Ballots and Blood Page 9

  As others offered their prayer requests, the list grew: a child going through a bitter divorce, a friend suffering from cancer, a non-ambulatory elderly father being admitted to a nursing home over his objections, a son-in-law who needed a job, a woman with her house on the market praying it will sell. Throughout, Claire hung back, silently taking notes. Finally, she spoke up.

  “I can’t go into a lot of details about this,” she said haltingly. “It’s a little awkward because some of it I’m not even supposed to know.” Everyone leaned forward as the First Lady seemed about to share classified information. “I have to be a little vague about it. But there are terrorist threats against our country, against our leaders, and against Bob. So I just ask that you all pray for his protection and for my peace of mind.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I knew this job was going to carry with it the usual security threats. But I wasn’t prepared for something like this, even after what happened to Harris Flaherty.” Vice President Flaherty, at the time the Republican nominee for president, was assassinated by terrorists in an attack on his helicopter as it departed the Republican National Convention the previous year.

  One of the women leaned over and placed her hand on Claire’s shoulder. Regaining her composure, Claire wiped a tear from her eyes.

  “Let’s pray for all these requests,” said Popilopos. “And let’s lay hands on Claire and pray for special protection over her and the president.”

  “Amen,” several of the women murmured. They stood up and gathered around Claire, placing hands on her shoulders and back.

  Popilopos stood behind them. “Father God,” he began. “We lift up all these requests to You and place them at Your altar. So many needs, Lord. So many people hurting. We thank You that we can come boldly to Your throne of grace and lay these at Your feet.”

  “Amen,” one of the women said. “Thank You, Lord.”

  Claire hung her head, deep in prayer. She felt a peace fall over her. She prayed earnestly that God would protect Bob from Rassem el Zafarshan, who killed Flaherty and probably Perry Miller. She wondered who was next.

  9

  A black SUV, trailed by a staff car and a chaser car, pulled into the West Wing parking lot at 7:22 a.m. as heavy rain pelted the nation’s capital. In the backseat sat William Jacobs, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, talking on a secure phone with the team responsible for intelligence gathering at Langley, receiving a final verbal update before he briefed the president. Hanging up, he stepped out of the car in a blue pin-striped suit and beige London Fog raincoat, ducking under the awning of the West Wing entrance to protect himself from the rain. A CIA briefer followed him. He carried in his briefcase a copy of one of the most top secret documents in the government, the president’s daily brief (PDF), a daily synopsis of intelligence gathered by leading U.S. and foreign spy agencies.

  As Jacobs walked in long strides down the hall to the Oval Office, he saw Truman Greenglass, Charlie Hector, and Vice President Whitehead standing outside the door. Whitehead rarely sat in on the president’s daily intelligence briefing. Something was up.

  “Mr. Vice President, good to see you,” said Jacobs. “You joining us?”

  “Morning, Bill,” said Whitehead. “Yes, I am.”

  “Shall we go in?” asked Greenglass. He opened the door. Long sat at his desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, flipping through his copy of the PDF.

  “Bill, what’s the word?” asked Long.

  “We live in interesting times, Mr. President.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Jacobs took a seat directly to the right of the president’s desk, the CIA briefer to the immediate left. Greenglass and Whitehead sat in chairs directly across from Long. The president nodded at Jacobs, who signaled the briefer to begin.

  “Mr. President, the Iranians continue to prepare for a possible military strike. We have satellite photographic evidence of increased truck traffic around the nuclear facilities in Natanz and Ifsahan. They appear to be dispersing their infrastructure to make it more difficult for a strike on a single facility to debilitate their nuclear program.”

  Long furrowed his brow. “Can we track this stuff?”

  “Yes and no,” replied the briefer. “We can track it up until it goes into the mountains. But inside them they have an extensive network of caves, roads, and tunnels.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Before they have all this materiel dispersed and fortified underground?” asked the briefer. “I’d say ninety days. Maybe 120 days tops.”

  Long shot a worried look at Greenglass. “They’ll have everything spread around the country in the caves before we can get military authorization.”

