“Want me to go check the NID?” Booth said, thinking the daily National Intelligence Digest might shed light on Landle’s game. “Maybe we should hold off a couple of days.”
“No, Landle’s probably just messing with our heads. Longer this amendment sits out there, the more erosion there will be of our base. Let’s roll the dice.”
“You know, Cavanaugh was with us on the China human rights resolution last fall. We might still hold him.”
“That was then, this is now,” Smithson said. “Human rights resolutions are freebies. Export licenses mean real business, real jobs, real campaign donations.”
“Industry has cranked up the pressure,” Booth agreed. “I saw Talbott in the Senators’ Dining Room at breakfast with Senator Knowlton and Senator Mueller.”
“Well, it was that big Telstar satellite launch contract that triggered our amendment. I’m sure Talbott and Miss Rachel are pulling out all the stops to beat us.”
“Senator, are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”
Smithson pulled his head back slowly, regarding his aide with a skeptical eye. All about them, a dozen senators’ conversations ran together in a burbling stream of noise.
“Comfortable?” he said, laughing. “Comfortable! You know, Martin, let me tell you something. When I went up in Apollo that first time, I sat there for hours through a launch delay. Too much cloud cover. Could have messed up recovery if we’d aborted. I’m the rookie sitting on top of the candle with two vets. Top of a gantry with a gazillion gallons of explosive fuel under my ass and I gotta take a leak so bad I don’t want to wait for launch to fill my bag. My commander turns to me and asks, ‘You comfortable with this?’”
“Senator, I just mean—”
“Martin, I know what you meant.” They both smiled as Smithson paused. “I’m just trying to manage a State Department funding bill here. My little amendment is probably about as popular as a skunk at a garden party. I’m thinking of running for president from a state full of high tech execs who’ll be pissed off about this one for months.”
“Try years.”
“But you know what? I’m doing the right thing for our country. That’s the only goddamn reason worth coming here, except the ego trip. So if somebody doesn’t see that it’s a good thing, well, screw ’em.”
“Senator, I didn’t—”
“So, yeah, Martin. I’m very comfortable. Thanks for asking.”
Booth truly loved the man. It was at moments like these that he best understood why. Yet, Booth wondered increasingly of late about his own staying power. His wife Amy joked that, had he not ended up in the Senate with Smithson, he might have drifted into the priesthood, where he could have clung to his illusory visions of righteous man.
Booth was content with the sense of public purpose that attended his every decision. He relished the sense that he labored at the heart of things, that his life’s work was significant. He could stand for God and country, oppose Communism and nuclear proliferation. The choices were clear, the stakes meaningful. His father, he knew, would have been proud.
As his day unfolded, Booth worked a thirty-yard perimeter around his staff chair next to the Majority Leader’s desk, keenly attuned to the odd rhythms of the yellow-walled chamber. He would drift out into the two party cloakrooms, where senators were using the phones or watching film of an Arizona factory hostage situation on Fox, occasionally crossing the hall to the Vice President’s office, where the administration staff sat at a long table poring over legislative language. Then he would work his way back toward the well to buttonhole senators and warn them their speaking slot was approaching.
He faced a series of distractions, primarily senators checking in with scheduling inquiries. His hip kept vibrating, persistent efforts to reach him on his Blackberry. One number he recognized as Alexander’s cell phone. Another was Charleen, his administrative assistant, summoning him yet again.
A Senate page brought him some backup files Charleen had sent over, accompanied by pink phone message slips from Smithson’s secretary. Some guy named “Kwan” had called three times, insisting it was urgent. Booth tucked the slips back in his Action File with a dozen other unreturned messages.
Just after four o’clock, Alexander surprised him in the Vice President’s Lobby, gesturing over the shoulder of a committee aide who’d been conferring with Booth.
“I need five minutes,” said Alexander, who held up his fingers as he mouthed the request. “Alone.”
