Fatal Conceit (11 page)

The biggest concern was the hostages, if they were still alive. So far there'd been no word or demands, which was making them all nervous. Meanwhile, they were working on a plan to “eliminate the problem,” as Fauhomme euphemistically put it.

Then Allen called Lindsey that morning and threw a wrench in the works. He said that he'd received information that there might be more to some of the reports than was being credited. Enough, he said, that he felt obligated to expand on the talking points in his testimony so that they included these new developments.

Feeling panic rise in him like bile, Lindsey told Allen that he needed to talk to the president. But when he hung up, he called Fauhomme, who'd told him to arrange the meeting that afternoon in Lindsey's office.

“So, Sam, I asked you to come over so we could follow up on our conversation this morning about these . . . uh . . . alleged developments from Chechnya,” Lindsey said to Allen.

The general frowned and glanced over at Fauhomme. “I'd judge these matters to be classified.”

Fauhomme leaned back in his chair with a patient smile and patted a fat leg with the manila envelope he was carrying. But it was Lindsey who spoke. “Mr. Fauhomme has the full confidence of the president and is often briefed on classified matters so that he can best advise the president when it comes to this important election.”

When the general seemed to hesitate further, Fauhomme leaned forward and showed the general his cell phone. “I'll call the boss and get him to tell you it's okay, if it would make you feel any better.”

The general thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “That won't be necessary.”

Fauhomme grinned and leaned back again as he looked over at Lindsey. “Thank you for that courtesy; we're all friends here and trying to do what's best for this country. Now let's hear what's going on.”

The general pursed his lips before speaking. “I don't know quite how to say this, I'm not used to the ways of the Beltway yet, so I'll just go with my military background and spit it out. It appears that we may not have heard the full story from the State Department, or they may be unaware of some parts of it, at least not at the top. But my guys have learned that a series of encoded messages was sent from the compound in Chechnya through one of our spy satellites more than an hour before our ‘official' estimate of when the attack began.”

“Maybe these messages had nothing to do with the attack,” Lindsey suggested.

“At 0300 hours?” Allen replied. “Besides, the messages continued through the attack and coincided with the reports that villagers heard shooting throughout that time.”

“What else?” Lindsey asked.

“There was also a cell phone call placed from someone inside the compound to the U.S. embassy in Grozny almost two hours after that initial series of messages. So someone was still alive in the compound.”

“Any idea who placed that call?” asked Lindsey.

“Or who received it, IF it was actually made and not just some blip caused by explosions or some such thing?” Fauhomme added.

Allen shook his head. “There's no record of it in the official file,” he said. “All we know is that a call was placed. I'd like to have my guys on the ground in Grozny make some inquiries at the embassy.”

“It was early in the morning,” Lindsey said. “Maybe no one picked up. IF it was a call rather than, as Rod noted, a blip caused by the fighting. Then again, maybe a message was left and it's been missed in all the confusion; tell you what, I'll place a call to Grozny myself. What else you got?”

Allen leaned forward in his seat. “Now I admit that we don't have the best intel on the ground in Chechnya, an oversight that I'll be working on, but we are hearing from several sources that the Chechen separatist party is claiming that this guy, Daudov, was not responsible for the attack. They're blaming foreign fighters under the direction of Al Qaeda in Chechnya.”

Fauhomme frowned. “I haven't seen any stories about that in the press,” he said. “Why aren't these separatists holding a press conference or something to profess their innocence?”

“From what I understand, they've all gone underground until things settle down,” Allen responded. “We've had a couple of reports that the Russians are hitting them pretty hard already; mass
arrests and even paramilitary action against villages known to have separatist leanings.”

“Good,” Fauhomme said. “Maybe the Russians will find out something useful, which is more than what I'm hearing here so far.”

Allen's face hardened at the rebuke but he kept his voice in control. “I'm not saying that any of this is the truth. However, I will be under oath at the hearing, and when asked to divulge everything I know about the attack, I think these items should be added to our talking points. If this comes out later, and it looks like we were trying to hide something, I think the embarrassment to the president and this administration would be worse than conceding that our knowledge of what happened can change as the facts continue to come in.”

“Well, that's where you're wrong, General,” Fauhomme said. “These . . . rumors . . . will only add to the confusion of the American people, and right before an election that I believe, as do many others, including the president, is pivotal to the future of this country. If we have to backtrack and say that it now appears that—oops, we made a mistake, the attack may have started earlier and lasted longer than we first said, the president's opponent will blow it out of proportion with 20/20 hindsight. He'll raise a hue and cry about why we didn't respond faster to save lives.”

“And if it's true, why didn't we?” the general asked.

“No one here is saying it is true,” Fauhomme replied. “It's just another rumor. But that won't matter to the other side.”

“Well, is it true?”

Lindsey answered. “General Allen, while you're new to the CIA and civilian intelligence gathering, I know you're no neophyte when it comes to the concept that sometimes in war hard decisions need to be made and that the public simply can't be told everything, for reasons of national security.”

It took a moment for Lindsey's comment to sink in, but then Allen frowned. “This wasn't any ‘peaceful trade mission,' was it?”

“No, General, it wasn't,” Lindsey replied. He then explained.

When the NSA director finished, Allen's eyes blazed with anger. “You played with fire and when it got out of control, you left Americans to twist in the wind. . . . And you want me to lie about it under oath.”

“That's international politics for you,” Fauhomme said. “It's a dirty world out there, and sometime you have to get down in the mud and tough it out.”

Allen looked at Fauhomme with disdain. “What would you know about getting down in the mud to tough anything out? You're dirty, but it comes from inside you.”

