by Edward Klein
“I hear this greasy spoon’s for sale,” I replied.
“That’s the rumor on the Post’s Page Six,” Julian said. “But you should hear the rumors Page Six is getting ready to print about you.”
“I know lots of people who’d buy this restaurant if you weren’t part of the business,” I said. “In fact, most people think The Four Seasons would be twice as valuable without you.”
He was unperturbed. “Just tell your friends to bring sacks of money and I’ll be gone to my vineyard in Italy.”
He glanced down at the desk and scanned the seating chart. “The Deuce made a reservation for four.”
I assumed Julian was still pulling my leg. “I believe the reservation’s for two.”
“No, it’s for four,” Julian said, savoring the look of surprise on my face. “The Deuce and two other people in your party are already seated in the Pool Room.”
The Deuce had just returned from a top-secret trip to the Middle East and had invited me to dine with him, presumably so we could talk about his mission. It was supposed to be just the two of us, in private.
Who else had he included?
Julian looked over at one of the female hosts standing at attention next to the front desk. She was dressed in black pants and a festive red jacket.
“Take Mr. Higginbothem… the thirty-third… or is it one hundred and thirty-third…I forget which…take him to table eighty-six in the Pool Room,” Julian instructed her.
Then he leaned closer to the young host and stuck his tongue in her ear.
As she led me down a long passageway that featured a large Picasso tapestry, I turned to the host and asked: “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“What’s that?” she said.
“When he sticks his tongue in your ear.”
“Oh, you should see Julian when he really gets started,” she said. “Thanksgiving’s our busiest day of the year. Julian doesn’t have—”
But she didn’t have time to finish her sentence before we entered the soaring space of the Pool Room. Colorful fall maple trees stood at each corner of the bubbling marble pool. Yellow chrysanthemums hung in brass planters in front of the shimmering chain curtains. Tables were set with crisp white linen tablecloths, silver chargers, and votive candles.
Beside many of the tables were silver service carts, where captains in tuxedos carved glistening golden-brown turkeys. I could smell the aroma of stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, and freshly baked crescent rolls. I noticed Barbara Walters dining with William Goldman, the screenwriter of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The chef Emile Lagasse was with his wife. And I caught sight of the comedian Jackie Mason asking one of the captains to heat up his Weight Watcher’s pre-packaged meal in the kitchen.
Then I heard a familiar voice.
“There’s Dad!”
It was Vier. And he was sitting with The Deuce and Taitsie at a window table. They were all smiling at me.
The Deuce stood up and shook my hand.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Higgy!” he said. “I thought it would be nice to get the whole family together.”
I hadn’t seen Taitsie since my outburst of jealousy the previous summer, when our stroll on Bailey’s Beach in Newport had been interrupted by Yurik Maligin.
Tonight, Taitsie was wearing a one-piece black Dior dress, and her dark hair was drawn back into a tight curl at the back of her head. As I leaned over to give her a quick peck on the cheek, I detected my favorite perfume, Clive Christian’s Imperial Majesty No. 1, which, as I knew, cost $2,150 an ounce. Her hand came up and softly caressed my jaw, and her lips brushed against mine. The electric jolt rendered me practically speechless.
None of this was lost on Vier, who couldn’t take his eyes off us. He stared at Taitsie and me with the biggest smile I had ever seen on his face. When I attempted to shake his hand, he threw his arms around me and hugged me with all his strength.
“Dad,” he said, “it’s so great to have the family back together.”
A waiter brought our drink order. The Deuce had his usual Maker’s Mark whisky; Taitsie had a flute of Cristal champagne; Vier, a ginger ale with a maraschino cherry; and I had sparkling water. The Deuce raised his glass for a toast.
“To the Higginbothems. May we stay together—forever!”
The Deuce was in fine form all through dinner. He regaled us with tales of his days with the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. Taitsie laughed continually. At one point, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
Vier was unusually quiet.
“Vier,” I said during a break in The Deuce’s monologue, “did you see who’s sitting over at that table in the corner? That’s Jackie Mason, one of the great stand-up comics of all time. Do you want to meet him?”
