The Confirmation (30 page)

“Absolutely,” said Plant, the corners of his mouth turned up suggestively. “The current foreign minister of the European Union is an Italian diplomat close to Brodi, and we need the EU's support for military action against Iran.” For Jay it was a humbling revelation. He thought he had single-handedly pulled Brodi to victory.

“Alright, if this is coming from the White House, I'll do it,” said Jay. “But I don't work for cheap.”

“Money is not an issue,” said Plant, eyes steady. “Just make sure Likud wins.”

“Oh, is that all?” Jay looked out the window. They were outside central Paris, the Benz flying down a highway on its way to a remote airstrip. Peering in the distance, Jay could make out La Defense, the business district to the west of the city center, its modern skyscrapers and white Grand Arch rising in the distance. Jay was conflicted. Part of him wanted to jump on a plane back to Italy and hang out with Gabriella at her Tuscan villa, far away from the press attacks and the bitter partisanship roiling DC. But Long needed his help. He was fighting two wars at once, one with Iran and its funding of terrorists like Rassem el Zafarshan and the other with Joe Penneymounter and Sal Stanley over the Supreme Court. Jay was about to find himself at the center of both of wars, and it was right where he wanted to be.

TWENTY-THREE

“I've been saving this wine for a special occasion,” said Joe Penneymounter, holding court from behind the bar in his apartment at The Watergate, a sweeping view of the Potomac and the twinkling lights of the city visible through the sliding glass door. He poured the wine. Light from the bar hit the red liquid, turning the crystal into glassy kaleidoscopes with revolving pinkish-red shades of color. He handed them to Christy Love and Natalie Taylor.

“This certainly qualifies as a special occasion,” said Christy. She wore a black contrast jacket with white boot-cut jeans and black-toed patent leather pumps. Thin and athletic, she looked more like an Olympic volleyball player than a DC lobbyist.

“Wait. A toast,” said Penneymounter. He raised his finger. “Here's to the team that forced Yolanda Majette to bail. Now on to victory.”

“Here, here,” said Christy, clinking her glass with Joe and Natalie.

“This is
excellent
,” said Natalie, pursing her lips, savoring the taste.

“It's from a village in Alsace-Lorraine,” said Penneymounter. “I bought a case when I was in Strasbourg on a codicil. Shipped it back on a C-130. It's almost impossible to get now. It's going for $800 a bottle on eBay.”

Natalie's cell phone rang. She rummaged through her purse, pulling out the phone and glancing at the number. “That's the
Wall Street Journal
,” she said. “They're under deadline on a story about the next Supreme Court pick.” She flashed an evil grin. “I'm going to say that if Long moves to the right, the nominee is dead on arrival.”

“You go, girl!” said Christy.

Natalie stepped into the dining room to take the call. “Christy, have you ever seen my photography collection?” asked Penneymounter.

“Where do you keep it?” asked Christy playfully. “The master bedroom?”

“No!” laughed Penneymounter. “It's in the study. Follow me.” He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the study, desk strewn with papers, bookshelves bowed with books. Framed photographs covered two walls: celebrity images by Annie Leibovitz and Herb Ritts, a migrant woman by Dorothea Lange, landscapes by Ansel Adams, a self-portrait by Robert Mapplethorpe, Bill and Hillary Clinton captured by Tipper Gore during the 1992 campaign.

“This is incredible,” gushed Christy. “It's one of the finest photography collections I've ever seen. I didn't know you were into art.”

“It's an expensive hobby,” sighed Penneymounter. “I don't recommend it. It's become very addictive.”

He led her to a black-and-white print of a buxom Marilyn Monroe sheathed in a sequined dress, vacant eyes gazing into the distance. “This is by Richard Avedon. I got it at a gallery in New York.” He pointed at her melancholy expression. “See how sad she looks?”

“You're trying to tell me you bought this for the expression on her face?” joked Christy.

Penneymounter ignored the dig. “She wanted fame and stardom. Of course what she really wanted was the approval of others,” he said. “But it did not satisfy her. In fact, our adoration killed her. That's why we identify with Monroe, Elvis, or Michael Jackson. Because we also desire approval and applause . . . and, in the end, it destroys us.”

“It's so true, isn't it?” replied Christy softly. “I had no idea you were so self-aware, Joe. I always took you for . . . I don't know, don't get mad, but a politician.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Christy,” said Penneymounter. He moved in closer, their bodies brushing. “I appreciate fine things. Good wine, art, intelligent conversation, a classy lady.” he said, his breath against her cheek. “I'd like to show you that other side of me.”

“Senator,” said Christy, her posture stiffening. “I don't play in someone else's sandbox.”

“I didn't mean to suggest otherwise,” said Penneymounter, backpedaling. He lowered his voice to a half whisper. “Look, I just think we could both really help each other. That's all.”

Natalie walked in unaware, intending to report on her conversation with the
Wall Street Journal
reporter. Seeing Penneymounter and Christy in a near embrace, her eyes widened. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, backing out slowly and disappearing down the stairs.

Christy pulled away. “Just great,” she said. “”You better go downstairs and take care of your girlfriend.”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Penneymounter lied.

Christy shrugged. “Joe, this isn't true confessions. But people are talking. Whatever she is, you better put a stop to it before you're the next John Edwards.”

“Don't worry about her; she's fine,” said Penneymounter. “Now what about the two of us working together? This could be the beginning of a formidable partnership.”

Christy was not a novice when it came to fending off congressmen with wandering eyes and roving hands. “Joe, you deliver the goods on the Supreme Court,” she said with a sly smile. “I'll make sure you're amply rewarded.”

“Sounds tantalizing. And how exactly will I be rewarded?”