  “Technically, Mr. President, you don’t need congressional authorization,” said Greenglass.

  “I don’t?”

  “Not according to the lawyers.”

  “How would that play on the Hill, Johnny?” asked Long, turning to Whitehead.

  “Depends on how much of this we can share with the leadership,” said Whitehead. He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Long’s. “If you brought in the leaders of both parties from the House and Senate and showed them these satellite photographs, I think you’d get solid bipartisan support.”

  Long turned to Jacobs. “Can we take this stuff out with bunker- busting bombs? Or is it too deep?”

  “Sir, that’s a question for the Pentagon and the Joint Chiefs. I don’t do military strategy.” It was a brush-back pitch. Jacobs was a stickler for treating the White House and DOD as clients of intel and let them make the final call. He didn’t want Langley to take the fall if things went wrong.

  “Can we declassify this stuff?”

  Jacobs looked like someone shot him in the chest. He cleared his throat. “That’s a presidential call. But if you’re asking for my judgment, I would keep classified information limited to only those with the highest level security clearance.”

  Long nodded, clearly not pacified.

  “If it comes to a military strike, whether it’s us or the Israelis, we’ll have to do more than offer assurances,” said Greenglass. “After the intelligence failures in Iraq, the bar is higher now.”

  Jacobs stared back unblinking. He turned to Long. “Mr. President, once you start declassifying intelligence, you’re disclosing sources and methods. It’s hard to get the genie back in the bottle.”

  Long nodded. “Okay, what else have you got?”

  “On a related topic, an Iranian scientist who was one of the top architects of the nuclear program was found dead from gunshots at close range in a hotel room in Damascus the day before yesterday,” said the briefer. “The Israelis took him out. They found out he frequented a particular brothel and paid one of the prostitutes to tip them off when he was coming.”

  “Shot him in the act,” said Jacobs, knowing the president loved gossip. “Double tap in the skull.”

  “In the act, huh?” said Long. “Well, he died with a smile on his face.”

  Greenglass cracked a smile. No one else laughed.

  “How many is that now?” asked Long.

  “I think that’s eight or nine between us and the Israelis,” replied Jacobs.

  “Is it making any difference?” asked Long.

  “We think so, Mr. President. Certainly the Iranians know we’re playing hardball.”

  “Good,” said Long. He closed his briefing book. “Any chance Perry Miller was killed as payback for us taking out these Iranians?”

  “Miller murdered by the Iranians?” asked Jacobs. Long nodded. “I guess anything’s possible, but that’s the first I’ve heard anything about it.”

  Charlie Hector spoke up. “The FBI is pushing the theory. . . . There’s nothing tangible, but Miller was funding the Green Movement, pushing military strikes against Iran, so they’re kicking the tires, asking around. It’s typical Bureau stuff.” He nodded in the direction of Greenglass. “When they interviewed Truman, they asked about military suppli
es and technology transfers to the Green Movement.”

  “Mmmmm,” said Jacobs. “What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them it was classified,” said Greenglass. “But I don’t know if that satisfied them. They’ll be back for more.”

  “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Stupid, though. It won’t stop us. But if the Iranians murdered Miller, we need to know,” said Jacobs. “There could potentially be other targets, including the secretary of defense, secretary of state, even you, Mr. President.”

  Long’s eyes grew wide.

  “We can’t have the FBI blowing the cover on our black ops in Iran,” said Whitehead, speaking up for the first time. “We obviously don’t want to circumscribe the investigation into Miller’s murder. But we need to quarantine it so it doesn’t compromise what we’re doing in Iran.”

  “I don’t know how one does that,” said Jacobs. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Can you go to the FBI and say, ‘This is leading into places that involve a sensitive and ongoing CIA operation’?” asked Long. “Tell them it’s a national security issue involving regime change.”

  “I think I’d have to be more specific than that,” said Jacobs, his slumped posture telegraphing discomfort with the entire topic. “There are strict protocols governing communication among the agencies within CTC.” He used the acronym for the multiagency Counter Terrorism Center.

