The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  “Why would they want to invade the Netherlands?” he asked. “Unless they really like good eels.”

  “Who doesn't?” she said. “It's supposed to be in case any American officers are taken there for war crimes trials. Somehow, I can't see it happening.”

  Tobias stopped walking; Sally faced him. “Damn, we should have went the other way,” he said. “There's a sushi place off Dupont Circle with great eels.”

  “Thought we were having Cuban tonight?” she said.

  “Well, if you'd rather have eels,” he said.

  “Another night,” she said. She quickly cased the street and then pushed him—with a strength that surprised him—back into a building's doorway alcove. Her lips found his and her kiss was not the light little appetizer he'd served her earlier but a strong satisfying first course. He'd only just recovered enough presence, however, to encircle her with his arms when she pulled back and stepped onto the sidewalk. Her eyes flashed mischievously and she turned, indicating she was ready to continue walking. He joined her, slowly finding his handkerchief to remove any traces of her makeup as she withdrew a small mirror and lipstick to touch up.

  “Are you sure you want to go to a restaurant at all?” he said in a low voice. She glanced over but neither her features or her voice answered him. They kept walking.

  “Did you recognize anyone else on that list?” he asked.

  “Nope,” she said, finishing with her mirror. “But I did find out where many of them work. None of them have been transferred to the OSP outright, you see; they've been attached and so continue to hold their previous positions, too.”

  “That could help,” he said.

  “Incredibly,” she said. “It'll be much easier to pick up a tail from Justice, say, than from the Pentagon. I found it odd how many lawyers are attached to what purports—or, I should say, what we assume—to be an intelligence group.”

  They came to a busy intersection and Tobias turned the conversation down memory lane. They passed what had been the last of the old-time candy stores (now a bar), which Tobias—when a boy—had trekked to from where his family lived close to the river, and convenient to the general hospital where his mother worked. Further on, an old movie theater had been torn down in favor of a high-rise but its memories still hung out on the sidewalk before it. They wandered thus amongst recollection and gentrification until they came to the Cuban restaurant.

  The days they had passed in telephone conversation while Tobias was in New York—which grew increasingly personal in nature do in part to Sally's reluctance to discuss their investigation on account of her suspicion of surveillance—had dispelled whatever lingering jitters survived their earlier walk down to the Maryland riverside. The searching conversation of new acquaintances had expired: no longer did they question one another, trying to get to know each other better. Now if they told each other stories it was to amuse, to incite laughter, or to touch on an interest already known: if they asked for the other's opinion, it was to enjoy the response, to engage, and to further an existing understanding. As the night deepened, they grew more casually physical and yet more precise in their flirtation, as if carefully seasoning their anticipation. Ironically, the lack of security outside returned their conversation to the discussion of the top secret, once they left the restaurant.

  “So, on this list of OSP personnel,” Tobias began.

  “Which you haven't asked me to leak,” Sally said.

  “Well, it's nothing I want to print, so not really a leak, per se,” he said.

  “Come on, ask me,” she said. “I promise I won't call you old.”

  “Oh, that's nice,” he said, though smiling. She laughed. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

  “Couple hours,” she said. “What about the OSP?”

  “Who do you like on it for a possible leak?” he asked. “If you can remember the names: being the same age as I am, I'll understand if your memory's going.”

  She bumped her shoulder into his arm and feigned a glare. He put his arm around her waist.

  “There are a couple lawyers from Justice I like,” she said. “Leave them to me.”

  “Oh?” he said.

  “We'll see if I'm that attractive,” she said with a wink.

  “I've never been jealous before,” he said wonderingly, looking off to the side, contemplatively.

  “Are you now?” she asked brightly.

  They'd come to Tobias's building; Sally's car was parked a few spaces away. She began to slow her pace, even if it would only buy her a few more seconds before she left for home—but Tobias's arm suddenly constricted, pressing her to his side, and he propelled her forward and then up the stairs of his building. Confused, she scanned the street, thinking Tobias must have caught sight of surveillance or someone who might recognize her. Then she saw the urgency on his face was accented by his lady-killer grin.

  “And just where do you think you're taking me?” she said as they trotted up the stairs. She wasn't sure if he intended to bring her up to his rooms; she wasn't sure if she would go, if he insisted. No thought of physical violence occurred to her, of course: Tobias had never struck her as dangerous to women in that way. And in any event, with her boxer's instincts, she knew she could take him. At that moment, however, her mind was consumed by the thought of him taking her.

  “Away from any prying eyes,” he said as he deftly unlocked and flung open the door to his building foyer.

  In the next instant, the rather less than romantic space between the rows of mailboxes and the front wall became the most secluded place in the world. He put her firmly against the wall and, as their lips joined, his arms re-encircled her. Their passion was instantaneous, as if they'd picked up from where they'd left off in an earlier doorway, earlier that evening. The extraordinarily dubious belief that no one would either enter or leave the building mitigated any clandestine need to rush, once thoroughly embraced. No longer some social mile marker, their kiss was not a declaration of any sort but an act for its own sake, to experience the other with every sense: the taste of each other’s mouths, of her neck, the sound of excitement and pleasure in a gasped breath, the smell of perfume and readiness, glimpses of each other’s eyes or—in a pause—a decadent gaze into her lover's face; she pressed herself so close, she could feel the proof of the effect she had on him pressing itself against her stomach; his hands unchained by privacy, sated his imagination of the body he'd longed for, caressing down her back and not hesitating to pass her waist and pull her closer still with a satisfying grasp of her bottom.

