The Confirmation (29 page)

“Stephen Fox. Marvin Myers just outed us in his column for hiring Majette's husband to do some consulting for Wildfire.”

“Ooooh! That hurts!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “Who was the bonehead who came up with that stupid idea?”

“Me.”

“Oh,” said Deirdre sheepishly. “Stephen isn't upset, I hope.”

“Are you kidding?” laughed G. G. “He thought it was brilliant. And you know what? It worked . . . for a while.”

TWENTY-TWO

It was mid-morning when Jay dragged himself out of bed, showered, and ordered room service. As he ran a brush through his wet hair, he noticed an envelope shoved under the door. Hotel bill, perhaps? Curious, he picked it up. To his shock, inside was a fax of Page Six from that day's
New York Post,
sent by his assistant. “Jay Noble Does Paris,” screamed the headline. “The City, Not the Bimbo.” The
Post's
dispatch brimmed with snarky detail. “Gabriella (no last name necessary) wore a stunning black dress by designer John Galliano that had jaws dropping and tongues wagging. After a reception with international glitterati at the Grand Palais, the power couple headed to the tony restaurant Laserre, where they dined on Iranian caviar, foie gras, and wild duck. Gabriella picked up the $1,200 tab. Afterward they decamped to the Ritz bar for drinks, where witnesses reported the love birds canoodled until 3:00 a.m.”

Canoodled!
Jay was incensed. The tab was $1,500, the caviar was Russian, not Iranian, and Jay bought dinner. He sighed with disgust. At least they didn't know about the Cartier watch he dropped thirty-five grand on for Gabriella. He tossed the fax aside.

A room service waiter arrived and set out breakfast on the small table on the balcony. Over café au lait, croissants with jam, and a cheese tray, Jay tried to distract his mind by reading the
International Herald-Tribune.
But the paper carried two stories from the
New York Times
chronicling the sinking political fortunes of Bob Long. As if that were not enough, the lead editorial dismissed Majette as Clarence Thomas in pumps and an embarrassment to her race, scolded her husband for trying to cash in on his wife's judicial career, and called on Long to withdraw her name.

Jay was relieved he was not in DC. He imagined his friends at the White House dealing with this crap. Just then his BlackBerry vibrated. He wondered who could be calling . . . it was 5:00 a.m. on the East coast. He answered to hear the authoritative baritone of Charlie Hector.

“Jay, I wanted to give you a quick heads-up,” Hector said, getting right down to business. “Majette is withdrawing.”

Jay slumped in his chair. “I'm really sorry to hear that.”

“Her husband's lobbying is killing us, and his connection to Wildfire is a big problem because of the antitrust case.” Hector sighed. “Penneymounter was about to issue a subpoena for Charles Majette's billing records. His law firm didn't want that, and neither did he. I don't know what's in them, but apparently they didn't want them to see the light of day.”

Jay wanted to ask who had been in charge of vetting Majette, but he bit his tongue. Why pick the scab. “It's so sad. She would have been a great justice.”

“Well, we're moving on,” said Hector. “The president doesn't want his nominee to be bogged down in a bloody confirmation fight. He's looking for someone acceptable enough to centrist Democrats so we can get at least some bipartisan support.”

Jay could hardly believe his ears. If Long kept his campaign pledge and nominated a strict constructionist, it guaranteed a bloodbath. He guessed Hector had helped throw Majette under the bus, and he suspected racial politics: Hector had pushed for a Latino nominee all along.

“Let me know how I can help, Charlie,” said Jay. “Now that I'm done with Brodi, I can lend a hand.”

“Actually, that's the other reason I'm calling,” said Hector. “The president wants you to quarterback the confirmation of the new nominee.”

“Okay,” said Jay with a hint of trepidation.

“Jay, the president wants you to come to the White House as his senior advisor.”

“What?” asked Jay, stunned. “I don't think that's a good idea at all, Charlie. I'm much more effective on the outside.”

“This is not an outside job,” Hector said firmly. “This requires coordination of the press office, the counsel's office, public liaison, leg affairs, and the political shop. You have to be in the building to be in charge of the nomination, Jay.”

Jay felt the breath knocked out of him. But he lived by the rule that you never say no to POTUS. “If that's what the president wants,” he heard himself say. “But I want to talk to him first. And I'll need your 100 percent backing. I need to know you're fully on board.”

“On board?” laughed Hector. “Heck, it was my idea.”

Jay doubted that, but he shook it off. “I'll get there as quickly as I can,” said Jay. He hung up the phone and walked off the balcony into the suite. Gabriella stirred under the sheets. She raised her head from the pillow and stretched her arms, her hair mussed. Even after a night of partying, she looked gorgeous.

“Who was that?” she asked, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Charlie Hector,” said Jay. “The president wants me to come back to DC and help out in the White House. I can't say no. He's been my friend and client for twenty years. I have to go.”

Gabriella plopped her head back on the sheet and let out a low moan. Then, in a pique of anger, she threw her pillow against the wall. “I knew this weekend was too good to be true. I had a bad feeling the minute Brodi won that you'd have to go back.”

Jay didn't have the heart to mention Page Six. He picked up the phone to call the airlines. He had to find a flight to DC.

YOLANDA MAJETTE WALKED THROUGH the first-class lounge at Reagan National Airport, trying to avoid eye contact. She clutched her purse in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other. On the television she could not miss the cable anchor announcing her nomination's demise: “Battered by allegations about conflicts of interest arising from her husband's lobbying, plagued by opposition from Senate Democrats, and left twisting in the wind by a White House unwilling to defend her, Yolanda Majette withdrew her nomination to the Supreme Court today.”

