The Parnell Affair (40 page)

“Good god,” Sally breathed.  “Does he have the memo?”

“That's all you can—people are being tortured!” Tobias growled.  “By our government!”

She took his arm.  “I know, I know,” she said soothingly.  “I'm sorry: in my line of work,” she said, “facing the horror of torture somewhere out in the cold was a fact of life I had to get used to.  The KGB—let alone the Chinese—were not known for their gentleness with spies.  So it's just not as shocking—or, say, surprising—to hear of torture being ordered.  Although it is shocking: particularly that our government ordered it and was stupid enough to put their names on it—if I'm not assuming too much.”

“You're not,” he said.  “At least I think not.  This guy didn't say anything, just led me here and there, but I'm pretty sure the torture memo has the President's signature.  God, what a sickening thing to say.”

“Does he have a copy?” she asked.  “Know where we could get one?”

“He doesn't have a copy,” he said.  “But it seems he thinks we could find one somewhere in the Justice Department.  I don't see why Justice, though.  I'd have thought at the places where the torture was committed.”

“Oh, of course,” Sally said, touching her forehead.  “That's what they were doing!  Remember, we saw Justice Department lawyers attached to the OSP?  No wonder.  It was all part of a single plan, organized at the OSP.  Part of the team dealt with creating the WMD threat in Iraq while the lawyers authorized the torture that would ultimately tie the WMD from Iraq to the terrorists through forced confessions.  So we know exactly who wrote the memo: our friend John Wu.”

“Wonderful,” Tobias sighed.  “I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear from me—and to have the memo he authored that orders torture released to the public.  Unless you think he was so taken with you he could deny you nothing.”

Sally smirked at Tobias's worried expression before saying: “I'm not going to ask him for it.  I'm going to walk right in and take it.”

“Jesus!” Tobias said through clenched teeth.  He took Sally by the arm to speak close to her ear; she put a hand on his chest and a beatific smile on her face to give the passersby the impression he was saying sweet nothings to her.  He wasn't.  “I'm sorry to say this but you tried this before and it didn't work out so well.  It wouldn't be your kindly boss's office this time, either; no getting a break and retiring if things go badly.  This time it would be jail—for treason, probably.”

“Relax, relax,” she said mildly.  “Don't draw attention to us.  Put your arms around me.  Look at me: there's no time to try to track down some operative with a conscience.  We have less than a week.  If this memo is explicit, we could effectively eliminate the confessions and force the Administration onto the defensive.  If there's another way, I'm all for it—tell me.”

“We've tried our best,” Tobias said.  “It isn't exactly our responsibility—”

“Don't give me that crap, darling,” she said and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.  “Whose responsibility is it to hold the government to account if not we citizens and you press?”

“I'm not having a civics debate about this,” he said.

“You're telling me your not,” she said.

“You're not doing this,” he said.

“Oh, putting your foot down?” she asked.  “Did we teleport into
Father Knows Best
?  Your own actions you control, that's it.  You can either help me—and increase my chances of success—or you can call the police and have them waiting there for me.”

“I don't want you to go to prison,” he said.

“I don't want to go to prison,” she said.  “But less than that do I want to go through the rest of my life feeling I could have done something; to know I was beaten because I gave up.  Now, handsome, do you know a woman at Justice?”

“What?” he asked.

“About my height and blond, preferably,” she added.

“What are you—yes, no, not blond—what are you thinking?” he asked.  “Her name's Hazel.  She's in media.”

“Take her to lunch tomorrow,” Sally said, pulling him closer, wrapping her arm around the back of his neck and with her other hand grabbing his butt.

“Hey!  Why?” he asked.

“Call her up and do that crackly thing with your voice,” Sally said and nuzzled her nose against his chin.  “Tell her you simply
have
to see her; it's been too,
too
long—and make it 11:30, you're hungry.”

“Okay, okay,” he said.  “But why?”

Hazel was surprised, delighted, to hear from Tobias after so long.  All thoughts of her fiancé were shunted off and restrained behind “he's just a friend” as she touched up her makeup and headed two blocks to the restaurant where she'd meet him.  11:30 was kind of early, but with only a little yogurt for breakfast, any excuse to eat early—and eat out—was welcome.  She thought she'd come too early but he was already seated and waiting for her. 
God
is he ever gorgeous, she commented to herself as she weaved around tables.  While looking at him, and not for the first time, the rest of the world just faded away; she walked right into this woman.  Hazel apologized but the woman couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her.  My mistake, Hazel thought, but do you have to be such a bitch?  Never mind—Tobias is waiting!

Sally pocketed the ID keycard she'd stripped from Hazel's shirt and kept walking, out the door and then a block north to a little boutique clothing store where she bought a long coat just like Hazel's after she donned a brunette wig in the changing room.  She couldn't do much about her fa
irer complexion except to add more of a dark foundation and blush, but a pair of enormous sunglasses like Hazel's concealed much of her face anyway.  (The coat she'd come in with, which she'd purchased the night before on the other side of town, went into a shopping bag and then into a garbage can a block west.)  All her shopping was done with cash.

