Ballots and Blood (7 page)

“Thanks for the primer,” deadpanned Mahoney.

“Agent Mahoney, I don't have a problem answering these questions,” said Greenglass, trying to diffuse the situation. “But we knew the authorization would be hotly debated in the Senate. We weren't trying to hide anything. This is no state secret.”

“Then why did the NSC mislead the president's press secretary and cause her to lie to the press and the American people?” fired back Mahoney.

Greenglass averted his eyes. “We never denied I had a conversation with the German ambassador expressing my concern about whether there was enough time left for sanctions. We denied we were readying plans for military strikes. The reason for that is obvious.”

“Let me ask you something else,” said Mahoney, loaded for bear. “Last year's State Department budget included funds for an initiative to promote democracy in the Middle East. Are you familiar with that budget?”

“Yes.”

“What is involved in that initiative?”

“A variety of things. Conferences with democratic and women's rights activists, training for human rights advocates, building a network of dissident leaders. Things of that nature.”

“Does it include aid to the Green Movement in Iran?”

Greenglass shifted in his chair. “The Green Movement was included in the overall outreach to pro-democracy activists.”

“How much of this funding went to the Green Movement?”

“The entire program was four hundred million dollars.”

“And the share that went to the Green Movement?”

“I'm not sure the exact number.”

“Ballpark?”

“I think it was between $125 and $150 million.”

“That's a lot of money, isn't it?”

“Not in the grand scheme of things, but it's not peanuts.”

“Do you know what it paid for?”

“Training, logistical support, infrastructure.”

“Senator Miller inserted these funds in the State Department budget?”

“Yes.”

“One person told us Senator Miller was infatuated with the U.S. providing support to the Green Movement. Did you find that to be the case?”

Greenglass smiled. “I wouldn't say he was infatuated. But he believed in it deeply, and he felt a moral obligation to support the Green Movement leaders, who courageously opposed the regime at the risk of their own lives.”

“To the best of your knowledge, was any of that funding used for technology transfers or military materiel to the Green Movement, such as bomb-making equipment, night-vision goggles, satellites, cell phones, PDAs, and laptops?”

Greenglass made eye contact with McConnell. Mahoney knew a government official as seasoned as Greenglass would be familiar with 18 USC. Section 1001, which made it a felony knowingly and willfully to make a materially false statement to a government agent. As he anticipated, Greenglass blinked.

“I'm not sure I can answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because those activities are classified.”

McConnell cleared her throat and jumped in. “Since this involves potentially highly classified information, I'm going to recommend Truman tell you everything he can today, and then let's hold the rest in abeyance pending an opinion from the White House counsel.”

“That's fine. I've only got one more question,” said Mahoney. His eyes bore into Greenglass. “Were the funds Senator Miller inserted in the State Department budget used to pay for black ops inside Iran?”

Greenglass looked like he had been hit across the face with a hammer. “My answer to that is identical to the previous one.”

“So you can't answer it?”

“No.”

Mahoney gathered up his papers and shoved them back into his satchel. “That's all I have for today,” he said crisply.

“I'm not going to make any promises on the issue of classified information,” said McConnell. “But I'll take it up with Phil.”

Mahoney grunted his acknowledgement. Together, he and McConnell left the conference room, the door closing with a bang.

Greenglass looked at Shapiro, his eyes like saucers. “This guy's crazy.”

“No kidding. Why do you think I jumped down his throat?” said Shapiro. “If someone at the FBI doesn't get him back in his cage, he could destroy a lot of careers.”

“He could do worse than that,” said Greenglass. “He's about to blow up a covert op. That'll get major assets in Iran
killed
. He could set us back a decade.”

“What's so hard to figure out here?” asked Shapiro, throwing up his hands. “Arrest the chick who asphyxiated Miller, let her plead to involuntary manslaughter, she does two years in minimum-security prison, and this thing is
over
.”

“Should someone reach out to Golden?” Greenglass asked, referring to Attorney General Keith Golden.

“Absolutely not,” said Shapiro, horrified. “The media will claim the White House tried to obstruct an FBI investigation. That's a felony.”

“But someone has to shut this down,” said Greenglass. “Lives are at stake. The future of the Middle East is at stake, for goodness sake.”

“I agree. But the person who steps up to the plate can't be you, Truman. Protect yourself.”

Greenglass knew Shapiro was right. But he knew of someone who could shut it down. It would be dicey, but it might work. One thing he wasn't going to let happen was some rogue FBI agent unraveling the government's top secret strategy to bring about regime change in Iran.

6

T
he president's eyes were tired. It had been a long day, and he was jet-lagged. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked. Long sat slumped in a chair in the presidential suite of the St. Regis in Beverly Hills, the age lines in his face creviced, the bags under his eyes dark. The room was dimly lit, the curtains closed on orders of the Secret Service, who worried about snipers getting a shot at the president through the windows.

“Yes, sir,” said Jay. “We have to win this seat. It's home cookin'. We've tested the top-tier candidates, and he polls the best.”

“Polls, always the polls,” said Long, sighing. “Alright, bring him in.”

Jay walked to the door of the suite and opened it. In breezed Governor Macauley “Mack” Caulfield, who served as Long's lieutenant governor and rose to the governorship when Long won the presidency. Eager to please, with a lanky build, ready smile, and a male bouffant of boyish brown hair, Caulfield looked like he won the lottery.

“Mr. President, that was a
terrific
speech,” he fairly gushed as he loped across the huge Oriental rug in the living room, blue eyes dancing. “Never heard you better, sir.”

Long grinned. “I got in a few licks.”

“The shot at Stanley was classic!” He glanced at Jay like a puppy in full wag. “What was it again? ‘I know the majority leader calls me the enemy. I only wish he got as worked up about opposing al Qaeda and Rassem el Zafarshan as he does me.'”

