Ballots and Blood (37 page)

“Have the speech writers work something up and get it to Lisa and Truman,” said Long. “It's going to have to be more firm but probably not name any names, given the fact we're still in the fog of war.”

“Mr. President, anything short of a military response is going to be perceived as insufficient,” said Whitehead, who had hung back until now, as was his usual custom. “This is coming on the heels of the murders of Flaherty and Miller. This is a killing spree.”

“I agree,” said Long. “The problem is Zafarshan's in a cave in the mountains of Pakistan. I don't want to drop five-hundred-pound bombs on a pile of rocks.”

“What if Levell and Daniels have been kidnapped?” asked Hector. “Zafarshan could hold them as hostages.”

Long looked at the video screen, his facial expression worried. “Bill, if that's the case, can we find them?”

“The first twenty-four hours are critical, Mr. President,” said Jacobs. “We've got hundreds of FBI, CIA, and Special Forces crawling all over Rome,” replied Jacobs. “The Italians are helping.”

Long nodded. “Good. Find them.”

“Charlie raises a good point,” said Greenglass. “If they're hostages, it's a different situation. The vice president is correct. If they've been murdered, we must retaliate militarily. But if they've been kidnapped, our first priority is to get them back alive.”

Everyone waited for Long's response. He got up from his chair and stood behind it, his hands resting on its back, his face a portrait of determination. “Either way, Zafarshan must pay. And not just him, but his Iranian paymasters. Find Levell and Daniels. Prepare actionable military options.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “This is a declaration of war, not just against the United States, but against the civilized world.”

With that, he walked out of the conference room, the door closing behind him. Everyone had their marching orders. It was going to be a long night.

AIR FORCE ONE LANDED AT Andrews Air Force Base at a little after 8 a.m. Broadcast and cable news outlets broke in to record the aircraft on approach and landing, then taxiing to a stop. The doors opened, and Long, accompanied by the First Lady and his national security team, descended the stairs and walked to a small podium bearing the presidential seal. In a brief statement he condemned the attacks, calling them “an evil and despicable act of terrorism committed by cowards and butchers against the innocent.” He mentioned each victim by name, his voice choking when he reached Pingeon, the French foreign minister, who was a hero on the EU sanctions vote. “While we mourn their loss, we vow they will not have died in vain. Our grief is accompanied by a determination to confront state sponsors of terrorism and those who seek to threaten nations with the most dangerous weapons on earth.” Without making a direct connection to Iran and the attacks (yet), Long added: “If these attacks were intended to undermine our resolve to stop Iran's pursuit of weapons of mass destruction, they will have the opposite of the intended effect. We will bring Iran to its knees until it suspends its nuclear program and complies with its international obligations.”

When Long and his traveling party arrived back at the White House, they found it resembled a bunker. Security was tight. Staff were not to leave the building without a Secret Service escort. Meetings outside the White House complex were cancelled. Everyone was glued to the cable news channels and gathered in hallways, speaking in hushed whispers. Still, Charlie Hector, acting at Long's direction, told everyone to remain at their desks and work as normally as possible. Long rejected the Secret Service's request to surround the White House with tanks, fearing it would give Zafarshan a propaganda victory.

Three hours after returning from Italy, Jay walked into a previously scheduled meeting with Phil Battaglia and Walt Shapiro to go over the status of negotiations with the Senate Finance Committee staff over his possible testimony in the IRS flap.

Shapiro rose from his chair, his eyes projecting concern, and shook Jay's hand. “Welcome back. How are you holding up? You've had a pretty wild time.”

“It was crazy,” said Jay, shaking his head in disbelief. “We were roused out of bed at 4 a.m. and told to get downstairs in ten minutes. We could hear explosions in the streets. There were rumors Brodi was dead. No one knew what was going on.”

Battaglia let out a sigh. “I hope we find our guys.”

“If we don't, there's going to be hell to pay,” said Jay.

“Look, I know you're busy and jet-lagged,” said Phil. “This will only take a minute. Walt and I want to bring you up to speed on our discussions with the committee.”

“Sure.”

