Saving Faith (25 page)

In the course of this day Buchanan had, as always, plied members’ offices with his “leave behinds,” information and summaries the staffs would need to educate their members on the issues. If they had a question or concern, he would find an answer or an expert, promptly. And Buchanan had concluded every single meeting with the all-important question: “When can I follow up?” Without getting a date certain, he would never hear back from any of them. He would be forgotten, his place taken by a hundred others clamoring just as passionately for their clients.

Then he had spent the late afternoon covering other clients normally handled by Faith. He gave apologies and vague explanations for her absence. What else could he do?

After that he gave remarks at a think-tank-sponsored seminar on world hunger, and then it was back to his office to make phone calls ranging from reminding members’ staffs of a variety of issues coming up for vote, to drumming up coalition support from other charitable organizations. A couple of dinners were arranged, future overseas travel booked, along with a visit in January to the White House, where he would personally introduce the president to the new head of an international children’s rights organization. It was a real coup that Buchanan and the organizations he supported hoped would generate some good publicity. They were constantly on the lookout for celebrity support. Faith had been particularly good at that. Journalists were rarely interested in the poor from faraway lands, but throw in a Hollywood superstar and the media room would be bursting with scribes. Such was life.

Then Buchanan had spent some time doing his FARA—or Foreign Agent Registration Act—quarterly reports, which were a real pain in the ass, particularly since you had to stamp every page filed with Congress with the ominous label “foreign propaganda,” as if you were Tokyo Rose calling for the overthrow of the U.S. government, instead of, in Danny’s case, selling his soul to get crop seeds and powdered milk.

After bending a few more ears on the phone, then studying a few hundred pages of briefing materials, he had decided to call it a day. A glamorous day in the life of a typical Washington lobbyist, which usually ended with him collapsing into bed, except that today he did not have that luxury. Instead, he was here in this downtown hotel, attending yet another political fund-raiser, and the reason was standing in the far corner of the room sipping a glass of white wine and looking extremely bored. Buchanan headed over.

“You look like you could use something stronger than white wine,” Buchanan said.

Senator Russell Ward turned and a smile broke across his face as he looked at Buchanan. “It’s good to see an honest face in this sea of iniquity, Danny.”

“How about we trade this place for the Monocle?”

Ward put his glass down on a table. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”

 

CHAPTER 27

The Monocle was a restaurant of long standing on Capitol Hill’s Senate side. The restaurant, and the U.S. Capitol Police building, which itself used to be an Immigration and Naturalization building, were the only two structures left in this location that formerly housed a long row of buildings. The Monocle was a favorite place for politicians, lobbyists and VIPs to gather for lunch, dinner and drinks.

The maître d’ welcomed Buchanan and Ward by name and ushered the pair to a private corner table. The decor was conservative, the walls adorned with enough photographs of past and present politicians to fill the Washington Monument. The food was good, yet people didn’t come for the delights of the menus; they came to be seen, do business and talk shop. Ward and Buchanan were regulars here.

They ordered drinks and perused the menu for a moment.

As Ward studied his menu, Buchanan studied him.

Russell Ward had been called Rusty for as long as Buchanan could remember. And that was a long time, since the two had grown up together. As chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, Ward was a powerful influence on the well-being—or not—of all the country’s intelligence agencies. He was smart, politically savvy, honest, hard-working, and he came from a very wealthy northeast family that had lost its fortune when Ward was a young man. He had gone south to Raleigh and methodically built himself a career in public service. He was North Carolina’s senior senator and worshipped by the entire state. Under Buchanan’s classification system, Rusty Ward would be absolutely labeled a “Believer.” He was familiar with every political game ever played. Ward knew all the inside stories on everyone in this town. He knew people’s strengths and, more important, their weaknesses. Physically, the man was a wreck, Buchanan knew, with problems ranging from diabetes to the prostate. Yet mentally, Ward was sharp as ever. Those who underestimated the man’s massive intellect because of the physical ailments had all lived to regret it.