Sally walked passed a certain bar and grill and glanced inside.  Amongst his usual crowd, John Wu was laughing and just tuning up his first vodka and tonic.  Sally continued on.

At the Robert F. Kennedy building, her remarkable lack of metal anywhere on her person—except for her phone—allowed her to pass security without more than a walk through a machine and cursory glance at her ID.  From memory—of having seen the OSP personnel list—Sally had John Wu's floor and office number, though no idea where it was.  The elevator got her halfway there.  Inadvertently, she went the opposite direction she wanted and circumnavigated the floor until she found John Wu's door.  The entire floor was dedicated to the department's enormous number of legal proceedings.  Perhaps as a result, the need for confidentiality, there were a lot of closed doors and only a few cubicles.  John Wu's office was among those of the other hotshots, on the exterior wall with a window and a view of the equally depressing IRS building.

The hallway had doors mostly down one wall, the other side belonging to a series of conference rooms.  As Sally finally approached John Wu's door, two men were also passing it, one clearly furious and the other knew it was his fault.  Sally buried her head in her Blackberry; they didn't even notice her enough to say excuse me.

Looking up as if surprised to find herself there, Sally checked the hallway—empty now—and tried the door handle.  Locked.  First check, she thought, though she expected it.  She kept her phone in her left hand (composing an email to Tobias), while withdrawing a couple graphite lock picks with her right.  She opened her coat and all but leaned her back against the door.  Behind her, she inserted the lock picks and went to work.

Picking a lock is done primarily through feel, anyway, so not seeing the doorknob deprived her of very little.  She slowly swayed this way and that as she worked, scanning the full length of the hallway in her peripheral vision.

Footsteps to her left sounded as her eyes were oriented more to her right.  She wrenched the picks out of the lock and palmed them.  As a woman with half glasses and an unimpressed expression heaved and sighed her way past, Sally pressed her right hand—and the lock picks—to her lower back, making a motion as if absently massaging a soreness.  When the woman turned the corner, Sally began again on the lock.

No sooner had she started than two more women came around the corner at the other end of the hallway.  It being lunchtime, many people were on their way out.  In her haste to conceal them, Sally dropped one of the lock picks.  She wanted to put a foot on it, to hide the black pick that must have stood out on the light tan carpet, but couldn't feel it through her shoes and dared not look.  The two approaching women stopped talking as they drew near.  Desperate to keep the women from observing her too closely (and seeing the lock pick at her feet), Sally made a provocative sighing noise, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp discreetly hushed.  She leaned a little over her phone, now as if intently reading an email.  She slowly, absently, licked her lips and breathed deeply enough to move her chest noticeably.  The two other women shared a look and then tried to sneak a peek at Sally's phone as they passed.  Sally kept her head down but—concealed by her sunglasses—she watched their eyes.  The amusement on their faces was good-naturedly catty; they'd all been there.  Twenty feet down the corridor, they began talking quietly again; with a last glance back at Sally—who looked up at the ceiling and pressed her phone to her chest with a sigh—they slipped around the corner and were gone.

Sally instantly knelt and clawed her lock pick off the floor.  Traitor! she thought at the thing before arranging it and its partner between her fingers and going back to work on the lock.  I'm never going to get in at this rate, she thought.  Every time I get a feel for the lock, someone comes around the corner and I have to start all over.  And if I'm still here, lurking around John Wu's office when one of these people returns, questions will most certainly be asked.  Shit!

The woman with the half glasses came trundling back down the hallway.  Whether due to her knees, her back, or both under the strain of her rotund frame, she breathed audibly as she traversed the corridor again.

Fuck it, Sally thought, I've got to try.

Leaning her right shoulder against the door, she shielded the hand behind her back as she continued to struggle with the lock.  Now, if only that old warhorse doesn't notice my shoulder twitching under my coat, Sally prayed.

The old warhorse saw something she didn't like.  As she approached, she began making a low grunting noise somehow strangely akin to the sort of cough reserved for outside a bathroom door, only less courteous.  Sally kept her eyes on her phone.  The woman snorted next, and Sally could see the woman eyeing her as she limped closer.  Sally began mumbling the contents of her fictitious email.

“That is why I find your missing our meeting—as well as your other behavior—totally unprofessional and unacceptable,” she said and then descended back into inaudible mumbling.

The warhorse seemed to approve, or disapprove less, getting the idea Sally was waiting for someone who couldn't be bothered to arrive on time.

As the woman passed by, Sally—as soundlessly as she could—rotated around the doorknob, keeping her body between it and the warhorse.  Sally regretted the heavy wool of her new coat by the time the woman finally turned the corner.

Her hand now covered in sweat, Sally almost had the door lock picked.  In another moment, it began to turn.  Quickly eyeing the corridor in both directions, Sally risked again and spun around to use both hands to twist open the lock.  The doorknob turned and she sprang inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

Footsteps came running down the hall.  Thoughts of security cameras hidden in the ceiling or silent alarms attached to the doors occurred to Sally as she pressed herself against the wall on the hinge side of the door.  Whatever the cause, they were running down the corridor.

