Ballots and Blood (17 page)

The room exploded in a standing ovation. “Ladies, please welcome our friend and a conservative hero, Congressman Don Jefferson!”

Jefferson approached the podium, head bowed, wearing a restrained smile, his rubbery face a picture of humble pie. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Please be seated.”

The crowd slowly took their seats.

“Thank you for that warm introduction,” Jefferson began. “As we gather here today, I want you to contemplate this fact about our nation: from the dawn of human civilization, down through the millennia, through wars and bloody convulsions, all the way until today, there has been only one nation whose explicit and sole reason for existence was to serve as a refuge from tyranny, and that is the United States of America.”

The women were transfixed. They were under his spell, and he knew it.

“Whether it was the first Pilgrim settlers of the New World who fled religious persecution, the Irish who came when their farms were turned into wastelands by famine, the Jews who fled the pogroms of the motherland, or more recently, the refugees from Castro's Cuba, Chavez's Venezuela, and the Ayatollah's Iran, America, unique among all nations, has welcomed those who fled tyranny and terror because they wanted to be free.” He raised his chin, cocking his head to the side. “And I want to begin with a question: if America is not free, where will these people go? The truth is, there is nowhere else for them to go.”

Heads nodded throughout the room. “That's right,” someone said in a low voice.

“We can only remain free with the right policies and visionary leadership. And as long as Salmon Stanley is in charge—”

“Boo! Hiss!” replied the crowd.

“I thought you might react that way,” joked Jefferson. Everyone laughed.

“As long as Sal Stanley controls the U.S. Senate with an iron grip, enabled by the special interests and the labor unions, that body will be the graveyard of every conservative, commonsense policy we propose.” He rocked on his toes, preparing for the roundhouse punch. “We're doing our job in the House. We passed a tax cut. It died in the Senate. We passed an energy bill to put us on the path to energy independence. It died in the Senate. We have passed crippling sanctions against Iran. It still awaits Senate action.” He paused for dramatic effect. “So maybe what we need is to take some of the leaders and reformers in the House and move them over to the Senate and give Sal Stanley his walking papers.”

The crowd leaped to their feet, exploding in applause. “Run, Don, Run! Run, Don, Run!” they chanted.

Jefferson wore a look of unrestrained satisfaction. He glanced over at the club president, who wore the sinister grin of a Tammany Hall ward boss. She winked. He winked back.

“You're tempting me,” said Jefferson a little too loud into microphone.

“RUN, DON, RUN!! RUN, DON, RUN!! RUN, DON, RUN!!”

Jefferson stepped back from the podium, basking in their love. He wondered:
Was this enough to propel him past the party establishment, lobbyists, an incumbent governor, and the smart money that would bet against him?
His head said no, but his heart said yes.

In the back of the room, the state chairman of the Faith and Family Federation watched the scene with a mixture of excitement and awe. He pulled out his BlackBerry and punched out an e-mail to Ross Lombardy: “At Villages. Jefferson just told GOP women he might run. Standing O.”

Thirty seconds later, Ross fired back: “Super. Can he win?”

“Think so,” the state chairman fired back. “Grassroots r on fire.”

Ross replied: “He needs $.”

The state chair put his BlackBerry in his pocket. He thought to himself,
Didn't it always come back to the dough?

AN AIDE ESCORTED TRUMAN GREENGLASS through the Mansfield reception room, named after former Democratic Majority Leader Mike Mansfield, with its Oriental rug, period furniture, and portraits of former majority leaders, who stared down from the walls like a great cloud of witnesses. As the aide pulled open the door, Greenglass found Sal Stanley seated in a thronelike wingback chair, with Senator Tom Reynolds of Oklahoma and Senator Susan Warren of Nevada, the new chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, seated on the couch in front of him.

“Truman, come on in,” said Stanley with a wave of his hand. As Greenglass approached, he rose from his chair and greeted him with a firm if perfunctory handshake.

Reynolds and Warren stood as well. Greenglass sized her up. She wore a yellow St. John outfit and matching pumps with a David Yurman gold necklace and earrings. Her short black hair had brown highlights, Greenglass guessed to hide the gray. Her milky skin showed the fading beauty of a still-striking woman, the wrinkled flesh of her neck betraying the years traveled to the pinnacle of power. The book on Warren was simple: smart, tough, liberal but not a wacko, obsessed with her own image in the press. Stanley elevated her over a more senior member of the committee who he saw as unreliable. She owed him. Greenglass would have to tread lightly.

