Ballots and Blood (46 page)

“Hey, gorgeous,” said Jay, embracing her. “Talk to me. What's the take?”

“It's 1.9 million,” said Angelica, beaming.

“You're the best.”

“So I'm told,” said Angelica, batting her eyes. “Ready for your victory lap?”

“Take me to your Kasbah, baby,” said Jay flirtatiously, holding out his arm. “By the way, what victory lap? We haven't won yet.” As a waiter hustled by, he grabbed a sparkling water with lime.

“Who are you kidding, boyfriend? You're a rock star.” Angelica curled her arm through his and led him into the living area. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause and surged forward. “See?”

Jay braced himself as a short, balding man wearing designer glasses approached. “Jay, you
killed
at the Senate Finance Committee hearings,” said the man, his Chablis-and-brie breath nearly knocking Jay out.

“Thank you,” he said. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around to see a man he vaguely recognized as a former senator. He was struck by how much the man had aged.

“Jay, do you remember me?” asked the senator-turned-lobbyist.

“Of course,” Jay lied. “How do you stay in such great shape?”

“I work out. I can use the Senate gym as a former senator.” He smiled. “I also got remarried . . . to a thirty-two-year-old.”

Jay laughed. “That'll keep you young. Now I know your secret.”

People were thrilled Jay survived his combat with the press, the Democrats, and the floozy in LA. . . . What was her name again? Who cared? . . . Her fifteen minutes were up, just the latest in a string of tabloid tarts throwing darts at their hero. Jay's rendezvous with power had only begun. He was back in the cockpit for the closing weeks of the election. He was brilliant, a master strategist, a genius, really—and he was theirs!

“Fred!” shouted Angelica over the crowd. “Jay's here.”

Fincher sauntered over, a one-hundred-watt smile plastered on. Tall and lanky with a boyish demeanor belying his seventy-six years, his blue eyes fairly sparkled. “The man of the hour,” he exclaimed. “Boy, have they ever been gunning for you.”

“I hadn't noticed,” deadpanned Jay.

“Baloney! Sal Stanley, Aaron Hayward, the
New York Times
,
Time,
NBC News . . .”

“Fred, what did Winston Churchill say?” asked Jay, baring his teeth. “There's nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without effect.”

Fincher shook his head. He turned to Angelica. “See why I love this guy?” He draped an arm over Jay's shoulder. “He's got brass gonads. I love it!”

“Alright,” said Angelica. “Enough male bonding. Let's get the program underway.”

Kerry Cartwright lumbered over from across the room, sweat beading on his forehead, his suit rumpled. “Hey!” he said, pointing at Jay with his index finger. “You're the one who talked me into this campaign. I oughta slug you.”

Jay grinned sheepishly. “Actually, it was the president who talked you into it.”

“That was only because you put him up to it.”

“Guilty as charged. You can thank me later, Senator.”

“Whoa! Hold on just a minute. I'm not a senator yet.”

“You will be in fifteen days,” replied Jay. He leaned into Cartwright. “You're up 7 in our tracking, pal. Stanley's unfav is 49. He's in a tailspin, both engines blown.”

Cartwright cupped his hand and stage-whispered, “Thank God for Dele-gate, huh?”

“Tell me about it!” roared Jay. They both laughed. “My guy's in the White House because of it, and you're on your way to the U.S. Senate.”

Angelica grabbed Cartwright and Jay and hustled them to the front of the room, where they stood beside a massive marble fireplace with a Kandinsky hanging over the hearth. Heidi Hughes and Don Jefferson joined them. They all hugged and air-kissed as Fincher banged a fork against a champagne glass.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Fincher as the crowd hushed. “When the White House asked if I would be willing to host a fund-raiser for not one, not two, but three”—he held up three fingers—“future United States senators, I foolishly agreed.” The crowd, lubricated with wine and champagne, laughed and clapped. “Then they told me Jay Noble was coming. That's when I knew this was really important.” (More laughter.)

