The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  A very thin ham sandwich on stale bread and a weak cup of burnt coffee—purchased on the run to the station—was in Tobias's immediate future. Though they could have, perhaps, improvised Sally's explanations to family and had their date that night, Tobias could tell she was enjoying the anticipation. You only have this early, nervous, enigmatic part of the relationship once with someone, he thought as he found his seat on the Amtrak from Washington to New York Penn Station: might as well enjoy it. As he sneered at the coffee through its little plastic aperture, he admitted to himself that his misgivings over her marriage lingered. But internal arguments about words like “separated” and “permissible” had to wait: Tobias saw Senator Snajder enter the car from the other end.

  The well-rehearsed talking points flew fast and furiously all the way to New York. Reporters accosted the various Senators and Representatives who'd taken the train, fishing for suitable quotes and sound bites, prompting them to un-vetted remarks but no one left message. Tobias, seeing the circus, kept to his seat and picked up enough in traffic and from passing acquaintances to give a reasonable approximation of the altogether unnecessary speech.

  In Manhattan, the mood changed noticeably. Though the passersby between 33rd Street and Central Park—where Tobias had a room at The Palace—were as hurried and vexed or stumblingly bemused, whether resident or tourist, as ever they were, Tobias's impression of events changed. He felt, as he thought through his itinerary for the next day, that his presence in this city on the verge of remembering an attack against it and the murder of so many of its people was an intrusion. Like a stranger drawn to a funeral of a great man, alone in a room full of grieving relatives, Tobias thought of how his presence and journalistic recording of the day trivialized their honest grief. Strange thought for a journalist, he told himself as he checked in at The Palace's front desk and then, to his surprise, he found himself wanting to call Sally and tell her about it.

  The next day's speeches, ceremonies, and touring of the crater at ground zero were not without their effect on Tobias. He faithfully performed his duties and asked questions from the approved stock but found the politicians' answers inadequate and the survivors' and widows' responses impossible to convey. He understood, upon seeing it, how the devastated site where the towers once stood—still bearing the battlefield's menace of present death—could engender such fear and anger as well as sorrow and pity and the need to hedge out the darkly murk of its causes and consequences, like a village hedging out the night around a bonfire. But then Rhetoric would appear, in a guise grand or common by turns, and mount upon Calamity and hitch the people to it with chains of Fear and drive them where he would and his coming was the antithesis of Apollo in his chariot, for where Rhetoric rose night fell.

  Returning to his hotel that night, Tobias reflected upon the power that witnessing the attack had created and thought not of whether President Howland and his Administration could have prevented it as much as how they would wield that power. When Tobias called Sally that night, she could hear the day's effect on him and forgot her reluctance to talk on the phone, but their conversation never touched upon their attempt to reveal the means and motives of those who had wronged her and killed her agents or the redress of their attack against her.

  Not at all by coincidence, Tobias found himself once again in the same car as Senator Snajder on the next morning's Amtrak from New York to Washington. Tobias had bought a few drinks at The Palace's bar the night before and one of the Senator's aids had given Tobias the details. He picked up a quart bottle from one of the holes that line the labyrinthine walls of Penn Station's troglodyte interior before reaching his train. By the time the train passed Princeton, the Senator would be just bored enough to want to drink, he knew.

  No reporters crowded the blue and grey isles and no cameras nor bags of gear cluttered the diner-like tables in business class as Tobias walked forward to Senator Snajder's seat.

  “Afternoon, Senator,” Tobias said, rotating so his back was to the car's forward door. Senator Snajder always took the front-most seat. It was 10:30 am, but the exaggeration was all part of the plan. “Couldn't cut through the crowd around you yesterday on the ride up,” he said. “Thought I'd come and say hi.”

  “Glad you did, Tobias,” the Senator said, smiling cordially and extending a hand. His hair was much lighter than Tobias's and had become gauze-like as it thinned over the years that had only darkened and lined his face as the weather might a fisherman's. “How did you think it all went yesterday?”

  The Senator's aide occupied the aisle seat and showed no sign of relinquishing it. His eyes said “move along” as his quivering lip implied “don't hit me.”

