The Confirmation (31 page)

IT WAS JUST AFTER two in the morning when an unmanned, remote-controlled Predator drone dropped out of the clouds and floated above a safe house on the outskirts of Makeen, a small village in the Shakai region north of Wana in South Waziristan nestled in the mountains of Pakistan along the border with Afghanistan. The drone launched two laser-guided Hellfire missiles, lighting up the sky. They streaked to the target at a thousand miles an hour and exploded in a pillar of fire and smoke. Inside the house were several militants and family members, known associates of Rassem el Zafarshan, the mastermind behind the assassination of Vice President Harrison Flaherty. Everyone in the hut was killed instantly.

Long a refuge of Al Qaeda and the Taliban, the tribal region of Waziristan had become the refuge for Zafarshan after he lost the sponsorship of Iran, which deemed him too hot to handle after Flaherty's death. But in spite of its technological wizardry and firepower, the Predator attack failed. Zafarshan was not in the safe house. Unconfirmed reports indicated he had “gone rogue,” snapping the leash of his Iranian handlers. Where was he now? No one knew, least of all the CIA.

TWENTY-FOUR

Ross Lombardy peered at the computer screen in the deserted offices of The Message Group, a political consulting firm on K Street. It was nearing midnight, and Ross stayed alert with a steady stream of caffeine, swigging from his third Diet Coke in two hours. He was joined by Sam Tayamo, a brilliant Filipino and Republican speech writer whose heroes were (in order): Jesus Christ, Abraham Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, Bobby Kennedy, and the Grateful Dead. Tall and dark, with a thatch of black hair and sad-sack eyes, Tayamo's fingers pecked away at the keyboard as his mind whirred.

“How about this?” Tayamo suggested. “‘We will not bow to the counselors of retreat who insist that the path to victory is paved with the compromise of our principles.'”

Ross screwed up his face. “Too declaratory. Too subtle.”

“A sentence can't be both declaratory and subtle.”

“That one is.” Ross stood up and began to pace the floor, waving his arms. “We need to throw a grenade! This has to make the nets and lead Fox News!”

“We want a riot,” agreed Tayamo, working himself into an ideological froth. “This is pure, bloody red meat, and we're dropping it into a shark tank.”

“Try this,” began Ross. “‘Let me offer a word of caution to those who seek our support. We will not follow those who cower in compromise or forget those who offer up our principles on the altar of political expediency.”

Tayamo's body wiggled excitedly as his fingers flew across the keyboard. “It's not ‘a word of caution,'” he said. “It's a ‘word of warning'.”

“Ooooh,” said Ross. “This is too much fun.”

“This may be the first time Andy has had to tone down our speech drafts!”

“He better not! This will land him on the front page of the Times and WaPo,” said Ross. “If I have to, I'll distribute it as an advanced text.”

“ANDY! ANDY! ANDY! ANDY!”

The Grand Ballroom of the Washington Hilton echoed with the primal screams of ten thousand right-wingers releasing the pent-up frustrations and grievances of forty years in the wilderness. They chanted the name of their fearless leader, the Reverend Doctor Andrew H. Stanton, stood on chairs, and waved American flags. On a back riser, the press corps surveyed the scene, horrified. They hadn't seen this many goobers from the backwoods of the Bible Belt since the Tea Party movement burst on the national scene. They worried: were these swamp fevers of bigots and Neanderthals the real America?

Andy bounded onto the stage looking like an aging game-show host. He wore gray slacks, striped tie, double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, and black spit-shined crocodile cowboy boots. Bouffant hair sprayed into a salt-and-pepper helmet, flashing a Pepsodent smile, he raised both arms in the air. He was a little too happy to be there.

“Andy! Andy! Andy!”

Andy motioned to quiet the crowd. They slowly took their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we gather in our nation's capital, an island of fantasy surrounded by a sea of reality . . .”

The crowd rumbled with appreciative laughter.

