd said too much and wondering why he was so unprofessional with Tobias.

Tobias waved his hand negligently, to say don't worry about it.

After leaving Jim, Tobias dodged cars crossing Constitution Ave on his way back to his bike.  If the Administration's case for war rested heavily enough on the Niger connection that Jim's Senator thought it safe to spend his time elsewhere after the connection was thrown into doubt, Tobias felt both the theory and whatever the white paper said to refute it were worth looking into. 
Congress has yet to stand up to President Howland, Tobias thought, this could mark a shift away from the post-9/11 unity that so much has been made of.  First, however, he'd have to find out what the SSCI had been told about Niger; for that he needed to talk with Joe Parnell.

Before unlocking his bike, Tobias called a guy he knew at State, Steve Nuttly, a young man on the rise who had quickly impressed the Secretary of State, Nathaniel “Nate” McLean.  Hectic as always, Tobias simply asked Steve what Joe Parnell was doing these days and where he could be reached.  Parnell had apparently set up a policy group a few years ago, Steve said, though he didn't have any contact info on hand.  Tobias thanked him and then called
The Washington Observer
and had one of the interns find the policy group's phone numbers.  Tobias then biked east.  Jim had it wrong: McGee's coffee was terrible.  Tobias went to a café near his building, taking his intern's return call along the way.  While trying not to look at the pastry case, waiting for his coffee and whole wheat toast, Tobias called Parnell's policy group.

“Yes, hello, this is Tobias Hallström of
The Washington Observer
,” he said when he reached Parnell's secretary.  “I called last week wanting to speak with the Ambassador but was told he was in Niger.  Has he returned to the office yet?”

“I'm sorry, Mr.—Hallström, was it?—I don't seem to have a record of your call,” a woman's voice said coolly.  It was the kind of voice Tobias imagined might warm up under the right circumstances but wouldn't stand for any nonsense.  “Who told you Mr. Parnell was overseas?”

“Whoever answered the phone,” Tobias said apologetically.  “I don't remember your voice, though, so maybe I wasn't transferred to the correct extension last week?  I was told to call back.”

“I see,” the secretary said.  “Yes, Mr. Parnell has returned to the country but not yet to the office.  Would you care to leave your number, Mr. Hallström?  I'll see that he gets it.”

Tobias left his number, hung up, and attacked the wheat toast Sam, the morning waitress, set down.  After breakfast, he went into the office and found Joe Parnell's home address—remarkably listed in the DC phonebook.  Not wanting to bike to Barnaby Woods in street clothes on a day that promised to sizzle by lunchtime, Tobias abused his corporate account to rent a car and drove.

The Parnell's lived on a winding, tree-lined street that would not seem out of place in any middle class neighborhood—except for the price tag.  The cost of apparent normality was steep within easy commute of downtown, with its tough inner-city streets only a catapult's toss from any of the tiny backyards in Upper Chevy Chase/Barnaby Woods.  The sun-dappled street and sidewalks, the swaying white oaks, and the period houses gave the sense of unchanging stability.  Close enough to the good high school—not the one Tobias attended—to hear the crowd if there was a ball game but far enough not to get any of its traffic, the Parnell's street was a good place to raise kids.  Which is no doubt why they returned from Europe and moved to the big house with the small swimming pool five years ago when their eldest entered high school.

Tobias parked on the street and walked up the sloping, curving walk that led up the steep front lawn to the portico and front door.  After ringing the bell, Tobias heard a chuckle inside before the door opened quickly and Joe Parnell appeared smiling in light tan chinos and a pale yellow two-button shirt, saying: “Did you forget your keys?

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, seeing Tobias.  “I thought you were my wife, returning from her jog.”

“I'm Tobias Hallström,” Tobias said, “
The Washington Observer
.  Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hallström,” Joe said, taking Tobias's proffered hand.

Tobias caught his usual play toward breaking the ice a second before it slipped over his teeth.  Something in the way Joe dropped their handshake—in slow motion, as if forgotten halfway through—and look of appraisal or indecision touching the corners of the man's eyes held Tobias motionless and silent.  Joe watched him watch and nodded his head unconsciously.

