by James, Seth
“Only a couple of times in passing, at functions and such,” Joes said. “Mr. Secretary.”
“Good morning, Joe,” Secretary Butler said.
“And that's Jon Thoblon,” the President continued, “from State.” They exchanged greetings. “And you've met my Chief of Staff, Karl Kristiansen.”
“Of course,” Joe said. “Good morning, Mr. Kristiansen.”
Karl nodded.
“Alright, let's get down to it,” President Howland said. “We have a situation regarding your recent trip to Niger.” The President paused and looked into the other man's eyes. “You see, Joe, we knew a lot more than we let on before sending you. That's why I asked these others to attend, to help me explain matters. Karl, would you please summarize?” President Howland said and stepped back to lean once more against his desk.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Karl said and then stepped into the middle of the room and addressed Joe Parnell. “Ambassador, about six weeks ago, when the President asked you to investigate claims that Iraq had sought to purchase uranium yellowcake from Niger, we withheld from you certain facts. Foremost amongst these facts was the existence of documents proving Iraq's attempt to restart its WMD program. British Intelligence had already provided us with the proof. What we had wanted from you was an independent verification of the facts.”
The SecDef nodded his head and adjusted himself noisily on the couch. Jon Thoblon seemed to poise his hands near his briefcase.
“Those documents exist in Niger along with other evidence, which irrefutably point in one direction. I can see you shaking your head, Mr. Ambassador, but it is true. British Intelligence has confirmed it. We had hoped to bring this intelligence along with your independent verification to the Senate.”
“I have to jump in here,” Joe said, raising a hand, an apologetic cast to his face. Turning to the President, he said, “It simply is not possible, Mr. President. With the refinery capabilities in Niger, the highest grade ore they can produce is yellowcake: it would take hundreds upon hundreds of tons of such ore to make a nuclear weapon. The mines are controlled—tightly—by a French energy consortium; France relies on civilian nuclear power to a far far greater degree than any other country and the bulk of Niger's output goes to France. To even mine the additional hundreds of tons of ore would require untold thousands of man hours; it could not be hidden: transporting it, impossible. Their influence over the local government is, as you may suspect, substantial. In three words, Mr. President, it is impossible.”
“Impossible?” the Chief of Staff asked and motioned to Jon Thoblon.
The Undersecretary of State for Arms Control and International Security released the latches of his brief case theatrically, opened the lid a few inches, and then quickly withdrew and dropped in the middle of the coffee table a thick stack of papers, held together by a small black binder clip.
“Impossible or not,” the Chief of Staff continued, “it happened. They tried.”
“I don't know what's in those documents,” Joes said slowly, pointing at them. “But it simply cannot be, whatever the UK government obtained. There's a market for such things; this would not be the first time erroneous intelligence surfaced with no other aim than to fill an informer's pockets. The only contact between Iraq and Niger was a trade delegation sent by Iraq in 1999 but it was well documented and came to nothing.” He took a step toward the documents, reaching out his hand but Jon Thoblon snatched them off the table and locked the documents in his briefcase in a flash.
“They discussed far more than trade,” Karl said. “Look, Joe, this is not a matter for debate. The facts are indisputable. Iraq sought uranium to make a bomb. We sent you to Niger to gather proof we already knew to be there. Somehow, you missed it and the operation failed. I am sorry to have to characterize it that way but it is the truth. When you returned, you made matters worse with your misleading white paper to the Congressional intelligence committees. Now, we did not call you down here to lay blame: all of us make mistakes. What we need now is for you to help us make things right. We have to ask you to write, basically, an erratum to your white paper, stepping back from your earlier position and supporting the findings of British Intelligence.”
“Despite the contents of those documents,” Joe said, his chin raised and voice grown cold, “and the conclusions of British Intelligence, the assertion remains impossible and I've seen nothing—”
“Didn't you hear what Karl just said?” Ben Butler interjected loudly. “We have the proof!”
“Secretary Butler,” Joe said, meeting the other man's fiery glare with his imperishably cold one, “you may be convinced but I am not. Until I see proof to the contrary, my opinion remains unchanged.”
