The Parnell Affair (34 page)

“Well,” Sally breathed.

“Does that mean, well done?” Tobias asked around a mouthful of reuben.  He held the hot plate with a couple folded cloth napkins.

“Yes, well done,” she said and then laughed at his gobbling his food.  She flipped the cover off her short ribs and grabbed one of the sauce-covered morsels.  “I want to read through it again, though,” she said.  “I like how you have it in columns on the computer.”

“Yeah, I don't know why that helps me sometimes,” he said.  “Something to do with visualizing the story, I guess.  Have to put it back to normal before giving it to the copy desk, though.  Don't get barbeque sauce on the keyboard,” he said, shooing her hand away.

They read it again silently, and then ate and talked, and then slept for a bit and then loved for a bit.  They slept most of the night and woke in the dark hours of the next morning.  Driving first to a rent-a-car place near the small Jacksonville airport, they dropped off their rented car and then took a taxi to the train station in time for the Amtrak to DC.  Tobias spent only a half hour on his story at either end of the trip, which he found as reassuring as troubling—both his best and worst stories seemed to write themselves.

After 6:00 pm, they reached Union Station.  Sally wished him luck, kissed him goodbye, and took a taxi home—to pick up fresh clothes; she had Tobias's apartment key.  He called both his ME, Howard Lieter, and Chuck Ailes, the Editor in Chief, at their homes.  It isn't entirely unheard of for young hotshot reporters to call up their MEs—since everything they write is the greatest, most important story ever told—but no one called the Chief in unless the building was on fire.  That went double for Tobias, who rarely if ever had a reason for haste and whose stories relied far more heavily on depth that scoop.  Needless to say, both editors broke traffic laws on their way in after Tobias told them in a deadly calm voice that they needed to see something he'd obtained.

2:00 am was the cut-off for the next day's edition, files couldn't be sent to the printers any later, so they had plenty of time but needed only a fraction of it.  Howard, leafing through the photos of the Niger docs, wanted to go stronger, much stronger.  He wanted to stress the circumvention of the CIA in bringing in the Niger docs through State.  Mr. Ailes preferred to wait for the Howland Administration's response and then use the as-yet-undisclosed facts in a rebuttal piece.  He would have made no demands, despite the privileges of his position, not with Tobias.  But Tobias agreed, saying it would be better to stretch what they had to a series of stories to keep up the pressure; in that way, the Administration would provide further content via its responses.  Ailes repeated many times throughout the discussion that the White House might not have known the Niger docs were fake; he seemed, eventually, to need some reassurance on this point.  Tobias wondered why, wondered if Mr. Ailes' conception of the world—worldly as he was—could not compass a government willing to lie the country into war.  Howard rolled his eyes.

In the end, the story took most of page one, including two large photos of the Niger doc's most obviously forged pages.  Tobias had, once they'd finalized the scale of the story, picked up the phone to call Donald L. LeGierz, the Press Secretary, but Howard stopped him.  He told Tobias about a story—content unknown—that
The New York Times
pulled off the presses at White House insistence.  He wouldn't risk it, he said, and wanted to go without the ritual denial.  Tobias—now convinced that the Administration would not hesitate to stoop to any level—relented; visions of armed men seizing the presses occurred to him, though he laughed them off.  After handshakes and “good story, good story” from half a dozen people who had to become involved to push through a change to the front page, Tobias left for home.

He took Sally to the swanky restaurant at
The Four Seasons
, which he couldn't really afford, and they toasted their success.  The question of how the Administration would respond was hardly discussed.

The Christmas Eve party at the White House differed considerably from the staged, for-the-press Christmas Party held earlier in the month.  Christmas Eve was a private affair, totally at the discretion and direction of Linda Howland.  Like some—though certainly not all—First Ladies, Linda had become a surrogate mother (or, in her case, a kindly matriarch) to all the younger staff.  Those who lived in and around Washington, as well as those who would not leave for fear of losing influence, came under her protection at such times of the year and she felt it her duty—as well as her pleasure—to provide comfort and amusement suitable to the occasion.

