Ballots and Blood Page 11

  THE PILOT AT THE CONTROLS of SpanAir flight 106 had just completed a slow climb to thirty-five thousand feet. The aircraft was sixty-four miles due east of Washington, DC, over the Atlantic Ocean, when air traffic control broke in with an emergency communication for the cockpit. The FAA was diverting the flight to JFK due to the fact that a suspicious individual with known terrorist ties was on board.

  Following standard operating procedure, the pilot got on the intercom and informed the passengers that the plane had a mechanical issue involving the navigation system that required them to go to JFK Airport, where a needed part was available. He apologized for the inconvenience and promised to provide more updates as they became available. Then he signed off, turning to his copilot and raising his eyebrows.

  In the coach section of the aircraft, an armed FAA air marshal wearing an army fatigue jacket, jeans, and a scruffy beard noticed a young man wearing a baseball cap called the stewardess over, engaging her in an animated conversation. He appeared to be highly agitated by the pilot’s announcement. The marshal wondered if he was the guy, or just another overly excited tourist. He decided to keep a close eye on him in case he tried to do something stupid.

  AT THE FBO AT REAGAN National Airport, Patrick Mahoney and two other agents screamed up in government sedans, blue smoke rising from the tires, the smell of burning oil thick, and pulled in front of one of the FBI’s G-4 private jets, its engines warming on the tarmac. They scrambled up the stairs.

  As he boarded, Mahoney stuck his head in the cockpit. “Let’s get out of here as quickly as we can, gentlemen. We need to get to JFK within the hour if we can.”

  One of the pilots flashed a thumbs-up. “We know. We got the word.”

  “Good,” said Mahoney. He walked to the back of the cabin and sat in one of the captain’s chairs, buckling his seat belt, shifting about in his seat like a ten-year-old boy who had to use the restroom. “Let’s get this bird in the air,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Why didn’t you stay at DOJ for the news conference?” inquired one of the agents on board. “It would have been good publicity for the Bureau.”

  “PR is for wimps,” sniffed Mahoney, lips twisted with contempt. “I’m not gonna stand behind Keith Golden like a mannequin.” He tore open a foil bag of peanuts, throwing a handful in his mouth and chewing. “The terrorists never sleep, pal. Neither do I.”

  The agent nodded and smiled. “Let’s hope he talks.”

  “He’ll talk,” said Mahoney mysteriously as he glanced out the window at the Jefferson Memorial, White House, and Washington Monument against the orange-red haze of dusk. “This isn’t about who murdered Perry Miller. This is about finding Zafarshan.”

  The G-4 taxied down the runway slowly at first, then with a burst of speed barreled down the runway, its nose rising until the wheels lifted and they were airborne.

  THE SPANAIR BOEING 747 SLOWED to a stop in front of a jetway at JFK Airport in New York at a little after 8:30 p.m. An FBI agent accompanied by two detectives from the counterterrorism unit of the New York Police Department and an airline maintenance employee stood at the edge of the jetway.

  “Open the door,” one of the detectives said to the airline employee. The employee banged on the door three times with the palm of his hand.

  The door swung open and the FBI agent and the detectives walked down the near aisle in a single file, stopping at Row 29. They paused before a male passenger wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Other passengers turned around and craned their necks to see what was happening.

  The agent flashed his badge. “Hassan Qatani? I’m with the FBI. These two men are with the New York City Police Department. Come with us.”

  The man looked up, cracking a half smile. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

  11

  Attorney General Keith Golden’s Town Car barreled across the Fourteenth Street bridge at a high rate of speed, accompanied by a chaser car carrying a personal aide and two machine-gun-toting FBI agents, and two Metropolitan police squad cars, blue lights blazing, their sirens silent. Golden was pumped with adrenalin like a juiced-up body builder, his knees bouncing, strumming his fingers with his thumbs nervously. When the news reached him of Hassan Qatani’s arrest, he excused himself from the dinner table with his family, retired to the bedroom, and practiced his lines in front of the mirror. “We got him!” he said, shoulders thrown back, chin raised. Then: “Tonight’s arrest is a big leap in the investigation of the murder of Senator Perry Miller and a major stride forward in the ongoing war on terror.” It would lead every newscast in the country, of that Golden was confident.