“Do you realize only two of my fourteen appellate court nominees have even had a hearing?” asked Long.

“Outrageous!”

“Mr. President, I'm going to let you two visit in private,” said Jay, backing out of the room on cue.

“Have a seat, Mack,” said Long. “Pull up a chair.” It was bonding time.

A White House photographer snapped a rapid-fire series of shots. As he captured the scene for posterity, the president and Caulfield caught up on political gossip.

“Any truth to the rumor that Peg Lipscomb is going to run for governor?” asked Long, eyebrows arched. Lipscomb was the former CEO of a Silicon Valley software firm with a personal fortune of over $700 million.

“She's looking hard at it. As you can imagine, the Republican Governor's Association is salivating because she can self-fund.”

“Ego with a checkbook,” said Long, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “She's Meg Whitman without the charisma.”

Caulfield chuckled. “We've already got an oppo file on her six inches thick. She's used undocumented aliens to mow the lawn of her mansion. She got fined by the SEC for backdating stock options.”

“Really? I think you'll beat her convincingly. She's got money but no policy chops.”

“Zero,” agreed Caulfield. “She did the
LA Times
ed board, and someone asked her about how she could balance the budget and cut the state income tax at the same time. You know what her answer was?”

“What?”

“Lowering tax rates will increase revenue. She cited the Laffer curve.”

Long laughed, slapping his knee. “That's great for a Heritage Foundation lecture, but it won't fly in Sacramento. Governors have to balance the budget.”

“Don't I know it,” said Caulfield, rolling his eyes.

Long crossed his legs, reloading. “Mack, I want to talk about your future.”

“Okay,” said Caulfield with a hint of reticence.

“Look, I know your inclination is to run for governor, and I don't blame you,” said the president. “It's a great job. But I think you should keep all your options open. I think the country might need you in another capacity.”

“Such as?”

“U.S. Senate.”

Caulfield's face fell. “You really think I should run against Kate?” Katherine “Kate” Covitz was a former congresswoman and two-term senator. Married to a wealthy real estate developer, she was a prodigious fund-raiser and true-blue liberal, far to the left of Long.

“She doesn't even want to be a senator,” said Long, sliding to the edge of his seat. “She traded her vote for a committee chairmanship. Now she votes however Stanley tells her to. She's checked out. Unless you're the sultan of Brunei, you can't even get a meeting with her.”

“That's funny . . . I've heard the same thing from our people in DC.”

“It's true. I'm telling you, California's only has one United States senator for all practical purposes. Kate's the third senator from New Jersey. She's
got
to go.”

“But Mr. President, she'll have strong support in a Democratic primary,” Caulfield objected. “She's got the feminists, the labor unions, the Jewish community, and the Latino community wrapped around her finger.”

“I'm not talking about the primary,” replied Long, his eyes hooded.

“What do you mean?”

“Run as an independent.”

Caulfield looked like he had been punched in the gut. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“You're about to give
me
a heart attack.”

Long laughed. His fish about to jump the hook, he decided to put some slack in the line. “Mack, I know it's a lot to consider. Take some time to think on it. But the wave I rode to the White House is still cresting. People are tired of partisanship, career politicians, and business as usual. They want to throw the bums out. They want to tear down the system and start over.”

“Kate's a tough customer,” said Caulfield.

“I know, but she's the past. You're the future. You'd beat her like a drum.”

Caulfield's eyes narrowed. “It would be the first really tough race she's ever had, that's for sure.” He leaned forward. Long sensed he was ready to deal. “Mr. President, nothing in politics is guaranteed. If I ran, I could lose. If that were to happen, I'm assuming there would be an opportunity to serve in some other capacity?”

Long raised one corner of his mouth. “If for any reason you didn't make it, we'll come up with a Plan B. Frankly, I think you'll win, and my preference would be for you to be in the Senate. But if that didn't work out, I'd find a place for you.”

A smile spread across Caulfield's face. “Glad to hear it. If I walk away from the governorship, I'd just like to know it would be remembered.”

“You bet,” said Long, signaling the meeting was over as he rose to his feet. “Give Charlie Hector a call and work out the specifics. Let him know your areas of interest. You'll be on our short list if this doesn't pan out for some reason.” Taking the cue, Caulfield stood up. Long grabbed his right hand and pumped with both hands. He pulled Caulfield close, their faces inches apart. “You'd be a heckuva senator. Impact player from day one.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Long walked him to the door, his hand gently on Caulfield's elbow as though he were guiding a quarter horse. “Give my love to the missus.”

The door swung open. Jay stood in the hall chatting it up with the Secret Service agents.

“Jay, you missed all the fireworks!” joked Caulfield.

“Oh really?” asked Jay, playing dumb. “How so?”

Long put his arm around Caulfield's shoulder. “Mack has agreed to run for the United States Senate.”

“That's terrific, governor!” exclaimed Jay.

“Well, not exactly,” said Caulfield, stunned. “I think I said I'd think about it.”

“Okay, you've thought about it,” said Long. “Now it's time to say yes.”

“I need more than five minutes to decide, Mr. President.”

“No you don't. It's all about the gut.” Long patted Caulfield's midsection with the palm of his hand. “When you know, you just
know.
”

Caulfield began shuffling for the door, trying to break away from Long's embrace. “I promise, I'll get back to you soon, Mr. President.” He scampered down the hallway toward the elevator, a California state trooper in tow.

The Secret Service agent pulled the door closed, leaving Jay and the president alone.

“How did it go?” asked Jay.

“I worked him hard. I think he's 50–50. He's a governor, for crying out loud. It's a pretty good gig, and we're asking him to give that up for a wing and a prayer.”

“We need to get him to a better place.”