“No, thanks, Dad,” Vier said.
His attitude was puzzling me. “Is everything all right?” I asked. “Why no one-liners? Don’t you want to try out a new routine on us?”
“Dad,” Vier sighed, “it‘s hard to put in words, but tonight I’ve decided I don’t want to be a standup comic anymore.”
“That’s a major change in your plans,” I said. “How come?”
“Because comedians make jokes to get others to laugh,” he said, “and because they’re really pretty sad themselves.
“ Taitsie looked concerned.
“You know what I mean, Dad?” Vier continued. “Laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.”
“Vier,” Taitsie said, “have you been crying on the inside?”
“Not now, Mom,” he said. “Not anymore. This is the happiest day of my life. Seeing you and Dad back together—and with Grand Deuce here.”
None of us knew what to say. My scheming father had engineered a way to bring my philandering wife back to me. My comic son was giving up his budding career, because he was so happy. And I? I was transported to a place of joy I hadn’t visited in quite some time—and would again after our happy family had been back together for, say, about a week. But that’s all I’d give this interlude—maybe a week.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
When dinner was over, The Deuce and I walked Taitsie and Vier to Park Avenue and hailed a taxi.
“Please call me tomorrow morning,” Taitsie said as she climbed into the cab.
“I will,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“We have to make up for a lot of lost time,” she said.
She kissed me on the lips.
“Good night…Bottom.”
After the taxi pulled away, The Deuce and I lit cigars and began to stroll up Park Avenue.
“Higgy,” he said, “during my recent trip to the Middle East, I met with a friend of ours, Meir Dagan.”
Dagan was the chief of the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, or Mossad, the national intelligence agency of Israel. When Dagan was appointed in 2002, Ariel Sharon, then the Prime Minister of Israel, ordered him to run Mossad “with a knife between its teeth.” For the past several years, Dagan had followed these orders to a T, and had successfully revived Mossad’s aura of invincibility.
“Our friend Meir Dagan has unsurpassed knowledge of Iran’s nuclear capabilities,” The Deuce said. “And our friend is worried about President Obama. Does Obama have the cojones to deal with Iran?”
The Deuce handed me a large sealed envelope.
“This is for you,” he said. “It came into my possession during my recent trip to the Middle East. From a friend of ours. His name doesn’t need to be spoken. Read it. And then immediately destroy it.”
With that, The Deuce whistled for a taxi and disappeared into the night.
When I got back to the Peninsula Hotel, I sat on my bed and tore open the envelope that the Deuce had given me. Inside was a document bearing the signature of Meir Dagan, the chief of Mossad, and the Institute’s seal: WHERE NO STRATAGEM IS, THE PEOPLE FALL; BUT IN THE MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS THERE IS SALVATION. (PROVERBS 11:14)
/> I began reading.
07:45, 11-25-09
TO: PRIME MINISTER BENJAMIN NETANYAHU
FROM: INSTITUTE FOR INTELLIGENCE AND SPECIAL OPERATIONS
RE: AFTER ACTION REPORT (ENGLISH TRANSLATION)
SUBJECT: DIRECT CONTACT WITH PRESIDENT OBAMA LIMITED DISTRIBUTION: COPY 13 OF 18
1) Background: In the millennial year 2000, Mossad recruited Michelle Ann Holt, an attractive American female from Pennsylvania. We trained her in basic and advanced intel work at our Shaker Heights facility. Painstakingly tested, she proved reliable, and frequent polygraphs crosschecked with her trainer’s observations. After graduation, she was assigned to Washington, D.C., and placed in the hands of an experienced handler.
With her handler’s approval, she changed her name to Michaele (pronounced mick-eye-ALE-a) because she thought it sounded more upper class than Michelle and would help her infiltrate the D.C. social and political scene. Her handler also arranged for her to marry an American-born Palestinian by the name of Tareq Salahi.
