Ballots and Blood

by Ralph Reed

  He roared with laughter. “It would be funny if it were not pathetic. It should tell you all you need to know about their priorities, their worldview. Are the Senate Democrats holding the hearings on the murders at the European Union conference in Rome? No! They ignore the terrorists, but they are scared to death of evangelical Christians. If an evangelical ministry simply asks to be free from the harassment of the IRS, get on your helmets. Hire lawyers! Alert the cable news bookers! Everyone get dressed up in your best pin-striped suit for a kangaroo court!” Andy worked himself into a lather, but his producer held up his thumb and index finger, closing them together. A hard break loomed.

  Andy nodded at the producer. “My friends, that’s why we need the biggest turnout of freedom-loving, Constitution-defending, God-fearing patriots we’ve ever seen in November. Starting with Sal Stanley, we need to show this crowd the door. Now, I want you to do something. Call the Senate switchboard. Do it right now. Ask your senator if he agrees with this charade of a hearing, and don’t take ‘no comment’ for an answer. Back after this.”

  The program’s theme music played over the speakers in the studio. Andy pulled his headphones off his gigantic skull, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Impulsively, he checked e-mail on his laptop. He spied an e-mail from Ross Lombardy. It contained only one word: “Wow.” Andy chuckled.

  THE WHITE HOUSE WAS INSISTENT Jay would testify for only one day. Get your pound of flesh, but get it all at once, it vowed. The committee interpreted this as a biblical “day,” dragging the hearing into the night, hoping Jay would crack. But Jay held his own, crossing swords with the Democrats and hitting softballs lobbed by the Republicans. A little after 8:40 p.m., after answering questions and deflecting accusations for eleven hours with only a short break for lunch, he emerged from the Hart Building. When he appeared on the curb, a crowd numbering more than one thousand turned out by the Faith and Family Federation began to chant as if on cue.

  “We love Jay! We love Jay! We love Jay!” they shouted. Many held signs of support. “Jay is Noble! Senate is NOT!” read one. “Noble, 1; Senate, 0.” read another.

  Jay flashed a broad grin and gave the crowd a thumbs-up before stepping into the Town Car. They roared with approval. Inside the sedan, he speed-dialed Ross Lombardy on his cell phone. Lombardy answered on the first ring. “Jay, you were terrific! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, buddy. Hey, that’s quite a rent-a-riot. Appreciate it, pal.”

  “My gift to you, friend,” said Ross, suck-up juices flowing. “We bussed them in from Liberty University, Trinity University, and New Life. They chanted for ten hours. They made all the network news broadcasts.”

  Another call flashed on Jay’s cell phone. “Hey, I got to grab this call. Say hi to Andy for me.” He answered the other call.

  “Jay, I have the president on the line,” came the voice of the White House operator.

  “Okay, put him through.” He felt his heart leap.

  “Jay?” came Long’s voice over the line, crisp and clear, as if he were in the next room.

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Claire and I are up in the living quarters,” said Long. “We’ve been watching you on TV while we ate dinner. I just wanted to tell you it was a home run. You put the honorables right in their place. Very impressive.”

  “Thank, you, sir. I wasn’t sure testifying was the right thing, but I’m now convinced it was. We had to hit back.”

  “One hundred percent,” said Long. “You were flawless. Unflappable. We’re proud of you. And listen, I’ve got your back. Don’t let those SOBs get you down.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Jay hung up the phone. A wave of emotion rushed through him. In the back of the car, cloaked behind smoked windows and bulletproof steel, he broke down and cried, his shoulders shaking with sobs, the tears falling in drops on his suit pants.

  34

  Ed Dowdy sat in the lobby of the W Hotel in Times Square sucking on a black Starbucks with two shots of espresso. Wrapped in a blue pin-striped suit with a blue tie and a tailored shirt with flashy gold cuff links, he looked a little like the Pillsbury doughboy dressed for a GQ cover shoot. He was in Manhattan to escort Jillian Ann Singer on a series of book pitch meetings to major publishers. The elevator opened and out stepped Singer, looking resplendent and ready in four-inch heels, black skirt above the knee, black spectator jacket, and a tight-fitting navy blue silk blouse. She flashed a nervous smile.