Booth asked a staff colleague heading back into the Senate chamber to cover for him while Smithson disposed of some minor amendment on the floor. Then he and Alexander walked together, away from the noise.
Booth led them down two flights of stairs to the crypt under the rotunda. The small room was a favorite retreat of his; it afforded a cool refuge to share a private moment. It was here that the Union troops had baked their bread when quartered in the building during the early days of the Civil War, even as construction of the great dome proceeded.
“You need to see this,” Alexander said, handing him a three-page computer printout. “It could help your vote.”
“On export licenses?”
“Yeah. My story will run tomorrow. And I thought you might want to hold your roll call until after it’s in the paper. Might be able to pick up some votes.”
“Why, Alexander,” said Booth, cocking his head mischievously, “are you playing politics?”
“No. I just thought—”
“He doth protest too much.” Booth straight-armed him as he chuckled. “Mister Bonner gets down and dirty. Welcome to the fray.”
Alexander shrugged as Booth began to read aloud from his draft of the next morning’s story in the Los Angeles Times. The punch of the piece was clear from the lead:
Military officials of the People’s Republic of China have expanded efforts to circumvent U.S. export controls and to purchase sensitive weapons technology, according to diplomatic sources. These purchases of dual-use technology have aided Chinese efforts both to deploy medium range ballistic missiles against neighboring democratic Taiwan and to aid the missile development programs of U.S. adversaries, so-called rogue nations like North Korea and Iran. Coming on the heels of increased anti-American rhetoric from Beijing officials, these new developments threaten the U.S.-PRC summit slated for this summer in Seattle.
“I like the detail here,” Booth commented before he read aloud again:
A second scheme involves the veiled purchase from Telstar Corporation of specially designed computer systems used for real-time battle management, which have reportedly been sold to the People’s Liberation Army in contravention of U.S. export controls.
“How’d you track down this stuff?” “I’ve got my sources. Actually, I was thinking of trying to insert a Smithson quote there.” “Yeah. I could get in a plug for our vote on export controls.” “Like I said. . .” Booth let out a low, steady whistle, the sound rolling about in the darkened crypt. “Is this Telstar stuff solid?”
“Of course it’s solid. CIA is all burned up because the State Department’s sitting on it. And the Congressional Relations people at State have been kept in the dark, so they won’t have to lie to you. A lot of stuff I got from people sick of the promiscuous Chinese exports to Iran.”
“Let me just guess—Israelis?”
“Don’t go there.”
“Hell, I thought that FBI sting on the Israel lobbyists put a damper on them. Better watch yourself. You may be on tape.”
Booth pondered for a few moments. His Blackberry was zapping his hip again. He looked down to read the latest: Charleen with their 911 signal. “I’ve got to get back, Alexander. I think we can win our China amendment vote with this story.”
They turned to climb the small spiral staircase, its steps polished smooth from two centuries of use, then transited the tiled hallway outside the Majority Leader’s second floor suite. Before they separated, Booth had a final question.
“Hey, one more thing.
Have you picked up anything on a revived Taiwan nuclear program? You know, some last-ditch deterrent against the Mainland?”
“Nuclear stuff?”
“Yeah, nuclear stuff. Sensitive imports of dual-use stuff.”
“To Taiwan?” Alexander was incredulous.
“Yep.”
“Holy shit. Where’re you picking this up?”
“Just got a whiff of it.”
“Jesus. If Taiwan is even considering getting nukes, the PRC will go nuts.”
“Right you are. Anyway, let me know if you hear anything. And. . . thanks. I’ve got to go have the vote put over until your story comes out tomorrow.”
They parted, Booth striding past two armed Capitol Police officers and entering the Senate chamber through the swinging doors on the south end.
The first thing he heard was the presiding officer’s gavel, as Senator Pierpoint intoned, “Without objection, it is so ordered.”
“What’s up?” Booth grabbed Senator Cavanaugh, who was darting out of the cloakroom.
“Nice job with the time agreement,” Cavanaugh complimented him.
