The Parnell Affair (6 page)

“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,” the President said as he slipped into the Oval Office.  “My weekly radio address—no, please sit down,” he said to the VP and SecDef as they made the motions of men preparing to heave up to their feet.  The President sat on the couch opposite them; they were all old enough friends not to shake hands at every meeting.  “Oh, uh,” the President said, looking around.

“Here you go, sir,” Karl said, handing Pete a bottle of tomato juice and a glass without ice. Karl remained standing.

“Okay, Karl, shoot,” Pete said.

“A week has passed since we asked Joe Parnell to,” Karl said and paused, “to put his country before his pride and support the Administration.”

Vice President Kluister snorted.

“Right,” Pete said, nodding his approval at Karl's phrasing.  “You were going to put out a feeler.”

Karl shook his head sadly.  “He was insolent as ever,” he said.

“Time to blow the whistle on this Joe Parnell,” Paul said, chewing the name.

“He's had enough time to see sense,” Ben Butler, the SecDef, said.

“How bad is it in the Senate?” Pete asked Karl.

“Bad,” Paul answered.  “Perkins'll keep the party in line but any war resolution could sit in committee forever.  Even if it came to a vote, the Dems would probably filibuster.”

“With the current evidence, that is probably true, Mr. President,” Karl said.

“All because of that goddamn white paper?” Ben Butler said.  “Tell those hand-wringing pansies to keep their mouths shut and—”

“We want them in,” Karl said, interrupting.  “If they are in, if they have to vote
for
war powers, it will hurt them with their core constituencies in '04.  Allow us to pick up seats in both houses.”

“Smart,” Pete said, nodding.  “Always looking ahead, Karl: good.  But in the short term?”

“In the short term,” Karl said, “Ben is correct: that white paper is killing us.  Wild scandals and rumors could damage Parnell's reputation but would not affect his findings.”  He paused and a Cheshire-cat smile twitched at his cheeks.  “Unless we show he deliberately misled Congress with his report.  We can use the fact that he found no evidence as evidence that there is a fact.  I should say, 'she' actually.”

“I don't need specifics,” Pete said, holding up a hand.  “You're confident?”

“Absolutely,” Karl said.

“You're going to use his wife?” Ben Butler asked.  “You said something about that earlier.”

“Let's leave it with Karl,” Pete said.

“You'll see it this Sunday,” Karl said to Ben.  “If you read
The Washington Observer
.”

“And this'll get us back on track for phase one?” Paul asked.

“Here we go again: now you got him saying phases,” Pete said to Karl.  They laughed.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” Karl said, still chuckling.  “It is really only two parts of how to move
Congress to grant war powers.  We want to conjure in their minds the image of a nuclear 9/11.  First, we need to create a nuke in the hands of someone who would use it against us: by using Parnell's report against him, we put that nuke in Saddam's hands.  Part two is showing that Saddam has contact with Al Qaeda—so everyone worries about them using his nuke on us.  Show those two elements and no one in the Senate could dare vote against war powers.”

“Right,” Pete said.  “We had a reassuring number of phone calls today after my address—just for special—about terrorists.”

“And how's that second phase coming?” Paul asked.

“We want a confession from an Al Qaeda enemy combatant, preferably,” Karl said.

“Confessing to what?” Paul asked as if he'd never heard of the idea.

“To working with, or at least communicating with, Saddam,” Karl said.  “The tricky part is
getting
the confession.”

“Of course it is,” the VP said.  “These sons-of-bitches are hardcore fanatics: can't bribe them, can't reason with them.  They want nothing more than to die in Allah’s name,” Paul said, rolling his eyes and making a rhythmic hand-gesture.

“That's what these young ladies in the Senate don't understand,” Ben Butler said.  “We're not dealing with normal people—so normal tactics aren't good enough.”

“And this, Mr. President, is what phase two is up against,” Karl said.  “Normally we would buy the information or eavesdrop on the organization—”

“Hold on, hold on,” Pete said.  “Listen, I appreciate you taking the trouble to keep gory details and, uh, grey-area stuff away from me.  I really do appreciate it, gentlemen,” he said, taking each one in his gaze in turn.  “But let's be frank for a second: we don't have any evidence of a link between Al Qaeda and Saddam.  The confession, or confessions, would be the only evidence.”