  “I thought it went well,” Tobias said. “I suppose I ought to pull out a pen and pad of paper,” he mumbled and then patted his jacket pockets. He struck particularly hard at his left breast pocket, which made the bottle of bourbon ring against a metal pen he'd put in there as a clapper.

  Senator Snajder's ears pricked up and a faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Listen, Zack,” he said to his aide, “why don't you go find some chow? And bring back a couple sandwiches, say about when we reach Philly. Thanks.” Zack, coloring, departed. “Sit down, you rascal,” he told Tobias. “My wife'll know what you've done here—and never forgive you,” he said, beaming.

  He rummaged in a satchel on the floor and brought out another cup to set beside the one half-filled with coffee from which he'd been drinking. From a thermos, he added coffee.

  “I made a pot in the hotel before I left,” the Senator said as Tobias loaded both their coffees with a strong snort of bourbon. “Better than what the train has—or that Jim MacPherson,” he said, carefully raising the steaming cup to his lips. He scolded himself with a gulp, though pleased nevertheless, and said, “He tried to force some of his muddy sewage on me during the ride up!”

  “Poor Jim,” Tobias said, sipping from his cup. This is good coffee, he thought, or would be without the bourbon. “Don't tell him, though; I think it'd break his heart if he heard he has bad taste in coffee.”

  “The truth can hurt,” the Senator said, leaning back. “Not that it's much in fashion these days. Get kicked in the teeth for it.”

  “Are you thinking of something in particular?” Tobias asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about your Sally Parnell,” he said. Tobias quickly raised his cup and dropped a burning gulp down his throat to cover the hot blush he felt cover him to his feet. But the Senator hadn’t meant it that way. “She told the truth, no doubt,” he went on placidly. “Told the same story her husband told Congress in his report—and look what it got her. Revenge. Hmph, a real honorable bunch we got leading us to war,” Democratic Senator Snajder sneered.

  “Off the record,” Tobias began but the Senator jumped in.

  “On the record!” he said. “Put it on the front page!”

  “Ha, I mean me,” Tobias said. “They got a bum deal.”

  “We got the impression you felt that way from your questions at that daily brief,” the Senator said. “My eldest sent me an email with a link to it on the internet. That's right, I internet.”

  Tobias nodded, impressed, or looking it, and they touched cups and drank. He then poured more bourbon into what little remained in their cups; Snajder covered it with hot bitter coffee.

  “Not that they're the only ones,” Tobias said.

  “No, not by a long shot,” Snajder said. Tobias hadn't anyone in mind but he knew the Senator would know. “Hell, there's practically a war going on in State. It's obvious the Secretary of State—old general that he is—is against an invasion but he's got to tip toe around it. He's on a rearguard action if you ask me and not all of his people are on his side.” He paused to drink.

  “I'd heard he was the captain of the doves,” Tobias said, just to be in the conversation.

  “But half his team are on the other side,” Snajder said. “Hell, most of his senior staff are appointed by the President, which means by that
son of a bitch Kristiansen. They can hardly get a thing done over there. If they miraculously, tragically win reelection in '04,” he said, taking the rest of his cup in one pull, “I bet McLean doesn't return with them.”

  “He said something to that effect, didn't he?” Tobias asked. “When he accepted appointment?”

  “Yeah, well he means it now,” Snajder said. “May not have a choice. If he defies them, that is. The State Department is barely functioning at this point. Can you believe it? What little I know of what's going on in this paranoid Executive I get from a couple staffers over there who are as fed up as I am. You know Gerald Hicman? He's in the Intel and Research Bureau over there. Talk to him. Tell him I told you to. He won't be much impressed by on-the-record, off-the-record but he may still talk to you. Give you an idea of how dysfunctional it is over there.”

  Senator Snajder had mostly complaints to air for the rest of the journey, to which Tobias dutifully listened. He wondered why Snajder had mentioned State at all but knew the Senator was someone who said less than he knew as a rule. Could be nothing more than his wish to expose a piece of the Republican machine that doesn't work well, Tobias thought; get the ball rolling for appointment challenges when next they arise. Something kept buzzing around in his mind, however; a mumble out of his subconscious, a wisp of thought ill perceived and which fled when scrutinized only to return when dismissed.

