The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  Sally golf-clapped and affected a comically tearful expression. “It really is quite an achievement, though,” she said. Underneath the table, her other leg joined the first to encircle one of Tobias's. “Going to school while working full time—half of it out of the country—all the way through your masters. How the hell did you even do that?”

  “Lot of transfer credits,” he said.

  “You're joking,” she said.

  “University City of Bogotá, baby,” he said. With soccer fan flair, he chanted: “C-U-B! C-U-B!”

  She couldn't contain her laughter. Not with both hands.

  “And just what's so funny about that?” he asked, enjoying her smile, her laugh, her happiness too much to be stung. “Why does everyone get a kick out of my going to the University City of Bogotá?” he asked. She tried to answer but couldn't. “I mean,” he said, rocking his leg forward and back between hers a few inches, “if I said the University of Warsaw, would you laugh?”

  “Warsaw is a considerably older city,” she managed, his leg enticing her out of her laughter.

  “Okay; I did my masters at U. Maryland,” he said. “In two non-consecutive years. Is that funny?”

  She nodded, saying, “A little bit.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, enjoying the rarity of being teased—Tobias was used to doing the teasing. “This is Ivy League snobbery. Okay, hot stuff, where did you go to school?”

  “Education is only as good as the student pursuing it,” she said, affecting a sardonic smile. “Fortunately, Stanford provided a wonderful faculty with which the erudite students could engage.”

  “For crying out loud,” he mumbled.

  “The Pantheon-Sorbonne was much the same,” she continued, adding to her air until it crackled with effected privilege.

  “I think we're going to need that other bottle of champagne—or maybe just the ice bucket back,” he said, laughing at her queenly expression.

  “Actually, I loved Stanford,” she said normally. “And the teachers were great. But it was the people, the other students, who made it such a pleasure. I don't think I would have enjoyed a similar school on the east coast: from what Joe's said—though from him it was praise—the big time east coast Ivy League schools sound like they're pretty hard, socially, on scholarship kids. That was me.”

  “I imagine Stanford's just the same,” Tobias said. She gave him a questioning look. “Come on, how often does a woman with your looks face social torment? The boys of Stanford were probably falling all over themselves to be of service.”

  “I don't buy that,” she said. Her beauty hadn't entered a conversation this often in years; buying it or not, she was enjoying it. “That couldn't be it because it wouldn't affect the girls.”

  “They'd be intimidated,” he said.

  “No,” she said, elongating the word.

  “You paused before you said that,” he said.

  “Well, if they were intimidated, it had nothing to do with my looks,” she said. “I was in the boxing club and was the best one there. We even had an exhibition against the men's team—by weight class. I drew their team's best, as it happened, this featherweight machine. God was he fast! It was a good thing I had three inches of reach or I wouldn't have stood a chance. KO'd him, though,” she said, smiling at remembered pride. Then the smile turned a little sad. “Poor guy. It really hurt his pride to be knocked out by a girl. It's so stupid,” she said, eyes unfocused, perturbed: “Does my punch land more lightly than that of a man my size, if I throw it well?”

  “I agree with everything you say,” he said, feigning a terrified monotone.

  She laughed and playfully slapped his cheek and pointed at him. “Good,” she said. “I'm glad you've finally come to your senses.”

  “I'm carried away by my senses,” he said, lingering a moment. “So, a boxer, eh? Nice. Judging by your face alone, you must have been outstanding.”

  “Ha! Thanks,” she said. “I was pretty good, I think it's safe to say. Funny: I joined on a whim, just to stay fit. And like your Zeppelin fandom, it probably changed my life: I think it helped in the agency's decision to recruit me.”

  “I'd heard they recruited from universities,” he said. “These days, it's kids who speak some sort of Arabic.”

  “Back then,” she said, “during the cold war, any language helped. The game was still played all over Europe. I was fluent in French: had taken to it during high school, minored in it at Stanford, and spent my summers in Quebec.” She smiled at some memory and shook her head.

  “What?” he asked, sharing her smile.

  “Just seeing how fate can play the long game,” she said. “I met a man one summer. I was nineteen, he was forty.”

  Tobias whistled.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Not an evil seducer of young women, though. He was beautiful and urbane, charming—and not your sort of charm. He wanted to introduce me to a world of culinary enjoyment, sensory exploration, be it music, food, art or sex. I knew more than I let on. He enjoyed his role; I enjoyed mine. Or maybe I should say label. I wasn't any more in love with him than he was with me. He was my summer fling,” she said with a curious smile, “for a few years. But looking back on it, taking him as a lover dispelled all the illusions about difference in age—and set me up for the big fall with Joe.”

  Tobias could still feel her legs around one of his but they had relaxed, as if she'd forgotten they were there, and so he kept very still.