“It's all we'd need, Pete,” Paul said.  “It's all we'd need.  Just that, and the Senate would be stampeding to vote yea.”

“But what I'm getting at, Paul—” the President began.

“I know,” Karl said.  “How to get it out of them?  Like Ben says, it takes special means.  The way we interrogate now is not doing the trick; we have seen that from the interrogations we have done at camp X-ray in Gitmo up until now.”

“You let me run an interrogation,” Ben Butler said, “and I'll have one of those filthy dogs singing like Patty Duke.”

The VP laughed.  “He would, too,” he said, cocking a thumb.

“That would be a lot of interrogations for you to run,” Karl said, smiling.  “If we could let the military and CIA go beyond what the Army Field Manual says—”

“Hold up,” Pete said, raising a hand.  “You mean, let me see,” he said, looking at the ceiling, “uh, adjust interrogation methods to the cultural realities our soldiers and agents face with Al Qaeda.”

“That's it!” Karl said.  “That was a good one, sir.”  He stooped to the coffee table and scribbled on a piece of White House stationary.  “But such changes have to be put in writing or the agents on the ground will never do it—they would worry about legal ramifications.”

“An order isn't enough?” Ben Butler demanded.

“A written one is,” Karl said.

“How it's written, that's the key,” Pete said.  “It should be written in such a way to stand legal scrutiny but give the agents the impression anything goes—just get the results.”

“That is,” Paul grunted, “if these disloyal bastards running CIA will send out the order.”

“Shit, we can hand-deliver it to Gitmo,” Ben Butler said.

“I have talked with John Wu over at Justice,” Karl said.  “He's got an idea of how we could write it—but he needs some specific techniques to do it right.  Who knows about these 'Enhanced Interrogation Techniques,' to use a phrase he likes?”

“Ha!” Ben Butler laughed.  “I know where he got that, the bastard,” he said, chuckling.  “Good boy.  Hell, I know about them.  Before I finished Naval Aviator training, I had to go through survival school.  There, they teach you how to handle it if you go down: escape, evasion, survival, and dealing with being captured.  This was a while ago,” he said, sharing a grin with the VP.  “Now a-days they call it SERE school: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape or some shit.  Basically in this school they simulate being tor—uh—harshly interrogated by Russians or Chinese or someone.  The psychiatrists who run that school would know all about the 'Enhanced Interrogation Techniques' you need Karl.  They could kind of reverse engineer the SERE school, build a program for getting the confessions, and help this boy Wu right his opinion.  I can set up a meeting.”

“Whoa,” Pete said.  “Who's at this meeting and where would it take place?”

“He said this boy at Justice needs to talk to the psychiatrists who set up the SERE school,” Ben Butler said.  “We'll do it at the Pentagon—keep those CIA shits you're worried about out of it,” he said with a wink at Paul.

“That's not a bad idea,” Pete said.  “Actually, it could work for something else, too.  If all goes well, we'd have the nuke and the connection between Saddam and Al Qaeda in a couple months, right?  Then, we should present our case to the UN.”  Everyone groaned.  “No, wait a minute, it'll be okay.  We really should.  Look at it like this: no matter what is said to the UN, they never go far enough to actually solve anything, right?”

“Goddamn useless jackasses,” Ben Butler concurred.

“So if the Security Council passes even a wishy-washy resolution, it will help us,” Karl said, “by putting more pressure on Congress to do what is needed.”

“Right,” Pete said.  “It means there's nowhere else to go to, no one else to ask:
Congress does it—by giving us war powers—or Saddam gives Al Qaeda nukes and they blow us up.”

“And if the UN shoots us down?” Ben Butler asked.

“We will have some great evidence by then,” Karl said.  “And we can make it tough for the other Security Council members to vote against: we could have Nate present the case,” he said, meaning Nathaniel McLean, the Secretary of State.