  It was afternoon when the train arrived at Union Station. Tobias went straight to the office, not even stopping at his apartment to drop off his bag. A few phone calls to the right people discovered Gerald Hicman at the Bureau of Intelligence and Research at the State Department. Tobias had no notion of speaking to him that day but knew it could take some time to get passed a secretary; he wanted to get the ball rolling. To his surprise, however, Gerald Hicman answered his own phone.

  After Tobias introduced himself, and mentioned Senator Snajder, Hicman asked what Tobias had called about. Saying that he had heard State was dysfunctional would end the phone call in a hurry so Tobias had to dance forward.

  “You know,” Tobias said, “I'm not sure myself. But if Senator Snajder says, 'Talk to Gerald Hicman,' I talk to Gerald Hicman. Old Snajder knows more than he tells and probably has an agenda of some sort. At a guess? I'd say he's concerned that the diplomatic approach to handling Iraq is getting sidelined. Votes are bound to come up—perhaps even a call for war powers,” Tobias threw out there and then paused as he realized it was a possibility.

  “I don't know that I can help you much, Mr. Hallström,” Gerald said. “Most of what INR does is classified. A Foreign Service Officer in-the-know would probably be more helpful.”

  “Well, I'm not really writing a story at this point,” Tobias said. “Until the diplomatic angle on Iraq hits Congress, this is just a background conversation. One of the questions a Congressional committee might ask, for instance, is whether State applied itself fully to the diplomatic solutions on Iraq or if that effort were hampered, say, by internal disagreements.”

  “I see,” Gerald said, a little laugh in his voice. “I know why Mr. Snajder mentioned me now. Listen, I'm just headed out to lunch—and I've had an inexplicable craving for hotdogs all week—so if you'd like a little gossip, meet me at the vendor near the Lincoln Memorial.”

  “Sure, sounds good,” Tobias said. You will not eat hotdogs, he told himself. “How will I know you?”

  “Call me when you're there,” Gerald said and gave Tobias his cell number. They said goodbye and hung up.

  Tobias looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on his desk, staring at the phone, and thought of calling Sally. In the end, he didn't want to have to hang up on her or rush the conversation. He stuffed his small overnight bag into his desk (atop another nearly identical one stuffed in there a few months prior), locked the drawer and headed out.

  Now the middle of September, tourists had diminished and student trips were still months and months away. The grass around the Lincoln Memorial was uncluttered and only foreign tourists snapped pictures or contemplated with fascination or perplexity the strange American foods available at greasy-smelling carts. Amongst them, Tobias noticed Gerald Hicman. There were other obvious Americans in business suits enjoying the sunshine and cheating on diets. But Gerald's face matched his voice. There was a usual way of doing things for the Geralds of the world—from how to comb their hair to tying their ties to answering a phone to working a job—and to deviate from the prescribed methods was a cause for embarrassment. Tobias withdrew his cell phone and waved it in front of his shoulder as he looked directly at Gerald. The man colored a bit, transferred the hotdog he'd just bitten to his left hand and came forward. They shook hands and Tobias introduced himself; it was Gerald alright and he looked considerably more at ease once he hurriedly swallowed and no longer risked speaking with his mouth full. They found a bit of shade where Gerald could finish eating; Tobias drank a lemonade.

  “How do you know the Senator?” Tobias asked after they'd made the usual greeting noises.

  “Same home state,” Gerald said. He took another bite of hotdog and Tobias waited for him. “I clerked for a judge who knows Mr. Snajder; when he retired, he introduced us, hoping Mr. Snajder could get me a job. I joined the State Prosecutor's office instead but kept in touch. Later, his eldest married my wife's sister. So we run into each other often enough.”

  “I've lived in DC my whole life,” Tobias said, shaking his head slowly, “and worked Congress for over ten years, and I'm still surprised every time I hear how important backyard barbeques are. Everyone's related.”