  The secure phone in the car rang. Golden answered it.

  “General, how are you? Truman here,” came the voice of Truman Greenglass.

  Golden wondered why Greenglass was calling him at this late hour. He hoped the White House wasn’t planning on stealing his glory by having the announcement of Qatani’s arrest made from there. This was an FBI and DOJ operation from start to finish, and they deserved the credit.

  “I’m good . . . very good. I assume you heard the news?” asked Golden.

  “You mean about the suspect in the Miller’s murder? Yes.”

  “We’ve got FBI agents with a strong background in counter-terrorism landing in New York as we speak,” said Golden proudly. “He’ll be detained as an enemy combatant. He’s not a U.S. citizen, so there’s no issue of Miranda rights. We’ll start interrogating him immediately.”

  Greenglass grunted, seemingly unimpressed. “What’s this I hear about a news conference?”

  The question landed with a thud. Golden hoped Greenglass wasn’t trying to rain on his parade. “It’s more of a press briefing,” he said, backpedaling. “We’re announcing Qatani’s apprehension.”

  Greenglass was silent for what seemed like an eternity. “The president doesn’t think that’s a good idea,” he said at last.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “The president’s not a fan of grandstanding, Keith,” replied Greenglass. “It’s not his style. More to the point, this is an ongoing investigation. The CIA feels we should not let our enemies know we have Qatani in custody.”

  “Look, Truman, I’m a team player,” said Golden, feeling as though someone punched him the stomach. “But the terrorists know he boarded the flight to Madrid because they planned to pick him up. When he’s not on the plane when it lands—and especially when it’s delayed four hours—they’re going to know.”

  “Keith, this press briefing is a bad idea and not just for the Miller investigation. It’s bad for you. Do you want me to draw you a picture?”

  “No,” said Golden, his voice drained of energy. “But the press is not going to like the fact we cancel it.”

  “Forget the press,” said Greenglass. The line went dead.

  Golden put down the receiver, anger boiling up inside him. The car pulled into the motor entrance of DOJ headquarters. He decided to go directly to the Secure Information Center and show the flag. But the truth was, no matter how much of a brave front he put up, he was persona non grata at the White House. It was no longer a question of if he would go, only whether he jumped or was pushed.

  THE SUN BROKE THROUGH THE windows of the presidential suite of the Gaylord Hotel in Orlando, not far from Disney World, where Andy Stanton preached at Sonshine Church, one of the largest megachurches in the nation. Normally, he would have jumped on his plane and flown straight home, but he still had some important business.

  A brunch spread fit for a king sat on the dining room table: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, cheese blintzes covered with strawberry sauce, fresh fruit, grits, eggs Benedict, and salmon lox. Several knocks came on the door. Andy’s security aide, a squat man with a thick torso, legs like tree trunks, and a .38 police revolver on his belt, opened the door. It was Ross Lombardy accompanied by the man of the hour, Congressman Don Jefferson.

  “Senator!” bellowed Andy.

  �
�Not yet, not yet,” said Jefferson as he loped toward Andy with a crooked grin. He practically oozed servile devotion, silver helmet hair sprayed to the rough texture of white granite, his face slightly puffy and pink, his lanky body wrapped in a nondescript gray suit with a blue-and-red striped tie.

  Andy stepped forward and enveloped Jefferson in a bear hug. Jefferson’s nostrils filled with the musky scent of his cologne and Andy’s beard stubble rubbed against his cheek like sandpaper. “Come on over here and get something to eat,” he said.

  Jefferson gazed at the buffet spread, his eyes like saucers. “I don’t know if I want to be a senator,” he joked. “I think I want to be you, Andy. How do I get your life?”

  Andy cackled, placing his hand on Jefferson’s shoulder. “I’m afraid the creature comforts of a televangelist do beat those of the garden variety member of Congress!” He roared with laughter. “Of course, it’s not all sweetness and light. Did you see that vicious editorial the New York Times wrote about me last week? They hate me.”

