Ballots and Blood Read online

“Like the Times Square bomber, only competent,” offered Hector.

  “Exactly,” said Jacobs.

  “Well, the United States cannot be blackmailed by some rogue terrorist into not taking military action against Iran,” said Long, his facial features hardened. “We’re going to have to do whatever is necessary to cripple Iran’s offensive nuclear capability. We need to harden all targets and protect the homeland. Because assuming Qatani’s not lying, that’s when Zafarshan will hit us.”

  “We do have some good news on the Iran front, sir,” said Jacobs.

  “What’s that?” asked Long.

  “Two nights ago in Damascus, we took out Nasrin Bahmani, the number-two engineer on the Iran nuclear program. He was a major player in Iran. They will feel his loss sorely.”

  The corner of Golden’s mouth turned up. “Any truth to the rumor he was lured into a trap by two prostitutes working for the Agency?”

  “Oldest trick in the book,” replied Jacobs with a smile. “It works every time.”

  “Good job, Bill,” replied Long. “Keep it up. If we’re lucky, maybe we can slow down or cripple the program enough so sanctions can work. Otherwise, it’s us or the Israelis taking them out by force.”

  Greenglass glanced at the pensive expressions on every face. It struck him that what started as the death of a senator in a Georgetown dungeon had turned into a lot more than anyone bargained for . . . and might yet lead to World War III.

  17

  At a mansion in the Pelican Beach neighborhood of Newport Beach jutting out from a cliff and offering spectacular views of Newport Bay and the Pacific, the Orange County monied set lavished love and cash on the new “It” girl of California politics. Heidi Hughes was the former minority leader in the California Assembly who was now a state senator and was challenging the most despised Democrat in the Golden State, Senator Kate Covitz. An antitax, Tea Party, bomb thrower who counted Ronald Reagan and Sarah Palin among her heroes, Hughes was locked in a bitter primary with two nondescript white guys in suits. She was the hottest political commodity in the country among conservatives, as hot as the sun that hung in the late-afternoon sky, its rays burning through the mist blowing in off the Pacific.

  The back deck and pool area were filled with tanned men in blue suits and polo shirts, accompanied by bejeweled, botoxed women in low-cut, sleeveless cocktail dresses, showing off their ripped biceps and calves chiseled by a daily regimen of yoga and Pilates. They towered in their designer heels, flashing jewelry and implants, some hiding recent eye jobs behind Prada or Chanel sunglasses. Everyone paid $2,000 a couple for the right to attend the reception and valet park their Mercedes, Range Rovers, and an occasional Lamborghini. The host committee raised or gave $10,000.

  Hughes worked the room like a seasoned pro, standing by the pool in a striking off-shoulder yellow Bottega dress with black trim and open-toed black heels, hemline properly just above the knee, chatting up the donors and posing for photographs. Two decorative Styrofoam floats filled with orchids and lilies skimmed across the surface of the pool, blown about by a steady ocean breeze. A makeshift click line snaked across the patio and into the house. Inside, wide-eyed revelers roamed through the twenty-six-thousand-square-foot house, gazing at the expensive art on the walls and admiring the state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen and the breakfast nook overlooking the ocean.

  Out on the terrace, female bartenders with movie-star looks, blinding white teeth, and dark tans pushed mango mojitos and basil martinis, lubricating the already joyful crowd with the booze. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays filled with appetizers of tuna tartar, pineapple-glazed salmon, Kobe beef kabobs, miniature red velvet cupcakes, and chocolate-espresso lollipops.

  In the click line, a former Democratic House speaker who served with Hughes and now lobbied in LA and Sacramento approached. A large, fare-thee-well fellow with a large mop of brown hair, beady eyes, swarthy skin, and insufferable grin extended his arms, balancing a glass of chardonnay. “Heidi!” he fairly shouted. “How are you, darling!” He wrapped her in a bear hug, his sweaty cheek and shoulder rubbing against her face, leaving a smear of base-makeup on his suit coat.

  “Bob, what are you doing here?” asked Hughes in mock surprise. “You’re a Democrat.”