“Hell, I don't see 'McClean' trying too hard, somehow,” Ben Butler said.

“He's got a great reputation,” Paul said with a smile.  “Time for him to cash it in.  Always supposing the goddamn CIA doesn't load him up with their contrary opinions!”

“And that brings me back to Ben's meeting at the Pentagon,” Pete said.  “Instead of a one-shot meeting inside the Pentagon—where we're safe from interference—let's set up an office there.  We need several things done and the Pentagon would provide the security, the provenance, and the support to accomplish them.”

              “What things, exactly?” Ben asked.  “Other than helping this boy Wu to write his legal opinion.”

“I was thinking,” Pete said.  “Instead of having CIA and DIA and the NSA and Energy and the military and who knows who else each brief Nate on what we know before he goes to try to convince the Security Council, we could set up an office that would collect data from each of these organizations and write a comprehensive opinion.”

“Yes!” Ben Butler said.  “That's it, that's what we need.  That'll keep all the indecisive hand-wringing bullshit out.  And I know just the man to run it: Dutch Faith, my deputy.  Good man, smart, loyal,” he said, looking at Paul.  “I'll have Wolfson as nominal head, but Dutch will actually run it.”

“Excellent,” Karl said.  “I see it, Mr. President; we invite selected personnel from DIA, FBI, the military, NSA, and even CIA (we have a few trusted men in Operations, Paul).  They will make sure a strong argument for war is presented to the Secretary of State and through him to the UN.”

“And by keeping this other thing,” Paul said, “this executive order Wu will write and the 'Enhanced Interrogation Techniques' Ben's shrinks will develop, all under one roof at the Pentagon, we shouldn't have any leaks,” the VP said, smiling grimly.  “I like it; secure.  What'll we call it?”

“How about the Office of Special Plans,” Karl said.

“Of course; I'd forgotten we told her she could have her weekend curfew throughout the summer,” Joe Parnell said, pausing with a shoe in his hands as he sat on his side of the bed.  “But it's still a school night for me,” he said over his shoulder.  “And I know I’ll wake up when she unlocks the front door.”

He spoke over his shoulder but didn't look.  Another change that seemed to happen unnoticed one day only to be recognized as peculiar months later: Joe and Sally changed clothes for bed at the same time back to back each night, never seeing the other undressed.  For the sake of appearances—to Lucy—they continued to share a bed, but their physical intimacy stopped there.  Neither had taken the next step and begun changing in the master bath (as Joe did each morning, but with the excuse of not wishing to wake Sally); but that, perhaps, was only to avoid a discussion of its significance.  Another reiteration of how goddamn reasonable we all are, Joe had thought on more than one occasion.  Such discussions had happened, of course, and never with yelling or tears or blame.  It was as if the marriage had died and they were now distant relatives, brought together to see to the arrangements, awaiting patiently for the day of their return trips back to from wherever they had come.

Sally opened her mouth to suggest he didn't need to go into the office so early, particularly as it was his organization.  But she caught herself—she knew he went to Ms Fromsett's each morning—and instead said, “I'll say something to her.”  Sally slipped her bra off her shoulders with one motion and put a long t-shirt over her head on the return stroke.  Though she occasionally fantasized about reaching out to Joe in the middle of the night, she never did and she didn't like to think of herself making any gestures which could be interpreted as an advance.  It would feel too much like coming on to another woman's husband.  I wonder if he's proposed to Ms Fromsett yet, she thought as she kicked off her jeans.  “We had talked of a week away with the girls, once Anna comes back from Tahoe,” she said.

“Last week in August,” Joe said, hopping where he sat on his side of the bed to take his trousers down without standing.  When he hopped again, Sally would know it was safe to turn around.  “I thought it was settled.”

“We'd talked about it,” Sally said, “but the girl's didn't know their schedules yet.”

“That close to classes beginning?” he asked.  “They can't have anything too crazy planned.  Anyway, they should make the effort: could be our last family vacation,” he said and froze in his dressing.  Quickly, he added: “Anna's determined to see her friends in Frankfurt next summer.  And then Lucy will be away at University and then we'll only likely see them at holidays.”