  “You look great,” said Dowdy effusively, bouncing to his feet.

  “Really?” she asked. “My outfit’s not too much?”

  “Noooo,” said Dowdy. “You look sexy . . . but in an understated way.”

  “I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” she replied, laughing. “Understated is not one of them.”

  Dowdy blushed. “You look great, really.”

  “So do you. Love the tie!”

  “Got it at the Hermes store yesterday,” said Dowdy. “A hundred and eighty-five bucks! Can you believe it? For a tie.”

  “You’ll be able to afford it if these meetings go well.”

  “We’ll both be rich after today.”

  “Let’s hope,” she replied. She sat and crossed her legs, placing her hands on her lap. “Okay, give me my last-minute instructions.”

  “Just be yourself.”

  She frowned. “Anything but that.”

  “No, that’s what they want. Tell them what you want to accomplish with the book. Titillate them a little, but don’t give it all away. You want to leave them begging for more.”

  “I’m good at that, honey,” said Singer, dropping her voice to a husky female baritone.

  “Well, there you go! You’ll do great.” They walked to the elevator and rode down to the motor lobby, where a Town Car waited on the curb. They were scheduled to pitch five publishers in one day. The goal: sparking a seven-figure bidding war for Singer’s tell-all.

  After a short drive across town, the Town Car pulled up in front of a glass and granite skyscraper, headquarters of Alex Lane Books, an imprint of Regency Publishing, which, like all publishing houses, had been swallowed up by a media conglomerate. The drive for best-sellers and fat profits took its toll on Regency’s once-legendary editorial staff—all good news for Singer and her team. Bob Simms, who signed on as Singer’s literary agent after a referral from Marvin Myers, met them in the cavernous lobby. He wore a stylish brown suit, his face cracking with a crooked grin, black hair flecked with gray.

  They rode up the elevator together and walked into the lobby of Alex Lane Books. A tall, willowy African-American receptionist escorted them to a modern conference room with glass walls, white leather chairs, and a black granite table. A large spread of bagels, cream cheese, and fruit sat in the center of the table, along with coffee dispensers, bottled water, and pitchers of orange and grapefruit juice.

  “They rolled out the red carpet,” said Dowdy. “Good sign.”

  “Alex is a hustler,” said Simms with professional detachment. “She wants this book, I assure you, if only to keep a competitor from getting it.”

  Dowdy grinned and tore into a raisin-cinnamon bagel slathered with cream cheese. The door opened, and in walked Alex Lane, the famously aggressive, strikingly attractive publisher who made hundreds of millions for Regency. She made a career signing offbeat books like the memoir of a professional wrestler and the heartrending story of a mother who lost three sons in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. She was accompanied by the house’s publicist, two editors, general counsel, and a couple of eager-beaver deputies.

  “Hello, Bob,” she said, greeting Simms with a peck on the cheek. Trim with the figure of a professional tennis player, she wore a black leather skirt, Dior heels, and a leopard-patterned sleeveless blouse. Dowdy noticed her flawless skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, lush lashes, and feathered brown hair. She’s hot. he thought. Everyone took a seat.

  “Welcome,
Jillian,” said Lane, her eyes warm and inviting.

  “Thank you,” said Singer.

  “Tell us why you want to write this book.” She paused for effect. “Besides money.” Everyone laughed appreciatively. The joke broke the ice.

  “I want the American people to know who I am,” said Singer. “I’m not a prostitute. I’m not a criminal. I want to shatter the stereotypes about bondage and domination. It’s not a bunch of weirdos in dungeons spanking one another. It’s about overcoming inhibitions, exploring the boundaries of convention. There’s nothing dirty about it.”