Majette flinched. She sought refuge in a back corner of the deserted lounge and, passing by a coffee table with a
Washington Post
, her eye caught the front-page banner headline: “Majette, Under Fire, Withdraws.” Mercifully, it would soon be over. She was flying back to Sacramento and leaving her dream of serving on the highest court behind. Shell-shocked and embarrassed, she sat in a cubbyhole in the back of the lounge. She pulled out her cell phone and checked her voice-mail box. It was filled with encouraging messages from longtime friends. She found it strangely comforting.

Then, unexpectedly she came across a message from the president. He must have called as she went through security.

“Yolanda, Bob Long,” the message began. “I'm calling to tell you that I will always,
always
be proud that I nominated you to the Supreme Court. You conducted yourself with grace, dignity, and honor. No one knows better than I do that it is possible to come back from a bitter, hard defeat. Hold your head high. I'm on my way to Chicago for a health-care event, but if you want to call me back, you know how to reach me. I will talk to you soon. And I will always be your friend. God bless you.”

Majette reflexively began to dial the White House switchboard, which would patch her through to the president, probably on Air Force One. But then she thought better of it. It would be too painful.

Throughout the ordeal her plastic facade of calm had never cracked. But the president's voice message unleashed a flood of emotion. In the privacy of the cubbyhole, Majette doubled over and quietly wept, her tears falling in drops on the carpet, silent sobs racking her body.

JAY WALKED ACROSS THE floor of Gare du Nord, the cavernous train station that was a Paris landmark. Shafts of sunlight fell through the ceiling windows, creating a spectacular tableau of color, smoke, light, and human energy. His overnight bag slung over his shoulder, Jay moved quickly, dodging bodies that seemed to fly from every direction.

He stopped at the board displaying departure times and track numbers. He found his train: destination, Charles de Gaulle Airport, Track 9. His BlackBerry vibrated. Perhaps Gabriella saying a final good-bye?

“Hi, honey,” he said impulsively.

“I hope she was good,” said a deep voice. Jay recognized the voice as belonging to Truman Greenglass. Why would the president's national security advisor be calling him?

“Sorry, T. G. I thought you were someone else,” stammered Jay.

“Jay, we need you to make a side trip on your way back to DC. Official business.”

“Sure. Where?”

“Tel Aviv.”

Jay was confused. “Okay,” he heard himself say. He knew if the NSC was involved, it was sensitive. He felt a rush of adrenalin. He spied a coffee bar and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his cell phone, ordering an espresso.

“I assume you're on a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Since you're not on a secure line, I'll fill in the details later,” said Greenglass. “Exit the train station. There's a car waiting for you outside that will take you to the airport.”

“Alright,” said Jay. “I can't wait to find out what this is all about.”

“You will soon enough,” said Greenglass. “And Jay, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don't screw it up.”

Jay downed the remaining espresso. The caffeine was a booster rocket. He bounded up the escalator and out the door where he found a black Mercedes sedan idling on the curb. The driver waved at him.

“Mr. Noble, I'm your ride to the airport,” said the driver. “Please get in.”

The door opened and Jay slid in the backseat. To his surprise there was another passenger. With jet-black hair and dark eyes topped by caterpillar-like eyebrows, deep circles enveloping his eyes, he wore a blue suit and had a trench coat folded across his lap. At his feet was a battered briefcase that had clearly accompanied its owner on multiple continents.

“Mr. Noble, my name is Jim Plant. I'll be accompanying you on your trip to Israel and debriefing you en route,” he said, his hand outstretched.

Jay shook his hand. His grip was firm; their eyes locked. Jay scoped him up and down. He knew instantly that Plant was CIA. “Let me guess: you're with the government.”

“Yes,” Plant replied. “I work at the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv.” He said something to the driver in French. Then, turning back to Jay, he shared the plan. “This trip is highly classified. We can't risk detection en route to Tel Aviv. Your commercial flight has been cancelled and a government aircraft will be waiting for us at the airport.”

“Okay,” said Jay, holding up his hands. “This is getting weird. Ten minutes ago I was on my way to Washington. Now I'm picked up by a total stranger sent by NSC and ferried on a government jet to Israel. I'm not going any further until you tell me what's going on.”

Plant shifted in his seat. “Iran has weaponized a nuclear device,” he said, his gaze steady and voice lowered. “The Israelis are prepared to take military action and will act alone, if necessary. But that's assuming the right person wins the premier's office in the elections, which take place in thirty-seven days. As you can imagine, we have a lot on the line in the outcome. That's where you come in.”

“So we're covertly trying to defeat a democratically elected government in a country that is one of our closest allies so we can elect a prime minister who will attack Iran?” asked Jay.

Plant ignored Jay's remark. “You'll be meeting the nominee of the Likud party and her advisors at a private dinner tonight.”

“The right-wing party in Israel?”

“Correct. They want your help. This came directly from NSC.”

Jay had heard about this kind of operation. He had a partner once who worked for the Agency in the former Soviet Union, conducting polls for various parties and candidates, making sure the remnants of the Communist Party didn't win the election. Jay had heard of similar black-bag consulting gigs in central and Eastern Europe. But Israel?

“Mr. Noble, the cloak-and-dagger stuff is for pulp fiction,” said Plant. “Today the State Department, Pentagon, and CIA have political consultants on retainer all over the world. Back in the 1950s, we used military coups to effect regime change. We still resort to them in worst case scenarios. But we much prefer polling, focus groups, phone banks, and television ads.” He paused. “How do you think we ended up with the right government in Iraq?” He leveled his gaze. “By the way, how do you think Brodi won? Those things don't just happen, as you know better than anyone.”

Jay's eyes widened. “You guys helped Brodi?”