The Parnell Affair

The Parnell Affair

B
y

Seth James

© 2011 Seth James

Chapter 1

“The terrorists used any means necessary,” President Peter Howland told the men sitting or standing around the Oval Office.  “And so we're justified in doing the same, in taking any steps necessary to safeguard the people and interests of the United States.”  Though comparatively new to elected politics—President Howland's only elected office prior to winning the 2000 Presidential election was as governor of Texas in '93—he had quickly developed a sonorous and compelling oratorical voice, quite different from his speaking voice, which he called upon whenever he felt the need to appear particularly dignified.  Many commentators had spoken of its reassuring quality in the days following 9/11, when the President had flown to New York and spoken to survivors and rescuers of their bravery—and spoke to the cameras in biblical terms of coming vengeance.  His six-foot four frame and shoulders that remembered college football fitted well the aggressive policies he would pursue into Afghanistan, while the graying temples of his still thick black hair lent an air of wisdom to the concerns, and later accusations, of Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) in Iraq.

His easy posture, leaning against his desk, with the hot July sun dancing on the south lawn through the windows behind him, could have been a pose from one of his “straight talk” national addresses: he'd learned a great deal while serving unelected in the media-savvy Regan White House.  But he had no such audience at the moment and exercised lessons learned during an earlier Presidency: the three insiders to whom he spoke were all—like himself—former Nixon staffers.  Ben Butler, the cantankerous Secretary of Defense, nodded with impatient conviction (he didn't need to be told), sitting on a couch near the coffee table; Jon Thoblon, Under Secretary of State for Arms Control and International Security, leered at the SecDef, absently touching the briefcase he'd laid on the coffee table when he'd sat down; near the door to the President's study stood Karl Kristiansen, the President's Chief of Staff, who'd followed him patiently from one corner of politics to another for thirty-four years.

“They attacked us,” President Howland continued.  “They came to our shores and killed our people—and not for the first time.  They've destroyed our buildings, attacked our ships and our embassies: what wouldn't they do?  To what lengths would they not go?  If they could obtain a weapon of Mass Destruction, would they hesitate for a moment to use it?  And we know, beyond doubt, that our old friend Saddam Hussein—a man so wicked he murdered thousands of his own people with WMDs—is actively seeking a nuclear weapon: would he hesitate to give it to the terrorists?  I know you all know these facts, I'm preaching to the choir,” he said, smiling and putting his hands in his pockets.  “And I know I don't have to tell you that freeing Iraq and opening its oil wealth to unfettered markets—markets free of OPEC's control—would enhance our economic security.  But I wanted to reiterate these facts before Joe Parnell gets here.  Because, as you know, there are some who doubt; some who naively conceive of a world without evil, a world of inviolable rules.  I like to think my children are that innocent: but like parents protecting children, we must make hard, realistic decisions.  I'm sure I can count on all of you.”

“Hell, Pete, that's why we're here,” Ben Butler said.  He'd been President Howland's superior at one point in the '70s, and then his equal during the Regan years; he'd been to Pete's eldest daughter's wedding and vacationed with the Howlands in the '90s while the party deliberated its choice for a Presidential candidate.  They were old friends and so Secretary Butler also knew his familiarity—which he thought of as leveling—would strike the President as inappropriate.  Normally, he couldn't be bothered with such “tender feelings” but today was different.

Secretary Butler cleared his throat.  “You know you can count on us, Mr. President.  I'm just sorry about Penworth.  Not that it's his fault,” he added quickly, jutting his jaw forward, nostrils flaring.  “That goddamn Italian airline is to blame.  You know they kept him on the runway for six hours before bringing the plane back in, gave him the run-around for twelve more hours, only to cancel the goddamn flight—and then the next one, too!”  He threw himself back into the couch.  “Shit, we're lucky that son of a bitch got back in time,” he said motioning at Jon Thoblon's briefcase.

“Why the hell didn't he use one of our birds?” Thoblon asked, eyes flitting between people.  “An Italian airline, after all, probably needed eighteen hours to squeeze in all their breaks and union meetings.”

“Couldn't have him use one of ours because—” Ben Butler began.

