The Parnell Affair
Page 28
Once through the documents, the electronics off and stowed, they laughed at their own excitement. The release of the night's tension, the first positive step now behind them, Sally laughed herself to tears and then back out of them. All that was left was to drive to a hotel in Florida, checking in late enough in the morning to give the impression—to anyone who might be monitoring their credit cards—that they'd stopped during the night, somewhere in the Carolinas perhaps, and then had an early start to arrive in Florida by Christmas morning.
After talking through the evidence and the story to come, anticipation of the hotel and the end of their long wait for one another began to build. Sally held it at bay as best she could, knowing she had to call her daughters. At 7:00 am, still on the road, Sally called them in Paris. Their father had tried to sweeten the upheaval in their lives with the most luxurious Christmas they'd ever had. It helped, they kidded, but they missed their mother. It surprised Sally almost into speechlessness: Anna was solicitous, kind, grateful, and even admiring. No veiled reference to Sally's absence was offered as an explanation for her eldest daughter's sudden affection. Whatever had changed for her daughter, or seemed to have changed in herself that now she was accepted, Sally thrust aside questioning and enjoyed the first loving conversation she had with Anna in nearly three years. She hadn't realized how oppressive their tense relationship had felt until the weight was lifted. But now the weight was gone, her duties discharged, her worries alleviated—for the moment, at least—and only the immediacy of the present remained to her. And Tobias. She shut off her phone, put it away, and put a hand on his thigh.
“How far to the hotel?” she asked.
No one drives the speed limit in Florida and only the most callus cop would give them a ticket on Christmas Day—and it wouldn't matter now: they were within the geographical limits of their story to surveillance. The rented Chevy had wings by the time they reached Jacksonville.
They checked into a hotel by a famous golf course, had the concierge buy them tickets on the next morning's earliest train to DC, and said they needed no bellhop to show them the room or take their luggage. The hotel was all but entirely silent at 9:00 am, but the closing elevator doors felt to Tobias and Sally as if they shut out the world. They dropped their bags and there was nothing slow in the way they reached for one another. Whether released from the tension of the previous night on her honesty with Joe or finally hitting back at those who'd wronged her, or whether too much time had passed in the life of a physically passionate woman, Sally threw herself into their kiss without reserve. She pulled herself up by his neck, wrapped her legs around his waist, and kissed his mouth as if it were the source of something more urgently needful than air. In the midst of her enjoyment, however, her mind probed ahead to the end of her long and unhappy banishment, her now foolishly considered exile from sex. All the body's possibilities and her months of fantasizing about being with Tobias recalled a certain unpleasant reality to mind.
“I stink,” she said suddenly, pulling her face back an inch from his.
“I think this kiss is going pretty well, really,” he said, grinning at her, stroking the underside of her thigh, more or less.
“I mean—” she began.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I'm sweaty, too, from all that running.” He raised an eyebrow significantly.
Sally started and asked: “Uh, are you kinda into something a little—”
“No!” he said. “I thought we might have a nice little shower together.”
“Oh!” she breathed and then kissed him again. Speaking all but into his mouth, she said, “I forgot someone else can be in the shower, too.”
The elevator doors opened and Sally hopped down and they practically danced down the hall, embracing and kissing at intervals, banging into walls. They took their time once within their room—and Tobias did not forget to hang the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob.
With murmured and playful commentary, they unwrapped each other. While the novelty of nudity before another, equally nude, had been lost in both their youths, no less intense was the pleasure of exploring that figure so beautiful it had tempted lesser men to treason and had once inspired a greater man to valor. She felt no less thrill at uncovering him, reveling in the act of knowing him by touch.
If the soap was an excuse to run their hands slowly over each other's entirety, cleanliness had nothing to do with where their hands lingered. Yet, too many times had she imagined him while under falling water and she wanted something else; with effort—and not without regret—she flung herself out of the shower. Still soapy in spots, she ran a towel quickly over herself, though she could not be described as anything less than thoroughly wet. Tobias didn't care if the sheets got soaked: they would anyway.
The end of her long seclusion came as she had envisioned time and again: staring into his eyes as the waves mounted until the intensity of her orgasm squeezed shut her eyes and arched her back away from him, so that only her breasts against his chest and hands gripping his shoulders penetrated the gale of her pleasure to assure her he remained close to her as well as deeply within her.
The “outsider-vision,” which served Tobias so well in his professional life, intruded somewhat upon his sexual life, and always had. Despite the pleasure, he never fully immersed in the moment, always a part of him seemed to observe from above, looking over his shoulder. So even though his making love to Sally far surpassed any of the trifling encounters of his life, he remained totally aware. Particularly, he remained cognizant that this morning meant more to Sally—after her unwilling abstinence—than to him, no matter the thoughts, which occurred to him like a mantra, of never wanting to be with a different woman again. With difficulty, it must be admitted, he suppressed his own climax: when her eyes opened and her mouth found his, he rolled onto his back.