  Lane raised an eyebrow suggestively. Her aides shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “So you’re thinking of this as . . . the apologia of a dominatrix?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Somewhat.”

  “That’s not a bad title,” said Simms with a grin.

  Alex shook him off. “I understand that’s a motive for you,” she said. “But as an author, if you want this book to break through the clutter, it has to settle some scores. It should be a postfeminist manifesto about the empowerment of women. Think Gloria Steinem meets the Happy Hooker, with a sprinkling of Naomi Wolf.”

  Singer gave her a blank stare. Simms jumped in. “We can do that,” he said eagerly.

  “And sex,” offered one of Lane’s deputies, cocking his head suggestively.

  “Sex sells,” said Lane.

  Singer smiled. “Don’t I know it.”

  “That’s what people will want to read about. It has to be tastefully done, of course.”

  “I get that. Totally.”

  “Can I ask a question about the writing?” asked another one of Lane’s deputies, an earnest young man with tousled black hair wearing a designer watch that looked like it belonged on an astronaut. “Do you plan to write this book yourself, or will you want help?”

  Jillian shot a glance at Simms. He nodded. “I’m best at telling the story,” she said. “I could sit down with a writer and relate anecdotes. I’ll need help organizing them in chapters.” Her eyes scanned the faces of her suitors. “I’ve got some amazing anecdotes. Me and my girls have been with movie stars, politicians, some of the most famous CEOs in America.”

  The deputy nodded, his lips curled up, satisfied.

  “We’ll have you talk into a tape recorder for a few days, and then we’ll take it from there,” said Lane. “If need be, we can bring in a book doctor.” She rolled her eyes. “We had one author, very famous but I won’t say who, suffering from writer’s block. He was coming up on the pub date and had written nothing. I moved into his basement for three weeks. He would come home after doing his TV show, drink scotch, and dictate while I typed away on a laptop. I slept four hours a night. It was murder, but we got the book done.”

  “As I recall, it sold two million copies,” said one of the editors. Everyone chuckled.

  “Bob,” said the general counsel, jumping in. “I don’t have to tell you this book could be a legal land mine. Once it gets out Jillian is writing, we’re going to get cease-and-desist letters from every libel law firm in town. Have you thought about that?”

  Simms leaned forward, clearly prepared for the question. “Yes. A couple of preliminary observations. First, Jillian’s got the credit card information on almost all her clients, so it’s going to be hard for them to deny they utilized the services of Adult Alternatives. Second, we could obtain affidavits from former employees. We may ask the publisher to share in some of that expense, which will be minimal, and could save us a lot of legal bills down the line.”

  “You’re ready to name names?” asked Lane, her eyes boring into Singer.

  “Yes,” said Singer. “If the price is right.”

  “Good,” said Lane brightly. “I knew I’d like you.”

  They all rose from the table shaking hands and making small talk as Simms, Dowdy, and Singer breezed through the lobby.

  “Bob, we’ll discuss this internally and get back to you,” said Lane.

  Simms nodded and hugged Lane good-bye. She shook Simms’s and Dowdy’s hands as they stepped onto the elevator. When the doors closed, Singer turned to Simms. “How do you think it went?”

  “Home run,” said Simms. “Alex loved you. My guess she’ll bid in the mid-to-high six-figures. If we’re lucky, maybe seven figures.”

  Dowdy’s face broke into a wide grin. “Now we’re talking,” he said.

  AT CIA HEADQUARTERS IN LANGLEY, William Jacobs sat behind his desk wearing a frown as he reviewed the latest top secret intelligence reports on Iran. As was usually the case, they were simultaneously encouraging and disturbing. Refined gasoline imports were cut by two-thirds by EU sanctions, creating gas shortages throughout the country. Targeted assassinations of key Republican Guard and nuclear engineers continued apace. But so did Iran’s rush to the bomb.

  The intercom on Jacobs’s desk buzzed. It was Phil Brookings, the deputy director of the Agency and Jacobs’s number two. “Bill, Zafarshan has posted a video of Daniels and Levell on a Web site he’s used in the past for propaganda purposes. It’ll hit the press in a matter of minutes.”