Joe Parnell straightened as he turned away from the Secretary of Defense. President Howland licked his lips as the former ambassador's eyes found his. There's no reason for him to change his mind, Pete thought, so he won't. He dropped his eyes for a moment before glancing in Karl's direction: he nodded his head a fraction of an inch.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Karl said, adopting the other's tone. “I am afraid this issue is one of such monumental importance that we cannot allow anyone's personal opinion to threaten national security.”
“Mr. Kristiansen,” Joe said, “you are not in a position to disallow anything. Mr. Pres—”
“I think your wife would find her career cut short,” Karl said, raising his voice momentarily, “if your official opinion remains unchanged. An undercover CIA operative specializing in WMD cannot afford to be publicly proven wrong on so vital an issue.”
“Are you threatening my wife!” Joe said, his icy voice boiling up to a shout. “Who the hell do you think you are—who the hell do you think you're talking to?”
Parnell lunged forward a single step toward the Chief of Staff, his shoulder dropping slightly and his arm and finger stabbing forward; Karl Kristiansen stumbled back a few paces, silent before so unexpected a response. President Howland remembered in an instant that Parnell had been a sabre-fencing legend at Harvard, giving up certain gold at the Olympics to join the Foreign Service. Pete had a vision of himself having to put Parnell in a headlock to keep him from killing Karl: and of course a photographer wandering on the south lawn would catch it and a humiliating photo would make the rounds of late night television. Pete found himself frozen to his desk.
“This is the office of the President of the United States of America,” Joe shouted, “not John Gotti's office! You're not extorting me to fix a boxing match; you're talking about lying to Congress to start a war!” Joe then turned his fire upon the wide eyes of the President. “You already have one war in Afghanistan; can we afford adventures, wars of choice, of aggression? And that is exactly what you've proposed with whatever it is those men claim to possess, for the assertion remains impossible. What then? Would you twist the facts—creating them where none exist—to precipitate a war? Even at the cost of tens of thousands of lives?” Joe stepped close to the President, seeming to grow larger in the other man's eyes, filling the room and stooping upon him as from a great height. “Asserting the impossible is a lie: lying to Congress, lying to the people's representatives in order to send their children off to fight and die in pursuit of your whim is a betrayal of the office they bestowed upon you. I will have no part of this disgrace,” Joe said, straightening. He strode to the door but turned back, with his hand upon the knob. “I urge you, Mr. President, to turn away from the schemes of these men,” Joe said, his voice condensing back into ice. “History will not forgive you for these crimes.”
Chapter 2
Tobias Hallström hustled across Constitution Avenue on his way to the Hart Congressional Office Building. He had good reason for the spring in his step and smile on his face: it was as fine a July morning as a year—2002—full of fine mornings could show; the National desk Managing Editor had somehow got the idea he was working on a story for the city desk (and so Tobias was left to his own devices); and, not least of all, Out on the Tiles was rambling repeatedly
through his mind. Not the album version—which Tobias loved, too, along with everything else on Led Zeppelin III—but the concert version he'd heard in 1973 outside of Baltimore. (He'd been thirteen at the time, had snuck out and all the way from DC to Baltimore.) None of those newfangled MP3 players for Tobias Hallström: his memory retained a fineness of detail beyond the bounds of the digital revolution and he could call from it every song he'd ever heard, every conversation he'd ever had—or overheard—even to the point that they'd arise in his mind of their own volition and give him no peace until his subconscious was satisfied he'd heard them enough.
He hadn't set out to become a journalist; it happened almost of its own accord. Writing music reviews and accounts of rock concerts had been a way of putting money in his pocket as a young man; he neither knew the names of nor worshipped any great journalists (not, at least, until after picking up a masters in Journalism part-time while working as a beat reporter for a local paper); he couldn't recall ever having any great occupational ambitions while growing up. But he found his native insight and musician's sensitivity to subtle intonational differences lent themselves well to journalism. And he was as nosy as any youngest child ever was.
