The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  “Sorry, sorry, in my childhood 'dumbass' was a term of tenderness and love,” he said with a wistful smile.

  “How you managed to get through life with all your own teeth,” Connie said wonderingly, hands on hips.

  “Regular. Brushing.” he said, waggling a finger.

  “That's not what I meant—never mind,” she said and laughed. “You can stop packing your bags or trying to get a Pakistani visa: that agent you want, Sal Fanoui, is right here in Washington.”

  “You're kidding!” Tobias said, jumping up and taking Connie's proffered sheet of paper.

  “Nope,” she said. “My guy says he was in Pakistan but now he's on the AG's shit list.”

  “Why?” Tobias asked, head snapping up.

  “Didn't know,” Connie said. “But he's all of six blocks from here. You don't even need a stringer,” she said, meaning a freelancer.

  “Connie, I can see I was wrong to believe all the things people say about you,” Tobias said as he struggled into his coat, still clutching Sal Fanoui's contact info.

  “Oh, really?” she said, hands back on hips.

  “The brains, the skills,” he said, shutting down his laptop and shoving his phone into his pocket—and then taking Connie around the waist like an action hero on a movie poster, “not to mention the looks! Darling, the rumors didn't even come close to your level of wonderful.” He kissed her loudly on the cheek. “And you sound nothing like mom,” he added and then sprang away and toward the elevator.

  “You smoothie,” she laughed after him, rubbing her cheek. “And don't think that gets you off the hook,” she shouted: “you still owe me lunch.”

  Tobias took a cab to the J. Edgar Hoover building and called Agent Fanoui along the way. Agent Fanoui asked Tobias to repeat his name once he'd identified himself and his paper. After a moment, Agent Fanoui agreed to speak with Tobias but said he was on his way out. Tobias said he had a cab waiting for them.

  Agent Fanoui was six foot two inches of well-built Italian-American (mostly; his great grandfather was Québécois). He wore his coal-black hair straight back over his head, his collar high and starched, and his coat open. He didn't look happy as he marched straight at Tobias, motioning to him to get into the cab. He slipped in beside Tobias a moment later—seeming to fill the rest of the cab—and ordered the driver to take them to what sounded like a sushi restaurant.

  Agent Fanoui made some sort of odd hand gesture between his knee and Tobias's and then turned, with a look on his face that made Tobias think maybe he had the wrong guy, and introduced himself. Agent Fanoui said he didn't know how much information he had of any relevance to what he'd seen Tobias write about recently but he'd be happy to talk generally. Tobias almost laughed, he could see undercover work was not Agent Fanoui's specialty: he was about as subtle as an arrest warrant.

  At the restaurant, they took a table in a quiet corner, ordered green tea and the combo special, and stared at each other in an uncomfortable way that made Tobias wonder if he'd been picked up.

  Tobias said, “Thanks for talking to me on such short notice, Ag—”

  “Call me Sal,” Agent Fanoui interrupted in a forceful whisper.

  “You got it, Sal,” Tobias said after a moment.

  “Listen, I got to be careful what I say to you,” Sal said, “and how I say it. No need to broadcast what we're talking about to the whole place, either.”

  “Sure,” Tobias said. “The whole situation is rather delicate, what I wanted to ask you about, your time in Pakistan.”

  “My time in Pakistan?” Sal laughed mirthlessly. “There's only one reason a reporter like you would come and talk to me.” Sal then folded his hands and waited.

  “The confession of Abu Zubahd,” Tobias said. Sal kept on waiting. “I understand you conducted the interrogations,” Tobias said and again elicited only silence. “It's claimed he told you Al Qaeda had contact with Iraqi intelligence.”

  “For Christ sake,” Sal growled. “Is that all you have? Too much to hope, I guess,” he said, looking away from the table. “I thought you had proof and were coming here for confirmation and a first-hand account.”

  “Proof of what?” Tobias asked.

  “What did you come here to ask me?” Sal demanded.

  “Did this confession actually happen?” Tobias said. “And if so, what specifically was said, does it imply what the Administration is saying about it to Congress.”