  Not wishing to end, to part, desiring to continue, Tobias nevertheless drew back enough to see her eyes. Their expression was unmistakable.

  “Come upstairs?” he asked, just managing to make it sound like a request, somewhat breathless from their exertion.

  “Another time,” she whispered after a deep inhalation which cleared her eyes but saddened her features. She took her hands out of his and touched his face as she kissed him again. “Another time,” she said more composed.

  “Okay,” he said, his eyes locked upon her as she slid toward the door. The disappointment in his voice was not lost upon Sally.

  “It's just that it's already late,” she said, returning to touch him once more. “I'll already be missed.”

  He took her caressing hand in both of his. “I guarantee you're already missed and will be missed for the rest of the evening and into tomorrow and until I see you again.” He kissed her lightly, a goodbye kiss.

  She stepped again toward the door and her eyes strayed toward the stairs behind him, leading up to his apartment. “Another time,” she said, and this time not to him. “Another time,” she repeated as one part of her seemed to drag the other part out the door to the street and away.

  “It doesn't matter,” President Howland said. “At the end of the day, the UN resolution does what we wanted it to do.”

  Back from another trip down to his Texas ranch, the President hosted the Defense Secretary
and the Vice President in the Oval Office to discuss the recent UN resolution on Iraq. Though briefed beforehand as to what they should expect, the SecDef and VP were nevertheless galled by the Security Council's refusal to authorize immediate invasion.

  “But for three days,” Ben Butler said, straining his suit jacket's shoulders by pointing emphatically. “What were they talking about for three goddamn days?”

  “It doesn't matter,” Pete repeated, exasperated. “We wanted a weak resolution to put all the responsibility for dealing with Saddam's nuclear program on Congress.”

  “If Congress doesn't laugh right in our faces,” Paul Kluister said, grinding his teeth. “Why won't Congress say, 'Since the UN didn't believe it, why should we?'”

  “Karl,” Pete said.

  “Because we will have more evidence to show them,” Karl said, standing near the door to the appointments secretary. “And because midterms went well: and those who picked up seats did so by following our national platform—stressing security.”

  “And the UN resolution wasn't a total flop, Paul,” Pete said. “It did demand weapons inspectors return.”

  Paul made a rhythmic gesture with a cupped hand. “They won't find anything,” he said. “How does that help?”

  “That is how it helps,” Karl said, his usual patience with the senior members of the Administration slipping. “The inspectors find nothing and we say: 'See! Saddam refuses to reveal his WMD program,' which necessitates invasion. The language of the resolution is also vague enough that it leaves the door open for military action.”

  “Did you read the same resolution I did?” Ben Butler said.

  “Yes,” Karl said. “It was not their intention, in the Security Council, perhaps, but it could be interpreted as authorizing force if Saddam does not comply with inspectors. When the inspectors fail to find anything, we say it is because he has hidden his WMD program, which amounts to not cooperating, which triggers the invasion.” Paul's eyes lit up but Karl didn't let him speak: “It is far from clear cut; merely an interpretation, but enough for us to say we believe it authorizes force. If we believe it, then our actions are in good faith—we can make and maintain a case that we were authorized.”

  “Heh, that's pretty good,” Ben Butler said, elbowing Paul.

  “Finally,” Pete said. He searched his desk drawers for a bottle of tomato juice.

  “Not that we should have to jump through all those hoops,” Ben Butler said.

  “For the love of god!” Pete said, peeking his head over his desk for a moment.

  Ben Butler and Paul laughed. Ben settled back into the couch as the VP jumped up and helped himself to the liquor cabinet. A series of grunts determined the SecDef would take a drink, too.

  “Now that that's finally laid to rest,” Pete said, sipping his juice, “how about we talk about the next step: going to Congress with the 'more evidence' we'll need to convince them to give us war powers.”

  “I am afraid there has been a complication, Mr. President,” Karl said.

  “What now?” Paul shouted as he returned to the couch.

  “I thought we had our confession from Abu Zubahd,” the President said.

  “You said damn near two weeks ago that we had it,” Ben Butler shouted. “Hell, I sent those two Army psychiatrists over to Pakistan to make sure the new techniques were used in full!”

  “That was part of the problem,” Karl said. “Zubahd had been badly injured when seized in Pakistan and so was not moved. The head of the contingent who performed the raid in Pakistan was FBI.”

  “Ah, shit,” Ben Butler said.

  “What's he been doing this whole time?” Paul demanded. “Reading him his rights?”

  “When the Army psychiatrists arrived,” Karl continued, “they immediately employed the new Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.”

  “Good!” Ben Butler said.

  “But the FBI agent stopped them, called it torture,” Karl said.

  “Then fire him and get him out of there!” Paul shouted.

  “Where is the agent, now?” Pete asked.