  “I know that,” he replied, his face stretched like putty. “Listen, we always got along when you were minority leader and I was Speaker. Remember how mad my caucus was when I gave you a larger office and let you hire additional staff? I told them to stuff it!” The crowd stood around eavesdropping, enjoying the story. “Most of the time, you and I sat down and cut the deal and got things done. There was never a budget stalemate when you and I did business!”

  “Yeah, until you rammed through an income tax hike,” dead-panned Hughes, flashing her teeth in a wicked smile.

  “It wasn’t a general tax increase, Heidi,” bellowed the lobbyist. “It was a temporary millionaire surcharge.”

  The crowd roared with laughter. Hughes turned to them, playing to the crowd. “That’s Democrat-speak for, ‘Hold on to your wallet’!”

  “That’s right, Heidi! You tell him,” said a local real-estate developer, egging her on.

  “So did you bring a check, Bob, or are your freeloading?” asked Heidi. “If you turn up on my report, Kate’s head will explode.” More laughter.

  “I didn’t bring a check, but I brought a lot of PAC checks from clients,” said the lobbyist.

  “Of course you did,” volleyed back Hughes. The photographer hovered, shooting a series of rapid-fire shots, her strobe light flashing. “Make sure to get one of these photographs over to the Orange County Register. I can’t wait to see Bob explain this.”

  “No problem,” said the lobbyist. “My clients are pulling for you, and I’m telling them to max out now. And I tell my Democrat friends you were the best minority leader ever.”

  “That’s just because you got to run the show,” joked Hughes.

  The long-serving chairman of the Orange County Republican Party approached. “Heidi, it’s almost time to head over to the gala dinner,” he said. “Are you ready to speak?”

  “Sure,” said Hughes, brightening. “Where do you want me to stand?”

  “By the gazebo.”

  They walked together with her husband, a former San Diego Charger backup quarterback, broad shouldered with thick arms and tree-trunk legs, tall and handsome, clad in tan slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer with a dress shirt and silk tie, walking with a slight gait.

  “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” said the GOP chairman in a loud voice, pulling off his sunglasses. He and Hughes stood under the gazebo, the deep blue of the Pacific behind them, the sun slowly descending into the ocean mist as the hour approached sunset. “I want to thank all of you for coming. This has been a great event. I’m pleased to report that we have raised over $100,000 for Heidi tonight, doubling our goal.”

  The crowd applauded lustily. Hughes extended her hands outward in an appreciative clap directed at the donors.

  “Heidi doesn’t really need an introduction,” he continued. “She’s been a stalwart friend of the taxpayer, a principled conservative who stood firm for creating a more business-friendly climate in the state and reforming our broken public pension system. I’m happy to report she has never voted for a tax increase in twelve years in Sacramento.” (Loud applause.) “She’s going to beat Kate Covitz like a drum in November. Please give a warm Orange County welcome to our next United States Senator, Heidi Hughes.”

  Hughes stepped forward to loud cheers, whistles, and applause. Her beauty was deceptively striking. Her white porcelain skin, wave of brown hair, espresso eyes, and bright smile made her appear fifteen years younger than her fifty years. She projected feminine toughness and bubbled with an effervescent enthusiasm.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said, bowing from the waist. “They say Orange County is God’s country, and I can certainly see why.” She extended her arm in a sweeping motion, poi
nting to the view of the ocean. “Of course, it’s not so bad in San Diego either,” she said mischievously to appreciative laughter.

  “When I got in this race, no one thought I could win outside of my own household, and four of them weren’t yet old enough to vote,” she joked, referring to her children. “But I decided that I could not look my children in the eye someday and have to explain why at the tipping point when the United States fell from its status as the richest, most powerful, and most prosperous superpower the world has ever known to a third-rate power like Greece or Portugal, I did nothing.” The crowd fell silent, sensing the raw emotion in her voice. “My apologies to the Greeks and the Portugese in the audience.” (Laughter.) “How could I choose my own comfort over saving our country and redeeming its promise?” She paused, her dark eyes flashing. “There were plenty of people who wanted me to run for a lower office that would be easier to win, such as lieutenant governor or attorney general. And perhaps I would have won. But I decided the stakes were too high, and saving America from the failed policies in Washington was too important for me to play it safe. So I decided to run for the U.S. Senate, even though my chances did not look good, and Kate Covitz looked unbeatable.”

