The Parnell Affair (42 page)

Tobias thanked him and hung up.

“You two might want to breeze on out of here,” Sal said, hanging an arm over the back of his chair.  “I'll give you a head start before I settle up downstairs.”

“Thanks, that's a good idea,” Sally said.  “Especially after that phone call, we shouldn't hang around.”

She and Tobias thanked Sal with the simplicity that true regard inspires.  On the way out, they decided they couldn't risk going to either of their places for Tobias to write his story: after discovering to what horrific depths the President and his Administration would sink, they did not consider any possibility—even kidnapping and murder—unlikely.  Instead they went to a rather elegant French restaurant off Columbus Circle: given the rude things said about France by some in the Administration, they thought it less likely they'd inadvertently meet one of its insiders.  The vintage jazz playing at below conversational volume was also a factor for Tobias.

They sat at the bar, at one end where Tobias could plug his laptop's cord into a convenient wall socket.  Sally sat next to him with her back to the bar, watching the front door.

The lede to the story was simple enough: “The President of the United States has ordered the use of torture, according to a document bearing the President's signature obtained by
The Washington Observer
.”  The enumeration of facts, the distillation of Agent Fanoui's story, and the simple mechanical difference between interrogation, coercion, and duress worked as an equally mechanical exercise in Tobias's hands—or should have.  With the first sentence typed, his notes beside him and the next sentence repeating itself in his mind, his fingers hovered above the keys, shaking.  No observer's calm stole over him; he tried to force himself to view his writing the story from outside—and managed to look over his own shoulder at his work—but he couldn't separate himself from the story.

Will it even matter? he thought.  The President says Iraq seeks uranium in Africa; we show his evidence is a crude forgery and that—judging by their actions—they at least knew it was faked but let it stand; and yet Senators, even those twenty-year incumbents like Snajder, have to consult their local polls and their campaign contributor's interests before they decide if they can “afford” to call a lie a lie.  But they
see
it, Tobias thought and clenched his shaking hands above the keys.

His eyes strayed to the topmost row, to the 2 and then the + and then back to the 2, and in an instant he'd typed: 2 + 2 = 5.

And here we go again, he thought, thinking he had said it aloud.  Will torture be too expensive with a general election next year?  Will the people who answer polls—who don't mind getting up from dinner to answer the push-button questions of an automated telephone call—will they care?  Will television news—with their program directors hungry to climb higher upward toward the corporate interest that owns it—will the 24-hour news catch the five crucial minutes of a voter's interest in the facts?  Will they be facts or products?  Can Snajder afford to vote what he knows?  Or will he take forgeries and coerced confessions and vote war?  2 + 2 = 5.  Lies brandished as truth, from the Administration, from the press: the rat-filled cage strapped to the face of America.

“Will this even matter?  Will they read and believe and vote war anyway?  And why would they want war?” he thought and this time did say it quietly aloud.  He caught Sally looking at him, the corners of their eyes meeting.

Why would they? he thought.  You create a reason to go to war when no reason exists: if no reason exists to begin with, why go to war?  “A remorseless despot,” the President had said, “with great potential wealth.”  Wealth.  For money?  What could you possibly buy that could be worth it?  Money for its own sake?  Madness, total madness.

Tobias stood up, turned his back on his computer, and then faced Sally.

“I'm going to the men's room,” he said.  “Maybe step outside for a minute, see if the cold air will clear my head.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.  “Don't be too long, though.”

Tobias glanced at the clock on his screen: 8:02 pm.  “No, I won't be long.”

Past the bar, around the corner, and down the hall, the restrooms were on the right, the ally door straight ahead.  And coming in from the cold February evening were two large, formidable-looking men.  And behind them, ahead of two similar men, was Karl Kristiansen.

Tobias had had it.  The Orwellian reality he'd endured with Sally for months and months was not a mechanism demanded by a short-sighted populous, no matter the transparent attempts by the Administration and its party allies to terrify them into accepting anything.  No, the violations of the constitution, the broken laws, the rape of the country's few universal values—among them, never to torture—were the product of men, simple, despicable, men.

