Ballots and Blood (11 page)

Lightfoot took two steps back, yielding to Birch. “Any questions?”

“Just a few,” joked the
Miami Herald
to laughter. “Governor, by appointing a Republican, you have ensured the Senate now has only fifty-one Democrats. The GOP will likely gain control by picking up only one seat in November, assuming Vice President Whitehead breaks the tie. Given the speculation surrounding your seeking the presidency in the next election, did this factor at all into your calculus?”

“I haven't done calculus since college,” said Birch smoothly, cracking a relaxed smile. The reporters chuckled. “The short answer is no. This appointment was not influenced at all by partisan or political considerations. I appointed the best person to represent Florida in the Senate and that person is Dolph Lightfoot.”

“Senator Lightfoot, what do you say to critics who say you're too moderate?” asked AP.

Lightfoot glowered defensively. “I was elected in my own right three times statewide, including governor twice,” he said, jutting out his jaw. “I think that says something about whether or not my views are in synch with the people of Florida. They were before and I think they are today.”

“But you previously criticized what you called ‘the extremist wing' of the GOP,” said the
St. Petersburg Times.

“I think we need to focus on the issues voters care about. Right now that's jobs and economic growth. I recommend we declare a temporary truce in the so-called culture wars and focus on putting people back to work.” Reporters scribbled the words furiously on their steno pads.

“Are you planning to run for a full term in the Senate?” asked a television reporter.

“I have not made a decision on that at this point,” replied Lightfoot. “I will make a decision in due course. I believe Florida will be best served by the person with the greatest seniority in the Senate. So I would generally lean in that direction, but I don't want to make a final decision until I consult with my family and others in the state.”

Birch stood to the side, beaming like a proud father. The brief news conference over, Birch put his hand on Lightfoot's back, and they walked slowly up the marble staircase to the governor's office, the press watching them depart like royalty.

“So Birch appointed himself after all,” joked the
Miami Herald
.

“Now the only question is, can he keep the seat?” said the
Orlando Sentinel.

“And if he doesn't, how will that affect his presidential run?” asked AP to no one in particular.

“If Lightfoot doesn't win the nomination and the general,” shot back the
Herald,
“Birch's presidential bid is over before it started.”

ROSS LOMBARDY CALLED ANY STANTON'S office, where his assistant patched him through to the dressing room. A makeup artist was methodically removing makeup from Andy's face with a wet washcloth when the phone rang. The makeup artist handed the phone to Andy.

“What's up?”

“Guess who Mike Birch just appointed to the Miller seat in Florida?” asked Ross.

“Who?”

“Dolph Lightfoot.”

“What?” exclaimed Andy. “The guy's a dinosaur.”

“Totally. And a RINO.”

“It's unbelievable. Birch just doesn't get it,” said Andy, agitated.

“And get this: Lightfoot said at the news conference at the Capitol that we should declare a truce in the culture wars.”

“The guy's waving a white flag of surrender on life and marriage, and he hasn't even gotten to the Senate yet! Where's the calcium in the guy's spine?”

“Let's face it. Lightfoot is yesterday's news. He's washed up. Birch wanted a moderate so he reached back in time.”

“Birch sure gave us the back of his hand,” said Andy, his voice laced with disgust.

“More like his middle finger,” said Ross with a chuckle.

“That's it!” exclaimed Andy, rising out of his chair. “This is not the head of the parks and recreation department! It's a U.S. Senate seat, and he appoints some RINO tyrannosaurus rex.”

“It's an insult. I'm telling you, this torpedoes Birch's presidential ambitions.”

“He's dead tan walking,” said Andy, a reference to Birch's permatan. “Can you get on the phone with our friend?”

“Don Jefferson?” asked Ross.

“Yes. Tell Jefferson he should run. Tell him we'll mobilize the troops.”

“He'd be fantastic.”

“Get him in,” directed Andy.

