Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 52

Senator Wells stepped back into the Meet the Press greenroom from Hair and Makeup and helped himself to a Diet Coke. He knew most of the other guests and chatted with them briefly about what they would all be speaking on.

Last week, the Sunday shows had been consumed with the attack on American personnel in Anbar and the horrific video depicting the rape of female Embassy staffers. This week it was all about the assassination of Secretary of Defense Devon and the suicide bombing at the White House.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wells noticed his Chief of Staff engaged in a private conversation with one of the show’s new producers. He had transferred in from NBC News in New York. Rebecca was wasting no time in getting to know him. Wells could feel the heat between the two of them all the way across the room. The woman was a force of nature and could have any man eating out of the palm of her hand within seconds.

A young production assistant interrupted his thoughts. She came in and gave the five-minute warning, and then turned up the sound on the monitors so that everyone could follow along with the program.

“You look terrific,” Rebecca said, as the producer left and she rejoined the Senator. “Very presidential.”

“Make a new friend?”

“He’s married, so we’ll see,” she said with a coy smile.

Wells put his hands up. “I don’t want to know.”

“Sure you don’t,” she whispered as she leaned in and brushed some lint off his suit.

Even in a room full of people she was incorrigible. “They’re going to lead with you. You’ll be first up in the A block.

“They want to talk obviously about Secretary Devon and what happened at the White House. They also want to discuss what happened in Anbar and the story in the Washington Post this morning about President Porter possibly running his own black ops out of the Oval Office.”

Lilliana Grace had tipped him late last night that the story was going to run today. Under the headline “America Under Attack,” the Post was doing in-depth stories on the assassination of Devon and the suicide bomber at the White House.

There was a follow-up on the Anbar attack and tying it all together was Grace’s story about the President’s alleged program.

The reporter had spent the last couple of days methodically tracking down every lead she could. She spoke to members of the Gang of Eight, the extra-tight circle of Congress people and intel committee members the President was required to brief. All confirmed that they had been briefed on Anbar.

Off the record, Grace was able to confirm enough of what Wells had told her to pull together quite an impactful story.

In quick succession, she explained the importance of the National Security Act of 1947, the Hughes-Ryan Amendment of 1974, the Intelligence Oversight Act of 1980, and the Intelligence Authorization Act of 1991 and their impact on the interlocking webs of Congress, the Oval Office, and the intelligence community.

Instead of being dry policy-speak or legalese, she made it sexy and intriguing — like something out of a dramatic, high-stakes spy movie. She was a gifted reporter. This was going to be a great interview.

“You’ve been on with Alan Gottlieb plenty of times,” Rebecca reminded him. “He’s a great host, but he’s not your friend. Okay?”

“I’ve been doing this since before you were born. I know how to handle the press.”

Rebecca was about to respond when a middle-aged man wearing a headset and a Star Wars T-shirt entered the greenroom. “Senator Wells?” he asked.

“Right here,” Rebecca replied, waving him over.

“Hello, Senator. I’m Abe, from Audio. Just going to get you mic’d up here if I can.”

“Sure thing, Abe from Audio. Whatever you need,” Wells answered.

As soon as the technician had the microphone attached to the Senator’s lapel and the transmitter clipped to his waistband, he asked him to count to ten.

Wells did as instructed and Abe flashed him the thumbs-up.

“Any IFB?” the Senator asked, pointing to his ear.

Abe double-checked with the control room over his headset. “No, sir. They’re not running any packages you need to listen to. You’ll be speaking directly to Alan on the set. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Break a leg,” Rebecca said as Abe led the Senator out of the greenroom and down the hall to the studio.

Out on the brightly lit set, Alan Gottlieb — a charming veteran journalist with a hundred-dollar haircut and a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit — was running through his opening monologue.

Abe from audio showed the Senator to his seat. A PA brought over a mug featuring the show’s logo and filled with water and placed it in front of him.

As soon as Gottlieb had finished his monologue, he reached over and shook hands with Wells. “Good to see you again, Senator. Thank you for joining us this morning.”

“Thirty seconds,” the floor director said.

The crew took their places, cameras were adjusted one final time, and the next thing they knew, they were live.

As Gottlieb read his monologue from the teleprompter, Wells watched the video montage that the viewers at home were seeing.

It was a mash-up of news footage combined with the propaganda videos ISIS published after the attack in Anbar and on Secretary Devon in Turkey. Rounding it all out was footage of what had happened at the White House.

The red light above camera 1 came on and Gottlieb welcomed viewers to the program. After introducing Senator Wells, Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, they were off and running.

The Senator struck the proper tone right out of the gate. He expressed sadness over those who had died, extended condolences to their friends and loved ones, and promised that the victims would not be allowed to have died in vain. He could have been delivering an address right from the Oval Office itself. It was that perfect.

Even though he had not been at all close with Secretary Devon, he played up his respect for the man and the “friendship” they’d shared. Rebecca had briefed him on the names of Devon’s wife and children and he rattled them off as if they had spent every weekend together.

Wells was nothing if not a master manipulator, a thoroughly professional politician. Back in the greenroom, Rebecca wasn’t watching the monitors. She was watching the guests as they watched the monitors. All of them were riveted, hanging on the Senator’s every word.

Rebecca smiled. Jesus, he’s good, she said to herself. They were going to go all the way to the White House together. She just knew it.

As the interview wound down, Gottlieb had one last question. “Finally, Senator, I want to ask you to comment on something.”

“Go ahead, Alan,” Wells replied.

“We understand that your committee may have information that the White House knew of a possible threat in advance of Secretary Devon’s trip to Turkey. A, is this true? And B, what specifically did the White House know, and not only when did they know it, but what did they do about it?”

The producer bit. Rebecca had felt sure he would. The moment he had heard that a competing network was after the story, he had been hooked.

They didn’t like to air gossip or speculation, but this was too big a scoop to risk not being first on. His only concern had been how to properly phrase the question so there was no blowback for Gottlieb and their team.

On set, the Senator’s jaw tensed. He wanted to ask Gottlieb where he had heard that, but he knew damn well. Rebecca had told somebody. Damn it. They were going to have a very long talk when they left the studio.

Without missing a beat, Wells replied, “ISIS has made it very clear that they consider all Americans potential targets. Any time the President, a cabinet member, a member of Congress travels overseas, there’s increased risk.”

“But are you aware, sir of any specific threat that existed against Secretary Devon on his trip to Antalya, Turkey?”

Gottlieb had him between a rock and a hard place. If he said yes and Rebecca’s information, which he still had not substantiated, turned out to be false, he’d be in trouble. If he said no and Rebecca’s information turned out to be true, he’d look like he didn’t have his finger on the pulse of what was going on. The national security cornerstone of his campaign was going to be built upon his experience as Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.

So, he gave the only answer he could give. “Alan, unfortunately I am not at liberty to discuss what the committee may or may not be working on. In light of everything that’s happened over the last week and a half, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course, Senator,” the host replied. “Thank you for being with us today.”

After teasing the next segment, they went to a commercial and the floor director gave the all clear.

Wells took off his microphone and immediately went looking for his Chief of Staff.

At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Brendan Cavanagh had had the television in his office on in the background.

He didn’t need to rewind and play back what he had heard. He knew exactly what Senator Wells had said.

He grabbed for his cell phone, pulled up his recent call list, and hit Redial.

“We’re just getting ready to leave the studio. Can I call you back?”

“No,” said Cavanagh. “We need to talk right now.”