Ballots and Blood (8 page)

“He asked me about a consolation prize. I may need to offer him a Cabinet post.”

“That's doable, don't you think?”

“Yes. It's a small price to pay to get the Senate.”

“The truth is, he may not make it,” said Jay. “But we can't tell him that.”

“No way.”

“Getting the Senate is about spreading the field. We need Stanley and the Democrats to have more seats in play than ours. We need them on defense.”

“And tie him down in New Jersey with a tough challenger. If we don't take it to Sal, he'll spend all his time campaigning and raising money for other Democrats.”

“That's why we need Cartwright,” said Jay, nodding. “So if Mack doesn't go, what's our Plan B?”

“I don't even want to think about it,” said Long. “My next choice would be Hector.”

“That solves one problem but creates another. We need Mack to go.”

“I did my part,” replied Long. “You need to do yours. Get him on board.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jay. With that he turned and exited the suite. They had an early wake-up call, but Jay had work to do if where he was going next could be called work.

MAUREEN MCCONNELL KNOCKED ON THE door with three firm raps.

“Come in,” came a voice behind the door. She walked in to find Phil Battaglia, her boss and White House counsel, coatless in a striped shirt and matching tie and suspenders, jet-black hair combed over his bald spot, studying some papers on his desk. McConnell was his star associate and protégé, a real comer.

“How did it go?” asked Battaglia, leaning back in his chair.

McConnell took the chair directly opposite his desk. “We have a problem.”

“I know
that,”
said Phil. “The FBI is in the White House asking about the murder of a U.S. senator.”

“I'm afraid it's far worse than that.”

“How can it be worse than that?”

“The lead FBI agent, Patrick Mahoney, is asking a lot of questions leading to classified information. I don't have all the facts, but it seems to involve a covert operation in Iran involving funding the Green Movement.”

Battaglia wore a poker face. “What's that got to do with Miller's murder?”

“The FBI thinks the Iranians had him killed. They think the language authorizing military action against Iran in Miller's sanctions bill was the precipitating event.”

“This guy sounds like Inspector Clouseau meets Patrick Fitzgerald.”

McConnell shrugged. “I checked him out. Hard-nosed, no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners agent. He's got a background in counterterrorism. I'm just wondering if he knows something we don't know. Maybe the physical evidence is pointing him in this direction?”

“Give me the blow by blow. I need specifics.”

McConnell opened her leather-bound legal pad and began to flip through the pages, reviewing her notes. “He asked whether or not the classified portion of the State Department budget provided military materiel, night-vision goggles, satellite phones, laptops, GPS, and other technology to the Green Movement.”

Battaglia let out a long sigh. “This investigation is going places it shouldn't go. Believe me, Miller was up to his armpits in all kinds of things. The guy was like a shadow government. But even if the Iranians or Rassem el Zafarshan or someone else was involved in Miller's murder, we can't let that compromise a presidential finding.”

“But we have to cooperate.”

“There's cooperation and then there's cooperation.”

“What if the FBI decides to play hardball?”

“Two can play that game,” replied Battaglia, his eyes unblinking.

McConnell felt her stomach tighten. It had never occurred to her that Miller's personal scandal and tragic death would land like a grenade in the West Wing. Up until now DC gossip centered around the client list of the dominatrix service, which everyone assumed included some big names, among them members of Congress. Now it was clear there was far more at stake, not the least of which appeared to be a top secret plan to bring about regime change in Iran.

JAY RODE THE ELEVATOR TO the rooftop of The Standard Hotel just off Figueroa Street downtown. It was just after 11:00 p.m., and he was meeting Satcha Sanchez, the Latino news anchor from Univision and “It” girl of broadcast journalism for a nightcap. A beefy security guard with a shaved head and beefy arms wearing black Prada and an ear piece accompanied him.

When the elevator door opened, a wall of sound and light hit Jay, causing his brain to go into overdrive. Spinning blue directional lights illuminated the rooftop lounge, hundreds of partiers in skinny jeans, hot pants, and minidresses sprawled across couches and lounge chairs, the
thump-thump
of club music filled the air. Waiters bustled to and fro carrying trays of drinks.