  “And where's that terrorist?” Ben demanded.

  “The agent made complaints and reports to his regional boss, Mr. President,” Karl said, “as well as to the Director of the FBI. He has been recalled to Washington.”

  “Good,” the others said.

  “Zubahd was immediately sent to a black site in Eastern Europe and is now in North Africa,” Karl said.

  “Why wasn't he brought to the secured site in Guantanamo immediately?” Pete asked; he gave Karl his why-wasn't-this-done glare.

  “He wouldn't have survived, Mr. President,” Karl said. “Not the move and the new techniques. And the new facilities were not, at the time, completed. They are now and he should arrive within a week—strong enough to undergo renewed use of the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.”

  “You said we had his confession already,” Ben Butler said.

  “We did,” Karl said. “But as long as it is connected to this FBI agent's complaints, I hesitate to send it before Congress. If they should get word—” he said without finishing.

  “Will they be able to get a second confession?” Pete asked.

  “Absolutely,” Ben Butler said.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Karl said. “It should not affect our timetable, really. We will have to wait on the weapons inspectors' report no matter what. That will give us a few weeks or even months to obtain another confession that Al Qaeda was in contact with Saddam. Combined with our nuclear evidence, Congress will not be able to afford to vote against war powers. We could get lucky and capture another terrorist, a higher ranking terrorist, in the meantime. If so, then that confession will not be tainted.”

  “What's being done about this damn FBI agent?” Paul asked. He'd finished his drink.

  “He seems to be under control,” Karl said. “He has no evidence.”

  “Good,” Pete said.

  “It may be a good idea to release to the press that we have captured Zubahd,” Karl said. “It will show we are making progress and appear that we have only now captured him, not months ago, and that his interrogation is only now beginning.”

  “Make it happen,” Pete said. “Ben, let's talk about this invasion: I received a letter from the Joint Chiefs saying the current plan for 150,000 troops is inadequate and that the old plan of 500,000 should be reinstated.”

  “That's bullshit, Mr. President,” Ben Butler said. “150,000 is more than enough.”

  Sally steered clear of the CIA's representative to the OSP: he was a 'movie-goer' from operations with whom she had infrequently dealt. That is, an operations officer who had a rather fanciful vision of working for CIA. More importantly, he was one of Ben Arnaldi's—the DDO's—favorites; after Lodge's significant look regarding the confidentiality and loyalty of the Deputy Director Operations, Sally felt she couldn't risk approaching him about leaking the Niger documents.

  Instead, she focused her efforts on a few lawyers, some from the Justice Department’s Office of Legal Council. In part, Sally thought they would be more likely to leak information—lawyers differ enormously on the parameters of privilege, she knew from her father, a former Navy JAG lawyer—and in part from curiosity about why a seemingly intelligence-oriented office needed so many lawyers. Before she could determine whom to approach, she needed the basics: what the possible marks looked like, where they lived and worked, and any relevant family data. After that she could start following people around, looking for levers of indiscretion and vice, observe patterns to exploit to make contact, and begin to build a concept of how to approach each mark.

  It was while digging up a picture of Office of Legal Council lawyer John Wu, from the UC Davis faculty website (where Dr. Wu had taught law prior to government), that Sally discovered a golden “in”—she'd attended Stanford about the same time that Wu had, during his bachelor's. “Manna from heaven,” she'd murmured before leaving the GW library—where she used the public computers for
her searches—to scout the Robert F. Kennedy building, where Wu worked. After three days, she knew where he lived, his car and license plate, that his wife shouted at him loud enough to be heard in the next aisle over at the supermarket, and that he always—but always—ate lunch at a bistro on 8th street.

  “Usually, he meets a loud little clique from Justice and together harass a very tolerant waitress, who laughs at their jokes and rolls her eyes when she turns away,” Sally told Tobias. “But not on Thursday.”

  It was Friday, a week since she hadn't gone up to his apartment. They met for lunch and a walk around the Capital Mall. She thought she could get away Saturday afternoon and wondered if she finally had the nerve to suggest going up to his apartment.

  “What's Thursday?” Tobias asked.

  “Don't know,” she said. “But he flies solo on Thursday. The rest of his clique didn't show and given that he brought a newspaper with him and sat further down the bar, I'd say he expected to dine alone.”

  “Interesting,” Tobias said. It had started getting cold, or staying cold throughout the day. He watched his breath smoke in the air. “Good time to approach him,” he said. “Think he'll remember you?”

  “Doubt it,” she said. “We were two years apart and I took mostly business and public relations courses. Nevertheless, it's an in.”

  “A great one, at that,” he said. “So, listen, I have to leave town in about an hour.”

  “What?” she said, halting abruptly and turning toward him.

  “I know,” he said, shaking his head. “Sudden, right? Well, you probably heard about Senator Rhowe retting caught with a hooker, home in Rhode Island. My paper's sending me up there to talk to him. We've always got along well; he'll talk to me. He has to face the music if he ever wants a chance in politics again. It's a stupidly simple story to run down but after my swanning off to the UN, I need to build up a little good will in the office.”

  Sally turned and they resumed walking. She looked sideways at him, openly searching his face.