The Mandarin Club (18 page)

“What the hell was that all about?” Booth asked when Landle was out of earshot.

“The China business?” Smithson responded. “Or the Taiwan stuff?”

“Both,” Booth replied. “That’s a pretty heavy load he’s carrying.”

“It’s horseshit, Martin. Same old executive branch horseshit. They think they can intimidate me. Landle talks pretty. But he’s just a messenger for the bully boys down at the White House. Well, Jake don’t quail before bullies.”

Just then, they were startled by an outburst of laughter. Senator Jennings was regaling a clutch of legislators in the well with one of his vulgar jokes. An upright Catholic, the Pennsylvanian saved his raunchiest lines for the Senate chamber. While the civics classes observed reverently from the gallery above, sophomoric Jennings would whisper about hooters and a tight snatch, squealing with the same clique of buddies.

“Want me to go check the NID?” Booth said, thinking the daily National Intelligence Digest might shed light on Landle’s game. “Maybe we should hold off a couple of days.”

“No, Landle’s probably just messing with our heads. Longer this amendment sits out there, the more erosion there will be of our base. Let’s roll the dice.”

“You know, Cavanaugh was with us on the China human rights resolution last fall. We might still hold him.”

“That was then, this is now,” Smithson said. “Human rights resolutions are freebies. Export licenses mean real business, real jobs, real campaign donations.”

“Industry has cranked up the pressure,” Booth agreed. “I saw Talbott in the Senators’ Dining Room at breakfast with Senator Knowlton and Senator Mueller.”

“Well, it was that big Telstar satellite launch contract that triggered our amendment. I’m sure Talbott and Miss Rachel are pulling out all the stops to beat us.”

“Senator, are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

Smithson pulled his head back slowly, regarding his aide with a skeptical eye. All about them, a dozen senators’ conversations ran together in a burbling stream of noise.

“Comfortable?” he said, laughing. “Comfortable! You know, Martin, let me tell you something. When I went up in Apollo that first time, I sat there for hours through a launch delay. Too much cloud cover. Could have messed up recovery if we’d aborted. I’m the rookie sitting on top of the candle with two vets. Top of a gantry with a gazillion gallons of explosive fuel under my ass and I gotta take a leak so bad I don’t want to wait for launch to fill my bag. My commander turns to me and asks, ‘You comfortable with this?’”

“Senator, I just mean—”

“Martin, I know what you meant.” They both smiled as Smithson paused. “I’m just trying to manage a State Department funding bill here. My little amendment is probably about as popular as a skunk at a garden party. I’m thinking of running for president from a state full of high tech execs who’ll be pissed off about this one for months.”

“Try years.”

“But you know what? I’m doing the right thing for our country. That’s the only goddamn reason worth coming here, except the ego trip. So if somebody doesn’t see that it’s a good thing, well, screw ’em.”

“Senator, I didn’t—”

“So, yeah, Martin. I’m very comfortable. Thanks for asking.”

Booth truly loved the man. It was at moments like these that he best understood why. Yet, Booth wondered increasingly of late about his own staying power. His wife Amy joked that, had he not ended up in the Senate with Smithson, he might have drifted into the priesthood, where he could have clung to his illusory visions of righteous man.

Booth was content with the sense of public purpose that attended his every decision. He relished the sense that he labored at the heart of things, that his life’s work was significant. He could stand for God and country, oppose Communism and nuclear proliferation. The choices were clear, the stakes meaningful. His father, he knew, would have been proud.

As his day unfolded, Booth worked a thirty-yard perimeter around his staff chair next to the Majority Leader’s desk, keenly attuned to the odd rhythms of the yellow-walled chamber. He would drift out into the two party cloakrooms, where senators were using the phones or watching film of an Arizona factory hostage situation on Fox, occasionally crossing the hall to the Vice President’s office, where the administration staff sat at a long table poring over legislative language. Then he would work his way back toward the well to buttonhole senators and warn them their speaking slot was approaching.

He faced a series of distractions, primarily senators checking in with scheduling inquiries. His hip kept vibrating, persistent efforts to reach him on his Blackberry. One number he recognized as Alexander’s cell phone. Another was Charleen, his administrative assistant, summoning him yet again.

A Senate page brought him some backup files Charleen had sent over, accompanied by pink phone message slips from Smithson’s secretary. Some guy named “Kwan” had called three times, insisting it was urgent. Booth tucked the slips back in his Action File with a dozen other unreturned messages.

Just after four o’clock, Alexander surprised him in the Vice President’s Lobby, gesturing over the shoulder of a committee aide who’d been conferring with Booth.

“I need five minutes,” said Alexander, who held up his fingers as he mouthed the request. “Alone.”

Booth asked a staff colleague heading back into the Senate chamber to cover for him while Smithson disposed of some minor amendment on the floor. Then he and Alexander walked together, away from the noise.

Booth led them down two flights of stairs to the crypt under the rotunda. The small room was a favorite retreat of his; it afforded a cool refuge to share a private moment. It was here that the Union troops had baked their bread when quartered in the building during the early days of the Civil War, even as construction of the great dome proceeded.

“You need to see this,” Alexander said, handing him a three-page computer printout. “It could help your vote.”

“On export licenses?”

“Yeah. My story will run tomorrow. And I thought you might want to hold your roll call until after it’s in the paper. Might be able to pick up some votes.”

“Why, Alexander,” said Booth, cocking his head mischievously, “are you playing politics?”