“Truman, we'd like to move forward on the Iran sanctions bill,” began Stanley, crossing his legs and leaning in his direction. “We've looked at the language of the House bill as well as the draft Perry put together before his death. Assuming we can all agree, we think we can get it out of Foreign Relations promptly and get it to the floor next week.”

Truman nodded. He opened his leather-bound legal pad. “I brought some draft language for you.” He glanced about. “Should I give it to you, Madam Chair?”

Stanley nodded. “Sure, give it to Sue.”

Greenglass extended his hand across the coffee table. Warren took it from him and held the paper in her hands, scanning the text. Everyone else was silent as she read, her eyes widening in apparent shock.

“I'll run this up the flagpole with other members of the committee,” she said coldly. “But I don't want to mislead you. I'm not a fan of including a trigger for military action.”

Stanley shifted in his seat, chortling. “Absolutely not,” he said. “That won't fly.”

“But Senator Miller and I agreed on this language,” said Greenglass. “We had a deal.”

“Senator Miller is dead,” replied Warren. “I'm the chairman of the committee now. I've discussed it with our members, and they're not buying. Tom can introduce it as an amendment, but we've whipped it, and I can promise you it won't pass.” She leaned back in her chair, a smug look on her face.

Greenglass did a slow burn. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring down Warren. “Senator, the president feels very strongly about this. Time is running out. Iran has weaponized a nuclear device. We don't have the luxury of trying sanctions for six months and then coming back with a second resolution authorizing military action that will take weeks or months to move through Congress. This is for all the marbles.”

“Truman, I'm not opposed to military action if and when it comes to that,” shot back Warren, her steely blue eyes steady. “But I won't mix the two. This is a sanctions bill. If we're going to authorize the president to go to war, it has to be a stand-alone bill.”

“Why?” asked Greenglass. “There's no procedural or constitutional reason to do that.”

“Because I'm chairman of the committee, and that's the way I want to proceed,” said Warren. “Period.”

“Sue's right,” said Stanley. “The votes aren't there on our side of the aisle for a trigger. So I really don't know why this keeps coming up.”

Reynolds remained silent up to that point, simmering with barely repressed anger. “Sue, if you do that, I will introduce a competing sanctions bill with bipartisan support,” he said, his eyes shooting darts. “I've got a commitment from Kravitz to be a lead sponsor. He thinks he can bring half a dozen Democrats with him. The bottom line is, you may win in committee, but you'll lose on the floor.” He paused, letting the dead air hang. “Do you really want to lose the most important foreign policy vote since the Iraq war?”

Warren's face hardened. “Is that a threat, Tom?”

“No, it's a promise.”

Stanley crossed his arms, assuming a defensive posture. “Tom, you're playing with fire. If we do what Sue and I recommend, we can pass this bill with bipartisan support, strengthening the president's hand with Russia, China, the UN, and the EU. If we go your route, this becomes a partisan issue.”

“It doesn't have to be a partisan issue, Sal,” said Reynolds. “Perry Miller was on board. We ought to honor his memory by doing what he wanted.”

“It doesn't work that way,” shot back Stanley. “We don't go to war to honor someone's memory.”

Warren turned to Greenglass. “What's the administration's position going to be, Truman? Are you going to support a competing bill?”

Greenglass hooded his eyelids. “We would prefer not to go in that direction. But if it comes to that, we'll make it clear we support authorization for additional measures if the NSC and DNI conclude the sanctions are insufficient. That's always been our position.”

“I'm disappointed but not surprised,” said Stanley, disgusted. “We're getting nowhere. Tell the president the consequences will be a divisive process and delay.”

Greenglass's eyes smoldered. “Senator, I hope we can disagree without being disagreeable.”

“I do, too, but given the emotions on both sides, I'd be lying if I said I was optimistic,” said Warren.

“One last thing,” said Greenglass, pulling out another piece of paper. “Here's some language that we'd like included that has nothing to do with the so-called trigger.” He handed it to Warren.

“What is it?” she asked, eyes scanning the text.

