The Confirmation (42 page)

Nicole returned to the microphone. “Questions?”

“Do any of the women speaking today plan to testify before the Judiciary Committee?” asked the
Wall Street Journal
.

“We are in contact with the committee, and these women are prepared to tell their stories if asked to appear,” said Nicole.

“So have you asked that they appear?”

“We have made the committee aware of these women and their stories.”

“Nicole, your presence adds a twist to these proceedings,” said Reuters. “I wonder if you would respond to the charge by some that you're simply doing this to get even with Jay Noble and the White House for firing you from the Long campaign.”

Nicole's lips pressed into a thin line of red lipstick. Her jaw hardened. “I'm here because I believe these women should not be denied their day in court and because I do not believe Marco Diaz should be confirmed as a justice on the U.S. Supreme Court.”

“Are you concerned that your own personal soap opera and legal drama, for lack of a better term, will distract from the issue?” asked Reuters in a nasty follow-up.

Nicole kept her cool. “If you're talking about what transpired during the presidential campaign, I've moved on. I'm only answering questions today about the Diaz nomination. But if the question is whether I'm helping or hurting this effort, if my presence encouraged any of you to come to this press conference, I guess I'm helping.”

Knowing laughter rose from the press throng as they scribbled on their steno pads. After the news conference Christy and Nicole rode down the elevator and walked out on to the sidewalk on Fifteenth Street. Riding high at their success, they headed down the block to the nearest Starbucks and ordered a couple of skinny lattes.

“That was fabulous,” said Christy effusively. “I teared up when Cruz told her story. And you were
great
. The media ate it up . . . just like I knew they would!”

“If you're happy, I'm happy,” said Nicole. “To be honest with you, I'm still not so sure. I just don't want to be a liability to the pro-choice cause.”

“Come on, Nicole, this is where you belong. I knew you'd be back,” said Christy.

“How did you know that?” asked Nicole, her eyes filled with pain and searching.

“Because you've got
it
, kid, whatever
it
is,” said Christy. “We had eighty-five credentialed reporters today. You should be high-fiving your way to the champagne bucket.” She laughed.

“They were only there because of the scandal,” said Nicole, her voice tinged with regret. “I'm a freak show. I guess it's going to follow me the rest of my life.”

Christy leaned forward, cradling her latte in her lap. “Nicole, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You didn't get indicted. Trust me, this is
good
. You're famous.
How
you got famous is irrelevant.” She raised her latte in a toast. “Tip 20 percent and enjoy the ride, honey.”

Nicole shook her head. She thought: on some strange level, politics was a game, a reality show where everyone tried not be voted off the island and, if they were, at least become rich and famous in the process.

THIRTY-TWO

In the black waters off Diego Garcia, a tiny spit of land in the middle of the Indian Ocean, twelve speedboats raced across six-foot choppy waves as they approached a Canadian-flagged vessel. Each motorboat carried a crew of eight men armed with AK-47 machine guns, machetes, and pistols. Pulling beside the ship, they hurled hooks on the end of ropes to the deck and shimmied up the side of the hull.

The invaders were Somali pirates, and they looked like sea-bound vagabonds, thin and suffering from malnutrition. But their emaciated appearance was misleading. They were not exiles seeking refuge. Nor were they demanding ransom. Their objective: 650 tons of high-grade enriched uranium known as “yellowcake,” the raw material for building a nuclear bomb.

Once aboard, the crews moved with lethal efficiency. Climbing up ropes and assembling on deck, the pirates broke into three groups: First, the sailors who would handle the ship's navigation and keep the speedboats ready for a hasty escape. Second, the militiamen, many hardened veterans of ethnic clashes in Somalia and Ethiopia, providing the muscle and firepower. The third group was engineers who knew how to identify the yellowcake and safely transport it. As soon as the first pirates clambered onto the deck, security cameras captured their shadowy figures.

In the crow's nest, the ship's head of security saw them immediately. “Pirates!” he shouted into the ship's public-address system. “All security personnel to stations. Stat!”

Fifteen armed security guards came charging up a ladder from quarters below, pistols held in the air. Several carried sawed-off shotguns and Uzis. The first three men to burst through a door to the main deck were greeted with a hail of gunfire. One of the guards took a fatal shot to the chest and dropped to the deck.

“Cover fire, I need cover fire now!” shouted one of the guards as he fell to the floor, dodging bullets.

The doorway was impossible to exit through, their position under intense enemy fire, the ugly
ping-ping
of bullets ricocheting off metal in their ears. One of the guards signaled to his comrades to go back down the ladder and find an alternate route to the deck.

“Which way?” asked one of them.

“To the stern, exit there, then we'll climb up the back of the crow's nest to pin them down with fire,” ordered the senior guard.

“Roger that,” came the response.

At that moment one of the pirates dropped a phosphorous grenade through the door. It exploded, killing two of the men instantly and setting the uniforms of several others ablaze in a chemical fire. Their hideous screams filled the corridors that fanned out below deck.

In the crow's nest the ship's crew locked the doors, ignoring the banging from the butt of one of the pirate's guns. They heard the pirates shouting back and forth at one another in another language, trying to figure out a way in. One seaman looked into the eyes of another, exchanging a nervous glance.

At that instant a concussion grenade hurled by one of the pirates shattered the glass windshield that provided a view from the crow's nest. One of the pirates climbed in, wielding a pistol.

“Down on floor!” he shouted in broken English. “Heads down.”

He turned the latch and let in his fellow hijackers. Below deck the crackle of gunfire indicated sporadic fighting. But the battle over the ship was over: the pirates had taken control in less than ten minutes.