  “They’re alive?” asked Jacobs.

  “They were when the video was shot,” said Brookings. “I’d like to bring some of our top analysts from the Zafarshan Task Force and watch the video together. They can give you a briefing so you can in turn brief the president.”

  “Good,” said Jacobs. “Get up here STAT.” He buzzed his assistant. “Brookings is on his way up with a group. Cancel everything else on the calendar this afternoon.”

  Five minutes later Brookings walked into Jacobs’s spacious office, accompanied by three senior members of the Zafarshan Task Force, an interagency group headquartered at CIA that included FBI, Homeland Security, and Pentagon personnel. They sat at the large conference table by the window. Jacobs took his usual seat at the head of the table, his jacket buttoned formally, a cup of hot tea in his hand, his deep-set eyes scanning each face.

  “Well, gentlemen, what have you got?” he asked.

  “This video just went up on a radical Islamic Web site,” said Brookings. “Rather than prejudice your response with a play-by-play commentary, let me play it. It’s not very long.” He picked up a remote control and turned on the sixty-inch video screen on the wall opposite the table. Also using the remote, he pulled up the Web site. The video appeared as a frozen screen. He hit “play.”

  The visages of Norm Daniels and Victor Levell appeared, their images grainy and slightly out of focus. They looked pale and disheveled, with a stubble of beard growth. Daniels spoke first. “We have been told by those holding us we are being held captive for the crimes of the United States against the Islamic Republic of Iran,” said Daniels in a dull, flat monotone. “Specifically, they complain that the sanctions imposed by the West against the sovereign nation of Iran constitute an act of war. We have been treated kindly. But they say that if the sanctions are not lifted, we will become casualties in this war.” He stared into the camera, his eyes hollow and fixed. It sent a chill down Jacobs’s spine.

  The camera, which appeared to be on a tripod, turned to Levell, who seemed more nervous and agitated. “We hope our government will make a good-faith effort to negotiate with our captors. We believe the best outcome of the current conflict is a settlement with the Islamic Republic that would allow us to go home and Iran to develop peaceful nuclear power.” He squinted his eyes, apparently reading. “We apologize to the innocent people of Iran for the difficulties we and the U.S. government have caused. Please give our love to our families.”

  A man wearing a white turban and a beard stepped in front of the camera, brandishing an Iranian flag. His brown eyes were fiery, but he looked more like an accountant than a dangerous killer. He wore glasses, his cheeks hollow, his smooth skin giving him a youthful appearance.

  “Who’s that?” asked Jacobs.

  “Rajab Ali Marjieh,” said Brookings. “He’s Zafarshan’s top lieutenant.”

  “Bad guy,” said
one of the analysts.

  Jacobs turned back to the video, where Marjieh was droning on in Farsi about the United States, the Great Satan, and its oppression of the Iranian people. One of the analysts translated.

  After a few minutes Jacobs had seen enough. “Where are they?”

  “They’re no longer in Rome,” said one of the analysts. “Our hunch, based on the clothes they’re wearing, the time elapsed since their capture, and the background of the video, they’re either in Zafarshan’s network of caves along the Pakistani-Chinese border, or they’re in a safe house in southern Waziristan, in Pakistan.”

  “How can we be sure?” pressed Jacobs. “They could have shot this in a warehouse in Italy, right?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. We know of no case where they’ve recorded a video outside of their network of camps and safe houses.”

  “How did they get out of Italy without being detected?” asked Jacobs. “The place is crawling with agents.”

  “They probably got help from the inside,” said Brookings. “These guys have no shortage of money from the opium trade. They probably paid someone off.”

  “Will they kill them?”

  “Yes,” said the lead analyst. “There’s only one way to get them out alive and that’s diplomatic pressure on Iran from another country. If Zafarshan thinks he’s going to get in trouble with the regime, he might release them.”