The Christmas Eve party was also entirely closed to the press.  By Presidential command (and Vice Presidential insistence), no cameras of any kind were permitted.  Thus relieved of any threat of undying embarrassment, much of the staff relaxed and came off message for a few hours.  Early in the evening, the various children provided the entertainment, as they often do at a certain age to people who either have them or remember having them.  But as the night drew on and the families left, the wine flowed more freely and the mistletoe revealed many a suspected office romance.

Nevertheless, this was Washington DC and the maneuvering of politics could never wholly be forgotten.  Stories about fishing trips became innuendoes about fishing for scandal; anecdotes of ancestral industry were applied to modern means; and the nasty gossip heard in every corner of the city slithered up from guilty pleasure into the lap of election strategy, ideas caressed by the hands of certain men who were never absent, ever in DC.

President Howland enjoyed the children immensely: little girls floating around in dresses like flower blossoms, sticky-faced and sticky-handed; boys in their dressed-up clothes that never fit properly, tearing around rooms that intimidated dignitaries, knocking over priceless doodads and playing with the Presidential dog (Muffin, who only seemed to bite on Christmas Eve, though not hard); and babies with bows around their bald heads, wobbling on the floor or on knees, drawing looks from new and old fathers of pride and remembrance
. Pete watched the confused play of emotions under their stuck-on expressions, which revealed—now if at no other time or place—that the grasping, positioning, opportunistic people with which he daily fenced were, in the end, as human as the next person.

When the evening grew late, the children were taken home to their sleepless vigil and the adults that remained—older or younger than the parents—no longer whispered in their talk.  Gossip continued but the coming war found its way into the loudest voices, no matter Linda's attempts to keep enough women in each talking circle to restrain what made Washington parties so dull.  Pete played host to keep from being dragged inextricably into any one conversation.  He would have carried around a wine bottle, refilling glasses, if Linda would have let him.  The coming war had lay heavily on his mind over the last month and all the conversations he heard, and from which he flew, seemed woefully behind his thinking.

The inspectors who had returned to Iraq by UN resolution had found, naturally, nothing.  The national press—heretofore restrained from criticism of the Howland Administration by calls for patriotism and unity—were questioning the government's claims, even those news stations and newspapers owned by friendly contributors.  Karl, of course, reassured Pete that they could spin the lack of evidence as evidence that the inspections could not solve the problem of a nuclear armed Iraq, only invasion could.  But Pete had received briefs from his generals about the numbers of troops he would need to send if he chose to invade, and even the dramatically lower number Ben Butler assured him could accomplish the mission staggered him.  To send so many into harm's way.  Perhaps it was the season, thinking of Christ, of good will toward men, of peace, or perhaps it was remembering his father at similar parties, his father who had gone to war, who had carried the mutilated wounded and peaceful dead from his stricken bomber time and again, perhaps both worked upon Pete's mind and he wondered if he shouldn't welcome the inspector's reports and abandon his long pursued project.

Projects long pursued, Pete thought as he stood near a table covered with bottles and an over-sweet punch, watching Linda across the room.  If I told you everything, he wondered, what I've ordered and what I hope to gain and why I want it, would you stay another moment in this house?

“Merry Christmas, Mr. President,” Karl said confidentially, behind Pete at the punch bowl.

“Merry Christmas, Karl,” Pete said, sparing only a brief glance over his shoulder for his Chief of Staff.

“I have an early present for you, sir,” Karl said, uncomfortably close to Pete's ear.  Pete hardly heard him.  “Khalid Sheikh Kahtani—the second in command of Al Qaeda who we believe planned 9/11—has just been captured in Pakistan.”

Pete had to exert himself fully to avoid drawing attention from the assembled guests as he turned slowly to face Karl.  Karl's eyes gleamed.

