The Confirmation (7 page)

“So you're rejecting the ADL's demand for an apology?”

“I have not seen the letter, so I can't comment directly on that. I would point out that the benediction was delivered by a rabbi. A Muslim imam delivered the prayer at the congressional luncheon.” Lisa paused, letting the point sink in. “The inaugural was an ecumenical moment that embraced Americans of all faiths.”

“The Saudi foreign minister has issued a statement condemning Stanton's claim that Christ is—” He flipped open his steno pad, scanning the page. “Quote, ‘Lord of the nations,'” fired Knight-Ridder. “He says it's highly offensive. Do you really want to offend one of our most important strategic partners in the Middle East?”

“Dr. Stanton was speaking in his capacity as a minister of the gospel,” Lisa responded. “He does not speak for the U.S. government.”

Dan Dorman, the new White House correspondent of the
Washington Post
, hung back like a jackal in the weeds. Slumped in his chair on the second row, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, the matted grey hair on his balding head twisted in an unkept tangle, he prepared to pounce.

“Is the president concerned about the rioting in Gaza? Palestinian protesters are burning him in effigy,” Dorman said provocatively. “This prayer has sparked an international incident. Is it worth damaging America's standing in the world to pay back Andy Stanton for his support of Long during the campaign?”

Lisa's eyes shot darts and her face hardened. She and Dorman had developed a famously strained relationship during the campaign. In fact, she hated him. For his part Dorman reveled in her disdain: it had been a major career enhancer.

“I disagree with the premise of your question,” Lisa shot back. “The inaugural was a moment of national unity that reflected the many faith traditions of the American people: Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and Hinduism.”

“Hinduism?” Dorman asked sarcastically. “What about the riots? Aren't you concerned that this is inflaming anti-American sentiment on the Arab street?”

“As we made clear during the campaign, the president is fully committed to the creation of a Palestinian state at peace with Israel. If you have more specific questions about the incident in Gaza, you should direct them to the State Department,” Lisa replied coldly.

“You're dodging a question about civil unrest that threatens the entire peace process.”

“
Dodge
is your word, not mine,” Lisa said, spitting out the words, the muscles in her jawbone tightening. “I'm not going to speak for the diplomats. As I have already stated, Andy Stanton does not speak for the U.S. government, and he does not direct our foreign policy, including policy in the Middle East.”

“But you gave him a platform, and he has offended one billion Muslims and the entire Jewish community. Isn't that a problem?”

“Dan, I've said all I have to say on this. The inaugural was an ecumenical event that included invocations of the Deity by representatives of every major faith.” She looked directly at Dorman, lecturing him like a schoolmarm. “Maybe some have a problem with the freedom of expression of religious beliefs we enjoy in America. We do not.”

“Thank you,” said Hearst Newspapers, the senior member of the press corps, signaling that the briefing was over. Lisa closed her binder and stepped from the podium, heading back to her office in the West Wing. She reflected that after all their hard work on Long's inaugural address, it was as if the president had never said a word. The entire news cycle was lost because of six words in Andy Stanton's prayer. It was a total nightmare.

IT WAS APPROACHING 6:00 p.m. when Jay Noble walked into the United Airlines first-class lounge at Dulles International Airport, waiting to board a flight to Rome. While all of his friends were settling into the West Wing, Jay was getting out of town. He had put Satcha on an airplane to LA that morning, and now he was free as a bird. The inaugural behind him (what a pain that had been!) and the new administration in place, the painful truth was he was no longer needed. He was a political strategist, not a government employee. The only thing he knew how to run was his mouth. Some thought him crazy for passing up a chance to work in the White House. But Jay knew 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was a government-run insane asylum surrounded by an iron fence. Besides, he had no interest in working eighteen hours a day for 135 grand a year. As much as he hated leaving his friends behind, he was cashing in by hanging a shingle as the hottest political strategist on the planet. His first client was Lorenzo Brodi, the mayor of Rome and candidate for prime minister of Italy, a center-right candidate who wanted to model himself after Bob Long.

With time to kill before the flight, Jay went to the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary, then walked to a deserted corner of the lounge and pulled up a chair, occasionally glancing at the television set while he scanned his BlackBerry. The talking heads on cable had been screaming about Stanton's prayer all day. At moments like this, Jay reflected, everyone read their cue cards like B-grade actors in a bad movie, faces contorted, fingers jabbing, voices raised, tempers flaring. It was all for show, a charade to drive ratings. Jay was firing through his e-mails when he heard the familiar voice of Ross Lombardy of the Faith and Family Federation crossing swords with the executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union.

“Bob Long turned his inaugural into a political payback to the religious right, and he staged a sectarian religious service,” said the ACLU spokesperson, leaning into the camera. “It violated the separation of church and state and runs counter to Supreme Court rulings.”

“Are you going to file a lawsuit?” asked the anchor, eyebrows arched suggestively. His eyes danced with barely restrained joy.
Please say yes,
his eyes seemed to plead.

“We're keeping all our options open. That includes litigation,” said the ACLU.

“So you're not ruling out suing the president of the United States?”

“No. Or Andy Stanton. They are both complicit in what is clearly a violation of the constitutional separation of church and state.”

The anchor spun in his chair. “What say you, Ross? The ACLU is threatening to sue your boss. Are you going to let them get away with that?”

Ross folded his arms across his chest confidently. “First, the Supreme Court decision that he's referring to is
Lee v. Weisman
, which involved a high school baccalaureate service, and it turned on the allegedly compulsory nature of a prayer,” he said. “An inaugural ceremony is not a school event, attendance is voluntary, and prayers have always been offered, going back to the first inaugural of George Washington. There's no case here.”

