The Parnell Affair (13 page)

A barrage of flashes from cameras hastily withdrawn as the seriousness of Tobias's question became apparent seemed to bring Don back to the present.

“You know, Tobias,” he said, “that's the first I've heard of it and don't have any information on it.  I'm sorry.”

Before Don could say more, Tobias said, “Someone within the Administration has committed a felony and the matter has not been discussed?”

“I wouldn't characterize it that way,” Don said, refusing—with his special gift for not taking offense—to match Tobias's confrontational tone.  “There may very well be discussions, or have been, that I'm not aware of.  I'll certainly ask, though, and I'll—”

“The Parnells have faced stonewalling from the Justice Department,” Tobias said, “who were reluctant to admit that a crime had even taken place.  Now we hear the Administration is not pursuing—”

Don jumped in before the phrase 'cover up' could come out.  “I couldn't say one way or the other,” Don said, holding up his hands.  “This isn't the 'Administration doesn't know' this is 'Don LeGierz doesn't know.'  If the matter is as serious as you imply, I'm sure it's, uh, it's known.  I'll certainly ask, get some answers for you, and get back to you.  Hopefully this afternoon or early this evening.  Is anyone else interested in this?” he asked the gallery: unison head nodding.  “Okay, maybe I'll send a mass email, then.  Or hold it until tomorrow's brief?”  While writing some notes to himself, he asked Tobias, “Okay, was there anything else specific you wanted to know?”

“Will there be an investigation?” Tobias asked.

“I'll find out,” Don said.  “Again, this is just a case of me not knowing.  But I'll get back to you.”

“Fair enough,” Tobias said; he believed the Press Secretary didn’t know anything and it was pointless to push further.  Whoever outed Sally had their number called live on national television.  Story or no story, it might help Sally.

A few print journalists talked with Tobias after the briefing ended, wondering what his paper thought about him involving their favorite son in a possible crime.  A few off-the-record jokes and a young TV reporter's attempt to interview Tobias rounded out the event.  As he walked to where he'd left his bike (near the Mall), he called Sally.  She'd watched the whole thing live and had enjoyed Don's squirming.  They both thought something would come of it, though they didn't know what.  Sally thanked Tobias simply and then they stood listening to the other not saying anything until Tobias could hear a door open and close on her end.  She quickly said she'd call him the next day, said goodbye, and hung up.

That night, after dinner as Tobias flipped through his collection of vinyl records, Don LeGierz called him.

“The Administration's official position is that anyone who committed a crime against our national interests,” he said, “will no longer work for this Administration.  The President has said he is overseeing the internal investigation into this matter and will see that justice is done.  The Administration takes national security very seriously, as our top priority, and condemns any violation from attacks to loose talk.”

“You said the President is overseeing an internal investigation,” Tobias repeated, holding the phone with his shoulder and writing.  “What about Justice?”

“I'm only representing the White House here,” Don said.  “You'll have to ask their spokesman about what they're doing.”

“Hell, being fired is one thing,” Tobias said, “going on trial and facing ten years in jail is another.  Without an investigation, how can you have a trial?”

“There is an investigation,” Don said evenly: “the President's.  We're gathering the facts and if a trial is warranted, a trial will happen.  It was great seeing you at the brief this afternoon, Tobias; will you join us again tomorrow?”

Don's had enough of me, Tobias thought: tough.  “One more thing, Don.  This whole affair began because of the chilling effect Joe Parnell's Niger report had on the Administration's bid for war with Iraq.  I know the President called Joe Parnell into the Oval Office and asked him to change his mind.  Don,” Tobias said, “I know every word that was spoken in that meeting, even if I can't print them all.  Ask the President, from me: did he order the outing of Sally Parnell as revenge against her husband?”  Don took a slow breath as if buying as many seconds as he could to formulate an on-the-record response.  “If you can get back to me on that, Don, I'd appreciate it.  And I'll sure try to make it to tomorrow's briefing.  Goodnight.”

