The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  The fun had drained out of the party for Penneymounter. It was time to go. As he breezed through the living room on his way out the door, he was careful to make discreet eye contact with the woman staffer who was his surreptitious date. That was her signal to leave the party separately and take a taxi back to the Capitol Hyatt.

  A NONDESCRIPT ADVANCE MAN wearing the official uniform of a dark suit and dark tie walked crossed the stage and placed a presidential seal on the front of the podium. The buzz of excited conversation filled the air. The crowd of more than three thousand people, bedecked in tuxedos and formal gowns, grew more anxious, the haute couture dresses of the women rustling as they pressed against the red velvet rope line. Secret Service agents took positions to either side of the stage. Above the stage, on a balcony elevated over the ballroom like a royal box at the opera house, the VIPs—elected politicians, bundlers, major donors, and lobbyists who masqueraded as power brokers—stared down at the scene as they heavily imbibed adult beverages and flashed their jewelry. At the bar in the VIP section, two bartenders worked feverishly to keep up with the demand for vodka cranberries and scotch and sodas.

  In the back of the VIP section, hiding in the shadows, stood the darkened visage of Jay Noble. Other than the president, he was the man of the hour. Following the inaugural ceremony and congressional luncheon in the Capitol, he had headed over to the media skyboxes across from the White House to do a victory lap on the cable shows. He had then briefly joined the president and Claire Long in the family box during the inaugural parade, an honor accorded to few outside the immediate Long family. Afterward, walking across Lafayette Park, he had been mobbed by the press and the great unwashed masses. At that moment it hit him like a load of bricks: he had become a political celebrity, and his life would never be the same. He had achieved the success and fame he had toiled for across two decades of smash-mouth, take-no-prisoners political combat. But now that he had arrived at The Show, Jay felt a flood of conflicting emotions and a broad continuum of ambiguity. He felt an emptiness, as though he had arrived at a banquet to find they were serving fast food. The reality of the achievement was not as satisfying as it had been in his imagination. Now, as the president made his final stop of the night at the California Ball—the hottest ticket at the inaugural—Jay was hiding in the shadows, pining for anonymity in his moment of triumph.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States, Robert W. Long, accompanied by First Lady Claire Long!” came the announcement from off stage. “Hail to the Chief” blared from speakers, the crowd erupted in a cathartic roar, and Bob and Claire Long emerged from behind the curtain like Hollywood stars jumping off the pages of a glossy magazine. Long sported an Armani tuxedo, and Claire wore a glittering silver, off-the-shoulder Oscar de la Renta gown with a large black flower over the left side of her chest. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled straight back, highlighting her high cheekbones and blue eyes. She looked radiant, her skin kissed by the California sun, her feminine, sexy glow contrasting sharply with the pale, boorish formalism of her predecessor. Camera flashes from the paparazzi and the partygoers blinked like a sea of lightning bugs.

  “We have been to eight balls tonight, but we saved the best for last,” Long began to applause. “This is our last stop before we turn in, and it’s a special one for us because it includes so many of our good friends from California.”

  “We love you, Mr. President!” someone shouted.

  “And I love you right back.” More scattered applause.

  “Harry Truman once said if you want a friend in this town, buy a dog.” (Laughter.) “Well, we have two dogs, so we’re going to be just fine.” (More laughter—isn’t he a stitch!) “Seriously, so many wonderful people supported us and helped us in what was an uphill campaign. Not a lot of people gave us much of a chance, but you stood with us when tonight seemed like an impossible dream. Claire and I will never forget your friendship. We don’t really need any new friends in Washington because we like the ones we have.” More applause and cheers. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have one last dance with my bride.” The crowd cheered. Camera flashes exploded as the band began to play. Long wrapped an arm around Claire’s waist, grabbed her hand in his, and skillfully glided across the stage. Balloons dropped from a net above, creating a magical moment of seemingly limitless possibility.