  “I had a PR bachelor's,” she said, “but the agency fixed it so I looked as if I was more interested in finance. My first assignment was in banking. Finance is a big part of maintaining a functioning intelligence apparatus. I'd only been in Paris a couple of months when I met Joe at some plush 'do.” She shook her head. “He was gorgeous. Everything Michele—my Québécois lover—wanted to be, Joe actually was. Physical passion—for once—was equaled by intellectual interest. We clicked immediately. Later on at the party, when I learned he worked at the embassy, it felt right. Maybe it was the champagne,” she said, touching her glass with a smile, “and the elegance of the people and feeling I was out in the world on an important task and, not least of all, being twenty-two—it felt right. Oh well,” she said, shrugged and took a sip of her water. “We had a good run. I took a masters in economics from the Sorbonne, had two beautiful children, and maybe someday I'll tell you how I stopped French nuclear technology from passing through Algeria to Libya, which was my first big operation and led eventually to entering Russia after the fall—with Joe's State Department mission as the perfect cover—to recruit agents to monitor Russian nuclear inventories, which in turn led to my being sent to do the same in many countries.” She smiled at her hubristic catalogue but the smile died. “And so what if the marriage didn't last and the job—” she left the sentence hanging.

  Tobias waited a moment before he said quietly, “I can see why you said they took the last thing you had.”

  “I still have a few things,” she conceded wearily. “Joe's still a friend. I don't—can't—confide personal things to him, not anymore, but he's still a friend. The smarter of the two of us,” she said, forcing a laugh, “he's moved on. I wish I could, already; just to feel that life wasn't on pause anymore would be something.”

  Watching one another from within the confines of perception, these two people—who'd spent their lives in the detection of falsehood and concealment, who knew well the stories told by the subtlest contortions of the face, the involuntary admissions of breath and posture, which the skilled could forge and the perspicacious read—in a few passing seconds said much without sound.

  She laughed. “What are we?” she asked. “A couple of mimes.”

  “I guess we could say it out loud,” he offered.

  “No,” she said, the smile dropping from her lips. “I know we're on the same page.”

  “And if we say it,” he said, “we'll have to deal with it.”

  “I want to deal with it,” she said.

  “But not t
his second,” he said. She took a breath; he held up a hand. “Let's let that lie unanswered. You said you had to know why they took everything away.”

  “Yes,” she said. “For the sake of my agents who were killed because of the Administration's betrayal. That's what's kept me from sleeping but I suppose there's more to it. I never thought of myself as someone who'd be remembered. My actions, my service to my country, whatever success I've had as well as whatever failures I've suffered, as a spy those things were for me and maybe a few superiors to know. Not the world. My life, my work, however important, was mine, private. And now? To be remembered, to be inscribed in the history of man as an incompetent who willfully ignored her duties to cover up her failure—I can't live knowing that those lies will follow me into the grave. And I have to know why they're so hell bent on starting a war. The rhetoric is so hot and baseless, predicated, it seems, solely upon these Niger documents that cannot say what the Administration claims.”

  “Then we have to find them,” he said. “With them in hand, we could demonstrate their impossibility and call into question their authenticity. I could write words like “forged” and phrases like “false flag.” Then we'll know who did this and why. Then your agents will have justice. But we have to get those Niger docs first. So I have to ask, how far are you willing to go? You're still in the CIA.” She sat back, the question of using seeping back into the undertone of the conversation, slightly but significantly altered. “It's up to you if we pursue them any further,” he said. “Pursue anything any further. But if we do, we'll need some idea of who's seen these documents, where they are now, and who's responsible for them. With that, maybe we can track down someone willing to leak them. I'll need that kind of help. If this forgery angle goes where we think, if the Niger docs were made to order, to start a war, this'll be the biggest story since Watergate—but I'll need exactly that sort of inside information. So I have to ask: how far are you willing to go?”

  He asked earnestly, the seriousness of their next step apparent in his voice and set of his features. She mirrored his look, feeling the weight of her decision, knowing it would have to be said out loud and dealt with. No half measures would do. Then, inexplicably, she laughed. A hilarious, mouth-covering guffaw. He looked confusedly at her.

  “Yes, I'm in,” she said, recovering. “Though CIA never possessed the Niger docs, I'm in. I'll do everything I can to help you find them.” She struggled to stifle another bout of uncontrolled laughter. “Watergate, eh?” she asked; he shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Of all the ways you could've asked me to be your Deep Throat.”

  Chapter 5

  Claudy Lovett skipped up the steps of the White House and through the doors, glad to escape the humidity of Washington's summer. Her thoughts briefly returned to Stanford—where she'd taught politics primarily—and its lush, temperate summers. Bypassing security with a flash of her credentials, Dr. Lovett made her way to the Situation Room: after eighteen months as National Security Advisor, with 9/11 and war in Afghanistan and the Patriot Act and all its increased warrantless surveillance, the halls of power held no fascination, no mystique. The meeting was last minute, something big had happened, and though tired—tired in her bones, more tired than she'd ever been and wearily accepting it as her state of existence as long as she remained with the Administration—she nevertheless hurried to the Situation Room.