Tobias hung up, selected a record, walked over to his turntable, and played
Your time is gonna come
.

Earlier that evening, President Howland reclined wearily but smilingly behind his desk in the Oval Office.  Karl Kristiansen stood opposite, rounding out the day's reports and reminding his boss of the next day's particulars.  Pete felt the easy contentment of a man awaiting the bell that would send him home from work to wife and dinner.  If only Karl would ring it.

Instead, the phone rang, the receptionist's extension.  At a nod, Karl leaned across the desk and answered it.  “Yes?  Of course, I thought he might,” he said after a moment.  “Send him in.”  To Pete: “Don is here.”

Don LeGierz slipped through the door to the President's right and stood—had he known it—roughly where Joe Parnell had stood a month ago.

“What's up, Don?” Pete asked.  “You look as if you're about to tell me I'm in for a cold dinner,” he said, sharing a wry look with Karl (whom he complained always kept him too late).

“It should not take long, Mr. President,” Karl said.  Then to Don, “I had a feeling you would need to see us.  This concerns the daily brief?”

“Yeah,” Don said.  Though the Press Secretary, he had less access to the President than the former holders of his office.  Considered a minor functionary in a White House that handled the press through the coordination of the Chief of Staff, Don rarely spoke to the President.  “Have you already, uh?” he asked Karl lamely.

“No, we had other business,” Karl said.  “Go on, walk us through it.  A development in the Parnell affair,” he said to Pete.

“Mr. President,” Don began.  “At the daily brief today, a reporter from
The Washington Observer
brought up a piece in their paper which said someone in the Administration had revealed that Sally Parnell—Ambassador Parnell's wife—was a CIA operative.  Apparently there's a law, the Intelligence Identities Protection Act,” he read from his notes, “that makes it a crime to reveal an Agent's name.  The reporter—”

“Which one?” Karl asked, smiling.

“Uh, Tobias Hallström,” Don said.  “A Hill reporter, mostly Senate stuff—”

“I know,” Karl said.

“Don't know why he was there,” Don said.  “Anyway, he was there and asked who the leak was and if there would be an investigation.  He also said,” Don added, pretending to look at his notes, “that the Justice Department was stonewalling.”

The President sat rigidly, jaw muscles working at either end of a tightly compressed mouth.

“Nothing to worry about, Don,” Karl said, affecting a laugh.  “We expected this.  My fault, I should have said something to you earlier.  I caught a little of the brief when it was recapped on the evening news.”  To Pete, seeing how angry the President had become, the look on his face like a burning fuse: “This is not a problem; we knew it would happen.”  He took a breath, placed his palms together and tapped his lips with both outstretched forefingers for a moment.  “This is what you say, Don,” he said: “You said you would call him with an answer?  Good.  Tell him the President is personally conducting an investigation into the matter; that national security is our highest priority; and that anyone who jeopardizes it by committing a crime—or, no—that anyone who commits a crime against our national interests will no longer work for this Administration.  Is that good, Mr. President?”

Pete ran his tongue between his teeth and lips before speaking in a quiet voice, eyes unfocused:   “Say we condemn any violation, from attacks against our people to loose talk.”

“Thank you,” Don said, trying to add to his notes, writing on his hand.  “Thank you.  He, uh, he's probably going to ask about Justice and a trial.”

“You represent the President, not Justice,” Karl said.  “Tell him we are gathering the facts.  If a trial is warranted, a trial will happen.  With your permission, Mr. President: Don, call him right now from the President's study,” Karl said, motioning to the room's other door.  Pete nodded, his chin dropping about half an inch.  Karl opened the door to the study and waved Don through, before closing it firmly.