“I'll make sure you get a shot at our people when you run for president.”

Penneymounter's face fell. “That's not what I had in mind.”

“Too bad. That's the offer; take it or leave it,” said Christy. She downed the remainder of her wine, setting the empty glass on the desk. She patted him on the cheek with the palm of her hand and dusted his shoulder, flecking away an imaginary piece of lint. “Thanks for the wine, Mr. Chairman. Good-night.”

With that, she was gone.

FROM THE RESTAURANT JAY could see the walls of the old city, a tangible reminder of the thousands of years of history played out in Jerusalem. The gold dome of the Temple Mount glimmered against the black night. It was a warm evening, and someone had opened a window to let in a breeze. Ceiling fans spun overhead.

Jay felt queasy. It had all been too much: the flight from Paris, partying with Gabriella until dawn, the all-nighter in Rome celebrating Brodi's victory. He was no longer a kid, and politics, wine, and women across two continents now took its toll. To make matters worse, he felt like an idiot in the slapstick disguise Plant forced on him: wig, fake mustache, and baseball cap.
At least this will make for a good story in my memoir,
thought Jay. Safely ensconced in a private room in the restaurant, he removed the wig and moustache.

“Mr. Noble,” said the Likud party's senior political advisor, “you travel incognito!” Everyone laughed.

“I only wish I had been smart enough to wear a disguise in Italy,” Jay volleyed.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” said the advisor. “We hope you can help us. We have only five weeks to claim the center the way you did in electing Bob Long.”

“Like we did?” replied Jay. He tore into a mini-falafel appetizer. “My guy was a moderate who moved right. You guys are right-wing nuts. You need to move in the other direction!”

They all enjoyed a good laugh. The humor was an ice breaker.

The door swung open, and in stepped Hannah Shoval, the strikingly attractive Likud candidate for prime minister. With dark bangs combed to the side of a round face, penetrating brown eyes, and freckles flecking her nose and cheeks, she could have passed for an attractive, youngish college professor on her way to tenure. But her preternatural confidence, an effortless poise, and the security guards trailing her, said otherwise. She worked the room like a skilled pol, hugging necks and pumping hands before coming to Jay and extending her hand.

“Mr. Noble, your reputation precedes you,” she said in flawless English.

“I do whatever President Long tells me to, ma'am,” he said with a smile. “He told me to help you. So here I am.”

“The president is fortunate to have such a loyal and discreet advisor,” said Shoval. “So you are the cavalry then . . . kind of like in the westerns?”

“Something like that. I kill the bad guys.”

Shoval sat down directly across from Jay. Sipping intermittently from a bowl of matzo ball soup, she spoke in crisp paragraphs, laying out the state of the campaign. “If this election had been held thirty days ago, I would have lost,” she said with the detached professionalism of a physician diagnosing a patient. “The CIA leak about Iran obtaining a nuclear weapon has completely reshuffled the deck. When you combine that with Hamas launching raids from their sanctuary in Gaza, it's driving voters to me. The peace vote will stick with Labor. Kadima is stuck in the middle, which right now is no-man's land.”

Jay nodded. “Kadima was a cult of personality,” he said. “Once Sharon was gone, it lost its
raison d'etre.
”

Shoval glanced around the table, pointing at Jay admiringly. “He knows more about Israeli politics than some of our own people,” she said. Chuckles rumbled around the table. Her face turned serious. “The flip side of the coin is that if the election is about security, a woman is at a real disadvantage. Keep in mind I'm running against a former defense minister and a retired general.”

“Push Labor further left,” said Jay. “Your task is to build a center-right coalition. Can you pick off any Kadima party leaders by promising them cabinet posts?”

“I've made cabinet concessions already,” replied Shoval with a wave of her hand. “Pretty soon I will have promised the same ministry to ten different people.”

Jay smiled. “In terms of the security issue, for a woman candidate, it's all about clearing the toughness bar,” he said. “You need to be an Israeli Margaret Thatcher. Give a major speech on the peace process and lay out a new proposal that transcends the failed policy of seeking a two-state solution.”

Shoval nodded, listening.

“Campaigns are about the future and hope,” Jay continued. “Israelis are weary of fighting and negotiating with no real change. Give them hope of a new day.”

“That's hard when I'm hinting pretty strongly that if I'm elected I will take military action against Iran.”

“It's hard, I admit,” said Jay. “But now that you're in the general, you can move to the reasonable middle as long as you avoid the dovish left. That's what Long did. He actually got to the right of Petty on Iran. So it is possible to come off tougher than a general and more reasonable than Labor at the same time.”

“Tough and moderate. Isn't that a contradiction?” asked Shoval skeptically.

“In a way, yes, but voters hold to contradictory views all the time. Consistency is one of the most overrated attributes in a leader,” said Jay confidently. “Heck, my guy flip-flopped on abortion!” Everyone laughed. “I want to loan you our pollster, Fred Edgewater. He's the best. I can also get our media team who did the closing ads for Brodi to come to Israel and shoot some footage that will give you a strong security image.”

“Absolutely,” said Shoval. “I want to meet them as soon as it can be arranged.”

“The president needs you to win,” said Jay.

“And not only President Long,” said one of the Likud advisors. “The Arabs are secretly pulling for her. They want her to take care of Iran so they don't have to.”

“So Mr. Noble, let me ask you a question,” said Shoval. “If Bob Long is so tough, how come he's leaving it to a woman to deal with Iran?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying throwing the punch.

“We took out Saddam Hussein,” said Jay slowly. “One good turn deserves another, don't you think?”

“Touche,” replied Shoval, smiling. “Here's to victory at the polls for me and Long . . . and to a partnership in confronting Iran.” She lifted her glass and clinked it with Jay's.