  “We’re glad you did!” someone shouted.

  “So am I,” said Hughes, not skipping a beat. “At the beginning I trailed in the polls by thirty points. And that was just among Republicans.” (More laughter.) “But as I’ve gotten around the state of California and gotten my message out, people have really responded. Today I’m leading the Republican Primary by twenty points and the latest Field Poll shows me virtually tied with Kate Covitz.” She pointed her finger in the air for emphasis, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “We’re going to defeat Kate and send her back to California once and for all. She may have to get a real job for the first time in thirty years.” (Loud applause.)

  The blue sky seemed to melt into the ocean behind her in a tableau of water, mist, fading sunlight, and white foam. Her intensity radiated. “Now I’ve been a conservative Republican since I was knee-high,” she said, holding her hand out to the approximate height of a child. “But this election is about more than simply trading a Democrat for a Republican, a liberal for a conservative, or one politician for another politician. For the first time in my life, what’s on the ballot is whether the American dream will continue or whether it will fade away and survive only in what Abraham Lincoln called the ‘mystic chords of memory.’” She paused, readying a roundabout punch. “Because in the end, this campaign isn’t about me. Tonight I am up here speaking to you, and you are out there listening. But in an earlier time, and in the future, it may be one of you up here, and I’ll be out there listening. Because this campaign is ultimately about what kind of America we leave for our children and grandchildren. I want to give them an America that is still proud, strong, and free, with a government limited and confined to specific, enumerated purposes, and a virtuous citizenry free to rise as high and as far as their talents can carry them.” She bobbed her head, signaling she was done. “Thank you and God bless you all.”

  The crowd applauded loudly and lustily, men reaching for their checkbooks and women opening their purses to give the maximum amount. Hughes inspired them.

  “Many of you already paid to come here tonight, and I appreciate it,” said the Orange County GOP chairman, his eyes misting. “I have to tell you what I heard here tonight gives me hope. I’ve gotten cynical at times, but I must tell you, I’m inspired.” (A smattering of applause.) He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m so inspired I just wrote the largest check I’ve ever written to a federal candidate.” He held the check aloft. “This check is for $9,600, the legal maximum for me and my wife for the primary and the general election.” A chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” mixed with clapping. He looked in the direction of his wife, a stage grin on his face. “Honey, can we afford this?”

  “Yes!” shouted his wife.

  “Alright, I now have official permission from my better half. So who wants to join me at the legal maximum?”

  Two hands went up.

  “Alright, I see two more right there.” He paused, surveying the crowd. “Anybody else? Okay, how about $5,000? Who can do $5?” Six more hands shot up. “Now we’re talking!”

  “Can you accept corporate contributions?” asked a disembodied voice in the back.

  “No, that is for party contributions, not federal candidates,” said the chairman, swatting away the question with a wave of his hand. “How about $2,000?” Two dozen hands shot up. Aides to Hughes hustled through the crowd passing out preprinted contribution envelopes. “That’s good! Now how about $1,000.” More hands. He pointed with his fingers, adding up the figure in his head. “That’s another $124,000 from this crowd above and beyond the one hundred we raised coming into the reception! Give yourselves a big hand!”

  The crowd broke into loud cheering and applause. Hughes tentatively stepped forward, her facial muscles slightly twitching with emotion. She patted her chest with her hand, imitating a fluttering heart.

  “I am so touched by your generosity, I don’t know what to say,” she said, brown eyes open and inviting. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. When I go to the Senate, I will not forget who sent me there, and I will never turn my back on you or our values.”

  Applause followed her as she stepped down from the gazebo, walking through the crowd, shaking hands and air-kissing, camera flashes accompanying her every move.

  “Heidi! Heidi! Heidi!” they changed as she walked into the house.