“Will do.” Ross hung up. It was going to cost the Faith and Family Federation a boatload of cash, but there was nothing Ross loved more than a fight for the soul of the Grand Old Party.

IN THE SOLARIUM ON THE top floor of the residence, Jonah Popilopos asked if there were any prayer requests. Shafts of sunlight broke in through the glass ceiling, creating a spiritual aura altogether fitting given the occasion. It was the weekly meeting of Claire Long's women's discipleship group, and she invited her new friend and spiritual mentor, the itinerant evangelist Popilopos to lead the discussion. His message that day was about Esther and the biblical models of a righteous woman. Popilopos preached in revivals all over the globe, filling soccer and football stadiums from Mumbai and London to Glasgow and New York City. Raised Greek orthodox but an evangelical convert, he preached an unconventional mix of charismatic Christian perfectionism—that regenerate believers could achieve holiness through the power of the Holy Spirit. Known for his white Nehru jackets, silk pants, and shaved head, his deep and authoritative voice commanded a television and radio audience estimated at thirty million worldwide.

“I have one,” said Marilyn McLean, wife of the junior senator from Virginia. “We're dealing with some serious parenting issues with my sixteen-year-old daughter. Her hormones are raging, and she's in a rebellious phase where everything we say is wrong.”

The women nodded around the coffee table, encouraging her with knowing moans.

“She's in a relationship with a young man who I just don't think is right for her,” continued McLean, her face etched with anxiety. “He's not a Christian and he's a bad influence. But I know if I try to force her to end it, it will only cause her to get even closer to him.”

“Sounds like we just need to pray against that romantic attachment,” said Popilopos, his fleshy face breaking into an angelic grin.

“Is it okay to do that?”

“Absolutely!” fired back Popilopos. “As a parent, it's your moral duty to pray a hedge of protection around your children.” The women nodded in assent.

As others offered their prayer requests, the list grew: a child going through a bitter divorce, a friend suffering from cancer, a non-ambulatory elderly father being admitted to a nursing home over his objections, a son-in-law who needed a job, a woman with her house on the market praying it will sell. Throughout, Claire hung back, silently taking notes. Finally, she spoke up.

“I can't go into a lot of details about this,” she said haltingly. “It's a little awkward because some of it I'm not even supposed to know.” Everyone leaned forward as the First Lady seemed about to share classified information. “I have to be a little vague about it. But there are terrorist threats against our country, against our leaders, and against Bob. So I just ask that you all pray for his protection and for my peace of mind.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I knew this job was going to carry with it the usual security threats. But I wasn't prepared for something like this, even after what happened to Harris Flaherty.” Vice President Flaherty, at the time the Republican nominee for president, was assassinated by terrorists in an attack on his helicopter as it departed the Republican National Convention the previous year.

One of the women leaned over and placed her hand on Claire's shoulder. Regaining her composure, Claire wiped a tear from her eyes.

“Let's pray for all these requests,” said Popilopos. “And let's lay hands on Claire and pray for special protection over her and the president.”

“Amen,” several of the women murmured. They stood up and gathered around Claire, placing hands on her shoulders and back.

Popilopos stood behind them. “Father God,” he began. “We lift up all these requests to You and place them at Your altar. So many needs, Lord. So many people hurting. We thank You that we can come boldly to Your throne of grace and lay these at Your feet.”

“Amen,” one of the women said. “Thank You, Lord.”

Claire hung her head, deep in prayer. She felt a peace fall over her. She prayed earnestly that God would protect Bob from Rassem el Zafarshan, who killed Flaherty and probably Perry Miller. She wondered who was next.

9

A
black SUV, trailed by a staff car and a chaser car, pulled into the West Wing parking lot at 7:22 a.m. as heavy rain pelted the nation's capital. In the backseat sat William Jacobs, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, talking on a secure phone with the team responsible for intelligence gathering at Langley, receiving a final verbal update before he briefed the president. Hanging up, he stepped out of the car in a blue pin-striped suit and beige London Fog raincoat, ducking under the awning of the West Wing entrance to protect himself from the rain. A CIA briefer followed him. He carried in his briefcase a copy of one of the most top secret documents in the government, the president's daily brief (PDF), a daily synopsis of intelligence gathered by leading U.S. and foreign spy agencies.