“Evening, Karl,” Tobias said, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the wall.  Karl appeared to recognize him but did not respond, following one of his bodyguards down the hall as the first stood inches from Tobias's face.  “Little premature to celebrate war for oil, isn't it?” Tobias said.  “How could an honest public servant even afford to eat here?  I don't imagine they'd accept a personal check from you—particularly if it said 'Bank of Niger' on it.”

Karl stopped walking, turned after a moment and said, “Weber, help Mr. Hallström outside.”

The bodyguard in front of Tobias seized him roughly by the collar of his blazer and tossed him into the waiting arms of the two by the door.  Tobias was hauled out into the bracing air; he didn't resist, he kept his eyes and phony grin locked on Karl.  The alley was a sort of urban courtyard, a wide space behind the building where garbage bins were kept.  The entrances at left and right were narrow and darkened to blackness once around the corner from the courtyard's only light, which hung above the door.  The bodyguards stood behind and to either side of Tobias in the middle of the concrete floor as Karl casually descended the three steps, pulling on his gloves.

“See if he's wearing a listening device,” Karl said.

He strolled with his hands clasped behind him as Tobias felt hands pat him down.  Only then did his grin slip: he still had the torture memo in his blazer pocket.

“He's got a cell phone, Mr. Kristiansen,” the bodyguard directly behind Tobias said, holding it up.

“Take it inside with Grubber,” Karl said.  “You two: go down the alleys and make sure we're not disturbed.  Yes, close the door, Weber.”

The two remaining guards disappeared down opposite alleys, but by the sound of their boots they were not beyond call.

Tobias regretted his foolishness; if the torture memo were discovered and taken, the story could never be written.  You made yourself feel better, jackass, Tobias told himself, but if they find and take this memo it'll be at the price of who knows how many torture victims and the functioning of democracy in this country.

Karl laughed quietly and Tobias jumped out of his worries.  Karl had stood and watched him.

“Look at you,” he said.  “Pissing in your pants.  I am not threatening you.  You gave me the impression you wanted to talk, Tobias.  So I have set aside this little space, and very little of my time, for you.  You certainly have no reason for fear,” he said in mock soothing tones and then affected a mirthless chuckle.

“Someone from your party
not
recommending fear?” Tobias said.  “Tsk, tsk: you're off message.”  Before Karl could reply, Tobias plowed on.  “And I've always been meaning to ask: why do you do that with your hands?  The
Dr. No
gestures.  It's as if everyone in your Administration chose a different Bond villain to imitate, when growing up.”

“And you got Bond's girl,” Karl said.  He didn't drop his hands from the fingertip-to-fingertip steepling they'd unconsciously assumed; he looked at Tobias as a grown up might a child who unwittingly asks about sex, half amused with supercilious unconcern.  “We were all so happy for you, Tobias, when we
saw
you finally got the girl.  Some people clapped.”

“I was after a story,” Tobias said.  “And I got it.”

“Yes, you did,” Karl said.  “Something about some documents?  Oh, I forget.  Has not had much of an effect, I fear.”

“Just wait,” Tobias said and then cursed himself.  Don't excite his curiosity; get the fuck out of here!  “They haven't voted you war powers, yet.”

“Yet,” Karl repeated.  “I am afraid that is already taken care of.  The vote is a formality.  You are looking nervous, Tobias.  Worry not, nothing will happen to you.  You can go on writing whatever you want, it will not matter.  You can keep your little nine-to-five job and work in your little office and gnaw on your little thoughts and enjoy your little life.”

“Thank you, Karl,” Tobias said.  “That's big of you.  And we know what you'll be doing, all the while.  And what you'll be doing it for.  That
is
an awful nice coat you're wearing, pal,” Tobias said.  The cold had begun to make him shiver but he tried to restrain himself, not to show discomfort.  “Looks expensive.”