  “It's true,” Gerald said, sharing Tobias's smile. “It's true, DC is an incestuous sort of place. I don't really consider myself a part of the DC you cover, but I know you're right.” He took a bite of his hotdog; Tobias waited while he chewed it, to avoid prompting him to talk with his mouth full again but Gerald was a man who didn't like silence. “The Bureau of Intelligence and Research, I'm happy to say, is the least political entity in Washington.”

  “That right?” Tobias said.

  “Yes indeed,” Gerald said. “Mostly, we facilitate the work done at State and help make what we know available to other agencies. Basically, if an ambassador needs to discuss, say, a trade issue evolving mining equipment, right, we provide the details of the country's capabilities and the equipment's uses. If an FSO tells us a driver at a foreign security service was drunk on duty, we make sure the CIA knows. That's the exciting part of our work: sending tidbits to real intelligence agencies (though we have 'intelligence' in our name, we don't have operatives repelling from helicopters or anything).”

  Those little voices that had mumbled indistinctly in the back of Tobias's mind suddenly coughed. “Puts you in a rather unique position,” he said, “to view what's going on around you in State without the blinders of partisanship.”

  “I'd like to think so,” Gerald said, as if it was his highest aspiration.

  “Not everyone does, though,” Tobias said. Gerald contracted his eyebrows as if trying to see around an insult. “I mean, some people don't believe in neutrality,” Tobias said. “You're either on their team or the other one. No sidelines.”

  “Ah, yes,” Gerald agreed, his brow clearing. “That's very true. The bit of gossip Mr. Snajder referred you to is apropos of the 'partisanship,' as you put it, that's found its way into State. To be clear, though,” he said, raising a hand, “it's not everyone at the State Department. As ever, the department is staffed by professional, patriotic people, who care deeply about our country. Some of the politically appointed Under Secretaries, however,” he said and then trailed off into a shrug. “To be fair, I have to say that bad blood has existed between Mr. Snajder and Jon Thoblon for many years, ever since Mr. Thoblon was giving evidence to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence about Iran/Contra and he had a bitter exchange with Mr. Snajder.”

  The little voices started shaking the bars in Tobias's mind at the name Jon Thoblon. Sally had told Tobias every detail of Joe
's visit to the Oval Office. The Niger docs were last seen in Thoblon's possession.

  “Anyway,” Gerald continued. “Mr. Thoblon is now the Under Secretary of Arms Control and International Security. He's always been rather secretive and had taken to starting meetings before I arrived so he could discuss things with his trusted staff without my recording it. I told him, of course, this was illegal but it didn't stop. The last straw came recently—and this is what Mr. Snajder is interested in—and directly on the heels of a meeting the Secretary had. Despite Secretary McLean pulling together all the Under Secretaries and their senior staff and lecturing us all about cohesion and focusing our efforts, Thoblon—only days later—physically stopped me from attending a meeting.”

  “Wait,” Tobias said. “He laid hands on you?”

  “It's incredible, I know,” Gerald said. “He blocked the doorway and pushed me. A grown man pushing people in the hallways. It was absolutely imperative that I attend the meeting, as well. I had no choice: I went to the Secretary. There's a fight going on about it now. The Secretary wants Thoblon's resignation, I think, but he won't give it. And as he's appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate,” Gerald said and trailed off into another shrug.

  “What was the meeting about?” Tobias asked. He could almost hear what the little voices were chanting.

  “Oh, uh, it's classified,” Gerald said. “Not as important, I would think, as his behavior and the protection he's receiving from the White House—Thoblon is definitely not in Secretary McLean's camp on Iraq.”

  “But I can guess what the meeting was about,” Tobias said. “It was about sending information to the Office of Special Plans at the Pentagon.”

  “How did you—” Gerald half-said.

  “Let's put everything from here on out off the record,” Tobias said. Gerald looked suddenly very uncomfortable. “If I use what you've told me up to now,” he said, “I'll say unnamed sources 'indicate Under Secretary Thoblon refused to cooperate with the Bureau of Intelligence and Research.' I imagine a lot of people know this story.”