  “Christ, you're nowhere near it,” Sal said. “You got instincts, mister, I'll give you that, but you're three steps behind. Or better yet, you're two runs down and this is the bottom of the ninth—because they vote on war powers next week.”

  “I know,” Tobias said. “That's why I'm trying to find if there's anything wrong with these confessions.” More silence from Sal. “Is there anything wrong with these confessions?”

  “I got to be careful how I talk to you,” Sal repeated.

  “Let's put this whole conversation off the record,” Tobias said. “Anything you—”

  “What's that?” Sal interrupted. “Reporter's version of cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die? Know what that's worth to me?”

  The waitress came with their tea. She left them glaring at each other.

  “So what are you here for?” Tobias asked.

  “What did you come to find out?” Sal asked back.

  “If Abu Zubahd's confession really happened,” Tobias repeated.

  “Really?” Sal mused. “And why do you doubt that?”

  “Because Al Qaeda should hate Saddam Hussein,” Tobias said. “Has hated him, does hate him. And those confessions showed up just a little too conveniently.”

  “There's a thought,” Sal mumbled, a little smile tugging at his stubble-encircled mouth. He would always need a shave. “What are you thinking?”

  “That they were forged,” Tobias said.

  “Forged?” Sal laughed.

  “Why not?” Tobias asked, hating this sort of interview. “They forged the Niger documents for the same purpose: war with Iraq.”

  “You proved that, didn't you?” Sal said. “I didn't see any proof they did the forging, but it looks clear from your story in the paper that they knew these documents were forged.”

  “Right,” Tobias said. “So they could have forged these confessions.”

  “But we haven't established they can forge,” Sal replied. “And, since they've been called out for forging once, how quick would they be to forge again?”

  It was Tobias's turn for some silence.

  “Let's take a hypothetical,” Sal offered. “Say you're the President and you want a little war with Iraq; you've already created the idea of Iraq having nuclear weapons but now you've got to get them into the hands of some terrorists in order to scare people into voting you war powers. You've got some terrorists prisoners,” Sal suggested.

  Tobias sat up straight.

  “Oh, he's quick,” Sal said. “This Tobias Hallström, he has ideas.”

  “Are you saying—” Tobias began.

  “I haven't said a thing!” Sal interrupted. “All I did was some hypothesizing. How about you do a little?”

  “Okay,” Tobias said. “I need to put Saddam's hypothetical nuclear weapons in Al Qaeda's hands; I've got Al Qaeda terrorists in prisons, prisons outside of US jurisdiction, places like Guantanamo Bay and Pakistan; I need these prisoners to say they were in contact with Saddam, asking for nukes: so maybe I make them say it any way I can.”

  “I hope you wouldn't do that, brother,” Sal mumbled facetiously as their food arrived. “But if you wanted to, you've got a problem: there's this thing called the Army Field Manual on Interrogation, and another thing called the Informed Interrogation Approach, standard FBI protocol. So 'any way you can' is out. Isn't it?”

  Tobias ignored his food and stared at Agent Fanoui getting his soy sauce ready and picking up a couple daubs of wasabi for his salmon roll.

  “But I'm the President,” Tobias said. “And I want those prisoners to
say they talked to Iraq. I order the interrogators to do anything, to torture them.”

  Agent Fanoui took another piece of sushi roll and smiled before popping it into his mouth. “Order it, huh?” he asked. “Orders are things you'd have to write down. And some people wouldn't follow them, even then.”

  “But most would,” Tobias said. “Like the train driver to Auschwitz. And if anyone didn't follow my order to torture confessions out of prisoners, I'd bring him back to Washington where I could keep an eye on him. When he wasn't eating sushi.”

  “He's a smart fella,” Sal crooned. “He's got ideas.”

  “You've seen these orders?” Tobias asked.

  “Me?” Sal innocently asked, motioning with his chopstick. “Brother, I just go through tax returns these days. You're telling me you think a memo exists ordering the CIA and Military to torture prisoners?”