Ward looked up from his menu. “Anything interesting on your plate these days, Danny?”

Ward’s voice was deep and sonorous, and so wonderfully southern, all traces of clipped Yankee long gone. Buchanan could sit and listen to the man for hours. And he had done so on many occasions.

Buchanan replied, “Same old, same old. You?”

“Had an interesting hearing this morning. Senate Intelligence. CIA.”

“Is that right?”

“You ever hear of a gentleman by the name of Thornhill? Robert Thornhill?”

Buchanan’s features were impassive. “Can’t say that I know the man at all. Tell me about him.”

“He’s one of the old powers there. Associate DDO. Smart, cunning, lies his ass off with the best of them. I don’t trust him.”

“Doesn’t sound like you should.”

“I have to give the man his due though. He’s done terrific work, outlasted numerous CIA directors. Really served his country extraordinarily well. He’s actually a legend over there. They let him do more or less what he wants because of that. Such a policy, however, is dangerous.”

“Really? He sounds like a real patriot.”

“That’s what worries me. People who believe themselves to be true patriots tend to be zealots. Zealots, in my opinion, are one short step from lunatics. History has given us enough examples of that.” Ward grinned. “Today he came in to deliver the usual bullshit. He looked so smug I decided I had to tweak him a little.”

Buchanan looked very interested. “How’d you do that?”

“I asked him about death squads.” Ward paused and looked around for a moment. “We’ve had problems with the CIA over that in the past. They fund these little insurgency groups, outfit and train ’em, then turn ’em loose, like an old coon dog. Then, unlike a good coon dog, they go and do things they weren’t supposed to be doing. At least according to the official agency rules.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“Well, it wasn’t part of his little script. He looked through his briefing book like he was attempting to shake out a small band of armed men.” Ward laughed deeply. “Then he threw me some gobbledy-gook that really amounted to nothing. Said that the ‘new’ CIA was merely a collector and analyzer of information. When I asked him if he was conceding that there was something wrong with the ‘old’ CIA, I thought he might come over the table at me.” Ward laughed again. “Same old, same old.”

“So what’s he up to now that’s got you ticked off?”

Ward smiled. “Trying to get me to reveal confidences?”

“Of course.”

Ward glanced around again and then leaned forward and spoke quietly. “He was withholding information, what else? You know the spooks, Danny, they want more and more funding but when you start to ask questions about what they’re doing with that money, Jesus, it’s like you killed their mother. But what else am I going to do when I’m presented with reports from the CIA’s inspector general that have so many damn redaction’s the paper looks black? So I brought that fact to Mr. Thornhill’s attention.”

“How did he react to that? Pissed off? Cool and collected?”

“Why are you so curious about him?”

“You started it, Rusty. Don’t blame me if I find your work fascinating.”

“Well, he said those reports had to be censored to protect the identities of intelligence sources. That it was a very fine line and that the CIA walked it the best it could. I told him that it was kind of like my granddaughter playing hopscotch. She can’t hit all the squares just right, so she misses some of them on purpose. I told him it was damn cute. When
little kids
did it.

“Now, I have to give the man his due. He made some sense. He said that it’s a delusion that we’re going to knock out entrenched dictators with simple satellite photos and high-speed modems. We need old-fashioned assets on the ground. We need people inside their organizations, within their inner circles. That’s the only way we win. I understand that well enough. But the arrogance of the man, well, it gets to me. And I’m convinced that even if Robert Thornhill had no reason to lie, the man still wouldn’t tell the truth. Hell, he has this little system where he taps his pen against the table and one of his aides pretends to whisper in his ear so he’ll have a couple extra breaths to think of some lie. He’s been using that same code all these years. I guess he thinks I’m some kind of horse’s ass and wouldn’t ever catch on.”

“I’d like to think this Thornhill fellow knows better than to underestimate you.”