“What?”
“Jake just got a unanimous consent agreement to finish the bill before five-thirty tonight.” “You’re kidding! What about the amendment?” “Next vote is on your China amendment—then we’re out of here.” So much for tactical delay. It was showtime.
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR MARTINI
Smithson’s amendment was crushed just before the cocktail hour, an ignominious 59-41 defeat.
“We were toast from day one,” Smithson muttered as they filed out of the chamber. The Chairman’s acknowledgment was no salve for Booth’s irritation. Years in the game had done little to take the edge off his disappointment, his propensity to care too much.
“I can’t believe they got every one of the undecideds,” Booth groaned.
“How about my ‘solid’ forty-six? Evaporated like a spring snow on a sunny day. Guess our pals at TPB earned their retainer.”
“Now—this just kills me—we get to drink with them,” said Booth.
Because of an oddity in the Washington calendar, springtime in the nation’s capital meant more than just the cherry blossoms and busloads of schoolchildren on tour. The July 1 deadline for filing cash-on-hand reports with the Federal Election Commission drove incumbents into a frenzy, working to report maximum dollars in the bank to scare off potential opponents. April 1st through June 30th, Tuesday breakfast through Thursday night receptions, was prime fundraising season.
Smithson’s event of the evening would be modest by Washington, D.C. standards. Drinks, not dinner. On Capitol Hill, not downtown. Stand-up cocktails and finger food in a restaurant, not a black tie sit down dinner at tables in a ballroom, and $1,000 a head for martinis, not $4,000 per couple for rubber chicken.
Booth ambled ahead of Smithson, walking out the west front of the Capitol, restoring himself with some fresh air after a day spent in the musty Senate chamber. To his surprise, the weather had become thoroughly pleasant.
He gazed down the mall in the early evening sunshine. The commuters’ tail-lights followed the lines of L’Enfant’s vision, heading west over the filled-in swamp to the Potomac. The curved gold bowl atop the Natural History Museum glowed across at the red brick of the Smithsonian castle, Grecian temple acknowledging medieval fortress. He closed his eyes a moment, taking comfort in a sense of permanence as he tended his psychological wounds.
At forty-eight, Booth retained an ideological purity that was almost quaint. He could tolerate Smithson’s serial dalliances with the opposite sex because the senator fought the good political fight. Smithson sailed into the wind with conviction, if not reckless abandon. But the senator’s ability to balance cause-politics with hard-nosed realism did not come naturally to the righteous aide. Booth questioned once again his ability to stomach the endless compromises ahead.
They are wrong and we are right, Booth thought as he waited for the boss. It’s that simple.
“Buck up, buddy-boy,” Smithson chirped as he approached with confident strides. “Let’s go make nice.”
“You’re really up for this?” Booth asked as they fell in step, bouncing down the long marble staircase heading west into the sunlight.
“Sure thing.”
“I can’t wait to hear Talbott’s introduction.”
“Hey! Tomorrow, he’ll be helping us get funding for an AIDS prevention program, or something else.”
“Meanwhile, the gang at Telstar will be raking it in from the Chinese,” Booth said. “What was it Lenin said about the capitalists: ‘They are stupid enough to sell us the rope with which we will hang them’?”
“Now, don’t go bad-mouthing free enterprise.”
“You know, fundraisers are the one thing I’ll never miss when I’m gone from this town.”
“A necessary evil.”
“But you know what the real sin is? It’s not that our most powerful elected officials become supplicants,” Booth said, suddenly aware he was coming on a bit strong. “It’s the time, Senator.”
“Huh?”
“The time. When you get closer to the presidential primaries, you’ll be putting in twenty hours a week on the phone just asking strangers for dough.”
“At least.”
“Do the American people know this? Do they know many of our leaders spend half their days closeted in some campaign office begging rich guys for contributions? It has always struck me as an almost criminal waste of talent.”