Walking back to the President, Karl raised both hands placatingly.  “It's no big deal, it's okay,” he said.  Pete's attention snapped back to Karl so quickly the other man stopped in his tracks.  “We expected this,” Karl said.  “It will go nowhere.  Leaks happen in every Administration; we cannot be held to a higher standard.  And regardless, we are conduction the investigation so the source will never be revealed.”  Seeing that the President was not worried but angry, Karl changed tactics.  “We have more important things to consider: the Senate is now on message, ready to believe Saddam is building a nuke.  More importantly, Gitmo's facilities are now ready to accept the priority enemy combatants,” he said.  “The latest intel suggests we should have a subject suitable for phase two—if you will forgive the expression,” he tried to joke—“within a week or so.  It should set the timing for going to the UN sometime in October.”

Pete relaxed, or grew more tense than angry.  He nodded and said, “You're right, Karl.  I've got more important matters than some officious reporter interfering in my business.”

“Well said, sir,” Karl agreed.

Don knocked at the study door and then entered slowly.  He'd lost all the color in his usually pink face.  Karl tried to dispel an impatient look he knew was furrowing his brow.

“What is it?” Pete snapped.

“Sir, he, he had a question,” Don said and then swallowed.

“Well spit it out,” Pete barked.

“Yes, sir,” Don said.  He looked down at his notes, even though he hadn't recorded Tobias's question.  “He said this whole thing started because of Joe Parnell; that you called him into the Oval Office and asked him to change his mind about Iraq's WMD; he said he knows every word that was said in that meeting, even if he couldn't print them; he told me to ask you if—” his voice collapsed in dryness.  He swallowed and said, “He told me to ask you if you ordered the outing of Sally Parnell as revenge against Joe.”

President Howland slowly placed his palms on the arms of his chair, as if to rise; the set of his features stiffened as his chest visibly inflated with a great inhalation of air.

“I guess we know someone who wants to cover the White House instead of the Senate,” Karl said, putting his hands in his pockets.  He tried a chuckle.  The President came to his feet, looking through the others, beginning to breathe quickly and audibly through his nose.  “Don't take it so seriously, Don,” Karl said and clapped Don on the shoulder.  “You know reporters will make up anything to get a rise out of us.”  The President locked eyes with Karl and his self control teetered on the edge.  “Serious people do not make foolish accusations like that,” Karl said and immediately regretted it.  The President pounded a fist on his desk that made his phone rattle in its cradle.  “Thanks for letting us know, Don,” Karl said, ushering Don toward the door.  “If Hallström shows up tomorrow keep to the line and laugh at him.  He's fishing and doesn't know what he's talking about.”

Karl barely had the door shut when Pete growled up to a shout: “That mother
fucker
!”

“Pete!” Karl hissed.

Coming around the far side of his desk, Pete shouted at every step: “
Who
in the
hell
does this little
rat nobody
think he is.  Questioning me!  Meddling in my affairs?  It's none of his goddamn business!”

“Mr. President,” Karl half whispered, half spat.  He knew the appointments secretary would hear every word if the shouting continued.  He pointed emphatically at the door behind him.

Pete threw himself at the other door, to his study, and charged through it and out toward the family rooms, Karl jogging to keep pace behind.  Once within the hallway that led to his quarters, Pete whirled on Karl, an outstretched finger brandished like a knife at his Chief of Staff's face.

“How fucking
dare
he!” he bellowed.  “Questioning me?  Questioning my decisions as if a little cocksucking bastard scrounging in the dirt for his crust of bread could understand, begin to imagine—imagine! even comprehend—the instruments of power!”  The President turned and slapped the hallway wall and then took a few steps.  Karl opened his mouth to say something to calm him but Pete whirled on him again and pointingly said: “When they've played their part, we've always given them enough information to, to sell their service.  And now that son of a bitch,” he shouted, “from the same goddamn paper, has the gall to accuse me!  Who the hell does he think he is?  It's none of his business!  Is he vested?  Does he or anyone like him have any investment in matters on this scale?  Why the owner of his rag of a paper is only worthy of begging me to be put to use!  And yet his
employee
, this dung-eating cur dares to raise his snout from the sty of his simple beast's morality and—with shit-tainted breath—accuse me!”