  “Mr. Noble, the president would like to see you,” came the hushed voice from behind him. Jay turned to see an advance man. “Follow me.” Jay quickly motioned to Satcha, who was being ogled by a corporate muckety-muck who had bought his way into the VIP suite with an obscenely large contribution. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along as he followed the advance man down a flight of stairs and into a service hallway behind the stage. Jay could hear the strains of violin strings as the president and First Lady danced. As they came down the hall, Jay caught sight of Lisa with Senator Russell Evans. He felt a pang of regret. Even the balm of Satcha’s hot looks and celebrity did not seem to salve the wound.

  “Hello, Jay,” Lisa said, her eyes sizing up Satcha with undisguised curiosity. “Isn’t this a lot of fun?” Lisa looked stunning, her black hair flowed down to her creamy white shoulders, the straps of her green sequined dress bringing out her hazel eyes.

  “It is indeed,” Jay replied. “Tomorrow comes the hard part.”

  “Sometimes I think anything will be a breeze after the campaign,” said Lisa. She introduced him to Senator Evans, whose gleaming white teeth and jet-black hair seemed a tad too perfect.

  The president burst through the blue curtain and bounded down the stairs behind the stage. He and Claire were effervescent.

  “Jay, my main man!” the president shouted. He was jacked. “How did you convince such a pretty woman to be your date?” His eyes twinkled. He was in a great mood, flying high.

  Jay was about to answer when Satcha jumped in. “Actually, Mr. President, I find that I’m only attracted to men of uncommon intelligence.” She winked.

  “I see,” replied the president mischievously. “Well, I knew it wasn’t his looks.”

  “She’s only using me to get an interview with you,” Jay joked.

  “I am not!” said Satcha, her voice laced with mock indignation. “Well, I do want an interview. You should give me your first one-on-one, Mr. President.”

  “You have to convince Lisa,” Long shot back playfully. “She’s the gatekeeper.” Jay knew the president was deliberately causing trouble.

  Lisa flashed a fake smile. “I’d give you my card,” she said. “But I don’t have any yet.”

  “I know where to find you,” said Satcha, her features hardening. “I’ll let you get settled in and give you a call, maybe next week?” Her voice turned serious. “It would be a real statement if the White House granted its first broadcast interview with the president to Univision. We have more viewers than CNN or MSNBC in prime time.”

  “Satcha is indefatigable,” said Jay.

  “I’ll just bet she is,” said Lisa drily.

  Long grabbed Jay by the arm and pulled him into a power clutch. Lisa chatted up Claire while Senator Evans fell headlong into Satcha’s trance.

  “So what are you hearing?” asked Long. It was one of his favorite conversation starters.

  “Reviews of the inaugural address are very positive,” Jay reported. “Marvin Myers said on the air that your election has ushered in a new era of reform. He compared you to Teddy Roosevelt. The sidebar story is Stanley blocking your agenda. The media is obsessed with the personal grudge narrative.”

  “Stanley was cordial but distant,” said Long. “I’m going to need to charm him.”

  “I think we may just have to roll him.”

  Long nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “There’s a flap about Stanton’s prayer,” said Jay. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Senator Evans was undressing Satcha with his eyes. Jay thought, the guy is shameless.

  “I thought Andy’s prayer might cause
a stir, but he brings a lot more than he takes away,” said Long. “I don’t think it’s a big deal, do you?”

  “No, sir,” said Jay. “It’s cable news trying to drive ratings. It’s a one day story.”

  “We have to defend Andy.”

  “You bet,” Jay agreed. “He delivered.”

  “Okay, talk to you soon,” Long said, signaling the conversation was over. He and Claire, flanked by advance men and Secret Service agents headed down the hallway, with Lisa and Senator Evans trailing behind.

  Jay slipped his arm around Satcha’s narrow waist and spun her around, leading her back to the ballroom.

  “I thought Evans was going to jump you,” he said in a whisper when they were safely out of earshot.

  “I couldn’t believe it!” she gasped. “He asked me for my number.”