  Dr. Lovett opened the door to find no one except a tech removing microphones and the video conferencing camera. The meeting was for 10:00 am; it was 9:58. Claudy, Claudy, Claudy, they're not like that, she thought as she shuffled down the oblong conference table—the room's only furniture aside from its chairs and a podium—to a seat closer to the wall-mounted video screen. As a professor, she'd put a sign on her door when class began: “Anyone who passes this sign will not pass this class.” She slumped in her seat, stifled a yawn, and flipped through her folder. She felt certain the Executive Order detailing new interrogation techniques would enter the discussion and she had questions. Please let Nate be here, she thought.

  Laughter accompanied the opening of the door, along with a subtle note of scotch. Karl Kristiansen held the door as President Howland proceeded the VP and Ben Butler into the room. Pete stood beside the door as the tech scuttled out, arms filled with cords and microphones and cameras.

  “Thanks for the quick work, son,” Pete said, clapping the tech on the back as he passed.

  Karl then entered, shut the door and locked it, and carried his open laptop to the podium near the large screen at the far end of the rectangular room. Pete put his back to the door for a moment, to screen his hand as he unlocked the door, and then took his seat at the head of the table, with Paul to his right and Ben to his left.

  “Come on and slide down here, Claudy,” Pete said to his National Security Advisor. “You beat us all here again.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” she said, standing and sliding her papers over a few sets to Paul Kluister's right. The smell of scotch grew more pronounced. “I'm always afraid I'll meet traffic on the way over. Can't stand to be late.”

  “All ready, Mr. President,” Karl said from the podium. A graphic appeared on the wall-mounted video screen: Capture and Consequence.

  “Go ahead, Karl,” Pete said.

  “Secretary McLean will not be joining us?” Claudy asked. They'd started without him before.

  “He's in Israel,” Pete said. “Last minute. Back tomorrow. I'll be relying on you to brief him on what we cover today. Go ahead, Karl.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Karl said, placing his palms together in front of his chest. “We have a few points to cover this morning but the first and most important is what the President was just briefed on an hour ago. US forces, in conjunction with Pakistani police, have captured Abu Zubahd, a highly-placed lieutenant in Al Qaeda who took part in the planning of 9/11.”

  The President led a round of applause.

  “How'd it happen?” Ben Butler asked.

  “The FBI and Pakistani security located him during their investigation,” Karl said. “He was subsequently captured during a nighttime raid.”

  “We almost didn't get him,” Pete added. “They went in shooting and this Zubahd guy took a few in the chest. They thought he was dead.”

  “Hrm, ex-terrorist,” Ben Butler mused.

  “They found he was alive—miraculously—a couple hours later,” Pete said.

  “Miraculous, indeed, Mr. President,” Karl said, touching his lips with his outstretched index fingers. “He could be called a gift from god. He is the perfect subject for phase two,” he said. Paul clapped a few times; Ben smiled at him but the President maintained a stony expression. “It may take a week or two before Zubahd is healthy enough to undergo the newly issued interrogation techniques,” Karl continued. “But when he does—”

  “Um, ex-excuse me,” Claudy mumbled, raising and lowering her hand. Karl put his hands at his sides and looked at her. “I'm sorry,” she said, eyes flitting between Karl and the President, “should I hold my questions until the end?”

  “Go right ahead,” Pete said. “That's the big news: we caught this son of a bitch. What's on your mind?”

  “These new Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, sir,” she said. “I had a talk with Secretary McLean about the executive order allowing their use and he had a few concerns as to their meeting our Geneva Convention responsibilities.”

  “Geneva does not come into play,” Karl said. “These techniques are to be used on Enemy Combatants, not soldiers.”

  “Of course, of course,” Claudy said, not meeting his eyes. “But, well, 'Enemy Combatants' doesn't appear in Geneva—”

  “Which is exactly why it does not apply,” Karl broke in.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “But that's the rub—a court may not agree with that argument.”

  “A court?” Ben barked, throwing up his hands.

  “There's particularly this one technique,” she said, appealing to the President, holding u
p her copy of the Executive Order, “waterboarding. The United States has prosecuted our own soldiers at times for using it, as well as prosecuting captured enemies from the Philippians Insurrection through World War II to Vietnam for using waterboarding by and against our soldiers and civilians.”

  “Look, we don't have time for this crap,” Ben said, laying a pointing arm across the table. “We need a technique that'll get results fast: waterboarding is it. Hell, whose side are you on?”

  Claudy flushed. “I serve at the pleasure of the President,” she breathed.

  “Come on now, Ben,” Pete said. “We're all in this together.”

  “And whatever the President determines is our course, I support him and it 100%,” she said. “I'm simply offering the concerns I've discussed with the Secretary of State.”

  “And I'm glad you have, Claudy,” Pete said, restraining Ben and Paul by taking their wrists. “I want you to always speak your mind and never let these two bulldogs bark too loud.” He smiled and the others obliged him enough to return it dutifully. “Now, the Justice Department lawyers have assured me,” he said, “that those techniques are legal and ethical. But if you and Nate have some questions, some doubts, then maybe we ought to have another meeting to hash it out. Karl, when Nate gets back, set up a meeting: everyone here plus Lodge—”

  “Lodge!” Paul coughed.