The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  “It has nothing to do with that,” he said.

  “I said another night,” she said quietly but emphatically. “I meant just that. I wasn't—”

  “I know you weren't,” he said and took her arm to stop them walking again. “I've got to go do this, that's all. It'll take maybe a week. But how about when I get back we have dinner at my place?”

  “Yes!” she said. “After hearing—not without jealousy—about you cooking this or that gourmet dish, I'd like to get a taste. I'm not getting my share.”

  “It'll be a pleasure,” he said. “I'll use my time travelling to think up a menu that'll knock your socks off.”

  Neither of them intended any innuendo, which only made their subconscious additions the more glaring and the more sincere. Tearing herself away from the pleasant path down which their conversation had turned, Sally took his arm, resumed their walk and said she'd tackle John Wu in the interim.

  The next Thursday, Sally sat in the middle of the bar of John Wu's usual bistro. The room combined the heavy stained wood and plush leather upholstery of an old school steakhouse with the airy floor-to-ceiling windows and outdoor seating (though closed for the season) of a café. The menu, Sally discovered as she waited, was no less eclectic: dry-aged prime rib across the page from eel and avocado sushi rolls, the potato au gratin could be served vegetarian upon request, and even lunchtime sandwich orders must specify hard roll or wrap. Sally ordered a glass of unusually sweet Graves Bordeaux and a glass of water and waited.

  John Wu arrived at his accustomed time and—as Sally expected—took a seat at the corner where the bar turned in and ran toward the back wall. From here, of course, he could look over the top of his paper and admire her figure—appointed to advantage as it was by her form-fitting velvet dress, which though wrapping her from neck to mid-thigh, seemed to be missing fabric for her shoulders and from the bottom of her throat to the middle of her bosom. Joe had always loved that dress—she hadn't worn it for years—but had also teased her about its “cleavage window.” Men seemed to do a lot of blinking and looking over her shoulder whenever she wore that dress.

  Sally waited until John Wu had ordered his usual glass of vodka and tonic and the waiter brought it over before she negligently turned to notice him. The physical play of human interaction rivals any mating dance and plumage ruffling found in the animal kingdom, made seemingly fresh and not formulaic by familiarity alone. Sally's eye, casually drawn to the waiter's movement, doubled back on John Wu as he lifted his glass. A flutter of his eyelids indicated he thought he'd been caught staring at her. He put down his glass and returned to his paper, checking to see if she had stopped looking. She hadn't; her head was on one side now and she'd turned her body slightly toward him. He blinked back to his paper and didn't see a word on it. There are many beautiful women around Washington but they don't often stare at the city's John Wu-s. He looked up, attempting his own incidental catching of her stare but she didn't drop hers. He smiled and managed a mouthed hello. Sally took her glass and walked down the bar and placed it in front of the seat around the corner from John Wu.

  She leaned into a contrapposto attitude of contemplation and asked him, “Did you go to Stanford around '79, '80?”

  “Yes!” he said. His face had colored as Sally approached but lit up and cleared when she spoke. “Yes, I did. I did my undergraduate there.”

  “I thought you looked familiar! But I couldn't place you,” she said as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world to forget someone's name.

  “I'm John Wu, not the movie director,” he said with a good-boy smile and outstretched hand.

  “Ha, ha, that's hilarious,” Sally said, leaning forward and closing her eyes in feigned laughter, giving his eyes a moment to wander where they would, unobserved. She took his hand—a bit moist—and parted her lips to offer her name but seemed to catch herself. “Wait, John Wu?” she said, letting him see her think. “Do you, do you work at the Office of Special Plans?”

  His smile slipped off his face, dragging his coloring with it. He blinked a few more times but didn't manage to say anything.

  She smiled reassuringly, shaking his hand, and said, “I'm Sally Parnell. Maybe you remember my name from a piece in The Observer?”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “I do remember that.”

  “A piece of you-know-what in The Observer,” she said. “They did not have all their facts straight.”