“I want to see you,” he breathed.
To which she replied, “I want to been seen!”
Enveloped by the moment as Sally felt, her mind never lost focus on her lover. Though she dove into the enjoyment of his hands as she reached orgasm time and again, she wanted to know she imparted as much pleasure as she partook. So when faintness began to seize her shaking muscles, she pulled Tobias back to where they'd started and stared up into his eyes, smiling and desirous of that last compliment. Though she felt luxuriously spent and for the moment sated, as she watched pleasure overwhelm him and his body leave his control, her body rallied and rose to meet him in one final mingled climax.
For a time they lie together entwined, talking and laughing lightly, but even though they'd remained awake through the last evening, they did not sleep. The first vigorous rites of passion paid, they made love again but with the easy care of lovers who wish to spend all their hours within or about one another. They talked as they made love, they laughed.
Midday found him stretched upon the floor and Sally lying awkwardly, yet smilingly, across a large overstuffed chair.
“You're not tired, are you?” she asked mischievously, still breathing heavily.
“No, no,” he said in the voice of someone who's just woken up. “Why do you ask?” She laughed soundlessly. “Actually,” he said, struggling onto his elbows, “and I know it's not romantic—sorry—but I'm getting a little hungry!”
“Yes!” she said and slid into a more usual position in her chair, though folding her legs up onto the cushion with her. “I'm starving. Ow, we probably should pace ourselves; I'm going to walk funny tomorrow as it is.”
“I've given up entirely on walking,” he grunted as he came to his feet. “When I order lunch, I'm going to tell them to send a wheelchair for me come checkout time.”
He rummaged around the hotel desk and then shuffled to the table with the phone, rubbing his back.
“I love your little butt!” she cried and laughed into her had. He feigned alarm as he looked over his shoulder. “The way it is,” she reassured him, “intact.”
“Thank you for that caveat,” he said, leaf
ing through all the various folders by the phone.
“It's always kind of funny having sex with someone for the first time,” she said, watching him. “Particularly someone interesting: you never know beforehand if they're into something a little odd.”
He looked up, smirking. “There's a story behind that smile, I can tell,” he said. He shuffled back with two menus.
She nodded, laughing a little. “I'll save it until after lunch,” she said.
He sat on the arm of the couch, next to her chair, opened his mouth to say something but looked back at his bag by the door suddenly.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“You know,” he said, dragging his eyes back to her and kissing her shoulder, “I'd like nothing better than to make love to you until they'd need to call in the paramedics—but I need to write that story.”
“Yes you do!” she said, sitting up quickly. “Do you need to be alone—” she began, about to come to her feet.
“No,” he said, staying her with a hand and rising himself. He hurried over to his bag and retrieved his laptop. “I should really say, 'type that story.' I've written it in my head a dozen times over the past few months. It may need a little hammering, though.”
He up-righted an overturned chair before the desk and sat down—practically perched on the front two inches of the armless seat—and opened his laptop on the desk.
“It's okay if I'm here, though?” she asked.
“Yeah, it's fine,” he said. “Oh, the food! I will need something to eat.”
“I'll order it,” she said, going to the phone. “What do you want?”
“Well, there ought to be a sufficient Jewish presence in Florida to get some decent corn beef,” he said: “I'll have a reuben!”
“A Christmas morning reuben,” she laughed. “You're so traditional. I think I'll have the short ribs and fries. And a blooming onion. Ooo, and a chocolate milkshake! And a case of bottled water.”
“Yes, definitely water,” he agreed, staring impatiently at his computer's boot-up screen. “And a bottle of champagne?”
“Why not?” she said, dancing a step as she picked up the phone. “Better finish that story first, though.”
“I would if this damn thing would start up already,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come on, Windows!”
A knock came at the door and Sally’s eyes sprang open. She found herself lying on the bed, a pillow beneath her head and one of the hotel's complimentary bathrobes draped over her. Tobias wore one as well, still seated and typing rapidly at the desk a few feet away. He paused and seemed on the point of rising when Sally said she'd get it. Slipping into her robe, she opened the door. She tried to remember falling asleep as the waiter set their covered plates on the round table by the window. She got as far as remembering lying on the bed and watching Tobias begin to type, still naked, at the desk.
She found some money to tip the waiter and then moved the food to the desk next to Tobias's laptop.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Oh, almost done. Last read through and then I ought to take a break from it. See it with fresh eyes tomorrow morning.”
“Can I have a look?” she asked.
“Please do,” he said. “And feel free to add any 'Intelligence sources say' tidbits you can think of.”
Sally let her robe fall, still feeling warm from their exertions. Straddling the portion of the seat behind Tobias—who remained perched on the front two inches, hunched over the computer like a teenager with a new video game—Sally rest her chin on his shoulder and began to read.
