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  “Very bad,” said Zafarshan. “He will be tortured. He will talk.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We move ahead with our plans. Nothing changes except the urgency with which we must carry out our mission. America, the Great Satan, will pay. This time the price will be far higher than before.”

  “May Allah be glorified,” said the aide.

  Zafarshan pulled on his beard, which he often did when anxious. He hoped the mullahs in Iran did not blink in the face of what was coming. For his part he intended to strike a blow so great America would wish for what happened to Harrison Flaherty and Perry Miller.

  12

  Hassan Qatani sat strapped in a metal chair in front of a table in the bowels of the Federal Detention Center in midtown Manhattan, leather bindings buckling his ankles and wrists to the chair. He stared straight ahead at his CIA interrogator, eyes shooting darts, beads of sweat on his upper lip. A series of photographs was spread out on the table. A two-way mirror on the wall allowed assembled CIA and FBI personnel to view the interrogation. A video camera mounted in the upper right-hand corner of the ceiling recorded the proceedings.

  “Hassan, you can make this as hard on yourself as you want,” said the interrogator. “We know you murdered Senator Perry Miller. We intercepted the cell phone calls between you and your handler in Madrid.” It was a lie, told convincingly.

  Hassan’s eyes widened with recognition.

  The CIA agent pointed to one of the photographs. It was a shot of a senior member of Zafarshan’s terror network captured on a security camera at a hotel in Dubai. “Who is this man? Do you know him?”

  “Hell will freeze over before I give up my brothers.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the interrogator. “But your comrades don’t seem to share your same devotion to the struggle. In fact, you’re the fall guy.” He moved forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the table. “We have your Madrid handler in custody, and he’s singing like a canary,” he lied. “He’s not been nearly as reticent as you in telling us what he knows. In fact, he gave you up in about ten minutes. Fingered you so fast your head would spin. And that’s not all. He’s told us a great deal about Zafarshan’s network.”

  Hassan stared back, unblinking. “I will not betray my brothers, you infidel.”

  The CIA interrogator’s face hardened. “Have it your way.” He got up and walked to the door, exiting the room, and closing it behind him.

  In the tight quarters of the viewing room sat two of the interrogator’s CIA superiors, Patrick Mahoney, an FBI attorney, and a stenographer. The CIA agents sat slumped in chairs, watching impassively. Mahoney leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, wearing a scowl.

  “He’s not talking,” said the interrogator.

  “So we gather,” said one of his superiors. He glanced around at the others. “I wonder how valuable he really is. He’s the trigger man, to be sure. But you don’t assign that job to someone indispensable.”

  “He’s a chump,” said Mahoney, stepping away from the wall. “An extremely valuable chump. He can lead us to others, both here in the U.S. and abroad. We need to get whatever information he has out of him by whatever means necessary.”

  “Meaning?” asked the interrogator.

  “Exactly that,” replied Mahoney. “Enhanced interrogation techniques. Sleep deprivation. If necessary, we waterboard him.”

  The interrogator looked queasy. “That’s going to require approval of the director.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll be approved for a suspect this low on the org chart of Zafarshan’s network,” said the interrogator’s superior. “Khalid Sheikh Mohammed he is not.”

  “You’ll get the approval, or I’ll get it for you,” snapped Mahoney. “This is an FBI case involving the murder of a U.S. senator that leads directly back to Zafarshan, who assassinated a U.S. vice president and currently possesses enough enriched uranium to detonate a dirty bomb in every major city in the country.” The veins in his neck bulged with anger. “If you don’t waterboard him, I will.”

  The interrogator looked at his CIA superior. The superior nodded. “I’ll call Langley,” he said. “This will require a decision at the director level.” Exhaling loudly, he got up and left the room. Mahoney walked to the door of the interrogation room and put his hand on the doorknob.

  “What are you doing?” asked the interrogator.

  “I’m going to talk to Qatani.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me,” said Mahoney.