“. . . America is at a crossroads. We face a terrorist foe committed to the destruction of America and Israel, the harassment of our democratic allies, and the defeat of Western civilization.” Like a pitcher in a wind-up, he stared down his target. “Their desire is to create by violent means an Islamic caliphate stretching from the Arabian sea to the Adriatic. If they succeed, they will usher in the darkest period of human history since the Middle Ages.”

The crowd fell quiet and somber.

“Here at home the consequences of moral decline are haunting. Our nation has presided over the murder of seventy-five million unborn babies. Men forsake wives and children while some seek to destroy the institution of marriage. Only one thing stands between them and their goal in redefining marriage: a single vacant seat on the U.S. Supreme Court.”

BACKSTAGE, ROSS STARED AT the television monitor through squinting eyes, watching Andy's image on the screen. A clutch of staff gathered around him. Sam Tayamo appeared at his side and gave him a knowing wink.

“I thought you never went to hear the speeches you write,” said Ross.

“I don't,” said Tayamo. “But I wouldn't miss this for all the money in the world.”

“This is going to land in the West Wing like a box of horse manure.”

“Andy's burning every bridge behind him.”

“And us. We're strapped to the mast with him,” said Ross.

ANDY GRASPED THE PODIUM, body coiled with energy, leaning forward as if he were a lineman preparing to blitz. The crowd rustled. Andy was not known to mince words; everyone awaited the thunderclap. Then suddenly it happened.

“With Yolanda Majette's withdrawal, President Long faces a momentous decision,” said Andy. “There are reports he will choose the path of least resistance, selecting a nominee who will not engender the opprobrium of Joe Penneymounter, Salmon Stanley, and the media.”

The crowd hissed.

“It is my hope that President Long keeps his campaign promise to appoint strict constructionists who will interpret the law, not legislate from the bench.” Scattered applause. He paused to reload. “But regardless of which course the president chooses, we will remain true to our values. We will not follow leaders who choose timidity over principle. If the president nominates someone to the Supreme Court who does not have the record and philosophy of a judicial conservative, we will oppose the nominee and the Faith and Family Federation will spare no resource in defeating their nomination in the United States Senate.”

The crowd leapt to its feet. A guttural roar rose from the back of the room and built with ear-splitting pitch into a full-throated shriek. They stomped their feet, clapped their hands, waved white handkerchiefs, and raised fists. Andy smiled defiantly, chin raised, jaw jutted.

TO THE PRESS, ANDY was anathema, channeling Aimee Sempleton McPherson and Tricky Dick. Hunched on a chair on the press riser, Dan Dorman scribbled away on his steno pad, peering over his glasses. “Moses is calling down plagues on Egypt,” he said with a chuckle.

Satcha Sanchez, covering the conference for Univision, leaned over Dorman's shoulder. “And just like Pharaoh, Long will blow him off.”

“Which comes first, frogs or locusts?” asked Dorman.

“Rickets and scurvy,” joked Satcha.

They both laughed.

JAY NOBLE SAT IN a small office on the first floor of the West Wing, staring at the questionnaire for new White House employees as if it were a bomb on its last few ticks. Were it not too late, he would back out of his decision to join the president's staff right then. Incredulous, he barreled down the hall and rapped on the door to Phil Battaglia's office.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure, what's up?”

Jay sat down opposite Battaglia, slumping low, his posture telegraphing his discomfort. “This questionnaire is nuts, Phil. Who wrote this?”

A smile spread across Battaglia's face. “Me. Why, you got a problem with it?”

“Did everyone answer these questions?” asked Jay, chagrined.

“Yep.”

Jay squirmed in his seat. “Alright,” he sighed. “But I think this holier than thou posture is getting us nowhere. Majette is Exhibit A. Nobody's really clean in this business.”

“Fair enough,” replied Battaglia. “But you can't win an election promising to clean up Washington and then treat the sewer like a sauna.” He formed his right fingers into a pistol, pointing at Jay. “Just make sure you're not Exhibit B.”