“Hey, it’s the mother’s milk, Martin. The grease that lubricates the wheels of our fine government machinery here. Like Churchill said, democracy is the worst form of government on the planet. . . except all the others.”
As they quickened their pace, Smithson was clearly enjoying himself, welcoming the brisk stroll. All those NASA years in cramped space capsule mock-ups had made him eager to hoof it—the heck with Town Cars, and security, and being on time.
Passing unnoticed among foreign tourists, they traversed the site of the next presidential inaugural stand, and Booth wondered at the contraposition. Where will I be that day? Despite all his misgivings about what lay ahead, he could still daydream.
They paused before jogging with the light across the six lanes of Constitution Avenue, just where it began to climb up to the Senate-side office buildings. “It’ll be interesting to see how today’s victory rallies our good Ms. Paulson,” Smithson said.
“Yeah. First time back in circulation.”
“I meant to tell you, a colleague I saw in the cloakroom—a guy who is on the Judiciary Committee—told me the FBI’s about to break that case. Some Asian connection. Justice Department is starting to brief Talbott and his people about it,” Smithson continued. “Weren’t you at Stanford with her and that Telstar guy? What’s-his-name? Dooley?”
“Mickey Dooley, yes. We were all in a club together.”
“Somehow I can’t picture you as a frat boy.”
“Actually, it was more like a cross between a debate club and a drinking society. We lived together. Sort of an Animal House for China scholars. We’d argue all week; we were the TA’s for many of the seminars. Then we’d blow off steam together on the weekends. Half of us were out to do good, the others—like Dooley—to make a buck.”
“So don’t be giving me such a hard time about the company I keep. And, you know, old Jonathan Talbott is a great guy. He’s done a lot more good than harm in this world. He’s pro-environment, pro-choice. We agree on more than we disagree about.”
“Sure. He’s a friend whose buddies are going to nail us at the—”
“Listen, Martin. If anybody in Silicon Valley is there for me in New Hampshire, it’ll probably be because Jonathan convinces them to bury the hatchet. Jonathan fights fair. My amendment passes and his client loses a lot of business. They’ve got every right to try to trounce us. All’s fair in love and politics.”
“Senator, did you ever think maybe you’re too forgiving someti
mes?”
Smithson chuckled. “Nobody promised me a cakewalk when I got into this gig.”
“I admire your ability to tolerate the situational ethics of others.”
“My dad was a bricklayer, not a preacher. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I mellowed out a bit staring back at the earth from one of those rockets.”
They were crossing now under the aged cherry trees flanking the Capitol’s northern grounds, great sturdy trunks with gnarled branches, thick with green leaves tinted by the setting sun. At the crosswalk, they joined the flow heading to Charlie Palmer’s Restaurant, and “The Spring Tribute to Senator Smithson.”
Charlie Palmer’s was the steakhouse alternative to the Monocle or La Brasserie, the other Senate-side restaurants of choice for hosts in the lobbying business. The building was too modern and flashy. But the location was irresistible, and the owners made up for the ambience deficit by producing surprisingly good meals.
At the fundraiser, the young ladies running Smithson’s finance team put on a great show, several notches above the usual cocktail hour fare. There were strolling accordion players. Waiters in gaily-striped shirts. Cleverly strung Japanese lanterns. Pseudo can-can girls in frilly skirts worked the door, checking in guests and accepting their campaign donations. The overall effect was a sort of retro Renoir picnic: not exactly politically correct, but it was springtime.
The fun part, Booth decided, was to watch them fawn over his boss. There were limousine liberals from Georgetown—wealthy white males with their black chauffeurs waiting outside. There were grungy environmentalists using the check of some movie star board member to purchase their admission ticket. There were defense contractors—some of the very same lobbyists who had opposed them that day. They rarely agreed with Smithson, but they did too much business in his state to risk staying away. There were “five-thousand-dollars-a-month men,” the harried small-town lobbyists who labored each year to secure modest earmarks for places like Eureka and Oceanside.
The Mandarin Club Page 13