  Sal waited until Tobias answered: “Yes.”

  “Well, I don't possess such a memo,” Sal confessed. “But if you show it to me, I may have a real interesting story for you.”

  “Why not tell it to me now?” Tobias asked, leaning on his elbows.

  “Because without proof, everything is fiction,” Sal said. “Look what happened to that CIA woman you went to bat for: you screamed and shouted—and told the truth, oh gee—and they still made her the goat. Wasn't until you had proof that things changed. But, listen, you got to look at this like building a case: you can't go to court with half your evidence. Otherwise, the guy gets off. Don't you know something about that?”

  “Yeah,” Tobias said, falling back into his chair. “We didn't see how it all fitted together. The forged Niger documents were only step one.”

  “And really, you should have brought out both steps one and two and the destination all at once,” Sal said.

  “Where's this memo?” Tobias asked.

  “Is there one?” Sal said. “Brother, don't you think if I could get my hands on a memo authorizing torture, with the President's and a bunch of his staff's names on it, I'd be shouting from the rooftops? Even if the new AG's name was on it? You found those forged Niger documents,” he said with a significant shrug.

  “Sure but I need a place to start looking,” Tobias said.

  “You're a smart guy,” Sal reassured him. “You have ideas. You know people. I know for a fact you know someone in State; maybe you know someone in Justice,” he said and then stared very hard into Tobias's eyes for a moment before returning to his meal.

  Tobias sat thinking. What, someone in the Justice Department has an Executive Order authorizing torture? That's not a hell of a lot to go on. He opened his mouth to push a little further, but Agent Fanoui interrupted before he started.

  “Can't you leave a guy to eat in peace?” Sal asked. “My food's getting cold!”

  Tobias shook his head, in no mood for jokes, and stood up. Agent Fanoui helped himself to Tobias's bento box, placing it atop his now empty one, and started a second dinner.

  “Talk to you soon,” Tobias said.

  “Yeah, real soon,” Sal muttered at Tobias's retreating back. “Or it won't matter.”

  Tobias called Sally as soon as he left and they met at a drugstore and pretended to look through greeting cards.

  “You were tailed this morning,” Sally whispered casually.

  “What?” Tobias said and then repeated more quietly: “What?”

  “When you left the apartment,” she said. “I was, too, but I shook him off.”

  “Is there someone here now?” Tobias asked.

  “Didn't see,” she said. “Only a matter of time, though. Did you find something? You seem tense.”

  Tobias did not like finding himself inside a story and tense didn't even begin to describe what he felt. He'd have laughed at the understatement but felt he'd probably have choked.

  “That, uh, fella we wanted to talk to,” he began.

  “Yeah?”

  “He lives in DC,” he said.

  “You're kidding!” she said. “That's great. I guess he was pulled off.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Have you set up a meet?” she asked.

  “Already met him,” he said.

  “Without me?” she asked.

  “Had to be quick,” he said. “It was—”

  “Never mind,” she said. “What did he say?”

  “He was very cagy about how and what he would say,” Tobias said. “But the gist is this: the Administration gave orders—in some kind of memo—that prisoners were to be tortured into confessing.”

  “Good god,” Sally breathed. “Does he have the memo?”

  “That's all you can—people are being tortured!” Tobias growled. “By our government!”

  She took his arm. “I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “I'm sorry: in my line of work,” she said, “facing the horror of torture somewhere out in the cold was a fact of life I had to get used to. The KGB—let alone the Chinese—were not known for their gentleness with spies. So it's just not as shocking—or, say, surprising—to hear of torture being ordered. Although it is shocking: particularly that our government ordered it and was stupid enough to put their names on it—if I'm not assuming too much.”

  “You're not,” he said. “At least I think not. This guy didn't say anything, just led me here and there, but I'm pretty sure the torture memo has the President's signature. God, what a sickening thing to say.”

  “Does he have a copy?” she asked. “Know where we could get one?”

  “He doesn't have a copy,” he said. “But it seems he thinks we could find one somewhere in the Justice Department. I don't see why Justice, though. I'd have thought at the places where the torture was committed.”