“Mr. Noble, welcome to The Standard,” said the club manager. “Ms. Sanchez asked me to tell you she's on her way. She'll be here shortly.”

Jay nodded. “Sounds good,” he said.

“Allow me to take you to your table.”

The club manager escorted Jay past the bar, which was jammed with dozens of partiers waving their hands, trying to get the attention of harried bartenders throwing bottles of vodka and gin. A DJ at a turntable bobbed his head as though in a trance, headphones wrapped around his head. A swirl of bodies bumped and grinded to the music. Jay followed the manager up some steps to the pool area, where a row of metallic red and blue egg-shaped containers with beds were stuffed with nimble bodies of both genders, their arms and legs entangled, lips locked. A group of young women splashed about in the pool in string bikinis, tossing a beach ball back and forth, absorbing the stares of male spectators. The place was a meat market.

“This is quite a party you've got here!” Jay shouted over the music.

“Best in LA,” replied the manager with a sly smile.

They arrived at the VIP section, guarded by another security guard wearing wraparound Gucci sunglasses. The club manager lifted the velvet rope and escorted Jay to a back table with a couch and two chairs. A woman with dark brown skin in red shorts with long legs, black pumps, and a black top sat on the couch. She eyed Jay seductively.

“You must be Jay Noble,” said the woman in a low purr, extending her hand. She wore a white gold and black onyx bondage ring and a yellow gold and black rhodium pyramid bracelet with multicolored diamonds.

“That's me,” said Jay, shaking her hand. “Who are you?”

“I'm Satcha's friend.” Jay took note of her brown skin, angular face, espresso eyes, and curly hair pulled back to reveal a long neck. “Let me buy you a drink,” she said.

“Sure.”

“What can I get you?”

A waitress appeared in a low-cut cocktail dress. Jay thought a moment and ordered a vodka on the rocks. He sat down and leaned back on the couch. “So tell me your name.”

“Samah,” she said extending her hand. “But all my friends call me Layla.”

Jay shook her hand. He noticed how soft it was. Her skin was almost the color of caramel mixed with cream, with perfect white teeth.

“My father is Italian, my mother is Somali,” said Layla. “It's quite the conversation-starter.”

“Wow! Where in Italy? I just got back a few months ago from running a campaign in Italy, so I got to know the country pretty well.”

“Cortona.”

The waitress appeared, handing Jay his drink. “Here's to Cortona . . . and Italy and Somalia.” They clinked their glasses and drank, their eyes never losing contact. “What do you do, Layla?”

“I'm in public relations,” she said, leaning forward, her hand brushing Jay's knee. He felt a jolt of sexual tension shoot through him. He was supposed to be hanging with Satcha, but he found himself entranced by Layla. “Is that vague enough for you?”

Jay laughed. “Works for me. People ask me what I do, and I just say I'm a consultant. Or at least I did. Now I have to say I work for the president.” He took a sip of vodka, which burned as it went down. “So my cover's blown.”

“Well, you don't need to worry about that tonight,” said Layla, taking a sip of white wine. “You're safe with me. So relax . . . enjoy yourself.” She smiled suggestively.

“I think I'll do that.”

Layla glanced in the direction of the dance floor. “Do you like to dance?”

“I'm not much of a dancer, but I can hold my own.”

“Then let's dance.” She grabbed him by the hand, their fingers interlocked, and led him out on to the dance floor, which was jammed. As they moved to the music, their bodies pressed against each other.

Thump-thump-thump.

He felt her warm breath on his neck. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around his waist, their bodies swaying as one. He hoped no one had a cell phone camera.

“Are you having a good time?” shouted Layla over the music, her breath tickling his ear.

“Yes,” said Jay over the beat.

Thump-thump-thump.

“You're so handsome. I don't know if it's your hair or if it's your eyes, or your nose, but there's something about you. You've got a perfect nose and beautiful eyes. Don't ever let anyone tell you different.”