  “Fine. Follow all the protocols. Right, Charlie?” asked Long, looking for a lifeline.

  “Sure,” said Hector. “No one’s asking anyone to violate protocols.”

  “I’ll look into it, but the FBI tends to guard,” said Jacobs. “They don’t like being told to put their agents on a short leash.”

  “I understand,” said Long.

  “If I may, Mr. President,” said Whitehead. “If the FBI screws this up and what we’re doing in Iran leaks, Agency assets will be eliminated. Pro-democracy activists have put their lives in our hands. This is like giving up Solidarity organizers to the Soviets at the height of the Cold War. We can’t leave soldiers on the battlefield, or no one in that part of the world will ever trust us again.”

  “We can have our FBI liaison at CTC find out the status of the investigation,” said Jacobs in a dull monotone. “If it’s moving into areas of covert activity, we have procedures for bringing that to the attention of the director and the AG.”

  “Good,” said Long. “I knew you’d know how to handle it.”

  Jacobs now knew why Whitehead showed up for the meeting: he was playing bad cop to Long’s good cop. Greenglass scripted the entire meeting, hoping to protect himself from taking the fall for funneling covert military aid to the Green Movement. Rather than calling the Justice Department itself, the White House wanted the CIA to do its dirty work. As the meeting wrapped and Jacobs headed back to his car, something gnawed at him: what if the Iranians really did murder Perry Miller?

  “I NEED REAL-TIME UPDATES!” SHOUTED Kris Howard, assistant attorney general for national security, her voice jagged with frustration. “What am I, a potted plant? Somebody talk to me.” Howard, surrounded by FBI agents and DOJ officials, was on the seventh floor of the Robert F. Kennedy headquarters building of the Justice Department, in the bunker at the National Security Division’s SCIF (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility), the top secret, limited-access nerve center where federal law enforcement tracked terror suspects. Wearing a crisp white blouse and a navy blue skirt with matching jacket, she paced back and forth among the desks, arms crossed, riding herd.

  “We lost him,” said one of the agents.

  “What?!” Howard exclaimed. “How do you lose a suspect when he’s being trailed with an FBI surveillance van, a SWAT team, and a chopper? I’ve got fifty boots on the ground out there, and we can’t find a ham sandwich?”

  “We don’t know what happened, ma’am,” said the agent, frantically scanning a bank of screens displaying video feeds from the helicopter’s cameras. “We had him five minutes ago. We might have lost him at a red light, or he turned onto a side street.”

  “Find him. Now.” Howard walked over to Pat Mahoney, who stood in the semidarkness doing a slow burn. Her eyes smoldered. “If you lose this suspect and he gets away, I swear someone will pay. Can’t you guys run a surveil?”

  “We’ll get him,” said Mahoney, nonplussed.

  “You better, or heads will roll. Starting with yours.” She stomped off.

  Mahoney said nothing in reply. He signaled to one of the agents, who scrambled over, his face a picture of high stress. They had been tracking Qatani for three days. It was time to end the party. “Hit the residence,” said Mahoney.

  “Now? We’ve got everyone trying to find him. I don’t want to pull people off that in order to take down the guy’s house.”

  “Just do it. If he slipped the surveil team, we may need clues as to where he’s going next. He may be going to a safe house . . . or trying to leave the country.”

  “Alright,” said the agent. “I’ll send in a second SWAT team.”

  For his part Mahoney was a picture of calm. Unlike the preening egos at DOJ, he had full confidence in his team. But the window to get Qatani was closing fast. As he often did in situations like this, he tried to put himself in the place of the suspect. Had he figured out he had a tail? If so, where would he go? Certainly not back to the house where a SWAT team waited. He might go underground—no credit cards or cell phone traffic. Or he might try to leave the country by car or plane. Mahoney pulled out a cell phone and dialed the direct number for his deputy, who was at FBI headquarters.