“It cost whatever the market dictates,” Karl said with an indifferent shrug.

“It's not the only thing that dictates,” Tobias said.  “And for the same, dirty reason, too.  But hey, who cares about the constitution or a few human lives when there are some dollars to be made?  Just as long as you funnel oil to your masters' oil companies—and the easily manipulated market dictates their oil sells for a huge sum of dollars.”

“You people never understand,” Karl said and then tried to unclench his jaw surreptitiously.  “You always impose your own greed-ridden fantasies onto the wealthy, the powerful.  Money for restaurants, for cars, for prostitutes, for family vacations?” he sneered.  He threw his head back and steepled his fingers again.  “Stupid.  Money is ammunition.

“The people you hate don't want money for its own sake,” Karl continued.  “Money is a tool.  Just like a carpenter needs his saw, or a soldier his guns, or a petty reporter needs his pens and filth.”

“And with your money you make what?” Tobias asked.  “You make wars.  Wars for more money for—”

“If necessary,” Karl said.  “But even then, war is only a tool.”

“And never mind the thousands of people you'll kill,” Tobias said.  “And not face-to-face like a soldier, like a man!  You'll squat here, hiding behind the President's coat tails, killing in absentia, killing without the sight of blood.”

“Are you still that stupid?” Karl shouted over Tobias's rising voice and then controlled himself.  “You still fail to understand.  What do you lose if a thousand carpenters, soldiers, or farmers die?  They are going to die anyway and when they do, others will take their places.  And they are all the same!  What does it matter who launders my coat or raises my food?  One is the same as another.  It is not unlike being particular about which cow you get your steaks from—it makes no difference.

“It is the cruel hard fact that the egotistical peasant never faces,” Karl continued as he walked slowly around Tobias, “scrambling to protect his precious little life: your lives do not matter.  If you were not here, someone else would do your job; the world goes on; the universe does not notice your absence and history never knew your name to begin with.  But for the President?  The Powerful?  My success shapes the world!  History is changed!  The future forged!  By my design, Tobias.  And so, perhaps you can now raise your head from the trough and see, the powerful matter.”

“You're disgusting,” Tobias said.  “And by your smile, I can see you like being thought of as a monster.  But why would you even bother, oh great and powerful Karl?  If not for the good of the multitude, why bother?”

“Why do you bother with the featureless masses?” Karl asked.  “Do you distinguish one pea from another as you eat?  No.  Why do I shape the world?  To leave a legacy.  To
have
shaped the world however I so deem.  And for my great work, I need tools.  And I'll have them.

“It always amuses me,” he continued, “and never ceases to amaze, how you people scorn capitalism.”

“What you practice isn't capitalism,” Tobias said.  “It's the filthiest form of monarchy.”

“Temper, temper,” Karl said.  “What I practice
is
capitalism.  The purest, highest form, an art of capitalism lived in all aspects of life.  Where only the bonds of existence set the goal posts.  No petty squabbling about fanciful rules, no sacred cows.  Greatness for those who can; for all others—” he said and shrugged.

“The marketplace, red in tooth and claw,” Tobias said.

“Ah, it learns!” Karl said.

“Only, in the marketplace of ideas, you're bankrupt,” Tobias said.

“You have revealed yourself,” Karl said.  “As have your little stories in the paper.  You tried to compete, tried to derail my plans, and you failed.  The marketplace determined
your
ideas are of less value than mine. 
You
have been beaten. 
You
have lost.  And now, as some losers do, you throw a tantrum.  You should be
glad
.  If you had proven competent, in anyway a challenge to me, I would have taken greater pains to remove you from play.  As things stand, on the eve of war and glory, you are insignificant.  And you should thank whatever god you pray to.  You can go on, blissfully ignorant, safely impotent, scribbling your way through your inconsequential life.  It is my gift to you, Tobias: you are beneath my notice.