  “I thought it all sounded, you know, too fantastic to be the absolute truth,” he said. “More like a TV movie than real life.”

  She thanked him with a smile and indicated the chair she stood next to. He said please, and she slid into it crossing her legs, slowly, and looking at her wine glass so he could watch unfettered as she did it.

  “I'm still with the agency,” Sally said, “though not at the same job. They made that impossible.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said. He realized he still held his newspaper and stuffed it under the bar.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I'm with the DI now, which is how I know your name: we've been sending stuff to the OSP. I happened to see the distro list.” She could see him breathe deeply and his shoulders drop into a more comfortable set. “I guess it stuck in my head,” my little head, she thought, “because of that director, huh?”

  “Yes, probably,” he agreed, smiling again, less like a good boy.

  “Ha ha, do you ever get his mail?” she asked.

  “I have received emails intended for him,” he said.

  “Oh my god,” she said; thinking, like totally.

  “People pitching movie ideas,” he said. “Pretty good ones, I thought. I'm not in that business, obviously, but they seemed interesting.”

  “That's so funny,” she said. Alright chum, she thought, time to pile the silence on you. Here we are, you're clearly digging me, you don't want me to walk away, so you have to say something and you only know two things about me upon which you could comment: Stanford or the CIA outing scandal. We can take them in whatever order you want but don't let this silence last any longer, chum, or I just might leave—

  “So, you're still with CIA?” he blurted. “That's good. It's shocking what they let those papers get away with.”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly, looking into her wine. “It brought my career in operations to an end.”

  “I'm sorry; that's just terrible,” he said. “Have you consulted a lawyer?”

  “As long as that little—hum—man,” she said; thinking, because I'm a good girl and wouldn't use words like bastard, cocksucker, or asshole, “as long as he blames a source in the Administration, there's nothing we can do.”

  “I would have thought you could bring a libel case,” he said.

  “Everything involved is Top Secret,” she said. “I don't think it can even be admitted into court, you know? I just want it to go away,” she said, gesturing. “I didn't screw up, not the way that guy at The Observer said. But I'm sure he has even the Administration believing I did—and that's what hurts,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart, drawing his eyes to her cleavage window. “That someone might think of me as disloyal. My husband,” she said, voice dripping with scorn as she rolled her eyes, “has some sort of beef with them, which only makes matters worse.” She looked off into the distance, watching him in her peripheral vision. He tried not to react but had stopped breathing and sat unnaturally still. Have you heard any of those rumors? Sally thought. Joe Parnell all but living with his secretary while his hot wife waits at home—alone? “I just feel horrible that I missed something so important.”

  “A mistake,” he said soothingly. “Everyone makes them—I know I have—but the rest of us didn't have ours aired in the newspaper.”

  “You're right,” she said and then sat up straighter and laughed. “Sorry, didn't mean to come over here and dump my problems on you.”

  “No, it's alright,” he said.

  “It's just that I saw you and had a flashback to Stanford and remembered how muc
h more fun life was then,” she said.

  “Undergrad really was a blast,” he said.

  “So, did you have Professor Fussell for English Comp?” she asked.

  “No, I didn't hear about him until Junior year: I got stuck with that woman, you know—” he said, motioning at his chin.

  “Oh god, the billy-goat woman!” Sally said, covering her mouth and laughing.

  “And she wore a suit with pants the first day so I couldn't tell her gender,” he said. “I kept flipping through the course catalogue searching for a pronoun used of her.”

  “Oh my god, that's so funny,” she said, wanting to strangle herself for talking that way.