“But the charge is that the prayer was sectarian, claiming Jesus Christ is Lord and Savior,” the anchor intoned. “Didn't Reverend Stanton go too far at an official government occasion?”

“That's why we have a First Amendment,” Ross shot back. “You don't need a First Amendment to defend noncontroversial speech. You need it to defend unpopular speech.” Ross jabbed the air with his finger. “Remember, Andy was speaking in his capacity as a minister of the gospel, not in his capacity as a political figure. The Constitution guarantees freedom of speech, including religious speech by a minister or rabbi.”

Jay fired off a quick e-mail to Ross Lombardy. “Great job on TV, pal. Talked to POTUS last night. Behind you 100 percent.” Jay was not going to let any sunlight come between him and Stanton. He knew mentioning the conversation with the president would send warm fuzzies throughout Lombardy's body and would be duly passed on to Andy.

His Blackberry vibrated. He glanced down and noticed the prefix of the phone number indicated the call came from the White House.

“Jay, it's Lisa. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“Charlie Hector thinks we should release a statement making it clear Andy spoke for himself, not the administration.”

“What!? Is he out of his mind?” Jay blasted into the phone. He looked around, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You tell Charlie he wouldn't have his job without the Faith and Family Federation. We've been in office for twenty-five hours, and we're already going to kick one of our best friends in the teeth?”

“Jay, it chewed up half the press briefing. It's a feeding frenzy,” Lisa explained. “The State Department is going bats. Their phones are ringing off the hook with angry calls from Arab ambassadors. There are riots in Gaza and Beirut. They're burning American flags.”

“Those are rent-a-riots. They're bought and paid for by Iran,” Jay said dismissively. “Lisa, we can't let a bunch of quiche-eating diplomats in pin stripes over at Foggy Bottom run the government. This is a test of whether or not the president has got a spine. If we throw Andy to the curb, he'll never forgive us and we'll look weak.”

“Look, this is not my decision,” said Lisa. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. If you want to stop it, you better call Charlie right away.”

“I'll call him.” He shifted topics. “By the way, it was great to see you last night. Evans seems like a good guy.” It was faint praise. Jay chose not to mention that the senator had asked Satcha for her phone number before pinching her on her rear.

“He's nice,” Lisa replied in a hollow voice. “Looks like you didn't need me to come with you to the ball after all.” She was twisting the knife.

“What, Satcha?” asked Jay. “Oh, that's just business. Satcha wants an interview with POTUS, and I want the Hispanic vote.” He chuckled. “Like all relationships in Washington, we're both using each other.”

“That's pretty cynical.”

“No more than being on the arm of the most eligible bachelor in the Senate,” said Jay with a sarcastic laugh. “I thought you were in charge of the press, not congressional liaison.”

“Good-bye, Jay.” Lisa hung up abruptly. Jay felt slightly guilty about saying such a hurtful thing, but Lisa could have been his date and had rejected him. Rather than be honest about his hurt feelings and be vulnerable, he was hiding behind the same toughness that had already contributed to the breakup of his two marriages.

Jay suddenly felt empty. He couldn't wait to get on the plane and leave everything behind—the phoniness of DC, his feelings of uselessness now that the campaign was over, and most of all, Lisa. He picked up his garment bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed to his gate. With his free hand, he speed-dialed Charlie Hector's number on his BlackBerry. He had to stop the nervous Nellies at the White House from throwing Andy Stanton under the bus.

FIVE

Jay never saw the interior of the Rome airport. As soon as his plane landed, an attractive brunette airline employee escorted him to a VIP lounge, where he munched on bacon-wrapped figs, drank espresso, and killed time while he cleared customs. He had no checked luggage—he had not checked a bag in years. The same woman then led him to a metal door that led directly to a back stairwell, where they descended into a cavernous garage. Slightly groggy and jet-lagged, Jay's eyes fixed on a driver wearing a black suit and tie.

“Your car and driver, Mr. Noble,” the woman said, smiling. “He will take you to your destination.”

Jay made a pistol with his finger and pointed it at the driver, who nodded. “Bonjourno,” said the driver, greeting him in Italian.

Jay grunted in acknowledgment, embarrassed that he knew no Italian. It struck him that he was now in charge of winning a hard-fought prime minister's race and spoke not a word of the country's native language. In fact, he knew nothing about Italy. But that was beside the point. He was the most sought-after political strategist in the world, and people like Lorenzo Brodi were prepared to pay big bucks to have Jay whisper in their ear. The Italians were paying Jay an eye-popping fifty thousand euros a month, which translated into nearly ninety grand in U.S. dollars. (This did not include Jay's share of the media buy, which was 5 percent, and would earn him another two million dollars.) Besides, Jay reasoned, he was a quick study and could easily fake it when he didn't know what he was talking about. When all else failed, he figured he would entertain them with war stories from the Long campaign. That always worked like a charm.

Jay slid into the backseat of the black Mercedes sedan. The driver closed the door behind him and sped away. Jay flipped through a briefing book that had been assembled by his assistant that included basics on Italian demographics, election results, and news clips from newspapers and Web sites, all translated into English.
There is no substitute for good staff work,
he thought. Having slept only fitfully on the plane and still exhausted from the inaugural, he dozed off.

He woke thirty minutes later to the rattling sensation of the car flying across the cobblestone side streets of Rome. He marveled at the car's tight suspension: his body felt almost glued into his seat. Jay saw the massive dome of St. Peter's basilica to his left. The driver made a right, and they drove through what appeared to be a high-end shopping district. As the car moved through traffic, Jay made out the signs on the stores: Gucci, Versace, Ferragamo, La Perla, Armani, Prada. The display windows were works of art, some of them featuring live models. Glamorous, exquisitely clad Italian women with money glided by wearing high heels, designer sunglasses, and attitude. Jay felt very fortunate to be in Italy.