“No. I just thought—”

“He doth protest too much.” Booth straight-armed him as he chuckled. “Mister Bonner gets down and dirty. Welcome to the fray.”

Alexander shrugged as Booth began to read aloud from his draft of the next morning’s story in the
Los Angeles Times
. The punch of the piece was clear from the lead:

Military officials of the People’s Republic of China have expanded efforts to circumvent U.S. export controls and to purchase sensitive weapons technology, according to diplomatic sources. These purchases of dual
-
use technology have aided Chinese efforts both to deploy medium range ballistic missiles against neighboring democratic Taiwan and to aid the missile development programs of U.S. adversaries, so
-
called rogue nations like North Korea and Iran. Coming on the heels of increased anti
-
American rhetoric from Beijing officials, these new developments threaten the U.S.
-
PRC summit slated for this summer in Seattle.

“I like the detail here,” Booth commented before he read aloud again:

A second scheme involves the veiled purchase from Telstar Corporation of specially designed computer systems used for real
-
time battle management, which have reportedly been sold to the People’s Liberation Army in contravention of U.S. export controls.

“How’d you track down this stuff?” “I’ve got my sources. Actually, I was thinking of trying to insert a Smithson quote there.” “Yeah. I could get in a plug for our vote on export controls.” “Like I said. . .” Booth let out a low, steady whistle, the sound rolling about in the darkened crypt. “Is this Telstar stuff solid?”

“Of course it’s solid. CIA is all burned up because the State Department’s sitting on it. And the Congressional Relations people at State have been kept in the dark, so they won’t have to lie to you. A lot of stuff I got from people sick of the promiscuous Chinese exports to Iran.”

“Let me just guess—Israelis?”

“Don’t go there.”

“Hell, I thought that FBI sting on the Israel lobbyists put a damper on them. Better watch yourself. You may be on tape.”

Booth pondered for a few moments. His Blackberry was zapping his hip again. He looked down to read the latest: Charleen with their 911 signal. “I’ve got to get back, Alexander. I think we can win our China amendment vote with this story.”

They turned to climb the small spiral staircase, its steps polished smooth from two centuries of use, then transited the tiled hallway outside the Majority Leader’s second floor suite. Before they separated, Booth had a final question.

“Hey, one more thing. Have you picked up anything on a revived Taiwan nuclear program? You know, some last-ditch deterrent against the Mainland?”

“
Nuclear
stuff?”

“Yeah, nuclear stuff. Sensitive imports of dual-use stuff.”

“To
Taiwan
?” Alexander was incredulous.

“Yep.”

“Holy shit. Where’re you picking this up?”

“Just got a whiff of it.”

“Jesus. If Taiwan is even considering getting nukes, the PRC will go nuts.”

“Right you are. Anyway, let me know if you hear anything. And. . . thanks. I’ve got to go have the vote put over until your story comes out tomorrow.”

They parted, Booth striding past two armed Capitol Police officers and entering the Senate chamber through the swinging doors on the south end.

The first thing he heard was the presiding officer’s gavel, as Senator Pierpoint intoned, “Without objection, it is so ordered.”

“What’s up?” Booth grabbed Senator Cavanaugh, who was darting out of the cloakroom.

“Nice job with the time agreement,” Cavanaugh complimented him.

“What?”

“Jake just got a unanimous consent agreement to finish the bill before five-thirty tonight.” “You’re kidding! What about the amendment?” “Next vote is on your China amendment—then we’re out of here.” So much for tactical delay. It was showtime.

S
mithson’s amendment was crushed just before the cocktail hour, an ignominious 59-41 defeat.

“We were toast from day one,” Smithson muttered as they filed out of the chamber. The Chairman’s acknowledgment was no salve for Booth’s irritation. Years in the game had done little to take the edge off his disappointment, his propensity to care too much.

“I can’t believe they got every one of the undecideds,” Booth groaned.

“How about my ‘solid’ forty-six? Evaporated like a spring snow on a sunny day. Guess our pals at TPB earned their retainer.”

“Now—this just kills me—we get to drink with them,” said Booth.

Because of an oddity in the Washington calendar, springtime in the nation’s capital meant more than just the cherry blossoms and busloads of schoolchildren on tour. The July 1 deadline for filing cash-on-hand reports with the Federal Election Commission drove incumbents into a frenzy, working to report maximum dollars in the bank to scare off potential opponents. April 1st through June 30th, Tuesday breakfast through Thursday night receptions, was prime fundraising season.

Smithson’s event of the evening would be modest by Washington, D.C. standards. Drinks, not dinner. On Capitol Hill, not downtown. Stand-up cocktails and finger food in a restaurant, not a black tie sit down dinner at tables in a ballroom, and $1,000 a head for martinis, not $4,000 per couple for rubber chicken.

Booth ambled ahead of Smithson, walking out the west front of the Capitol, restoring himself with some fresh air after a day spent in the musty Senate chamber. To his surprise, the weather had become thoroughly pleasant.

He gazed down the mall in the early evening sunshine. The commuters’ tail-lights followed the lines of L’Enfant’s vision, heading west over the filled-in swamp to the Potomac. The curved gold bowl atop the Natural History Museum glowed across at the red brick of the Smithsonian castle, Grecian temple acknowledging medieval fortress. He closed his eyes a moment, taking comfort in a sense of permanence as he tended his psychological wounds.