  She led Wu off down memory lane but whatever enjoyment she may have taken from the trip was spoiled by the sickeningly sweet and bubbly manner she'd adopted. Halfway through lunch she realized, to project a trusting innocence, she had been unconsciously imitating her daughter Lucy. She felt a little queasy at the realization. Nevertheless, she soldiered on and noted how Wu was an advice-giver, reacted well to requests for his opinion, and often adopted a teacher's or parental air when explaining something. Ironic, she thought, I'm channeling Lucy and he thinks I'm Anna, a daddy's girl—this shouldn't be too difficult. After Tobias's failure at the UN, however, she counseled caution to herself: neither confidence nor speed would help her. She therefore didn't approach the Niger docs that day and instead faked sudden alarm at how late she had stayed.

  “I have to run,” she said, coming to her feet. “Oh, um, do you often eat here?” she asked in an increasingly shy voice.

  “Yes! I—yeah, all the time,” he stuttered happily. “My usual lunch spot.”

  “Great! Maybe I'll see you here again sometime,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he said. “It was great seeing you, Sally.”

  She kissed him goodbye on the cheek and it was a miracle his hair didn’t catch fire from the heat of his blush. Sally played a sweet melody with her hips as she left the bistro under Wu's eyes.

  That night, Tobias called her to find out how things went—not that she would give specifics over the phone—and to tell her he had bad news: he would be another week at least. Senator Rhowe was on the fence about whether and how to talk to Tobias and wanted Tobias to interview the hookers first. “Don't let anyone ever tell you journalism isn't glamorous,” he said.

  Sally stopped in to Wu's bistro twice before the next Thursday: both times after she'd seen his usual pack of friends go in. She said hello with her eyes but they didn't speak. Clearly Wu did not want her known to his friends, despite the prestige he might feel with such a beauty on his arm—word could get back to his wife. But knowing that Sally was married, too, and in the same boat, created—she hoped—a sense of shared secrets between them. When she staked out the bistro that Thursday, she was not disappointed to see Wu arrive early and sit fidgeting as he waited. She let him get one vodka and tonic in him and order a second before she buttoned up her coat against the December chill and crossed the street to join him.

  She wore her sable coat that day and as she walked from the restaurant entrance to the bar, she opened it; its huge volume, like a backdrop, accentuated her thin figure clothed in a nearly transparent black dress (which she had bought in hopes of wearing for Tobias). The dress was certainly designed with a bra in mind but Sally had omitted this precaution: the curve of her breasts and the whiteness of her skin shown through the fabric immediately while the coldness of the bar quickly revealed her nipples. John Wu seemed dazed before the power of such a dress and all but gaped as Sally—feigning obliviousness—set down her purse and slipped out of her coat. She looked around for a place to hang it before asking John. He blinked back to reality and offered to hang it on a set of hooks near the bar entrance. They sat and she ordered a Manhattan—making sure to ask him what bourbon she should request—and they chatted casually, using each other’s first names and coming close to touching. Sally pretended to let her mind wander, however, from time to time, until John asked after her.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Oh, I'm fine,” she said, smiling bravely and looking hurt.

  “What's wrong?” he asked in his tone of mixed father and lover.

  “Had another fight with Joe this morning,” she lied. In fact, she and Joe had been unusually—if platonically—affectionate of late: seeing Tobias regularly had given her insight into Joe's perspective on living within an artificial relationship. “He told me this morning that we were going to see a new set of lawyers about his civil case against the Administration. Since the first group struck out. I told him I didn't want to and he started shouting. I guess I'm still arguing with him in my head.”

  “He certainly shouldn't be shouting,” John said as if describing a child's poor behavior.

  “Thank you!” she said. “He just doesn't understand.” She gave John a second, thinking: come on, boy, understand.

  “You don't want someone punished or blamed,” he said.

  “Exactly!” she said. “Like, it was a mistake that unfortunately got into the paper. Whoever revealed my covert status made a mistake, that's all. I'm not looking for revenge,” she said, thinking: whoa, girl, you said that word with a little too much heat. “If anything, I'd like to make it up to the Administration, not make more trouble for them. Especially now, with so much going on.”

  “I think that's very big of you,” he said. “And very wise.”