  “Oh, of course,” Sally said, touching her forehead. “That's what they were doing! Remember, we saw Justice Department lawyers attached to the OSP? No wonder. It was all part of a single plan, organized at the OSP. Part of the team dealt with creating the WMD threat in Iraq while the lawyers authorized the torture that would ultimately tie the WMD from Iraq to the terrorists through forced confessions. So we know exactly who wrote the memo: our friend John Wu.”

  “Wonderful,” Tobias sighed. “I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear from me—and to have the memo he authored that orders torture released to the public. Unless you think he was so taken with you he could deny you nothing.”

  Sally smirked at Tobias's worried expression before saying: “I'm not going to ask him for it. I'm going to walk right in and take it.”

  “Jesus!” Tobias said through clenched teeth. He took Sally by the arm to speak close to her ear; she put a hand on his chest and a beatific smile on her face to give the passersby the impression he was saying sweet nothings to her. He wasn't. “I'm sorry to say this but you tried this before and it didn't work out so well. It wouldn't be your kindly boss's office this time, either; no getting a break and retiring if things go badly. This time it would be jail—for treason, probably.”

  “Relax, relax,” she said mildly. “Don't draw attention to us. Put your arms around me. Look at me: there's no time to try to track down some operative with a conscience. We have less than a week. If this memo is explicit, we could effectively eliminate the confessions and force the Administration onto the defensive. If there's another way, I'm all for it—tell me.”

  “We've tried our best,” Tobias said. “It isn't exactly our responsibility—”

  “Don't give me that crap, darling,” she said and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Whose responsibility is it to hold the government to account if not we citizens and you press?”

  “I'm not having a civics debate about this,” he said.

  “You're telling me your not,” she said.

  “You're not doing this,” he said.

  “Oh, putting your foot down?” she asked. “Did we teleport into Father Knows Best? Your own actions you control, that's it. You can either help me—and increase my chances of success—or you can call the police and have t
hem waiting there for me.”

  “I don't want you to go to prison,” he said.

  “I don't want to go to prison,” she said. “But less than that do I want to go through the rest of my life feeling I could have done something; to know I was beaten because I gave up. Now, handsome, do you know a woman at Justice?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “About my height and blond, preferably,” she added.

  “What are you—yes, no, not blond—what are you thinking?” he asked. “Her name's Hazel. She's in media.”

  “Take her to lunch tomorrow,” Sally said, pulling him closer, wrapping her arm around the back of his neck and with her other hand grabbing his butt.

  “Hey! Why?” he asked.

  “Call her up and do that crackly thing with your voice,” Sally said and nuzzled her nose against his chin. “Tell her you simply have to see her; it's been too, too long—and make it 11:30, you're hungry.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “But why?”

  Chapter 11

  Hazel was surprised, delighted, to hear from Tobias after so long. All thoughts of her fiancé were shunted off and restrained behind “he's just a friend” as she touched up her makeup and headed two blocks to the restaurant where she'd meet him. 11:30 was kind of early, but with only a little yogurt for breakfast, any excuse to eat early—and eat out—was welcome. She thought she'd come too early but he was already seated and waiting for her. God is he ever gorgeous, she commented to herself as she weaved around tables. While looking at him, and not for the first time, the rest of the world just faded away; she walked right into this woman. Hazel apologized but the woman couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her. My mistake, Hazel thought, but do you have to be such a bitch? Never mind—Tobias is waiting!

  Sally pocketed the ID keycard she'd stripped from Hazel's shirt and kept walking, out the door and then a block north to a little boutique clothing store where she bought a long coat just like Hazel's after she donned a brunette wig in the changing room. She couldn't do much about her fairer complexion except to add more of a dark foundation and blush, but a pair of enormous sunglasses like Hazel's concealed much of her face anyway. (The coat she'd come in with, which she'd purchased the night before on the other side of town, went into a shopping bag and then into a garbage can a block west.) All her shopping was done with cash.