  “No, I didn’t see that one. What was it about?” asked Jefferson as he ladled scrambled eggs on his plate.

  “They got upset because I spoke to a Jewish synagogue in New York and called on Israel to strike Iran. Called me a warmonger,” replied Andy, wearing a scowl.

  “They hate it when Andy makes inroads into the Jewish community,” said Ross. “Drives them nuts.”

  “It’s not you they hate, Andy,” said Jefferson, his plate piled high with food, a piece of bacon hanging off. “It’s politically active Christians. Your crime is organizing them.”

  Andy settled into a chair at the head of the dining room table, motioning Jefferson to take a seat to his right. Ross pulled up the chair to Andy’s left. “Speaking of which, what’s your current thinking on the U.S. Senate seat?” asked Andy as he took a swig of orange juice.

  Jefferson leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, assuming a reflective repose. “I ran for Congress so I could be well positioned for a statewide run if the opportunity came. I’m on good committees from a fund-raising standpoint. I have a financial and geographical base.” Andy nodded approvingly. “It’s happening a little quicker than I would have liked because of Miller’s death. And whereas any time I ran there would have been a crowded field, now I’d be running against Birch’s handpicked candidate. So we’re not just talking about running for the Senate; we’re talking about running against the governor.” He flashed a smile. “Not that I’m afraid of Birch. I’m not. It’s still not clear to me he can take a punch. My hunch is he’s got a glass jaw. The guy’s never really had a serious challenge from within his own party.” He paused, leaning in closer. “But I have to raise enough money to be competitive.”

  “Money’s the mother’s milk of politics, no question about it,” said Andy. “That’s what my father always told me. He used to say, ‘Son, show me a politician who can’t raise money, and I’ll show you a politician who’s a loser.’” Andy’s father served in Congress for fourteen years before losing a bitter U.S. Senate primary.

  “How much do you need?” asked Ross.

  Jefferson turned down his mouth. “I’d like to have ten million for the primary, but six million is the floor. For the general, another thirty million.”

  “Forty million dollars for a Senate seat?” shrieked Andy.

  “Oh, it’s more than that, Andy,” replied Ross.

  Andy looked horrified.

  “That’s just Don’s campaign,” said Ross. “Lightfoot will raise $20 million. The Democrat will have $30 to $40 million. Then you’ve got the state parties, the outside groups like us and the trial lawyers, and the national party committees. You add all that in, it’s probably closer to $125 million.”

  Andy let out a long whistle.

  “Florida’s an expensive state. You’ve got six media markets, including two big ones: Orlando and Miami,” said Jefferson. “One week of statewide TV is a million dollars.”

  “Don, how much do you have in your congressional account?” asked Ross.

  “I have $1.3 million,” replied Jefferson. “We think we can probably push that up near $2 million.”

  “Good. Flip that into a Senate account and get all those donors to max again.”

  “That’s legal?” asked Andy, surprised.

  “It’s not just legal; it’s practically encouraged,” said Jefferson with a smile. Andy laughed in a little-boy giggle.

  “So that’s between three and $3.5 million out of the chute,” said Ross, pushing his plate aside. He pulled out a legal pad and began to make a series of calculations.

  “Then the question is, how aggressively will Birch twist arms of the lobbyists and corporate types to give to Lightfoot?” asked Jefferson.

  “He’ll twist them so hard you’ll hear bones breaking,” said Andy.

  “I’m not sure,” said Jefferson. “Don’t get me wrong, Birch can’t stand the thought of me beating his fair-haired boy. But he also knows Lightfoot’s got no base, and his financial support is entirely derivative. So Birch has to be careful how he plays, if he plays at all.”

  Ross and Andy exchanged disbelieving glances.

  “So what’s the bottom line, Don?” asked Andy, pushing himself away from the table and crossing his massive legs. “What do you need from us?”

  Jefferson wore the expressionless mask of a high-stakes poker player. “Three things,” he said, raising three fingers. “One, I’d like your PAC to endorse me, max out, and bundle contributions from your members.”