“KSK,” Pete whispered, “we got him?”

“On his way to Gitmo as we speak, Mr. President,” Karl said.

“Good god,” Pete breathed, “it is a merry Christmas!”

“We'll have a confession in about a month,” Karl said, “as well as the added press value when we announce who we've caught.”

“Excellent, excellent!” Pete said, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep from hugging Karl.  “And, no, don't announce his capture for a couple days; don't want it to compete with Christmas specials on TV or returning gifts on the 26
th
.”

They both laughed and drank a toast with the sickening punch.

“I think we could open our push for war powers right after the New Year, sir,” Karl said.  “Start things out privately, then make public our intent with the State of the Union Address, maybe, and then crush all opposition with KSK's confession by the end of January.  We could be in Iraq by February.”

“More like March, Karl,” Pete said.  “It'll take some time to put the troops in theater.”

“Of course,” Karl said.  “That's what I meant; we could begin deploying to Iraq by February.”

“Fantastic news, Karl,” Pete said and clapped the other man on the shoulder.  “Best Christmas present I'll get this year.  Keep me informed.”  Pete returned to watching the party.

Hesitating for a moment as if he expected more, Karl stared at the President's back and then crept away.  Down the long table—still covered with drink and food, replenished by an observant staff—Pete saw Paul Kluister pushing past people toward the selection of scotch.  Paul smiled at some inner thought as he rifled the bottles until he saw Pete walking toward him.  Then his eyes shifted to check the room and he struggled not to smile more broadly.

“Did Karl tell you?” Pete asked when he was close enough to be heard under the general hubbub.

“Met him in the hall,” Paul said.  He whispered, “We're almost there!”

“Yes, we are,” Pete said, rocking on his heels.

“Say, why don't we go find a spot away from all these people and have a quiet drink?” Paul asked.  “Like in the old days.”

“Paul, that is just what I want,” Pete said and clapped his VP on the shoulder.

Paul picked up a full bottle of black-label blended scotch and walked out; Pete motioned to a waiter to fill a bucket with ice, grab two large glasses, and follow him.  They avoided the family quarters and the Oval Office—anywhere they might be looked for—and settled in the Map Room in the basement, a rather curious room.

“You haven't seen us escape,” Pete told the waiter with a wink.

“No, Mr. President,” the young man said conspiratorially and left.

They sat in two overstuffed leather chairs with an antique little table between them, the perfect size for drinks.  Paul drove a hand into the ice, filled both glasses, added a rim-full pour of the amber fluid—remembering to dole Pete's measure first—and sat back carefully, a look of ecstasy on his face as he lifted his glass.  Pete raised his glass in answer.

“To that son of a bitch,” Paul said solemnly: “Sing, boy, sing.”

“Hear, hear,” Pete said, although he looked as if he'd got socks for Christmas.

They drank.

“No?” Paul said.  “Alright, something more for the season,” he said, refilling his now depleted glass and topping off Pete's.  “Allah Akbar, you son of a bitch: go with god.”

“For Christ sake, Paul,” Pete said but he laughed all the same and they drank while snickering.  “Ah, that came out of the right bottle.”

“We're almost there!” Paul roared and cackled.  “All falling into place.  Karl's doing that thing with the press, making it look like the inspector's finding bupkis means Saddam's hiding his nukes; we got son of a bitch over a slow fire, warming up his voice in Gitmo; and
Congress waiting with baited breath for us to tell them how to vote and what on.  Turning out to be a merrier Christmas than I thought.”

“It is,” Pete said.  “A merry one; lot of presents.”

“It turned around,” Paul said.  He drained his glass, added another cube of ice, and filled it again.  “Know who I saw at the Christmas party?  Not this one, the one earlier in the month for the press.  Clyde Sewell.”

“Clyde Sewell?”  Pete asked.