Jay frowned. “To that end,” he said slowly, “Can you give me some advice about a business matter?”

“Sure. Fire away?”

“After I finished the campaign in Italy, I went to Israel to advise Hannah Shoval, the Likud candidate for prime minister,” Jay explained, standing up from the chair and pacing the floor. “The CIA and NSA were involved in some way, I'm not sure how.” He turned and made eye contact with Battaglia. “Likud agree to pay me a $250,000 fee. There's no problem with my accepting that fee since the work was done before I started at the White House, is there?”

Battaglia looked at Jay with hooded eyes. “Jay, the fact that you feel it necessary to ask the question should tell you the answer.”

Jay's face fell. “I can't take it, can I?”

“No,” Battaglia replied firmly. “Not unless you want to read about it on the front page of the
New York Times
and endure a congressional investigation led by Joe Penneymounter.”

“What if I have them pay Fred's firm and then he makes me whole later?”

“So you propose to resolve a conflict of interest by adding the charge of deception and money laundering?” asked Battaglia sarcastically.

Jay let out a long sigh. “Well, you can't blame me for trying.”

Battaglia's assistant opened the door without knocking. “Sorry to bother you guys. Jay, the president needs to see you in the Oval. Stat.”

JAY WALKED DOWN THE hall and rounded the corner to the Oval Office. Long's assistant greeted him with a welcoming smile. They had worked together on the campaign, and he gave her a warm hug. “Welcome back, Jay,” she said. “Go on in. He's expecting you.”

Jay opened the door and felt a sense of awe. Even though Long was his friend of more than twenty years, it was still hard to get used to him as the leader of the free world.

Long sat behind the desk, face flushed. Lisa Robinson stood in front of the presidential desk wearing a pensive expression on her face. Jay made eye contact with Lisa, but she looked away. They had not talked since the inaugural. He meant to send her an e-mail making nice once he learned he was coming to the White House, but he forgot. He now paid the price.

“Did you see what Andy Stanton said this morning?” asked Long, clearly irritated.

Jay rolled his eyes. “No, what did the good doctor say now?”

Lisa's eyes scanned a piece of paper in her hand. “In so many words, if the president nominates someone for the Supreme Court he deems insufficiently conservative, the Faith and Freedom Federation will oppose the nomination.”

Long's eyes were aflame. “What's with Andy?” He leaned forward, tapping the desk with his index finger. “This
guarantees
I can't pick someone to the right of Majette. Everyone will say I caved to the far right.”

“So what?” replied Jay.

“I'm getting press calls,” said Lisa. “I say we pop him.”

Jay thought Lisa's suggestion was insane. “Am I missing something? Andy's an evangelical leader who is pro-life. What else do we expect him to say?”

“He could say he trusts my judgment,” said Long.

“No, he can't,” said Jay. “Andy has to maintain the loyalty of his constituency. He answers to them. If he is a mouthpiece for you, he loses credibility with his own people.”

“So you think he's just genuflecting for the cameras?” asked Lisa skeptically.

“Of course,” shot back Jay. “And predictably the media fell for it. He's protecting his street cred on the right.”

“We can't let special interest groups threaten the president.”

“Agreed. But Andy has a role to play, and it's different from ours,” said Jay. “His job is to hold our feet to the fire. Our job is to do the right thing.”

“He's over the line,” said Long.

“Our response should be: thanks for the advice, but the president will appoint a Supreme Court nominee based on qualifications and judicial philosophy, not on who will support or oppose the nomination.”

Lisa looked at Long, her eyes telegraphing skepticism.

“That's pulling a punch,” Long observed, not entirely pleased.

“Maybe so. But Andy has twenty million followers, and if you hit him, it will blow this completely out of proportion,” said Jay. “Besides, it's below your pay grade, Mr. President.”