One of the pirates carried a satellite phone into the crow's nest, placing it on the counter. He flipped it on, checked the signal, and dialed the number of the man who had hired them: Rassem el Zafarshan. “The vessel is secured,” he said into the receiver. “We are moving to the cargo hold to obtain the package.”

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS IN Tom Reynolds's private office on the fifth floor of the Dirksen Senate Office Building, a small group gathered. This was no legal strategy session; it was a prayer meeting. Joining Reynolds and Marco and Frida Diaz were Father Frank Henkel, a priest in DC, Andy Stanton, and Ross Lombardy.

“Marco, before we go to the hearings, I want us to pray for you and ask for God's protection and blessing,” said Reynolds.

“I'd be most grateful,” said Diaz in a scratchy voice. He was thoroughly exhausted, running on fumes. Two FBI agents showed up at his house around dinnertime and asked questions about Maria Solis and her lurid allegation that he pressured her to have an abortion twenty-four years earlier. Unable to eat, he tossed and turned all night, getting only three hours sleep.

“Marco, why don't you and Frida kneel down, and we'll lay hands on you and pray,” suggested Reynolds.

“I better not,” laughed Frida, who was six months pregnant. “I might not be able to get back up again.” Everyone laughed. Marco got down on his knees and closed his eyes.

Father Henkel placed a hand on Diaz's shoulder and led them in prayer. “O God, you know that from dust we have come and to dust we shall return. Be mindful of the frailty of our bodies. We confess our weakness and ask for your strength, O God.” To Marco, it seemed a particularly fitting prayer given his state of physical and mental exhaustion.

“Amen,” muttered Andy.

“Protect our brother Marco from evil, bind the devil, and shield him from the lies and distortions that are the work of hell. Keep him humble and repentant, and may he hold no root of bitterness against those who unfairly malign him.”

The room became strangely quiet and filled with emotion. A strange peace infused Marco. Frida began to weep quietly.

“Lord of heaven and earth, deliver Marco from those who would seek to do him harm. Grant him your protection and favor. Guide and direct him and give him your transcendent peace through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Diaz rose from his knees, his eyes watery.

“Marco, before you go to the hearing, I'd like to anoint you with oil and ask God's blessing,” said Andy.

Diaz nodded affirmatively. “I'll take all the prayer I can get, Reverend.” There was nervous laughter.

Andy pulled a small vial of oil from his pocket and opened it, dabbing it on his index finger. He drew a cross with oil on Diaz's forehead and began to pray, his eyes squinting closed.

“Father, we come before You and ask You to surround Marco and Frida and their family right now with Your grace and Your love. May he experience the peace that surpasses all human understanding. In the name of Jesus, we dispatch angels to go before him and even now wage war on his behalf with those evil forces in the spiritual realm that would seek his harm.” Andy drew out the vowels, so the name of the Son came out as “Jeee-zuuhs.” Andy filled his prayer with martial language and Manichean imagery. Given the political conflict enveloping the Diaz family, no one demurred.

“Lord, I pray even as You sent an angel into the lion's den to shut the lion's mouth and deliver Your servant Daniel, so too you would defang those who would seek to defeat Marco in these hearings.”

“Amen, Father,” said Father Henkel.

“I ask even as You promised that You would give words to be spoken by those who were dragged before courts and tribunals in the end-times, so too You would give Marco the words to speak today.” Andy raised his voice, punching the syllables for emphasis as he reached an emotive crescendo. “Give him calm, confidence, and eloquence beyond his own natural ability. Give him
victory
and elevate him to the Supreme Court where he can bring honor to You and justice to the oppressed. We ask all this in the mighty name of Jesus,
Amen
!”

The prayers finished, everyone hugged, their eyes teary, their voices choked with emotion. Reynolds began singing the opening stanza of “Amazing Grace” a cappella. Everyone else joined in. As they sang, tears streaked Marco's cheeks. Andy walked over and put his arm around him, pulling him close.

When the song finished, everyone was crying. Reynolds walked over to his credenza and grabbed a box of tissues, passing it around. Andy reach for a handkerchief from his pocket and leaned over to dab the oil off Marco's forehead.

“No, leave it there,” said Marco. “I want to sense the anointing when I go before the committee.” He shot a sly sideward glance at Father Henkel. “Is it alright if a Catholic boy wears Southern Baptist oil?”

“Entirely appropriate for the occasion,” smiled Henkel.

Andy laughed. “Marco, you've been anointed by an evangelical and prayed over by a priest. You're fully covered!”

“All I need now is a rabbi to pray for me,” said Diaz.

“I can arrange that later,” said Reynolds, laughing. He held up his wrist and glanced at his watch. “But we better go.”

“Let's do it,” said Diaz. “I'm ready.”

Diaz felt an infusion of inner strength. He came to rely on prayer to get him through the ordeal. And there was something else. He saw in the attacks, criticism, and personal smears not his doom but rather God's favor. A thought struck him: perhaps the reason for the ferocity of the opposition was God's desire to show His delivering power. Diaz was at peace, whatever the outcome.

THE PRESIDENT WAS ON the phone when his secretary walked in slowly, carrying a note in her right hand. The late afternoon sun broke through the goldenrod curtains framing the window behind Long's desk. She stood in front of his desk wearing a pensive expression on her face. He nodded to acknowledge her, and she handed him the slip of paper.

Opening the note and reading it, Bob Long's face went white. He wrapped up his call.

“Who told you about this?” he asked.

“The secretary of defense,” she answered. “I just hung up with him. I told him you were on the other line, and he told me to interrupt you.”

“Get Truman Greenglass and Bill Jacobs over here,” said Long, his voice rising. “And get the chairman of the joint chiefs on the line. Right away.”