“Anyway, Jay needs no introduction. He is the senior advisor to President Long and has been his chief political strategist since he ran for governor of California. Please welcome the most brilliant political mind in America, our friend, Jay Noble.”

Jay walked to the front of the fireplace wearing a sheepish grin as the crowd applauded loudly. “Thank you, everybody,” he said, raising his hands to quiet them. He turned to Fincher. “Fred, next time you host a fund-raiser, could you do it some place a little more uptown?” (Laughter.) “I mean, come on!”

“I would have used my yacht,” volleyed back Fincher. “But it's in Nova Scotia.”

“Likely story,” joked Jay as he folded his hands in front of him. “It's great to get outside the Beltway and be with real people, if I can call you that.” (More laughter.) “Seriously, we are two weeks and one day from one of the most important midterm elections of our lifetimes. The issue is whether a Senate poisoned by partisanship and corruption will be able to block every reform measure this president puts forward, or whether we're going to have a Senate that serves the American people.” He glanced in the direction of Hughes, Cartwright, and Jefferson. “These candidates are among the finest public servants in the country today. They are taking on some pretty tough customers. I've gone toe-to-toe with Kate Covitz and Sal Stanley, and it isn't pleasant.” The crowd nodded knowingly. “Politics ain't beanbag. These are all close, hard-fought races. With your help they will change more than just the arithmetic of the Senate. They will qualitatively change a dysfunctional chamber in desperate need of new blood.”

Jay stabbed the air with his index finger for emphasis. “The president and I are deeply grateful for your support. Make no mistake. These three races will determine control of the U.S. Senate.” He turned to Angelica. “If we win two of these three seats, we'll control the Senate. I think we're going to do better than that. I think we're going to win all three.” He raised his right hand in a friendly wave. “Thank you again.”

One by one, the candidates gave abbreviated versions of their stump speech. The donors listened respectfully, but their eyes glazed over. Grizzled and cynical by years of writing checks, they had heard it all before. When Jefferson wrapped up his remarks, people began to head for the exits, Jay included. He had to catch the last shuttle back to DC.

“Jay?” came a voice behind him. He turned to see Don Jefferson barreling down on him like a lynx.

“Congressman!”

“Can I talk to you . . . in private?”

“Sure. Step into my office.” Jay led the way onto the apartment's huge terrace, which offered a breathtaking view of Central Park. The two men stepped into the corner to keep from being overheard, huddling in a power clutch. “What's up?”

“I need to tell you something in confidence,” said Jefferson, his face somber.

“Sure. Fire away.”

“I'm resigning my congressional seat tomorrow.”

Jay maintained a poker face. “Are you sure you need to do that so close to the election?”

“The Ethics Committee is demanding I agree to an admonishment for bringing dishonor on the House,” said Jefferson, his eyes piercing. “If I do that, my campaign is finished.”

“I see,” said Jay, absorbing the blow. “If that's the case, there aren't a lot of good options. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“One other thing,” said Jefferson, moving in closer, their bodies nearly touching. “I'd like the president to come down for me the weekend before the election. This race is going to be close. It could make the difference.”

“We haven't made a final decision yet on the last week of his travel,” said Jay noncommitally. “Where would you want him?”

“Jacksonville and Orlando.”

“Both places?” asked Jay, incredulous.

“You want me to win, right?”

Jay laughed. “Yeah, but I don't know if I can put Air Force One on two tarmacs in Florida when we also have to go to California for Heidi.”

“Do what you can,” asked Jefferson, his voice pleading.

“If we can, we will,” said Jay. “We're with you all the way.”

“I'm sorry about this ACS nonsense,” said Jefferson.

“Don't worry about it,” said Jay dismissively. “If it wasn't this, it'd be something else. It's the price of doing business, pal.”

With that Jay breezed through the foyer on his way to the elevator, hugging necks and grabbing shoulders as he moved. He was the portrait of confidence. But inside his stomach was churning. If the ACS scandal took out Jefferson and Covitz benefited from an outpouring of sympathy over her husband's suicide, they'd miss control of the Senate by one seat.