“Sure, you must remember old Clyde Sewell,” Paul said.  “From Yale.”

Pete lurched forward in his chair as if he'd been kicked, a look on his face of someone whose long lost relative has been found.  “Clyde Sewell, by god!” he cried.  “Why I haven't thought of Clyde in thirty years.  Good old Clyde.  Well how the hell is he these days?”

“I didn't talk to that son of a bitch,” Paul snarled.  “I hate Clyde.”

“What!  No you don't,” Pete chided, swatting Paul's knee.  “You and Clyde were thick as thieves back at Yale.  Hell, I hardly saw one of you without the other after our first semester.”

“Oh, sure,” Paul said angrily.  “If I wasn't in class, I was off drinking with Clyde; if I missed a test, me and Clyde were pulling a prank—”

“You two were terrors!” Pete laughed.  “Legends in your own time for tomfoolery.  But why would that make you hate him?”

“There's one thing we didn't do together,” Paul spat.  “At the end of the year, both Clyde and I had done as poorly in our classes—but they gave him his 'gentleman's C' while I got a bus ticket!  All the way back to Oklahoma!”

Paul took a slow pull from his glass; his eyes unfocused as he lowered his drink.  Looking closely, Pete could see thick lines of blood in the corners of Paul's eye and noticed his elbow involuntarily jump.

He's on a bender, Pete thought, not far along, though.  Still lucid, probably he's just drank himself sober.  God how I hate Christmas, Pete thought as he remembered a few hectic Christmases past when his oldest friend tried to fend off depression with drink.  In the end, drink beat both Paul and depression, and someone had to be called in to sober him up confidentially.  He doesn't look that bad this time, Pete thought, he could pull out of it—he has before—but god, if only he wasn't thinking about Yale.

“And why?” Paul said, addressing the air in front of him.  “Why do that to me?  Because his family had the power to take what they wanted and they wanted Clyde to have a goddamn degree from Yale.  What the hell business was it of the school's what I did?  They got their money, they were paid!  How could they benefit from my grades?  It didn't matter to them one way or the other.”

“No, it didn't,” Pete said.  “They had no business interfering.  But why blame Clyde?  With the influence you had over him,” Pete said, trying to lighten the mood, “I'd say you led poor Clyde astray.”

“Because he knew how it worked!” Paul shouted.  “We didn't have his kind of money, it's true, but we knew a few people.  He should have told me to make sure people back home were making phone calls on my behalf.  If I'd known, I'd've asked your dad.  It've been fine.  But Clyde didn't say a word.  Despite all the good times we had, Clyde didn't really think—”

“To hell with what Clyde thought!” Pete said, afraid of where the conversation was turning.  “It was an unfortunate mistake, what happened back then, but you've proven how useless a Yale degree is.”

“You think I'm afraid to say it,” Paul said, turning sober but reddened eyes on his friend.

“I don't think you're afraid of anything, Paul,” Pete said.

“I'll say it,” Paul hissed: “Clyde didn't think I belonged there.  The school didn't either.  Grades are just hoops to jump through and we know what that's all about.  You don't make your own people jump through them: hoops are for lesser people.  That's what they thought of me, just like those bastards who gave us a hard time because of our accents or not knowing where to go to fucking ski!”

“It wasn't fair,” Pete said.  Hearing words he'd thought in the silent watches of the night now spoken in Paul's voice jarred him.  He dropped what was left in his glass down his throat and refilled it.  “And it wasn't right, either, because—”

“You know, I went there,” Paul said quietly, not hearing Pete.  “To St. Maritz, to ski.  This was after I worked for—hell, for your future father in law.  I took Missy there to go ski and stay at the lodge, drink hot toddies and play bridge.  I remember thinking how great it'd be, how prepared I was: I had the right clothes, talked with the right accent, talked about the right things.  But those bastards just sneered at me.  They were laughing, Pete.  Laughing because they knew I didn't have as much as I should.”