Welcome to LA,
Jay thought. Apparently for Layla power was an aphrodisiac. Jay was willing to play along and see where it went. The song ended, and they walked back toward the table, holding hands. That was when Jay saw Satcha. She was sitting on the couch working her way through a blue-colored drink in a martini glass, checking her BlackBerry. As usual, she looked like a million bucks. She wore white skinny jeans, a form-fitting black silk top, and six-inch heels with white bows.

“Satcha! Layla was keeping me company until you got here,” said Jay mischievously.

“Sorry I'm late, honey,” said Satcha, rising to hug him. She shot Layla a mock dirty look. “Did you steal my date?”

Layla giggled. “I didn't steal him. I only borrowed him.” Jay felt her tickle him from behind with her fingers.

“So tell me about the fund-raiser,” asked Satcha. “You had a big day?”

“We banked almost four million bucks.”

Satcha's eyes grew wide. “Not bad. Everyone knows you and Long are either going to take out Stanley or die trying.”

“We'll either beat Sal in New Jersey or win the Senate back, or both. I think we have a decent chance of achieving both objectives,” said Jay as he took a swig of vodka. “It just never ends. All we do is raise money. To the president's credit, he never complains.”

“Is it true you're trying to recruit someone to run against Kate Covitz? That's the word around town.”

Jay grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Satcha leaned forward, smiling. “So how is it that the strategic genius who helped elect Democrats for twenty years in California is now trying to defeat them?”

Jay laughed. “I've always had the same enemies,” he said. “I've spent my career fighting the Democratic establishment. They were never for Long. The only difference now is I used to do it with Democrats. Now I'm doing it with independents and Republicans.”

Satcha shook her head admiringly. “You're too much fun!”

“I still hate the same people. I'm just hating them from a different place now.”

Layla leaned over and draped her arm through Jay's. “I just have one request,” she said in a low voice.

“What's that?”

“Come with me tonight. Satcha can have you any time. But tonight I want you.”

Jay looked over at Satcha, unsure if she overheard. Satcha just winked. Layla batted her lashes, awaiting an answer.

“So I guess I'm not going to get much sleep tonight,” Jay deadpanned.

“I guess not,” replied Layla with a wicked smile.

Jay wondered how in the world he was going to make the 7:00 a.m. flight on Air Force One. The advance guys would be picking up his luggage outside his hotel room in four hours.

7

T
he most closely guarded secret in the country was the client list for Adult Alternatives, LLC, the dominatrix service Perry Miller patronized. Reporters hovered around the FBI and the Justice Department like buzzards, working every source they had, while tabloids waved cash in front of former employees, asking them to divulge the names of their clients. All the networks love-bombed Amber Abica's media-hound attorney, offering a prime-time slot for her first televised interview. But Abica was for all practical purposes working for the FBI, and for now the list could not be obtained at any price.

In truth, there was no “list,” just a series of digital fingerprints: computer records, e-mails, phone records, credit card transactions, and wire transfers. Mahoney and an army of agents pored through them in the hope the clients might hold the clue to the Miller's killer, or killers. All they turned up were the usual hedge-fund high flyers, traveling businessmen, preachers, rabbis, and politicians.

That was why Mahoney nearly came out of his chair when he got the call about a client from one of his investigators.

“What have you got?” Mahoney asked. It was his normal conversation starter.

“I don't know exactly yet, but it looks promising,” said the investigators. “We ran one of the cell phone numbers from the incoming calls through our databases. It belongs to a Saudi Arabian national living in Towson, Maryland.”

“What about an e-mail account?” Mahoney pressed. “We need more for probable cause.”

“Got it. This guy visited the Web site of the service and searched around. We traced the cookie to his Gmail account.”

“Who is he?”

“Hassan Qatani. Single male, twenty-six years old. Here's the best part: he turned up on a watch list of individuals with known ties to Islamic extremist groups. His passport records indicate he spent time in Pakistan two years ago.”