Page 52

In one room this morning is Hannah Abrams, President Barrett’s nominee for director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who is working through a breakfast of tough pancakes and greasy sausages with Senate Majority Leader Cleveland Hogan, trying to get her appointment back on track. She’s sixty, unmarried, with big-boned features that make her look striking, but not pretty in the typical sense. Her most remarkable feature is her pale-blue eyes, which look like they’ve seen a lot over the years and are ready to stare straight through you.
The Senate majority leader is poking at a cold omelet with a fork, looking like a first-year medical student dissecting his first human brain. He says, “Hannah, look, for the moment, my hands are tied.”
“Why’s that, Cleve?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light and innocent. “I know the votes are there for you on the floor … bipartisan, which is hard to believe. But what’s the holdup in the Intelligence Committee?”
Cleveland picks up a piece of omelet, chews, and grimaces. The Button Gwinnett Club is not known for its décor, food, or service.
Just privacy.
“Well, Hannah, it’s like this … the holdup really isn’t in the committee. It’s from me.”
Years of working in different government departments, intelligence agencies, and overseas undercover have given Hannah many talents, including keeping her face bland and calm when the time calls for it.
Like now.
“Cleve, for real?” she asks, trying to keep a balance of sadness and surprise in her voice. “What could possibly be the problem? When I served as deputy director, I always worked well with the Intelligence Committee and the Gang of Eight, and I’ve never been reluctant to testify or pass along information about current operations. And us … Cleve, I always thought we had more than just a professional relationship.”
Senator Cleveland Hogan looks embarrassed, which is a good start. He’s sixty-four years old, wearing a dark-gray suit that cost a thousand dollars and cut to look like it came off the rack at Walmart. A lifetime politician, he has thick, black hair and cold, intelligent eyes behind round spectacles. He’s been majority leader for twelve years, is a senator from Tennessee, and like most senators from the South, his unofficial motto is, “The United States Senate: the most exclusive club in the world, with more than 250 years of history unimpeded by progress.”
Cleve chews another piece of his breakfast and says, “Oh, Hannah, it’s nothing personal, honest.”
“Then what is it, Cleve?”
“The president asked me for the delay, that’s all.”
Hannah is now struggling to keep her composure. “But the president nominated me. He’s been public in support of my approval. Why would you let him put the blame on you?”
Cleve says, “He said it was something important, something about Terrence Grant and his role. It seems … well, Terrence thought the job should have gone to him and President Barrett wants to find the right position for him in government, to sort of ease the pain of his not being named director.”
Her right hand is gripping the fork so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t bend. “Terrence’s been director of National Intelligence for two years and if he’s accomplished anything, it’s been one of the most well-kept secrets in Washington. You and I both know that. And he’s tried several times to take control of the CIA, when that’s been a dead issue since Leon Panetta was director and cut off the DNI at the knees with such force he walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”
The majority leader looks miserable and Hannah pushes her advantage. “Senator, you know your reputation both here and abroad, as one who takes the Senate’s responsibilities seriously. How many times have you gone on the Sunday talk shows and in front of microphones on Capitol Hill to say that Congress, the legislative branch of government, is equal to the executive and the judiciary? True?”
“Hannah …”
“Senator, are you telling me that you’re allowing the president to set your agenda? To take control of the Senate’s prerogatives and responsibilities? To push you around?”
The Senate majority leader’s eyes grow cold and hard. “That’s not what’s going on, Hannah.”
She says, “Perhaps. But what do your colleagues think? Or the minority leader? Or the op-ed writers once they figure out what’s driving the delay in my confirmation? Do you think they’ll see the entirety of the situation, or see a majority leader who’s letting the president interfere?”
The cold look remains. “I don’t care what any of them think.”
“That’s very honorable of you,” she says. “I know how much President Barrett values unquestioning loyalty.”
He stares at her, carefully wipes his fat fingers on a white napkin, and says, “If you’ll excuse me, Hannah, I’ve suddenly remembered that I need to get back up to the Hill.”
Hannah says, “I see.”
He backs his chair away from the table. “And if I were you, I’d keep the rest of your day’s calendar clear.”
Her inner voice is whisperingvictory,and she says, “Why, thank you, Cleve, that’s quite thoughtful of you.”
Cleve smiles. “You’re welcome, Director Abrams.”
CHAPTER 46
AFTER RECEIVING HIS morning briefing from Carlton Pope, his special assistant, President Keegan Barrett pours himself another cup of coffee in his second-floor office in the family quarters of the White House and says, “Well, ain’t that a kick in the head.”