And then passed John Wu's office.  The wall the office shared with the corridor was opaque glass except for the top third which was clear so a visitor could peep over while still in the hallway to ascertain if the occupant was using the phone or was otherwise not to be disturbed.  Through this aperture, Sally recognized the guilty looking subordinate whom she'd passed earlier, now running back the way he'd come.

Sally took a deep breath but allowed herself no time for composure.  Too much is going on around here, she thought, need to get the memo and get the hell out of here.  Operatives' superstition: rationally perhaps, no reason existed to suspect the day or mission bore some supernatural grudge against her.  Yet every operations officer knows that some days have more than their fair share of bad luck.

Before any of it caught up with her, Sally dodged behind the desk and dropped to her knees, conscious of keeping her head below the level of the desk's top and so out of sight from the hall.  The desk had seven drawers, three to a side and the center drawer.  Only the center and the two lower, larger drawers were locked.  No matter which you choose to start with, she thought, it'll be the last one.

She discounted the center drawer and began working on the lower left.  And then a knock came at the door.  Sally huddled closer to the floor, still working on the lock, feeling eyes lifted over the opaque partition, searching the room from above.  She had the lock open; she couldn't risk a glance over the desk top to see if anyone remained outside and so she slowly drew the drawer open while hunched as low as possible.

The drawer contained file folders with case names, Sally saw, or what looked like—

Another, more urgent knock sounded.  Oh god, Sally thought: what if it isn't someone looking for John Wu but someone who saw me come in?

She leafed frantically through the drawer's contents, though she quickly realized she was in the wrong place.  “God damn it,” she mouthed silently.

Shifting to her other side, pinned, it felt, between desk and chair, Sally started on the right-hand drawer.  She cocked an ear as she worked but could hear nothing.  Gone? she asked no one.  Off to get a key?

The drawer came open quickly, now that Sally knew the lock's mechanism.  On this side, she saw more file folders but with names mostly medical or Latinate.  Another knock came and then the handle was shaken.

“Open this door,” a voice demanded.  “Open right now.”

Sally froze.

Someone laughed and she heard hands squeak on the glass part of the corridor wall.

“See, he's not here,” another voice said.  “They're all across the street, I'm telling you.  Let's just come back.”

“No way,” the first voice said.  “He'll be back soon.”

“Why not just call his cell?” the second voice asked.

“And let him know we're looking for him?” the first voice said.  “No way.  He'd never come back.  He knows how much work this'll take.”

“Fuck,” Sally breathed, her head bowed until it touched the files.  I'll just have to come up with something, she thought: but first, I need that memo.

As she thumbed her way further back into the drawer, Sally noticed case files to do with interrogation and medical memoranda concerning pain and lethal force.  At the very back of the drawer, she found first a rough draft and then, ultimately, the final draft and the returned copy—John Wu's copy of the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques Executive Order, signed by the President.

Sally took the memoranda, and, forgetting the voices outside, read through what the President of the United States had ordered done to prisoners.

“You bastard,” she whispered to herself.  “Enhanced Interrogation Techniques is the term the Gestapo used to describe their methods of torturing prisoners.  Gestapo thugs were put to death after the war for these same abuses.”

Anger and—strangely—humiliation welled up in Sally.  She took the memo and put it inside her blouse.  Closing and locking the drawer, Sally then lie all but entirely prostrate and slowly peeped an eye around the corner of the desk.

One of the two men outside John Wu's office must have been leaning against the door because the other was leaning against the opaque wall facing that way.  Sally had to get out, yet none of her ideas seemed plausible: call in a bomb threat?  They'd trace the call to John Wu's office or her cell phone.  Kick through the wallboard into the next office over?  The two outside would hear and she didn’t know if anyone was in the next office over.  Out the window?  Even if the four story fall wouldn't break her ankles, the window didn't open.  She checked her watch: John Wu would leave the restaurant in another fifteen or twenty minutes.

What are you going to say when he gets here? she asked herself.  Play up to him, she thought, tell him you're in a bad legal jam and you need help.  At least it'll be true.  Talk fast, embarrass him in front of these other two—and hope he doesn't call security.  Are you willing to fight your way out?

“Dude, let's just go over there,” the second voice said.  “We can order some sandwiches to go, right, and either eat them there if he won't leave or take them with us if he does.  I'm starving!”

“Fine,” the first voice said.  “I'm getting hungry, too.”

Sally collapsed on the floor in relief.  She waited a minute before creeping to the corridor wall and checking through the glass.  No one.  She slipped out quickly, locking the door as she left.  In a few minutes she passed through security again and walked back to the restaurant where Tobias entertained Hazel.

Along the way, Sally popped into another clothing store and bought another coat, ditching her wig as well as her old coat in the changing room.  At the restaurant, she walked by Hazel's chair—entirely unnoticed—and dropped Hazel's ID card fluttering to the floor before taking a seat at the bar and ordering a large straight single-malt scotch.  When it came she took a slow drink, which left only half the contents remaining, and opened her cell phone and called Tobias.

“Hold on a sec,” he told Hazel, twenty feet away.  “I'm so sorry, I'm expecting an important call.”