  “You walk in there, and I’ll file a formal complaint with the DNI,” said the interrogator, referring to the director of National Intelligence, the senior official in the intelligence community, who supervised the Counter-Terrorism Center. “You’ll never work a covert investigation again.”

  “You do that,” said Mahoney through clenched teeth. “Golden and Whitehead have both been briefed on this investigation, and they’ll back me 100 percent.” He turned the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped into the interrogation room. Qatani looked up, his eyes flashing with anxiety.

  “Hassan, I’m Pat Mahoney with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions. I should warn you I’m not as patient as the CIA when it comes to getting answers. Do we understand each other?”

  Qatani stared back, his black eyes unmoving.

  “I want to know who ordered the murder of Senator Miller.”

  Qatani pressed his lips together and pulled at the straps around his wrists.

  “I’m only going to ask one more time: who ordered the murder of Senator Miller?” He reached across the table and grabbed Qatani by the back of the head, pulling on his hair and yanking his skull forward until it was inches away. “Answer me!” Silence. Mahoney leaned over and whispered in Hassan’s ear. “You will either tell me who ordered Miller’s killing, or I swear I will make you wish you never heard his name.” Letting go of his hair, he grabbed him around his neck with his hand in a modified chokehold. “Tell me now!”

  BEHIND THE TWO-WAY MIRROR, ONE of the CIA interrogators became agitated. “Get Mahoney out of there,” he said. “He’s losing it.”

  “No he’s not,” said one of his colleagues. “He’s making Qatani think he’ll do anything to get the information from him.”

  “And if Qatani gets a lawyer and claims he was tortured, this whole interrogation is going to be subjected to congressional inquiry. Someone’s going to get blamed.”

  “Better Mahoney than us.”

  QATANI’S EYES BULGED AND HIS face turned red from the pressure Mahoney exerted on his throat, but he still said nothing. Mahoney let go of his neck. Qatani gasped for air, his breathing labored. Mahoney walked over to the door and knocked twice. The door opened and a detention facility guard appeared.

  “Take him to EIC,” said Mahoney, referring to the Enhanced Interrogation Center. “Put him on the waterboard.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the guard. “But I’ll need authorization before proceeding.”

  “You’ll have authorization.”

  A second guard entered the room, and they began slowly to unstrap Qatani from the chair, then had him stand up, handcuffing his hands behind him. A third guard stood to the side, his sidearm holster unsnapped, index finger on the gun handle. The guards pulled out shackles and attached them to Qatani’s ankles. They led him away, his ankle shackles clanking on the concrete floor as they departed.

  IT WAS 8:10 A.M. AND the senior staff meeting was wrapping up in a conference room off the West Wing lobby. Charlie Hector kept his watch propped up in front of him as he ticked through the agenda like a NASA astronaut doing his final checklist before launch.

  “Okay, go to the order,” said Hector, the bags under his eyes dark against his brown skin, nearly matching his shock of black hair. “Anybody got anything?”

  “I’ve gotten a few questions about a terrorist detainee named Hassan Qatani,” said Lisa, her blue eyes intense. “Is he being interro
gated? Does he have counsel? Those kinds of things. What should I say?”

  A look of concern crossed Hector’s face as if to say, “No one is supposed to know about this.” He turned to Truman Greenglass. “Can you get Lisa some guidance?”

  “Not much,” said Greenglass with a sigh. “We’re not yet publicly acknowledging he’s in custody, though we will at some point. Legally, he’s an enemy combatant, and he’s being questioned about his involvement in the murder of Perry Miller as well as his connections to Rassem el Zafarshan.”

  “Can I say the interrogation procedures utilized by the FBI have been reviewed and signed off on by DOJ?” asked Lisa hopefully.

  “If it makes you feel better, sure,” joked Greenglass. Chuckles rumbled up and down the table.

  “Guys, come on,” said Lisa, throwing up her hands in frustration. “I’ve got Amnesty International all over me and State like a banshee in heat. They’ve got the New York Times eating out of their hands. Give me something—anything.”