“Overall, we're making progress. But there's one issue on which they refuse to budge. They're adamant your testimony is sworn.”

“That's bad, right?” asked Jay.

“You'll be under oath. It puts you at risk for a perjury rap if you make a material misstatement of fact,” said Shapiro, his face long, his fleshy jowls giving him the look of a bulldog. “Not that you would be, of course. But it's a risk.”

Jay shrugged his shoulders. “I know it's your job is to keep me out of jail, Walt, but—”

“It's a job I take very seriously,” said Shapiro.

“Good. But as long as I can review the documents and e-mails, and we can do a murder board, I'm really not worried.”

Shapiro and Battaglia exchanged worried glances. “We can agree to that,” said Walt. “But it gives them what they want.”

“The money shot,” said Jay.

“Correct,” said Shapiro.

Jay frowned as they sat in silence. Finally, he stood up and began to pace the room in a highly agitated state. “To hell with 'em!” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “Give 'em the money shot. I'll ram it right down their throats.” He wheeled to face them, placing his hands on the table, his face animated. “Let me tell you something, Stanley's going to rue the day he called me to testify.”

“Alright,” said Battaglia. “We'll agree to sworn testimony. You okay with that, Walt?”

“Not entirely, but it's Jay's call.”

“Alright,” said Battaglia, reviewing his notes on a legal pad. “We've gone back and forth on the parameters of the questions the senators can ask. Our waiver of executive privilege will be limited. We're only agreeing to have you answer questions about communications you had with Treasury and IRS.”

“What are they asking for?”

“They want access to any communications between you and anyone at any agency or cabinet department.”

“Forget that,” said Jay dismissively.

“If we agree Jay will testify under oath, I assume we can hang tough on other issues, including the parameters of which questions will be allowed,” said Shapiro.

“Yes,” said Battaglia. “That's from on high.” He pointed in the direction of the Oval.

“What if a member of the committee just ignores the agreement?” asked Jay. “What do I do . . . refuse to answer?”

“That's what Walt's there for,” replied Battaglia.

Shapiro smiled like a Cheshire cat. “We have ways of dealing with such transgressions.”

“We should get Republican senators teed up to object,” said Jay.

“Sure. We can have leg affairs handle that,” said Battaglia, making notes.

“When is this going to happen?” asked Jay.

“We haven't finalized negotiations, but my guess is a week or ten days.”

Jay nodded. “I'll be ready. And I may have a few allies out there with big audiences who may have something to say around that time as well.” He winked.

“I have no doubt,” said Battaglia with a smile. “Can you spell, S-T-A-N-T-O-N?”

As the meeting broke up, Shapiro turned to Jay. “You got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure,” Jay replied. They walked down the hall, through the West Wing lobby, and up the narrow stairwell leading to Jay's office. Once inside, Shapiro closed the door.

Shapiro's eyes bore into Jay, lids hooded. “Do you remember ever meeting a woman named Samah Panzarella?”

Jay felt his stomach flip. “Why?”

“I got a call from her attorney. She claims you had sex with her in LA a few months ago. Seems she's pregnant.”

“Oh, is that all?” replied Jay.

Shapiro did not flash a smile. “Between us, did you sleep with her?”

“This is protected by attorney-client privilege, right?” asked Jay.

“Yes. Anything you say to me is privileged,” replied Shapiro.

“Okay,” said Jay, with a sigh. “I met her at a party in LA when I was hanging out with Satcha Sanchez. I was there for a fund-raiser with the president. Layla—that's her nickname—and I had a few drinks. We danced. A few months ago I went out to do a fund-raiser in Orange County and I texted her. We met for drinks at the Chateau Mamont and then to a club.”

“I don't hear an answer to my question,” said Shapiro, his eyes piercing.

“We fooled around, made out, that kind of thing,” said Jay. “But I didn't have sex with her. There was no intercourse. At least not that I recall. Of course, I did have a lot to drink.”

“It would seem to me you'd remember that.”

“I would sure think so.”

“Well, it's not good,” said Shapiro with a heavy sigh. “Her attorney wants a DNA test and is threatening a paternity suit.”