“Oh, he’s good. I have to admit he got the better of today’s jousting. I mean, the man can say absolutely nothing and make it sound as strong and noble as the Ten Commandments. And when he got backed into a corner, he pulled out his national security bullshit, counting on the fact that it would scare everybody to death. Bottom line: He promised me all these answers. And I told him I looked forward to working with him.” Ward sipped his water. “Yep, he won today. But there’s always tomorrow.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and they gave their orders. Buchanan worked on a glass of scotch and water while Ward nuzzled a bourbon, neat.

“So how’s your better half? Faith burning the midnight oil for another client looking to ravage us poor, defenseless elected officials?”

“Actually, right now I believe she’s out of town. Personal reasons.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

Buchanan shrugged. “Jury’s still out on that. I’m sure she’ll pull through.” But where was Faith? he wondered once more.

“I guess we’re all survivors. I don’t know how much longer this tired old carcass of mine will hold out, though.”

Buchanan raised his drink. “Outlive us all, word of Danny Buchanan.”

“God, I hope not.” Ward looked at him keenly. “It’s hard to believe that it’s been forty years since we left Bryn Mawr. You know, sometimes I envy you having grown up in that apartment over our garage.”

Buchanan smiled. “Funny, I was jealous of you for growing up in the mansion with all that money while my family waited on yours. Now which of us sounds drunk?”

“You’re the best friend I ever had.”

“And you know that sentiment is reciprocated, Senator.”

“It’s even more remarkable that you’ve never asked me for a damn thing. You damn well know I sit on a couple committees that could help your causes.”

“I like to avoid the appearance of impropriety.”

“You must be the only one in this town.” Ward chuckled.

“Let’s just say our friendship is more important to me than even that.”

Ward spoke softly. “I never told you, but what you said at my mother’s funeral touched me deeply. I swear, I think you knew the woman better than I did.”

“She was a class act. Taught me all I ever needed to know about everything. She deserved a grand sendoff. What I said didn’t come close by half.”

Ward stared into his glass. “If my stepfather could have only lived off my family’s inheritance and not tried to play businessman we might have kept the estate, and he wouldn’t have taken his head off with a shotgun. But then maybe I wouldn’t have gotten to play senator all these years if I’d had a trust fund to blow.”

“If more people played the game the way you do, Rusty, the country would be far better off.”

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but I appreciate you saying it.”

Buchanan drummed his fingers against the table. “I drove out to the old place a couple weeks ago.”

Ward looked up, surprised. “Why?”

Buchanan shrugged. “Not really sure. I was close by, I had some time. It hasn’t changed much. Still beautiful.”

“I haven’t been there since I left for college. Don’t even know who owns it now.”

“A young couple. I saw the wife and kids through the gate, playing on the front lawn. Investment banker or Internet mogul, probably. An idea and ten bucks in his pocket yesterday, a red-hot company and a hundred million in stock today.”

Ward lifted his glass. “God bless America.”

“If I had had the money back then, your mother wouldn’t have lost that house.”

“I know that, Danny.”

“But everything happens for a reason, Rusty. Like you said, you might not have gone into politics. You’ve had a grand career. You’re a Believer.”

Ward smiled. “Your little classification system has always intrigued me. You have it all written down somewhere? I’d like to compare it with my own conclusions about my distinguished colleagues.”

Buchanan tapped his forehead. “It’s all up here.”

“All that gold, stored in one man’s brain. What a pity.”

“You know everything about everybody in this town too.” Buchanan paused and then added quietly, “So what do you know about me?”

Ward seemed surprised by the question.

“Don’t tell me the world’s greatest lobbyist is having self-doubt? I thought the book on Daniel J. Buchanan was unshakable confidence, encyclopedic mind and a keen insight into the psychology of windbag politicians and their innate weaknesses, which could fill the Pacific, by the way.”

“Everybody has doubts, Rusty, even people like you and me. That’s why we last so long. One inch from the edge. Death at any minute if you let down your guard.”