“It blesses technology transfers to Iran for organizations promoting democracy and human rights,” said Greenglass. “Basically it allows us to provide them with cell phones, satellites, secure broadband access, et cetera so the Green Movement can organize free from detection by the current regime.”

Warren narrowed her eyes. “Do we want to telegraph that we're doing that?”

“We need clear statutory authority.”

“Alright, we'll look at it.”

“Anything else?” asked Stanley.

“Not that I know of,” replied Greenglass.

“Alright then,” said Stanley. He rose and shook Greenglass's hand. “Looks like we're going to cross swords again. Tell the president this is a matter of principle.”

“As it is with us, Senator,” said Greenglass in a hollow voice.

He and Reynolds walked out together, accompanied by an aide who led them through the reception area. When they reached the hallway outside, Greenglass turned to Reynolds and pulled him close in a power clutch.

“Can you roll 'em?” he asked, his voice urgent.

“I think so,” said Reynolds, puffing up like a poison toad. “A number of Democratic senators don't want to look weak on national defense right before the elections. They don't want to vote against challenging Iran.”

Greenglass nodded. “I need you to cut that deal on technology transfers. It's critical.”

“I'll do what I can. But Sue's in Sal's clutches.”

Greenglass shook his head. “Gotta have it. We're kind of pregnant on this one, if you get my drift.”

“Alright. I get it.”

Greenglass turned and headed down the hall, heading toward the exit and his car and driver, which was waiting to take him back to the White House. His stomach was in a knot. Not only was he facing a battle royale in the Senate over the sanctions bill, but the technology transfer language now hung by a thread. If it failed to pass, all the work he did to equip the Green Movement would be in legal limbo, and his career would hang in the balance.

14

G
. G. Hoterman stood on the eighteenth tee box at the Badlands course in northern Las Vegas, staring at a lake on his right and a desert hazard twisted with rocks, cactus, and sagebrush. The carry over the desert was 241 yards. Walking to the ball, carrying the massive girth of an aging former high school offensive lineman on spindly legs with much effort, he stared down the fairway, waggling the clubhead of his $750 TaylorMade driver. Pulling the club head back, his eye glued to the Titleist logo, he pulled the shaft down and turned his wrists over, rocketing the ball high in the air with a slight draw. It headed right for the desert.

“Get up! Get up!” he shouted with flourish.

The ball cleared the sagebrush by no more than a yard, bouncing high and exploding down the fairway.

“Safe!” exclaimed G. G. “I made it!” He giggled like a little boy.

“You like to live dangerously, don't you, G. G.,” said Fred Elrod, his playing partner.

“It's clean living,” joked G. G.

“I know that's not true,” replied Elrod. G. G. cackled. Elrod, flat belly and narrow waist highlighted by a white Adidas belt, bow legs balancing his frame, took his cap off and wiped his brow, revealing a deeply tanned face and gray hair turning slowly white. Only the top of his head had hints of black. Elrod leaned over his ball and made a rapid, jerky swing, sending his ball in a low slice toward a trap by the lake. The ball cleared the desert, bounded across the fairway, and skipped into the trap. He let out an expletive. “I hate it when you do this to me on the final hole,” he said, leaning down and snatching the tee up, breaking it with his fingers and hurling it into the rocks.

G. G. was feeling good not only about his match with Elrod but also life in general. One of the top Democratic lobbyists and rainmakers in DC, he was bonding with Elrod, one of his favorite (and richest) clients. Elrod was at the top of the food chain at Hoterman and Schiff, G. G.'s law and lobbying firm, primarily because he paid the firm $100,000 a month to act as his inside-the-Beltway fixers and courtroom attack dogs. He also knew how to have a good time, shared G. G.'s nose for the jugular, had a gorgeous wife, and had plenty of problems needing solutions (but not too quickly!). Elrod owned a thirty-thousand-square-foot Mediterranean-style mansion in northern Las Vegas with its own home theater, fitness center and spa, an Olympian pool featuring statutes of Caesar and Napolean, poolroom, game room, and smoking room. G. G. was always welcome as a houseguest. To make matters even more satisfying, G. G.'s drive all but assured Elrod would owe him $10,000, half of which was for winning five net holes at $1,000 each, with $5,000 more for winning the match.