'The documents alleged by the Howland Administration to prove Iraq attempted to purchase uranium from Niger are the product of a crude forgery, concluded the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA),' the lede read. 'The Washington Observer has obtained a copy of the so-called Niger documents and has confirmed the IAEA's claim of forgery.' The story then enumerated the names of officials in the Niger documents that were current for 2002 and not of people who had held those positions when the documents were said to have been created in 1998. An explanation followed of the IAEA's withholding the obvious forgery’s existence from the public, their discretion used as a bargaining chip at the UN to obtain inspectors rather than a resolution authorizing force. A short history of the Howland Administration's march toward war came next, with all the familiar unsubstantiated claims of WMD. Next, Tobias carefully walked through the furtive actions of Jon Thoblon and made clear where the documents had been photographed, though leaving the impression a third party had performed the raid on Thoblon's house in order to sell the photos to The Washington Observer. The final paragraph reiterated the facts and asked how Congress and the American people would now view the Administration's push for war, knowing its key evidence was the product of premeditated deception. Last of all, the piece asked again who in the Administration had outed Sally Parnell, claiming she'd missed what the Niger documents contained, knowing all the while they were forged.
“Well,” Sally breathed.
“Does that mean, well done?” Tobias asked around a mouthful of reuben. He held the hot plate with a couple folded cloth napkins.
“Yes, well done,” she said and then laughed at his gobbling his food. She flipped the cover off her short ribs and grabbed one of the sauce-covered morsels. “I want to read through it again, though,” she said. “I like how you have it in columns on the computer.”
“Yeah, I don't know why that helps me sometimes,” he said. “Something to do with visualizing the story, I guess. Have to put it back to normal before giving it to the copy desk, though. Don't get barbeque sauce on the keyboard,” he said, shooing her hand away.
They read it again silently, and then ate and talked, and then slept for a bit and then loved for a bit. They slept most of the night and woke in the dark hours of the next morning. Driving first to a rent-a-car place near the small Jacksonville airport, they dropped off their rented car and then took a taxi to the train station in time for the Amtrak to DC. Tobias spent only a half hour on his story at either end of the trip, which he found as reassuring as troubling—both his best and worst stories seemed to write themselves.
After 6:00 pm, they reached Union Station. Sally wished him luck, kissed him goodbye, and took a taxi home—to pick up fresh clothes; she had Tobias's apartment key. He called both his ME, Howard Lieter, and Chuck Ailes, the Editor in Chief, at their homes. It isn't entirely unheard of for young hotshot reporters to call up their MEs—since everything they write is the greatest, most important story ever told—but no one called the Chief in unless the building was on fire. That went double for Tobias, who rarely if ever had a reason for haste and whose stories relied far more heavily on depth that scoop. Needless to say, both editors broke traffic laws on their way in after Tobias told them in a deadly calm voice that they needed to see something he'd obtained.
2:00 am was the cut-off for the next day's edition, files couldn't be sent to the printers any later, so they had plenty of time but needed only a fraction of it. Howard, leafing through the photos of the Niger docs, wanted to go stronger, much stronger. He wanted to stress the circumvention of the CIA in bringing in the Niger docs through State. Mr. Ailes preferred to wait for the Howland Administration's response and then use the as-yet-undisclosed facts in a rebuttal piece. He would have made no demands, despite the privileges of his position, not with Tobias. But Tobias agreed, saying it would be better to stretch what they had to a series of stories to keep up the pressure; in that way, the Administration would provide further content via its responses. Ailes repeated many times throughout the discussion that the White House might not have known the Niger docs were fake; he seemed, eventually, to need some reassurance on this point. Tobias wondered why, wondered if Mr. Ailes' conception of the world—worldly as he was—could not compass a government willing to lie the country into war. Howard rolled his eyes.
In the end, the story took most of page one, including two large photos of the Niger doc's most obviously forged p
ages. Tobias had, once they'd finalized the scale of the story, picked up the phone to call Donald L. LeGierz, the Press Secretary, but Howard stopped him. He told Tobias about a story—content unknown—that The New York Times pulled off the presses at White House insistence. He wouldn't risk it, he said, and wanted to go without the ritual denial. Tobias—now convinced that the Administration would not hesitate to stoop to any level—relented; visions of armed men seizing the presses occurred to him, though he laughed them off. After handshakes and “good story, good story” from half a dozen people who had to become involved to push through a change to the front page, Tobias left for home.
He took Sally to the swanky restaurant at The Four Seasons, which he couldn't really afford, and they toasted their success. The question of how the Administration would respond was hardly discussed.
Chapter 9
The Christmas Eve party at the White House differed considerably from the staged, for-the-press Christmas Party held earlier in the month. Christmas Eve was a private affair, totally at the discretion and direction of Linda Howland. Like some—though certainly not all—First Ladies, Linda had become a surrogate mother (or, in her case, a kindly matriarch) to all the younger staff. Those who lived in and around Washington, as well as those who would not leave for fear of losing influence, came under her protection at such times of the year and she felt it her duty—as well as her pleasure—to provide comfort and amusement suitable to the occasion.