  “Alright,” replied Greenglass. “Without acknowledging Qatani is in custody, say our agents act consistent with established protocols governing the interrogation of enemy combatants and abide by all relevant statutes. Anything beyond that, refer them to DOJ.”

  Lisa nodded, not entirely convinced, jotting notes on her pad.

  “What else?” asked Hector, picking up his Rolex and putting it back on his wrist.

  “There’s a story in the New York Post claiming POTUS met with Kerry Cartwright to recruit him to run against Sal Stanley,” said Jay in a flat montone.

  “I believe the headline is, ‘Grudge Match,’” said Lisa, her lip curling in a sardonic grin.

  “Something like that. Anyway, if anyone gets asked about it, the ticktock is Cartwright came by to meet with the intergovernmental affairs folks about law-enforcement grants, the usual drill,” said Jay. “David and I met with him. He briefly met with the president in the Oval Office. No agenda. It was a courtesy call.”

  “There are a lot of courtesy calls with potential U.S. Senate candidates these days,” joked Hector.

  “Purely coincidental,” said David Thomas.

  Jay’s eyes twinkled. “David is the Sergeant Schultz of the West Wing. He sees nothing . . . nothing.”

  “How did the Post find out about it?” asked Lisa.

  Thomas shrugged. “People talk.”

  “Anyway,” Jay continued. “Cartwright is coasting to reelection, which is in two weeks. We suspect Stanley’s people leaked this to ding him. We need to deny we tried to recruit him—which we did not—while leaving him running room if he does decide to go.”

  Hector lowered his chin, staring down the table with mock disapproval. “Jaaaay,” he said. “Are you causing problems again?”

  “Just doin’ my job, Charlie.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Hector rose from his chair. “Alright, meeting adjourned.”

  Everyone gathered up their pads and memos and headed for the door. When Jay reached the threshold, the president’s assistant was waiting.

  “Jay, the president wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” She also corralled Phil Battaglia and the two headed down the hall, shoulders brushing against each other, toward the Oval Office. Jay wondered: POTUS wants to see me and his counsel . . . together? Something must be up. Battaglia opened the peephole to make sure the president was alone, rapped on the door twice, and walked in, Jay trailing behind.

  Long sat at the HMS Resolute desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, eyes scanning some papers. When he saw them, he turned his head and snapped off his glasses. “Hey, guys. I needed to see my legal eagle and my one-man brain trust.” He motioned for them to sit down in the chairs on either side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  They both obliged, bathing in the warm glow of presidential attention but also questioning the import and purpose of the impromptu meeting.

  The president’s face turned serious. Jay noticed his face seemed grayer, the lines in his forehead deeper, his eyes tired. “I need to tell you both about something that cannot leave this room under any circumstances. Those are the ground rules.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” said Phil.

  “You know that dominatrix service Perry Miller patronized?” asked Long.

  “Sure,” said Jay, startled by the question.

  “Well, brace yourselves,” said Long, leaning forward across the desk. “Our own Johnny Whitehead was a client, too.”

  Battaglia went white. Jay felt he had been hit in the chest by a cannonball. It took a moment before he could breathe. Long read their shocked facial expressions.

  “I know,” he said, shaking his head. “Johnny’s the last guy on earth I would have guessed was involved in something like this. I mean, the guy’s a Boy Scout.”

  Battaglia recovered sufficiently to get his brain and mouth working. “We’ve got two tracks to deal with here,” he said, synapses firing. “The first is the criminal track. The woman who operated the dominatrix service is going to be charged—no way around it, not with a dead U.S. senator in her basement. She either cops a plea and gives up her clients or keeps her mouth shut. My guess is the former. Hopefully the statute of limitations has passed and the vice president isn’t charged. The second track—”

  “Let me stop you there,” interrupted Long. “Any chance Johnny’s name doesn’t come out? It was five years ago. Maybe they didn’t keep records that long.”

  “Mr. President, this is the FBI we’re talking about,” said Phil. “It’s going to come out.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “The second track is political. Can he survive? This isn’t going to be a one- or two-day story. It’s a mushroom cloud.”