“It's a hot day,” Joe said.  “Or it will be.  May I offer you something to drink?”

Tobias accepted (never turned down a drink; finishing it slowly could keep an interview going long after it would otherwise conclude) and followed Joe's outstretched arm through the door and living room into a sun-filled kitchen.  The house seemed smaller from the inside, somehow.  Stairs opposite the door separated the formal dining room (to the left) from the living room (to the right) with a half-wall separating the living room from the large kitchen.  Beyond the French doors, a small pool glittered amidst a tall shrub-encircled backyard.  Tobias caught sight of a bag of golf clubs resting against the stair railing as he passed through to the kitchen.

“Somehow I don't think it's jetlag keeping you away from the office today,” Tobias said, pointing to the clubs.  “Which course is yours?”

Joe laughed silently and went around the kitchen island to retrieve a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator.  He said, “I'll tell you something—oh, is iced tea okay, Mr. Hallström?”

“Sure, great,” Tobias said, sitting down opposite a nearby depleted glass of iced tea and a newspaper (he smiled to see it was
The Observer
).  “And you can call me Tobias, if you like.  A little less of a mouthful than Hallström.”

“Thank you,” Joe said, filling a glass.  “Does anyone call you Toby?”

“Only people who don't like me,” Tobias said, with a grin and a chuckle.  He accepted a glass from Joe, who then refilled his.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Joe said a moment later, resting both hands on the back of his chair, facing Tobias.  “But you're the reporter known for going off the record so often?  I'll abuse the privilege to make a confession: I'm bored to death by golf.”

Tobias laughed.  “But, unfortunately, it's replaced drinks at the club as America's working pastime.”

“You're right and hence the clubs,” Joe said, cocking his head and then sitting down.

“You're not alone,” Tobias said.  He tried the tea: unsweetened.  “I will say, though I don't take in a game unless asked, I do like the driving range.  On a Wednesday afternoon, if not too crowded, it's a good place to swing and think.”

“Which is where I'm going later on,” Joe said, nodding.

A moment passed with both men sitting silently, drinking their tea.

“Off the record,” Joe said musingly.  “Off the record; not to be recorded, printed.”

“That's the idea,” Tobias said.

“How does it help you?” Joe asked.

“Points me in the right direction,” Tobias said.  “If a vote is coming up on this or that, say, and a Senator meets unexpectedly with the other side's, I don't know, industrialist, a staffer might let me know off the record—and he'd be suspected if the meeting was only known to a few people.  In doing so, though, I now know to nose around the industrialist's part of town; get a secretary or driver to let something slip.  Even try the fake out: ask the industrialist to comment upon his recent meeting—he does and he becomes the source,” Tobias said brightly.

Joe chuckled soundlessly.  “Ever gone back on it?” he asked.  “Printed something you said you wouldn't?”

“Never,” Tobias said.  “No matter how juicy a story, it's only
today's
story.  I'm not about to slit my throat just for today and then lose all my tomorrows.  Never seen a story I thought big enough to tempt me.”

Joe nodded, looking down into his glass.

“Standards are a little higher for me,” Tobias said.  He felt Joe's anxiety—wrapped up in velvet though it may have been—and desire for confession.  He wanted to enhance that atmosphere, somehow.  “I admit I've got a bit of a reputation for discretion.  Sounds good, right?  But it ups the ante.  A journalist with no special reputation for discretion bends a confidence a little, well,” he said, dragging out the word with a shrug, “you know what these reporters are like.  But for me?”  He shook his head.  “I'd never be forgiven.  I'd have reporters out after
me
.  It's like when a baseball team has a .400 hitter: not a lot of homeruns but steady base hits and RBIs, year in year out: then, one year, he tries swinging for the fences, knocks in 35 homers but his average drops to .290—and every fan and sports writer starts talking retirement.  A kid coming up to the majors could build a career on one season with 35 homeruns and a .290—but for Steady Sam and his .400, it's a death sentence.”