Salahi was chosen for two reasons. First, he had dreams of becoming a reality TV star by gate crashing black-tie events. And second, though he had below average intelligence, he had an above average score on the Stanford Deception Susceptibility Scale and the Harvard Group Scale of Deception Susceptibility. As a result, it has been easy to deceive Tareq Salahi about his wife’s connection to Mossad. He believes that she shares his ambition to become a reality TV star.
2) Mission: The Prime Minister of Greater Israel (PRIMIGI) has grown frustrated with his inability to conduct a direct dialogue with the President of the United States (POTUS). Layers of anti-Israeli bureaucracy at the National Security Council and the State Department have prevented even simple messages and phone calls originating from PRIMIGI from getting through to POTUS. With Tehran close to a nuclear breakthrough, PRIMIGI ordered Mossad to arrange back-channel contact with POTUS.
3) Occasion: Michaele Salahi’s handler chose the November 24, 2009, state dinner for Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh (MANSING) as the ideal venue to arrange back-channel contact. It was determined that sloppy White House security would allow easy penetration without an official invitation. Before the state dinner—and to her handler’s consternation—Michaele Salahi spent seven hours at the beauty parlor—time that would have been better spent being briefed on her assignment. She also exceeded her Mossad expense account by buying an expensive red-and-gold sari to wear to the dinner. (Attempts to return the sari to the store where it was bought have so far proved futile.)
4) Penetration: Tareq and Michaele Salahi—with her handler’s assistance—were admitted to the White House for the cocktail portion of the evening. They proceeded through the presidential receiving line, where Michaele spoke to POTUS.
“I have a message from PRIMIGI,” she said.
POTUS kept smiling as he grabbed Michaele’s elbow and pulled her closer.
“Who the hell is PRIMIGI?” he whispered.
Michaele attempted to explain to POTUS who PRIMIGI was, but the receiving line had to be kept moving, and she was shuffled along.
“See Valerie Jarrett,” POTUS said as Michaele disappeared into the crowd.
5) Contact: Tareq Salahi posed for photos with celebrities, including Vice President Biden and Katie Couric (Please see the addendum to the Hebrew version of this memo for Katie Couric’s full I.D.). Meanwhile, Michaele found Valerie Jarrett, POTUS’ closest friend and confidante.
“PRMIGI wants POTUS to know that if he doesn’t move militarily against Tehran, PRIMIGI will be forced to attack Iran,” Michaele said.
“Who’s PRIMIGI?” Valerie Jarrett asked. “And where did you get that cool sari?”
Michaele explained that PRIMIGI—the Prime Minister of Greater Israel—did not want to attack Iran, but that he would be left with no choice if the U.S. failed to take decisive action to prevent Iran from acquiring a nuclear bomb.
6) Cover Story. Michaele and her husband left the White House before the dinner portion of the evening. Her handler posted the Salahis’ cell-phone photos on Michaele’s website as a way to ignite a media frenzy. It worked. Thanks to their pack mentality, the media focused all of their attention on the mystery of how the Salahis managed to get through White House security without an invitation. None of the journalists guessed Michaele Salahi’s true mission.
7) Conclusion: At 11:45 p.m. that night, after the state dinner, Obama met alone in the White House solarium in the living quarters with Valerie Jarrett. (Mossad’s technical services has had the ability to monitor conversations in the solarium since the Johnson Administration. As you may recall, we tapped President Clinton’s phone sex with Monica Lewinsky—for which also see Hebrew version of this memo.) Jarrett conveyed Michaele Salahi’s message about Iran’s imminent nuclear breakthrough and the Israelis’ intention of using preemptive action if necessary.
“Valerie, I just can’t do what Israel wants,” Obama said.
“Why not?” Jarrett asked.
Obama removed a photo from his desk drawer and handed it to Jarrett.
“What’s this?” Jarrett said.
“What does it look like?” Obama said.
“Like a piece of paper nailed to the wall,” Jarrett said.