Jen Jennings, he thought as he ran a few steps to the door she held for him; why do parents name their kids that way? He thanked her and she mouthed 'my pleasure' but no sound reached him. Her eyes lingered over her shoulder at him as she walked to an open metal detector. On Senator Rockefeller’s media team, he thought as he fished anything metal out of his pockets, Ben Metcalf pointed her out. She's too new to the business to know much, he thought as he got in line for another metal detector, except maybe a bit of gossip. Through security, she had to check a motion that would have brought her face around to see him again, it took a visible effort. As she sashayed off, he thought: then again, she just might cause a bit of gossip.
After stepping through the machine, Tobias walked over to retrieve his belongings out of the little plastic tray the rather short, plump security woman held out to him. Under his breath, though easily heard, he sang, “Oh Rosie, oh girl. Oh Rosie, oh girl. Steal away now—steal away! Steal away, baby, steal away!”
“You about out of your mind,” Rosie the security guard laughed out, holding the plastic tray for Tobias. He gave her his hyperbolically innocent smile, opening his baby-blues wide. “You an incurable flirt, Mr. Hallström. I'm a have to tell my husband 'bout you,” she laughed, looking as if it was the furthest thing from her mind.
Tobias pocketed his keys and cell phone and pens and things and gave Rosie a friendly wink. “But, Rosie,” he complained, in a discreet hush, which dropped his voice into a lower register, “the heart wants what it wants.”
She closed her eyes tight in silent laughter before reaching for the next customer’s tray. “You want some medication, baby, now move along,” she said and laughed quietly again.
Tobias shared her laugh before heading to the elevators. The number of women staffers had grown by leaps and bounds in only ten years. If the gender demographics had favored women to its current extent when Tobias began covering the Hill ten years ago, the capitol would have been an exceedingly dangerous place for him: slim but fit from all his biking, back then long flowing light brown hair, which set off the good looks he'd inherited from his Swedish ancestors, and a lopsided grin every woman he'd ever known said made them want to hug him. At forty-two, he wasn't much safer: he'd cut his hair to conceal the increasing flecks of grey and had had to increase his cycling to maintain an unreasonable thirty-two inch waist, but the grin was now a practiced lady killer. Though secretly a devoted bachelor, he'd always claimed to be looking for Ms Right: now having wisely given up the rock star's passion for liaisons, he found his ideas on the subject more and more conforming themselves to his explanation line. He still flirted reflexively, but dated little and hadn't had a relationship or an affair of note in more than a year. The fires could burn as brightly as ever, but these days they needed more fuel.
Two stops up on the elevator, a fresh-faced Representative from Louisiana got on.
“Hey, good morning, Tobias,” the Congressman said.
“Good morning, Congressman,” Tobias said.
“How've you been? Anything going on I should know about?” the Congressman asked.
“Stories all over this town,” Tobias sighed, “but I never seem to get any of them.” Both knew it wasn't true and chuckled. “This is more of a social call than anything,” he said, which was only half true. Another floor passed. “This is my stop, good seeing you again, Congressman. Hope I get a chance to talk to you soon.”
“Happy to. Take care.”
Tobias had a reputation for giving out more information than he took, as well as having a nearly pathological impulse to go off the record. Tobias called it his 'Little Fish Theory.' Though assigned to cover the Hill, he rarely talked with Senators and Representatives—until he'd gathered an overwhelming preponderance of evidence with which to write his story. Such information came from staffers. Tobias used going off the record to build a record of trust with a source. After which, staffers would tell him all sorts of things, in some ways feeling obligated to him for not reneging on his earlier promise not to print their off-the-record statements. More often than not, however, after an OTR statement, Tobias would go through what he'd been told and he and the source would figure out how he could print it—“anonymous sources,” “a Congressional source,” “people close to the investigation”, etc—or suggest someone else from whom Tobias could get the information. Approaching a potential source with the exact information you want makes the situation feel more like a request for confirmation, and so a potential source is more likely to nod his head. At that point, talking to or asking for an official statement from a Senator becomes more a ritual of denial or circumlocution, a rite before publishing.