Lindsey tried to strike a conciliatory tone. “Look, Sam, the attack happened and there's nothing we can do about it. We still don't know if it was spur of the moment, or because the bad guys got wind of the mission and didn't like it. We're not even sure who was behind it; there are a lot of factions over there, and it could have been any one of them. But if we go out there and say it could have been Al Qaeda, a week after the president was on national TV saying Al Qaeda doesn't exist, he's going to look like an idiot, and he does not want to look like an idiot. All we're saying is let's stick with the talking points for now and let this ride until after the election. We'll continue to gather the facts, and then after all the votes are counted we can issue a complete, reasoned report on what happened . . .”

“Minus the truth about what we were actually doing there,” Allen said.

“If you're going to worry about bending rules,” Fauhomme retorted, “you're working for the wrong agency.”

“Maybe I am,” Allen said. “I'm not naïve. I understand that a lot goes on with national security that has to be kept from the public. But this time Americans were murdered, and the public has a right to know who was behind it.”

“People died, what does it matter who killed them?” Fauhomme scoffed. “They're dead.”

Allen regarded the fat man coldly for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to beat the crap out of him. “Does it matter who killed Americans?” he asked rhetorically. “It sure as hell does to me. One, I want to know which sons of bitches I'm going to wipe from the face of the planet. Two, I want to know if they belong to an organization that attacked this country and murdered more than three thousand people and has sworn to murder Americans—men, women, and children—whenever they get the chance, and I will continue to root out every last one of them until, as the president said prematurely, that organization ceases to exist. And three, I want to know who, if anybody, put them up to it and hold them accountable as well.”

“No one is saying that we don't find out exactly who was responsible and take them down after the election,” Lindsey said. “It's a matter of what we tell the American people now. I think what Rod meant by his comment is that if the public feels safer believing that Al Qaeda is kaput, why not let them continue to believe it? Plus, if we are dealing with Al Qaeda here, why let them know that we're on to them?”

“I don't know,” Allen responded. “I guess your way of thinking assumes that Americans need to be lied to and sheltered like imbecile children. As for tipping Al Qaeda in Chechnya that we're coming for them, they know we'll find out—they're not exactly shy when it comes to taking credit for their crimes—so why the subterfuge? Except it's all about the president's image and this election.”

“Need I remind you that if the president loses this election it's unlikely the next president will keep you on as the director of the CIA,” Fauhomme said.

“Maybe some jobs aren't worth the price,” Allen retorted. “I'm not lying to the committee.”

Fauhomme looked at Lindsey, who looked away. “That's right, lying is only okay if it's convenient to you, isn't that right, Allen?” the political boss sneered.

Allen furrowed his brown. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Fauhomme's face hardened as he tossed the envelope on Lindsey's desk in front of the general. “The name Jenna Blair ring a bell? I believe you met her at that little party I threw over the Fourth of July on Long Island.”

Allen blinked and the anger faded from his eyes and was replaced by a troubled look. “Quit playing games.”

“Not a game, General,” Fauhomme said. “Look inside.”

Picking up the envelope, Allen opened it. He reached in and pulled out a half-dozen eight-by-ten photographs. As he did, Fauhomme smiled.

After glancing at the photographs, Allen placed them back in the envelope and put it on the desk. “These are just photographs of me with the young woman you named,” he said quietly.

“If you mean they are not you and Ms. Blair en flagrante in some bed, you're correct,” Fauhomme replied. “However, a photograph of you kissing the young woman, who I don't believe is your wife of twenty-odd years, in front of the Casablanca Hotel on West 43rd, as well as holding hands in the hotel lobby while waiting for the elevator that will be taking you to your little love nest, doesn't leave all that much to the imagination either.”

“You son of a bitch,” Allen said.

“I've been called worse,” Fauhomme replied with a chuckle. “But I'm serious as a fucking toothache about this. I'm trying to get the president re-elected because we, I mean he, has some unfinished business and that's far more important than what some cavemen in the Middle East do or that some holier-than-thou general—who's getting a little extramarital loving on the side—doesn't want to lie to Congress. And if that means resorting to blackmail, I'll fucking resort to blackmail. In case you're still not getting it, or you think this would cause a backlash against this administration so I wouldn't dare do this, we won't be the ones tied to exposing your little peccadillo. Some lucky dipshit in the press corps will
receive the photographs anonymously and will jump all over this story. Of course, it will be an embarrassment to the president, who'll make a few statements about fully supporting you, but in the end he'll have to ask you to withdraw your nomination ‘for the good of the country' and your family. In the meantime, your wife and children will be put through the wringer. Ever had the press camped out on your lawn? It's no fun. And your wife . . . tsk tsk . . . that poor woman's face will be on the cover of every supermarket tabloid from the Atlantic to the Pacific, heck, she might even make the cover of
Time
.”

Fauhomme let the imagery sink in and appeared to be enjoying himself as the general hung his head, his hands clenching and unclenching. “And then there's Miss Blair . . . you in love or is she just some snatch? If you give a shit about the girl, you won't put her through this.”

“That's enough, Rod,” Lindsey interjected. “You've made your point.” He leaned over his desk in the direction of the general. “Look, Sam, just stick to the talking points as we've agreed on and this all goes away. The president will be re-elected, your nomination will sail through, you handle your private life privately, and you kill the sons of bitches who caused this problem in the first place with the blessing of the president.”

Allen didn't respond. He just sat slumped over, looking at the floor.

“So, General, time's up,” Fauhomme said. “What's it going to be? You going to play ball with the team that drafted you, or you want to be traded to the other side, baggage and all?”

Allen stared at Fauhomme, his eyes full of contempt, but he nodded. “You win,” he said. “I'll stick to the talking points.”