  ONCE INSIDE, HUGHES MOVED SWIFTLY up the stairs to the second floor. She opened a door to an upstairs study for a prearranged, off-the-record meeting. Sitting in a leather chair behind the mahogany desk, his fingers forming a church steeple, sat Jay Noble, who was whisked upstairs while the crowd listened to her speech. Hughes knew him by reputation from years of California political wars, but until Long bolted from the Democratic Party to become a center-right independent, she had never worked with him, or even met him. He struck her as smaller than he looked on television.

  “Mr. Noble, good to meet you,” she said, striding confidently and extending her hand, gripping his hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure after all these years of being on different sides.”

  “The honor is all mine,” purred Jay, surveying his prey. “Please, call me Jay.”

  Hughes sat on the burgundy leather couch, sliding her legs underneath her in feminine repose. They both paused for a beat, waiting for the other to start.

  “The president sends his best,” said Jay. It was one of his favorite conversation-starters, certain to impress the listener. “We’ve been watching your campaign. It’s impressive.”

  “Impressive enough that you no longer want to recruit Caulfield into the race?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. It was a brush-back pitch.

  Jay flashed a relaxed smile. “We don’t have a lot of use for Covitz, so we’ve been in the market for a candidate. She went above and beyond the call of duty in opposing our health care plan from the left and opposing Diaz for Supreme Court.” He shrugged. “The president has a soft spot for Caulfield. But he’s over that, I assure you.”

  “I understand that,” said Hughes. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. But Caulfield can’t beat Kate in a primary.” She dropped her chin, leveling her eyes on Jay. “I, on the other hand, can beat her in the general. Her numbers are soft.”

  “We know,” said Jay. “My only question to you is: do you run as a cookie-cutter, southern California conservative, or as a broad-gauged candidate who appeals beyond your conservative base? You can’t win statewide carrying San Diego and Orange County.”

  Hughes’s back stiffened. “No. But you can’t win without them. I can carry Orange and San Diego by a large margin, hold my own in LA, especially in the Valley, and appeal to women, independents, and middle-class voters.”

  Her confidence seemed to startle Jay. “Kate’s tough. She’s
meaner than a snake. She’s downright vicious. You sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yes. This time she’s met her match,” said Hughes, her face like flint. “I’m not intimidated by her. In fact, I can’t wait to debate her. She uses the tough exterior to scare off strong opponents. She’s never really been tested like I’m going to test her.”

  Jay nodded slowly. “I’d like for you to meet with some of the grassroots leaders who got Long on the ballot here. They are amazing activists. If they like you, then it won’t look like we’re trying to impose something from the White House.”

  “Absolutely,” said Hughes brightly. “I’d love to meet them.”

  “It would also be helpful if you could align with Long on some part of his agenda,” suggested Jay.

  “I voted against Long’s health care plan. I can’t move on that,” she said matter-of-factly. “If I flip-flop now, I’ll lose all credibility.”

  Jay waved his hands. “One hundred percent. But you can say you would have voted for Diaz. You can take our side on authorizing military action against Iran if sanctions fail.” He crossed his legs. “You don’t have to eat everything on the buffet. Order a la carte.”

  Hughes smiled. “I like the way you think.”

  “And I, you. I think we could make some beautiful music together.”

  “I would look forward to that.” Hughes stood, extending her hand. As they shook hands, their eyes locked. Hughes saw Jay’s eyes widen, mesmerized by her charisma. She was having that effect on a lot of people she encountered lately. In fact, she was getting used to it.

  The door opened. Hughes’s travel aide stood in the doorway, pointing at his watch. She ignored him. “Get me the names of your California organizers,” she said as she headed for the door. “I’ll have my staff set something up right away.”

  “You’ll have the list tonight,” Jay replied.

  As Hughes turned to go, her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, a new spring in her step. She had just raised another $225,000, and with a little luck she might have bagged the backing of the most feared and ruthless political strategist on the planet—not to mention his boss, the president of the United States. Not bad for an afternoon’s work, she thought.