Knowing much but writing little had made Tobias an office resource for other journalists (and editorialists, too) who needed information or a hint. More than once, Tobias had been the “source close to the Senator” in another reporter's story. He wasn't by-line hungry; the MEs knew what he was worth to the floor of The Washington Observer.
The sun came through the Atrium facing windows, making bright rectangles on the wall to Tobias's left as he headed for Jim MacPherson's office. Jim was a thirty-ish go-getter out of Cornell law who worked in advertising before becoming Senator Sablevini's Chief of Staff. Young enough to be eager but old enough to be discreet, Tobias knew Jim saw him as a potential source of information about Congressional opponents. Fair enough, Tobias thought as he leaned against the wall opposite Jim's door, between two bright windows. The door had “no entry” written on it to send visitors through Jim's adjoining anteroom—with his gate-keeping secretary. Tobias pulled his cell phone out of his jacket far enough to see the time: any minute now, he thought.
The no-entry door shook momentarily and then opened slowly as a thin man, juggling a cell phone and a thermos in one hand, slipped through. He took one look at Tobias and stopped, dropping his head and deflating at the shoulders.
“I've become a foregone conclusion,” the man said.
“My only conclusion is that you always know where to find the best coffee in town,” Tobias said, clapping Jim MacPherson on the shoulder.
Jim smiled as he reached around his door to activate the lock and close it. He was about as tall as Tobias, but desperately thin except for a small pot belly of the sort seen on heavy drinkers and the very stressed out. “It's still McGee’s,” he said, “three blocks over.”
“Wait a second,” Tobias said as they headed off for the elevator. “That's the small thermos,” Tobias said, pointing. “I would have thought with all the WMD talk buzzing around, you'd hardly find time to leave your office, let alone go on a measly small-thermos run.”
Jim tilted his head back and sighed the civil-servant's equivalent to a primal yell. “Kitty's been saying how predictable I've become, too,” he said. “She even pulled out
a list to show me how I asked for the same dinners on the same nights of the week for the last three months. How did it come to this?” he asked with a little less levity than casual conversation demands.
“Ah, does that mean you haven't taken her out to dinner in three months?” Tobias asked, raising his eyebrows.
Jim stopped walking with one foot in the air. “Oh, for god's sake,” he breathed and then laughed.
Tobias hit the elevator button. “In your shoes,” he said, “I'd abuse the Senator's name and get a good table at 1787.”
“You're right,” Jim said, “you're right! And no scheduling worries, now.” He gave Tobias a meaningful glance as they entered the elevator. “How are things down at The Washington Observer?”
“Same old, same old,” Tobias said. “The White House sends us their talking points every morning—some of our people don't even leave the office anymore,” Tobias kidded. “I've noticed how WMD has grown by leaps and bounds, far outstripping terrorism, as the Administration's focus. The far Left is now calling it 'Weapons of Mass Distraction.'”
“Cute,” Jim said.
“Sure,” Tobias said. “But for the life of me, I can't see where the interest began. All of a sudden,” he said, throwing his hands up, “poof, WMD at every news conference and echoing in every, um,” he said, leading Jim.
“Elevator,” Jim said quickly.
“Exactly!” Tobias said: everyone likes to feel witty. “They've got me doing it now. Who got that particular ball rolling, I'd like to know.”
“I don't know who got it going, Tobias,” Jim said with a knowing grin as the elevator doors opened and they squeezed through the waiting crowd, “but I have an idea where it's going.”
They passed security and went through the lobby and out. In the growing heat of the day, Jim continued, speaking over the clamor of traffic.
“Let me tell you about the Senator's schedule,” he said. “Two days ago, we'd planned to meet with a couple people from the Pentagon this morning, lunch with an expert on uranium enrichment, planned to go to a hearing with some intelligence folks, and then this evening have dinner with the Israeli Ambassador. That's all public record,” he added; the Senator's schedule was often public. “That's what his schedule had been,” he said with a cockeyed smile. “Now ask me what the Senator's schedule is today.”