  “That’s three things right there,” joked Ross.

  “No, that’s just one,” laughed Jefferson. “Second, I’d like you to have me on the radio and the television show whenever you can.”

  “I can do that,” said Andy. “The IRS is all over me, so we’ll have to do as much of it as we can before you formally announce. Afterward, we can book you as a member of Congress talking about a legislative issue.”

  “You can have him on to talk about the campaign as long as it’s legitimate news,” said Ross.

  “I know . . . we just have to be careful,” said Andy. “I’ve got to get this cotton-picking IRS audit behind me. It’s a bear.” He turned to Jefferson. “Alright, what’s the third thing?”

  “I’d like Faith and Family Federation to play in the primary, with voter guides, phone banks, door knockers, the whole nine yards.”

  Andy turned to Ross. “Can we do that?”

  “We can,” said Ross. “But I don’t recommend we talk about it with Don. Legally we can’t coordinate. There has to be strict separation of church and state.”

  Andy’s face fell, but Jefferson nodded knowingly. “Once we get up and running, we’ll post all the facts on Lightfoot’s record on a Web site so it can be publicly accessed by any third party group who wants to play,” said Jefferson. “That’s perfectly legal.”

  “Beautiful,” said Ross.

  “Lightfoot’s a RINO,” sneered Andy. “I want him in the primary. Do whatever you have to do. The thought of that guy in the Senate makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Jefferson reached for the pot of coffee and poured, freshening his cup. He took a swig, letting the dead air hang. “So what do you say, Andy? Can I count on you?”

  “Brother, you can do more than count on me,” said Andy with a smile. “Trust me, the cavalry’s coming.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said Jefferson. He looked across the table at Ross. “Talk to you soon . . . or maybe not.”

  “Don’t worry, we don’t need to talk. We know what to do. This ain’t our first rodeo.” Ross glanced at his watch in a prearranged cue. “Andy, you have a plane to catch.”

  Andy rose from the table. Jefferson stood as well, extending his hand. Andy clasped it and pulled him close. “You’re gonna make a great senator.”

  “Thank you, friend,” said Jefferson, his eyes sparkling.

  Andy and Ross walked Jefferson to the door, exchanging small talk. Then he opened the door and depa
rted.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Andy, eyes dancing, hands clasped behind his back.

  “I think we have ourselves a U.S. Senate candidate.”

  Andy rocked on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

  IN A CAVE ALONG THE Pakistan-China border that served as temporary headquarters for Rassem el Zafarshan and his top lieutenants, a man in his late twenties extended his arms and spread his legs as a member of Zafarshan’s personal security detail searched him for weapons. After a thorough strip search, the guard nodded.

  “He’s clean,” he said.

  The other guard escorted the young man down a tunnel with a torch, stooping to avoid stalactites and protruding rock formations. They rounded a corner, and he turned to the right into a cool chamber illuminated by lamps and candles. In the semidarkness sat Zafarshan cross-legged on a Persian rug, wearing a turban and a dark beard, his olive-colored skin shining in the flickering light.

  “God is great,” said the young man. “It is a great honor to be in your presence, great leader.”

  “Sit down,” said Zafarshan. The man complied, sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor. The guard remained standing, his finger on the trigger of a Russian-made Kalashnikov machine gun. “Who are you?”

  “I am Afzaal Hakim. I am foot soldier in Pakistani Taliban.”

  Zafarshan nodded. “What do you have for me, son?”

  “I was sent to tell you that Hassan Qatani has been arrested. The FBI has him in custody. He was detained after boarding a flight from Washington to Madrid.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “My cousin was to meet him in Madrid and help him get to Islamabad. From there we hoped to transport him to one of our safe villages in Waziristan.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Four days ago.”

  Zafarshan’s black eyes flashed with concern. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “God is great.”

  The young man rose. “God is great.” The guard escorted him out.

  Zafarshan’s aide emerged from the shadows. “If they have him, they have not announced it. That is a not a good sign.”