  The president turned to Jay. “What do you think, Jay?” Long asked. “Can Johnny survive it?”

  “Depends,” said Jay. “If it’s an isolated incident, perhaps. If this Amber Abica chick turns up on 60 Minutes describing Johnny’s leather fetish, he’s done. We just can’t have that. He’d probably have to announce he wasn’t running again. If it gets bad enough, he might have to resign.”

  The president flinched. He was visibly uncomfortable at the suggestion he might have to throw Whitehead under the bus.

  “Johnny’s a valued member of my team,” Long said firmly, eyes narrowing, jutting out his jaw. “I know they say if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog. But he’s my friend and colleague. Besides, I’m a Christian, and I think if someone has repented and been forgiven by the good Lord, who am I to judge? Mercy begets mercy.”

  Jay was intrigued by Long’s response, even moved. He wished he had whatever faith led Long to be so forgiving. But as far as he was concerned, Long could not make a decision based on Christian compassion when the situation called for cold-eyed politics.

  “Sir, you’re not Johnny’s pastor; you’re the president,” said Jay. “There’s a difference between being forgiven and being effective. This is going to be extremely damaging, and especially given your profile with the faith community, we have to preserve your brand.” He gestured with his hands for emphasis. “Look, we’re going to have a tough reelect. The Republicans are not gonna choose a pro-choice nominee again. They saw how that turned out, and they’ve learned their lesson. The Democrats won’t be hobbled by a scandal. We’ve got no margin for error.” He paused. “Something like this is more than the system can bear.”

  Long looked sad. “I hear you. But I don’t want to tell Johnny to fall on his sword.” He looked plaintively at Battaglia, eyes searching. “Phil, can you talk to him?”

  Battaglia recoiled. “Mr. President, I think that should be Charlie or Jay. I’m conflicted here because I’m interfacing with the FBI and DOJ on the Miller investigation.”

  Long nodded. “I don’t think Jay should do it. Bad optics.”

  “Charlie’s better,” said Jay. “But I’ll do it if you need me to.”

  Long shook his head in sa
dness. “This is just brutal, isn’t it?”

  “Unbelievable,” said Jay. “But it is what it is. Mr. President, if we don’t get in front of this story and take control of it, it will spin out of control.”

  “Alright,” said Long, sighing. “I’ll ask Charlie to talk to Johnny. Maybe he’ll decide to announce he’s not planning on running again. He’s getting up there. He can blame his health and age. Then, if and when this hits, it’s anticlimactic.”

  “That’s the best outcome for everyone, Johnny included,” said Jay.

  “Charlie should have come to the meeting. Then he wouldn’t have drawn the short straw,” joked Long.

  “That’s why I never miss a meeting,” volleyed Battaglia.

  Long chuckled morbidly, standing up. “I ought to make you do it, Jay. You’re the one who recommended him in the first place.”

  “It helped get you elected, sir. Johnny helped us carry Kentucky and West Virginia, just like I predicted.”

  “Yeah, it worked for a while, didn’t it?” Long turned to Battaglia. “Phil, why didn’t we turn this up in the vetting process?” It was a veiled shot; as the campaign’s chief counsel, Battaglia handled the vetting of vice-presidential candidates.

  Battaglia’s face flushed. “I don’t know. I’d have to go back and look at it. I know he was asked if he had any girlfriends or had an affair.”

  “Well, I guess he didn’t consider a dominatrix to be a girlfriend,” said Long. The president stood up, heading toward the door and the living quarters. “I think we’ve got a plan. Let’s hope it doesn’t break before we get our ducks in a row. You guys get on it.”

  Jay and Phil turned to leave. Jay acknowledged the president’s assistant with a wink and a wave as he departed. But outward signs of ease disguised an inner turmoil. He felt physically ill. He could not believe they were going to have to shoot Johnny Whitehead in the back of the head. His mind raced with another question: who could they find on short notice to take his place as veep?