“I do not think we need to take up the President's time with 'mechanical' discussions,” Karl Kristiansen, the Chief of Staff, said as he took a quick step forward.  Secretary Butler rolled his eyes.  “Joe Parnell will be here any minute now,” he said, checking his watch, “so, with your permission, Mr. President, I would like to run through the plan.”

“Go ahead, Karl,” President Howland said.

“Our line is this,” Karl said, placing his hands palm-to-palm, index finger tips pressing his lips for a moment.  “We had told Parnell before he went to Niger that we expected him to find evidence of Iraqi attempts to buy uranium yellowcake.  Because of your Agent Penworth's airline troubles, he never found the evidence; and so Parnell wrote a report to the effect that no such attempts were made—and it is killing us in the Senate.  When Parnell gets here, we tell him we expected him to find those documents,” he said, pointing to Jon Thoblon's briefcase.  “We say we wanted him to
independently
verify what we already knew to be true from British Intelligence.  We say, 'You did not find the documents, Joe, but the facts remain unchanged; your report runs contrary to the facts as we know them; you need to change your stance and write a new report.'  We do not need any rough stuff at the beginning,” he said, looking pointedly at the SecDef.

“Until it's necessary,” Ben Butler replied.

“Hopefully, it will not be necessary,” the Chief of Staff said.  “Do not underestimate him: remember the Gulf War?  He was in the US Embassy in Iraq standing up to Saddam Hussein, defying his order to turn over all foreigners.  He is tough, so becoming confrontational will not help.  But he also worked a lifetime at the State Department: he knows a good lie is sometimes better than bad truth. He may play ball.”

“For the good of the country,” President Howland added, uncrossing his arms.  “Which reminds me, speaking of the Gulf War, you better go get the VP, Karl.  He thought highly of Joe, at least back then.”

“Why not now?” Jon Thoblon asked, scooting to the edge of his chair.

“Parnell's wife,” Karl Kristiansen said over his shoulder as he reached for the door to the President's study, “is CIA.  Undercover.  WMD specialist.  We did not know and CIA did not tell us before we sent Parnell.”

“I thought we were trying to keep them out of it,” Ben Butler said.

“We were,” Karl said as he slipped through the door, “but they did not tell us before we sent him.  Probably why the VP is on such a bender,” he added under his breath.

This room is going to stink of scotch, Pete thought as Karl disappeared through the door.  The very thought of the Vice President's
Johnny Walker
worked on Pete's mind as if he smelled it already.  They say the sense of smell is strongly linked to memory, he thought.  Pete walked slowly around his desk to stand at the windows, appearing to admire the rose garden.  Christ, he thought, I'm President of the United States of America and I still can't forget a stupid bit of childhood foolishness.  He felt his cheeks glow.

I think that was the first time I tasted
Johnny Walker
, Pete thought: boy could Dad walk into a room.  Pete's father had been the most powerful Texas State Senator for nearly fifty years, since returning from World War II as a dashing, heroic B-25 pilot.  When Pete was sixteen, his father brought him to the Hollow Brooks Country Club, a club that did not rely entirely on extravagant dues to filter potential members—they had better means.  Pete's father had been gifted with a lifetime membership years before, which was just as well because, though wealthy by the standards of his immediate neighbors, Pete's family had nowhere near the money of the oil man he'd been taken to see.  Pete's family had arrived in Texas from Connecticut at the turn of the last century, brought by a strong-willed Howland patriarch intent on oil and dynasty.  He succeeded for a while—until their wells ran dry.  The family had become influential in its small region of East Texas, and remained so but was largely left behind and out of Big Oil.  Pete's father's political muscle and social skill had returned the family to prominence, some twenty years after it had faltered: the government of Texas didn't make a move without Senator Howland's okay.  Naturally, Big Oil had time for him.  But it was more than politics and money: Pete had noticed how his father could walk into a room and not only join the crowd—who always welcomed him, even when ignorant of his name—but lead the crowd.  Not as a general or priest, Pete saw his father lead as the captain of the baseball team might: by example.  When he told a joke, other men would pick up his mannerisms.  When he deplored some bit of news, he conferred the dignity of his remarks upon his listeners.  If he thanked or complemented someone, they felt as if he'd credited them with more than they deserved but would keep the discrepancy quiet.  A wink and a nudge from Senator Howland could turn a place as private as a pharmacy line into the deepest of back rooms.