As Jacobs walked in long strides down the hall to the Oval Office, he saw Truman Greenglass, Charlie Hector, and Vice President Whitehead standing outside the door. Whitehead rarely sat in on the president's daily intelligence briefing. Something was up.

“Mr. Vice President, good to see you,” said Jacobs. “You joining us?”

“Morning, Bill,” said Whitehead. “Yes, I am.”

“Shall we go in?” asked Greenglass. He opened the door. Long sat at his desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, flipping through his copy of the PDF.

“Bill, what's the word?” asked Long.

“We live in interesting times, Mr. President.”

“Don't I know it.”

Jacobs took a seat directly to the right of the president's desk, the CIA briefer to the immediate left. Greenglass and Whitehead sat in chairs directly across from Long. The president nodded at Jacobs, who signaled the briefer to begin.

“Mr. President, the Iranians continue to prepare for a possible military strike. We have satellite photographic evidence of increased truck traffic around the nuclear facilities in Natanz and Ifsahan. They appear to be dispersing their infrastructure to make it more difficult for a strike on a single facility to debilitate their nuclear program.”

Long furrowed his brow. “Can we track this stuff?”

“Yes and no,” replied the briefer. “We can track it up until it goes into the mountains. But inside them they have an extensive network of caves, roads, and tunnels.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Before they have all this materiel dispersed and fortified underground?” asked the briefer. “I'd say ninety days. Maybe 120 days tops.”

Long shot a worried look at Greenglass. “They'll have everything spread around the country in the caves before we can get military authorization.”

“Technically, Mr. President, you don't need congressional authorization,” said Greenglass.

“I don't?”

“Not according to the lawyers.”

“How would that play on the Hill, Johnny?” asked Long, turning to Whitehead.

“Depends on how much of this we can share with the leadership,” said Whitehead. He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Long's. “If you brought in the leaders of both parties from the House and Senate and showed them these satellite photographs, I think you'd get solid bipartisan support.”

Long turned to Jacobs. “Can we take this stuff out with bunker- busting bombs? Or is it too deep?”

“Sir, that's a question for the Pentagon and the Joint Chiefs. I don't do military strategy.” It was a brush-back pitch. Jacobs was a stickler for treating the White House and DOD as clients of intel and let them make the final call. He didn't want Langley to take the fall if things went wrong.

“Can we declassify this stuff?”

Jacobs looked like someone shot him in the chest. He cleared his throat. “That's a presidential call. But if you're asking for my judgment, I would keep classified information limited to only those with the highest level security clearance.”

Long nodded, clearly not pacified.

“If it comes to a military strike, whether it's us or the Israelis, we'll have to do more than offer assurances,” said Greenglass. “After the intelligence failures in Iraq, the bar is higher now.”

Jacobs stared back unblinking. He turned to Long. “Mr. President, once you start declassifying intelligence, you're disclosing sources and methods. It's hard to get the genie back in the bottle.”

Long nodded. “Okay, what else have you got?”

“On a related topic, an Iranian scientist who was one of the top architects of the nuclear program was found dead from gunshots at close range in a hotel room in Damascus the day before yesterday,” said the briefer. “The Israelis took him out. They found out he frequented a particular brothel and paid one of the prostitutes to tip them off when he was coming.”

“Shot him in the act,” said Jacobs, knowing the president loved gossip. “Double tap in the skull.”

“In the act, huh?” said Long. “Well, he died with a smile on his face.”

Greenglass cracked a smile. No one else laughed.

“How many is that now?” asked Long.

“I think that's eight or nine between us and the Israelis,” replied Jacobs.

“Is it making any difference?” asked Long.