  “I only wish I was wise,” she said. “I know you're right, what you said the other day about everyone makes mistakes. But given how important mine was—nuclear procurement—oh, it's just so hard to live with! I can't believe I missed it,” she said, turning her head to one side and pressing a knuckle to her lips. To cast her features in the right mix of pain and sadness, Sally remembered a rather heated argument she'd had with her eldest daughter three years ago, where Anna had obviously pitted one parent against the other while clearly—almost tauntingly—taking her father's side.

  “It's alright,” John said. Boldly, though with trembling fingers, he took Sally's hand, returned it to the bar, and gave it a friendly squeeze. “The intelligence was found, right? The British found it and that's all that matters. And you're still at the CIA so opportunities are bound to arise where you can make the right call. Don't beat yourself up.”

  Sally squeezed his hand in return. “Thanks,” she said faintly. “And I know you're right. But I just wish there was some way I could make it up to the people I let down. Some piece to the whole Niger affair, however small, that supports the Administration's case that I could find—to help somehow! I'd do anything to get this off my conscience.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she watched John blink rapidly a few times and shift in his seat. The wheels are turning pretty fast now, she thought.

  “The problem is,” she continued, not looking at him, as if talking to herself, “that I don't know what's in those Niger documents. Since I didn't find them, they never came through CIA. I watched the UN Security Council meeting on TV like everyone else but they never said anything specific. If I could just get a look at those documents, I'm sure I'd see an opportunity to develop some little piece of supporting intel. But,” she said, returning to John, whose eyes snapped up to hers, “I guess that's all just a fantasy.” She gazed into his eyes and smiled sadly.

  He's thinking about it, she thought. Better make him think long and hard.

  Before he could say whatever was on his mind, she said: “Oh, change the subject, please.”

  He said alright and the subject he chose was a boat he'd bought not long ago, which he kept on the bay. He spent much of lunch telling Sally about its features, appurtenances, and particularly about its cabin. Sally thought: and how do you plan on enticing me below decks? He hesitantly made an offer to show her the boat to which she answered vaguely and noncommittally. She then changed the subject again before sending him back to work—back to another week before their next meeting—with the unresolved issues of he
r problem and his desire lying restlessly in his mind.

  John Wu walked on clouds—or bed springs—back to his office, trying all the while not to smile too noticeably. He couldn't believe his luck and meant to grab it with both hands. His mind raced between what he wanted and how he could obtain it. A look at the Niger documents? How hard could it be? She'll do anything to help! He found he couldn't sit still and so closed the door to his office and paced the floor. He'd never gone to the Pentagon, though they'd given him access and office space there in case he needed a secure location to write the legal opinion authorizing the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques. But I do have access, he thought. I could go there, he mused while biting a fingernail, and stay late and when everyone has gone home for the evening—bang!—find those Niger documents she wants to see and make a copy, take them out in my briefcase. He could hardly contain himself, pumping a fist in the air like his favorite golfer after sinking a bunker shot for birdie. And then, he continued while staring out the window, I tell her I can't let them out of my sight so she'll have to meet me in order to read them—say, on my boat!

  Needless to say, John Wu accomplished little in the way of Department of Justice work that afternoon. He still breathed the heady perfume of expected bliss the next evening when he, along with his fellow OLC lawyer who worked on the Enhanced Interrogation Techniques memo with him (John Beeby), attended a party thrown by the very influential lobbyist, LeGris. “Perks, baby, perks!” Beeby had said; he and Wu had enjoyed a lot of the high life since the Administration had tapped them on the shoulder. LeGris was a lobbyist for the Oil Industry and a favorite of Paul Kluister. The parties he threw were very select, without press attention, and comprised every pleasure to amuse his guests, from the finest food and drink to the finest women. Unlike the last such event, Wu didn't take notice of a single escort—this did not go unremarked by his friend. After his third vodka tonic, an explanation was demanded. Though incomplete, Wu's description of how he met Sally and his interpretation of their conversations left little to the imagination and won him a few vigorous back slaps.