MARVIN MYERS BELLIED UP TO the bar at a right-wing confab at Charlie Palmer's, the DC steak joint and inside-the-Beltway watering hole. Everyone was walking on pins and needles, mainlining
Real Clear Politics, Politico,
and other Web sites for the latest polls and gossip emanating from the key House and Senate races.

A top Republican leadership aide sidled up next to Myers and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. He was all forehead and cheeks with a flattened nose, as if someone hit him with a frying pan. Myers recognized him as an occasional source. “How's it look out there on the House front?” he asked.

The aide took a swig of vodka as he pondered the question. “
Comme ci, comme ca
. It's plus or minus 5 right now. There's plenty of blood in the water but not many seats in play.”

Myers nodded.

“Our problem right now is some of our own guys won't man up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Follow me,” said the aide. “This is confidential.” They maneuvered their way through the crowd, walking out on a patio overlooking Constitution Avenue and leaning against the rail. “I had lunch today with a good friend of mine who used to be on staff at Energy and Commerce. He's now the lead counsel for the Ethics Committee.”

Myers nodded.

“He said the Don Jefferson case is about to blow sky high. They've got e-mails proving his former chief of staff violated the lobbying and gift bans. If Don doesn't agree to an admonishment by the House, there's going to be a trial.”

“I'd heard it wasn't going well for Jefferson. Is it the Rs or the Ds on the committee?”

“Both,” said the aide, grimacing. “That's my point. We're two weeks from a midterm with the House and Senate on the line, and we're shooting our own guys on the battlefield. This could cost us the Senate. It's nuts!”

“The timing is atrocious.”

“Do you think the Democrats would do something this stupid?” asked the source, his face twisted with anger, vodka breath belching forth.

“Probably not.”

The aide polished off his vodka. “Don't burn me on this one, Marvin.”

“Oh, don't worry. I could have gotten this anywhere.” The source disappeared into the crowd. Myers glanced around to make sure no one overheard the conversation. He decided it was time to make his exit. The party was a dud anyway. Now that he had a scoop, he needed to start working the phones to see who could confirm Jefferson's impending ethics charges.

38

S
ecretary of Defense Jock Healey walked to the podium in the Pentagon briefing room, trailed by grim-faced aides. At his side was the chief of naval operations, a jug-headed admiral with a shock of black hair who commanded an aircraft-carrier group during the second Gulf War and was known for a near-theological belief in naval superiority. He wore dress blues and spit-shined shoes, a rack of ribbons on his chest. The press was alerted there would be a big announcement.

“After extensive consultation with the president, the Joint Chiefs, and NATO allies, we are beginning a series of measures designed to enhance our military presence in the Persian Gulf,” said Healey, eyes narrowing to slits, jaw jutted, a five-o'clock shadow evident on his face. Reporters cocked their heads and craned their necks as if responding to the call of a dog whistle.

“Today I have ordered the USS
Harry S. Truman
and the USS
Ronald Reagan
from the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean to the Gulf,” Healey continued in an even voice. “They will participate in previously scheduled training maneuvers. Each carrier group includes three guided missile destroyers and a frigate. They have a combined total of thirteen thousand sailors and marines. We are dispatching the additional carrier groups in anticipation of responsibilities flowing from recent developments related to the Iranian regime, including the need to protect our allies and to keep these vital waterways open and free for commerce and trade.”

The room exploded with shouted questions. “Secretary Healey, is this a direct response to Momar Salami's threat to close the Strait of Hormuz?” asked NBC News.

“I would not call it a
direct
response,” replied Healey, gripping the lectern, glowering. “We are aware of President Salami's intemperate remarks on a wide range of topics. But this action is broader in nature. We have many vital security interests in the region. In the event we need to protect those interests, it's much easier if our forces are in the area.”

“What will the United States do if Iran closes the Straits?” asked FOX News. “Is it prepared to take military action?”

“That's a decision we will make at the time,” said Healey, his face expressionless. “Suffice it to say, we have made clear our intention to keep them open.”