Pete never could figure out how his father did it.  He watched him all the years of his life, up to the Senator's death in 1986, fascinated but perplexed as well.  That day in 1962 was no different: the country club was mostly empty but every servant stood to one side and smiled a salute to Senator Howland.  The Big Oil man sat huge and overflowing in a red leather chair, toying with a glass of straight bourbon and smoking a cigar.  Near him a man in his twenties stood in a Yale sweater, respectfully disguising his boredom.  Senator Howland introduced his son to the oil man and the man's son, home from Yale.  Pete, now President, staring at the roses wobbling in the July heat, forty years later, with one war going on in Afghanistan and pushing for another in Iraq, blushed to the roots of his hair at the memory.  It always went the same way, Pete thought.  “How old are you, son?” they'd ask and then, “Where are you going to school?”  It was like watching a school-yard bully take notice of you, Pete thought.  I'd say Central; they'd carefully conceal their surprise that I wasn't in a private prep school, and politely ask about the football, which was always better than last year.  Christ, one even said he understood, what with my daddy being a politician—as lowly as that—why I
had
to attend public school.  But this time he asked, “Where are you going to college?  Yale, like your father?”  “Yes, sir, if I keep my grades up.”  Idiot.  They blinked a few times before laughing quietly as if I'd made a joke.  Condescending kindness.  Dad even slapped me on the back.  Grades had nothing to do with where they went to school or if the graduated.  “Well, it's almost noon: Carlton, why don't you take Peter over to the bar, have a few drinks and tell him what he's in for?”  It was almost a relief to leave the grownups to their talk until I realized Carlton was no safer to be around, Pete remembered.  Never mind his being four years older, Pete thought, he knew how to talk.  Carlton signaled for the barman with his eyebrows and asked what “we'll” have: “Whatever you're having,” I say brilliantly.  He smiled generously and suggested scotch and soda: I say, swell.  The barman put them down, Carlton raised his, and I—determined to do something right—snatch mine off the bar, spilling some, and say, “Cheers” loudly.  He couldn't check his laugh that time: they don't say cheers, genius.  And I laughed too and tried to cover by saying, “I have a sense of humor!”  By god, did I feel foolish.  And that Carlton just couldn't have been nicer or more accommodating, the bastard.

President Howland turned back to the Oval Office when he heard a thud against the wall from inside his study.  A moment later, Vice President Paul Kluister barreled through the door, the smell of scotch preceding him and Karl Kristiansen following.

“Pete,” the VP said, nodding hello.  “Hey, Ben, Jon, good of you to come,” he said buttoning his jacket, taking a seat next to the SecDef, and then unbuttoning it again.  “That son of a bitch here yet?”

“He's not a son of a bitch, yet, Paul?” President Howland said, trying to smile generously but not quite getting there.

“He's a son of a bitch, all right,” Vice President Kluister barked.  “Not two months ago, he stood right here,” he shouted, point at the rug, “while you asked him to go to Niger and look into their uranium production and Iraq.  Did that son of a bitch say one goddamn thing about his wife being CIA?  The mission wasn't a secret: did that bastard Lodge tell us, 'Oh, by the way, one of my operatives will be in country?'  No!” the Vice President shouted.  He took a few audible breaths through his bloodshot nose and passed a hand over his gravel-colored hair.  “I'm sorry, Mr. President,” he said more quietly.  “I beg your pardon.  Disloyalty—” he began to say but trailed off.

His outburst had filled the Oval Office with the clubroom atmosphere of blended scotch and halitosis.  President Howland hated the smell, despite his fondness for the occasional highball.

“I understand, Paul,” he said to the VP.  “I do.  But let's not look at it that way.  We sent him—you know what, Karl, let's keep this social; pour a few drinks,” President Howland said with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows to his Chief of Staff.  Maybe it'll explain the smell, Pete thought. “We sent him to do a job, Paul, and given the facts he had to work with,” he said, almost motioning to Jon Thoblon's briefcase, “he did it well.  It wasn't his fault.  So let's keep that disloyalty talk to a minimum.  We've asked him here to call upon his patriotism,” President Howland began.