  “Have TSA put out an alert to all the airlines. We need them to be on the look out for any young male fitting Hassan Qatani’s description. Make sure it includes a physical description and possible disguises. ASAP.”

  “What’s up?” asked his deputy.

  “We lost him. He disappeared like Tinkerbell.”

  His deputy let out an expletive.

  “Don’t worry. I ordered the SWAT team to take down his house. Now we need to lock down the airports.” Mahoney turned his back to Howard, who noticed he was on his cell phone, cupping his hand over the phone and lowering his voice to a half whisper. “If this guy boards a flight and disappears into Pakistan or Yemen, this gets a lot more complicated.”

  “We’re already getting heat from upstairs. If he gets away, we’re done,” said the deputy. “I’ll also tell Homeland we have a high priority surveil underway and we need air marshals on every flight carrying passengers connecting to Arab capitals.”

  “Good. Don’t let him get away.” Mahoney hung up his phone. He hoped they caught a break.

  LISA ROBINSON CAME INTO JAY’S office and closed the door. With raven-like hair, doe eyes, and the svelte figure of an athlete, she wore a black spectator jacket with white buttons, white pants, and black-and-white heels. Jay’s earlier crush on her mellowed into professional cordiality, with a pinch of West Wing infighting. Once her mentor, he was now her rival. The press labeled them “beauty and the beast.” There wasn’t any question about who the beast was.

  “What’s the ticktock on Iran?” asked Lisa.

  “Hey, I’m the political guy,” said Jay. “Ask Truman. He’s in charge of the world.”

  “I mean politically.”

  “Oh, that,” said Jay. “Every member of Congress is going to have to go on the record on this sanctions bill, which will include a military authorization or else the president will veto it. It has to have real teeth, not gums. The Democrats will be their usual profiles in cowardice, playing up to their antiwar base. They’ll vote against it, and we’ll hang that around their necks like a burning tire in November.”

  “And then?”

  Jay leveled his gaze. “Then my guess is the NSC and DNI will report the sanctions have failed. There will be a short pause before the bombs start dropping. Shock and awe. Real video game-type stuff. Precision-guided munitions will level every military and government buildin
g in Iran.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. After that, we’ll see. I assume Iran is crippled and the UN condemns us.”

  “Don’t you think Hezbollah and/or Hamas invade Israel? I can’t imagine Iran just laying back and letting us or the Israelis bomb them without a counterattack.”

  Jay shrugged. “Hard to say. But if they do, the Pentagon says we can counter their counterattack. At that point we can offer the Israelis anything they need.”

  “When’s all this going to happen?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. The president still hasn’t decided. But the war plan calls for us to be ready in four to six months.”

  “So it could theoretically happen before the congressional election.”

  “It could.”

  Lisa nodded, absorbing the information. “If we’re at war during the midterm election, is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Depends on how it’s going. If it’s going well, it helps us. If it’s going badly, it helps them. If it’s a muddle, it’s probably a wash, but that helps them more than it does us.”

  “On another topic, we’re getting press calls about the Senate Finance Committee subpoenaing you to appear about allegedly interfering with an IRS audit of Andy Stanton’s ministry.”

  “That’s just Sal Stanley trying to distract me from my number one job in life, which is defeating him,” said Jay with a smirk.

  “Media reports say they’re calling in the commissioner of the IRS and the head of the exempt division to testify.”

  “So what,” said Jay dismissively. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “The question is, are we going to cooperate?”

  “It’s up to the lawyers, Lisa.”

  “I can’t say that,” Lisa replied.

  “Can’t you just say the White House counsel is reviewing the subpoena?”

  “I’ve been saying that for two weeks. At some point we’ve got to say more.”

  “Okay,” said Jay. He wheeled around in his chair and picked up the phone. “Get me Phil Battaglia, please. Right away if he’s available.” He hung up the phone, spinning back around to face Lisa. “Look, I’ve got no problem testifying. Phil says he doesn’t want the ‘money shot’ of me standing up there with my arm raised being sworn in. So I’m at his mercy.”