Joe looked up, nodding his head, absently making stripes in the condensation down the side of his glass.  He won't be responsible for “going to the press,” Tobias realized.

“Was it this hot in Niger?” Tobias asked.

“Yes,” Joe said.  He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.  “I'm not sure, but perhaps it's psychosomatic: perhaps I expect it to be milder here—and shouldn't, DC has sweltering summers.”

What did he find out, where did he find it, Tobias thoughts raced, wait, why was he there in the first place?

“What brought you out there?” he asked.

“I'm not quite sure I'm ready to talk about it,” Joe said.  “I no longer work in government, it's true, and so they have no hold over me.  However—” he began but trailed off.

“Something is worth talking about in all of this,” Tobias said.  “But let's just run through it off the record.  If, afterward, you're willing to let me print something—great!  If you need time to think about it, that's okay, too.  I have other stories I can work on,” he said but hardly believed.  “And if, looking at it all laid out on the table here, you decide you can't in good conscience go on the record, then we pack it back up and that's that.  Wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last time: no big deal.”

Joe smiled but the solicitation and reasonableness of his guest was beginning to rankle—or something was.  “Let's start with you,” he said.  “What brought you to my door?”

“I heard you authored a white paper after returning from Niger that has cooled the Senate and House intel committees' WMD concerns.  The Administration has been throwing the acronym around for months, unaccountably.  Some people are saying war with Iraq is inevitable while others scream for proof.  Did you find some?”

“You know the answer to that already,” Joe said.  “To answer your earlier question, I was sent.  The President asked me to go to Niger to investigate claims that Saddam Hussein had attempted to acquire enough uranium to restart his nuclear weapons program.”  He paused and then shook his head.  “I knew the answer before I left.  It was never possible.  A French consortium controls the mines; it would take hundreds of tons of yellowcake, requiring thousands upon thousands of additional man hours; there is no way of getting it across the desert undetected, or slipping it past the government—which would never stay in power if the French thought of them as destabilizing.  It was in the best interest of the Niger government to show its trustworthiness by tactfully chucking an Iraqi trade delegation out on its ear—which is exactly what they did.”

“So not just no,” Tobias said, “but no way no how.  Hundreds of tons of—what was it called?—yellowcake?  Is that a kind of uranium?”

“Essentially, yes,” Joe said.  “It has to be further refined to be used for nuclear power generation, and much, much more so—with a significantly smaller yield—to be useful in making a weapon.  Provided one has the technology and skill to weaponize it.”

Tobias shifted in his seat.  “I don't get it,” he said flatly, raising a hand and dropping it loudly on his knee.  “You'd think the Administration would know the French control uranium production in Niger—why bother sending you at all?  It sounds like sending someone to the Grand Canyon to make sure it's still deep.”

Joe didn't laugh.  He looked out the window at the glittering water in his pool.  Tobias leaned his head to one side and thought.

“They have some sort of evidence,” Tobias said finally.  “Something has persuaded them despite the facts?”

“I haven't seen it,” Joe said.  He returned his attention to Tobias, straightening in his chair and clasping his hands in his lap.  “This is the part that is very off the record.  You could probably find a copy of my report on Niger from a Senate staffer; it was in fairly wide distribution: but somehow I doubt the Senate or anyone else has seen these, these Niger documents.”

Tobias stilled his fingers with an effort, twitching for his notepad.

“Apparently, the Administration,” Joe said, “was given some documents by British Intelligence purporting to show how Iraq had negotiated a sale of uranium from Niger.  I don't know their contents, I never saw them; that is, only a fleeting glimpse but I was not allowed to handle them.  It remains impossible, though: Saddam knows France would never allow uranium out of Niger; it is considerably more likely that Saddam recognized Niger as a wealthy nation—not its people but the country's rulers—which might be tempted to buy oil in contradiction to international sanctions.  France certainly wouldn't punish Niger for that.”