  “What!? With the president standing three feet away! I hope you didn’t give it to him.”

  “What could I do? He’s a United States senator,” Satcha replied. “I gave him my office number. He’ll go straight to voice mail.” She paused. “He also pinched me.”

  Jay stopped dead in his tracks. “He pinched you? Where?”

  Satcha stuck out her rear end, patting it with the palm of her hand. “My bootie!” she exclaimed.

  Jay burst out laughing, clapping his hands together.

  FOUR

  The armored black Lincoln Navigator darted in and out of traffic as it headed north on Pennsylvania Avenue, running yellow lights and changing lanes before making a sharp turn on to Seventeenth Street and pulling into a back entrance to the White House. A guard opened the electronically controlled gate to the White House complex. The SUV, followed by a staff car carrying security personnel and a chaser car, inched slowly into the parking lot adjacent to the West Wing. Inside, a man wrapped up a call on one of the two secure phones he regularly worked from the back of the SUV. Finishing the conversation, he stepped out of the car and walked briskly across the pavement, head down. Climbing the flight of stairs in a slow jog, he disappeared into the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

  It was 7:37 a.m. when William Jacobs, director of the CIA, turned the knob on the door of his hideaway office on the third floor, which had no signage, and gathered his staff around him. A large, physical man with an awkward gait and penetrating brown eyes, he radiated brilliance and exuded discretion. Jacobs had come to his role as the world’s leading spymaster via a circuitous path. After a stint as a naval intelligence officer, he spent ten years at the Defense Intelligence Agency before becoming disillusioned by the infighting among rival agencies. Retiring a jaded patriot, he took a cushy job at the Rand Corporation, where he wrote an article expressing doubt about Saddam Hussein’s WMD program. When every intelligence agency in the world got it wrong about WMD stockpiles in Iraq, Jacobs was heralded as a prophet. The Senate refused to confirm a new CIA director unless Jacobs was part of a package deal as deputy director, and when he retired, Jacobs ascended to the top job. Long barely knew Jacobs, but with only fifteen days to assemble a government after his election by the House, he asked him to stay on. Jacobs, who lived by the rule that one never turned down the president, agreed.

  Jacobs glanced at the wall clock. He was due in the Oval in ten minutes. He did a final run-through with his staff, methodically laying pages of the President’s Daily Briefing (PDF), the Bible of the Agency, out on the desk. The unpretentious surroundings—plaster walls, historical prints, government-issue furniture—gave no indication that they were reviewing the most sensitive material in the entire government for the leader of the free world on his first full day in office.

  “We’re about to drop the hammer on him,” Jacobs said. “Expect objections because it’s going to be unwelcome news.” His eyes scanned the room. “Let’s be ready for push back.”

  “Sources,” replied one of the briefers. “How do we know? Can we be sure?”

  “Precisely.” Jacobs liked to quiz his staff, pushing them. “What’s our answer?”

  “Multiple sources, tested with sound methodology by our best analysts,” replied the briefer. “Stress the variegated nature of the evidence: satellite photos, captured telephonic conversations, verified reports from foreign clandestine services, solid interpolation of the data, and humint,” he said, referring to human intelligence.

  “He’ll ask if this is the Cuban missile crisis or Colin Powell at the UN,” deadpanned a second briefer.

  Jacobs stared back. “Can you blame him?” he asked. “After Iraq, we’ve got a high bar to clear.” His eyes surveyed every face. “Is everyone absolutely confident about this? If not, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Jacobs knew that once his shadow crossed the threshold of the Oval Office, there was no turning back. A tense silence hung in the air as his probing eyes scanned every face. No one said a word.

  “We’ve got it right,” said one of the briefers at last.

  “Alright,” said Jacobs. “Grab your jockstraps and let’s go.”