“Well, listen to this story,” Obama said. “The Russian spymaster Yurik Maligin himself sent me this photo. He claims that it shows my foreskin being nailed to the wall, proving that I went through a Muslim conversion ceremony when I was a young kid in Indonesia. Maligin is blackmailing me. He says he’ll release this photo if I take any military action in the Middle East, especially against Iran.”
“Is it?” Valerie Jarrett asked.
“Is it what? Obama said.
“Your foreskin.”
“Who knows?” Obama said. “All foreskins look alike to me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
On Christmas morning I was in Hawaii. The president was off playing golf. The First Lady and Valerie Jarrett were doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. And Vangie Roll and I had our toes buried in warm sand and were sipping virgin piña coladas at the nine-million-dollar estate the First Family had rented on Kailua Beach on the Island of Oahu.
Vangie had been asked by Valerie Jarrett to keep an eye on First Daughters Sasha and Malia and the two young friends they had brought with them on their school vacation. Down at the water’s edge, the four girls were shrieking with excitement as they took turns skimming along on a boogie board. Bo, the First Dog, ran alongside, trying to jump up on the girls.
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie belonging to Ned “Pop” Popovich, the veteran Secret Service agent assigned to guard the Obama daughters, crackled to life with a tense exchange between two other agents in distant parts of Hawaii.
“Detail Leader, this is Signal. I have a message for Renegade. You got a copy on me?”
“Signal, this is Detail Leader. Big ten-four.”
For a moment the reception went sour, breaking up into static.
“Pop,” I said, “what’s going on?”
“I monitor all of the President’s Secret Service traffic,” Pop said, pointing to his portable radio. “It’s called earwig—listening without talking. Renegade’s our codename for President Obama, and Signal—that’s our command center—keeps me in the loop. If the President farts, I hear about it.”
I was glad that wasn’t my job.
The three of us—Vangie Roll, Pop Popovich, and I—leaned closer to the walkie-talkie so that we could hear the Secret Service conversation between Signal and Detail Leader over the hissing and crackling noises.
“Detail Leader,” said Signal at the command center, “tell Renegade there’s an urgent phone call from General James Jones, the National Security Adviser. Copy.”
“Ten-four,” Detail Leader said. “Please clarify emergency status. Copy.”
“There was an incident thirty-three minutes ago at Detroit International Airport,” Signal said. “A Nigerian passenger tried to blow up a jet
on landing. He had the bomb sewn into his underwear. When he tried to detonate it, he almost blew his dick off. This has the earmarks of an Islamist terrorist attack. Copy.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the sizzle and sputter of more static. Then the White House Secret Service Detail Leader came back on line.
“Holy shit!” he said.
“Come back?” Signal said. “Copy.”
“I said, holy shit!” Detail Leader said.
“Seventy-threes,” Signal said.
The transmission ended.
“Pop,” I said, “what’s ‘seventy-threes?”
“It’s slang for ‘good luck’.”
Five minutes later, Pop’s walkie-talkie snapped back to life.
“Signal, this is Detail Leader with Renegade,” the White House Secret Service agent radioed. “Copy.”
“Ten-four,” Signal replied.
“Renegade’s finished his call with General Jones and is back in a sand trap on the second hole,” Detail Leader said. “Copy.”
“Come again?” Signal said. “Copy.”
“I said Renegade’s back on the golf course,” Detail Leader said. “Copy.”
“Renegade’s back on the course after the terrorist attack?” Signal said. “Copy.”
“That a big ten-four,” Detail Leader said.
“No, it isn’t,” Signal said. “That’s a big negatory.”
The transmission ended.
Pop looked at me and rolled his eyes. “I suppose you want to know what a ‘negatory’ is.”
“I can guess,” I said.
Just then, one of Sasha and Malia’s friends, a girl named Nancy, started screaming. Vangie and Pop flew out of their beach chairs and sprinted down to the water. I was right behind them.
When I got there, I saw that Bo, in his excitement, had gotten carried away and inadvertently bitten Nancy’s finger. It was bleeding profusely, and the frightened little girl was sobbing inconsolably.
Vangie tried to calm her down; she held her thumb and index finger over Nancy’s cut to stem the bleeding.