“It's a shakedown,” said Jay. “They know I can't have the negative publicity, so they're looking for a pay day.” He scrunched up his face, deep in thought. “Should I call Satcha and see if she can talk this chick down off the ledge? She's her friend.”

“I don't recommend that,” said Shapiro. “I'll write her attorney a letter, tell him you have no such recollection. Then let's see what happens.”

“Alright,” said Jay, his face drained of color, looking like he had been hit by a bus. “If this comes out before I testify, it'll be very bad.”

“You lead an interesting life,” said Shapiro.

“Tell me about it.” He stared at the wall, shell-shocked. “What do we do if you can't back this guy off the plate? He could go to
People
magazine . . . or worse.”

“We're not going to be passive in dealing with her,” replied Shapiro. “We'll threaten her with a libel suit if she goes public with knowingly false charges. And you can offer to take a DNA test. That'll call their bluff.”

“Good Lord,” muttered Jay. “Let's hope it doesn't come to
that
. There are two words you never want in the same sentence: your name and DNA.”

“You might want to party less when you're in California,” dead-panned Shapiro.

Jay walked Shapiro to the stairwell and watched him descend the stairs to the lobby. As he staggered back to his office, his head spinning, his assistant said something about a conference call waiting, but he couldn't make out the exact words. His mind raced. He hoped Shapiro could work his magic. If not, he was about to go into the barrel with a box of razor blades—and the president was going to be royally ticked.

31

T
he senators stood in front of a podium covered with microphones outside the Senate Majority Leader's office, faces hardened, lips pressed. The press gathered round feigning interest, exchanging knowing smirks. Everyone knew the news conference was going to be a clubbing, and Jay Noble was the piñata.

Sal Stanley stepped to the microphone as his colleagues jockeyed for position behind him, craning their necks to get in camera range. Television lights illuminated them, causing tourists to gather.

“Today I have sent a letter to Attorney General Keith Golden signed by forty-one senators calling on him to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate whether Jay Noble obstructed an IRS investigation of a political ally of the president,” said Stanley, his face stretched like putty. He held up the letter to a flurry of camera flashes. “These are serious charges. The Finance Committee's investigation has revealed a level of corruption that is frankly shocking. Not since Richard Nixon was impeached in part for using the IRS to harass political enemies have we seen such an abuse of power.” He paused, his eyes intense. “Only an independent counsel can conduct a fair investigation of the White House's politicization of the IRS free from any further hint of political manipulation.” He folded up his statement and placed it in his coat pocket. “Any questions?”

“Senator, the independent counsel statute expired years ago,” said
Roll Call.
“Why not just pass the statute and force the appointment of an independent counsel?”

“It's a fair point,” said Stanley, raising his chin, projecting confidence. “But given Republican control of the House, passage of an IC statute is highly unlikely. This investigation needs to be conducted now.”

“But you haven't even tried, Senator.”

“I'll be sure to check in with Speaker Jimmerson to gauge his interest and report back to you,” Stanley deadpanned to chuckles.

“What do you say to those who claim you're the one with serious ethical challenges, given the indictment of Michael Kaplan?” asked the
Washington Post.
“Your critics say basically people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.”

Stanley's eyes shot darts. “That matter was investigated by a
Republican
Justice Department,” he said through clenched teeth. “A grand jury voted to bring an indictment, which is an accusation. Mike Kaplan deserves the same presumption of innocence any other citizen is granted under our laws. The charges related to Jay Noble are entirely different. The Long administration can't investigate itself.”

“If I may briefly comment,” said Senator Craig McGowan, a notorious camera hog and Stanley stalwart, sliding to the podium. His jet-black hair and cherubic face projected earnestness mixed with shameless self-promotion. “I believe the charges against Mike Kaplan were a textbook case of the criminalization of political differences, but that is a debate for another day.” Stanley stood beside him, staring into space. “The charges against Jay Noble are contained in sworn testimony by three IRS employees about White House interference in an audit of a prominent supporter of the president. Let me be clear: if the president had knowledge of this, it is an impeachable offense. That is why Attorney General Golden should name an independent counsel, and he can do so without any additional authority by Congress. He has that authority now.”