  BOB LONG HAD ENTERED the Oval Office at 7:00 a.m. sharp and slid into the chair behind the large HMS Resolute desk that was the centerpiece of the room. The decoratively carved oak desk had been used by Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and George W. Bush. A gift to the United States from Queen Victoria in 1880, it had been fashioned from the timbers of a British ship abandoned at sea in 1854. After a U.S. navy captain returned it to Great Britain, it was decommissioned with the desk built from its wooden remains. A symbol of the close relationship between England and America, it was best known for the trapdoor on the front, which John F. Kennedy Jr. had once crawled through as a little boy, captured by White House photographers at the height of Camelot.

  In the few hours between the preinaugural coffee and the parade, workers had replaced the carpet (Long had selected the royal blue with a beige trim), the drapes, the furniture, and the paintings on the wall, and switched out the desks. On the walls hung portraits of Washington, FDR, and Reagan, signaling Long’s independence and the bipartisan spirit of his administration. Long marveled at the transformation of the room and the efficiency of the White House staff.

  Three soft raps on the door. “Mr. President, Director Jacobs is here,” said his assistant.

  The president nodded firmly. “Send him in.”

  Jacobs walked across the room in long strides and shook the president’s hand firmly, making eye contact. Accompanying him was the briefer who would actually conduct the PDF review, chief of staff Charlie Hector, and national security advisor Truman Greenglass. Jacobs sat down in the chair to the president’s immediate left, Greenglass to the right, and Hector and the CIA briefer took chairs directly across from the president. Long’s desk had not a scrap of paper on it. Jacobs handed him a brown booklet labeled “TOP SECRET/EYES ONLY.”

  The president began to flip open the book. Jacobs held up his hand to stop him. “Mr. President, before we begin, I’d like to tell you a story.”

  “Sure,” Long replied, perplexed but curious. “Go ahead. I like stories.”

  “When Franklin Roosevelt sat in that chair in this very office,” Jacobs began, “a group of Princeton scientists asked Bernard Baruch to hand-deliver a letter to the president from Albert Einstein. In it Einstein warned that Nazis scientists were conducting experiments to unlock the power of the atom for military purposes.” Long listened intently, his eyes unmoving. “FDR launched the Manhattan Project, and we got the bomb first.” Jacobs leaned forward. “If Roosevelt had not acted, the Nazis might have won the war.”

  Long nodded slowly. He swallowed hard.

  “Mr. President, the information we are sharing with you this morning is as critical to our national security as Einstein’s letter to FDR.” Jacobs had a reputation as a no-nonsense, low-key DCI. He was not known for hyperbole or melodrama. The tension in the room thickened. Jacobs turned to the CIA briefer and nodded.

  “Mr. President, if you turn to the first article in your book, you will see that we conclude with a high d
egree of confidence that Iran has now weaponized a nuclear device.” He paused, letting the blow sink in. “I won’t regurgitate the entire document. The high points are: Iran has had some twenty-five thousand centrifuges producing highly enriched uranium for three years. We assess that they have had enough for a nuclear weapon for about a year. What they have lacked was the technical ability to create a chain reaction leading to an explosion. Until now.”

  “How did they get that?” asked Long.

  “They acquired it from a highly placed scientist in the North Korean nuclear program.”

  “A North Korean version of A. Q. Khan,” said Jacobs.

  “He was the Pakistani scientist who sold nuclear secrets to Lybia,” noted Greenglass.

  “I know,” said Long. He was growing testy.

  “We assume North Korea is behind the technology transfer, but that is conjecture to some extent,” said the briefer. “Proliferation is a cancer. Once it’s out of the bottle, it’s hard to get it back in.”

  “How do we know about the North Korean connection?” interjected Hector.

  “The German intelligence service intercepted communications between the North Korean black marketer and his Swiss middleman,” replied Jacobs. “We worked with the Germans to get the Swiss engineer’s bank records and computer files. We have everything—hard drives, wire transfers, e-mails, documents, you name it. It’s open and shut.”

  Long let out an expletive. His eyes focused on the PDF.

  IRAN HAS OBTAINED A NUCLEAR WEAPON