Ballots and Blood by Ralph Reed

million bucks.”
    Satcha’s eyes grew wide. “Not bad. Everyone knows you and Long are either going to take out Stanley or die trying.”
    â€œWe’ll either beat Sal in New Jersey or win the Senate back, or both. I think we have a decent chance of achieving both objectives,” said Jay as he took a swig of vodka. “It just never ends. All we do is raise money. To the president’s credit, he never complains.”
    â€œIs it true you’re trying to recruit someone to run against Kate Covitz? That’s the word around town.”
    Jay grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
    Satcha leaned forward, smiling. “So how is it that the strategic genius who helped elect Democrats for twenty years in California is now trying to defeat them?”
    Jay laughed. “I’ve always had the same enemies,” he said. “I’ve spent my career fighting the Democratic establishment. They were never for Long. The only difference now is I used to do it with Democrats. Now I’m doing it with independents and Republicans.”
    Satcha shook her head admiringly. “You’re too much fun!”
    â€œI still hate the same people. I’m just hating them from a different place now.”
    Layla leaned over and draped her arm through Jay’s. “I just have one request,” she said in a low voice.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œCome with me tonight. Satcha can have you any time. But tonight I want you.”
    Jay looked over at Satcha, unsure if she overheard. Satcha just winked. Layla batted her lashes, awaiting an answer.
    â€œSo I guess I’m not going to get much sleep tonight,” Jay deadpanned.
    â€œI guess not,” replied Layla with a wicked smile.
    Jay wondered how in the world he was going to make the 7:00 a.m. flight on Air Force One. The advance guys would be picking up his luggage outside his hotel room in four hours.

7
    T he most closely guarded secret in the country was the client list for Adult Alternatives, LLC, the dominatrix service Perry Miller patronized. Reporters hovered around the FBI and the Justice Department like buzzards, working every source they had, while tabloids waved cash in front of former employees, asking them to divulge the names of their clients. All the networks love-bombed Amber Abica’s media-hound attorney, offering a prime-time slot for her first televised interview. But Abica was for all practical purposes working for the FBI, and for now the list could not be obtained at any price.
    In truth, there was no “list,” just a series of digital fingerprints: computer records, e-mails, phone records, credit card transactions, and wire transfers. Mahoney and an army of agents pored through them in the hope the clients might hold the clue to the Miller’s killer, or killers. All they turned up were the usual hedge-fund high flyers, traveling businessmen, preachers, rabbis, and politicians.
    That was why Mahoney nearly came out of his chair when he got the call about a client from one of his investigators.
    â€œWhat have you got?” Mahoney asked. It was his normal conversation starter.
    â€œI don’t know exactly yet, but it looks promising,” said the investigators. “We ran one of the cell phone numbers from the incoming calls through our databases. It belongs to a Saudi Arabian national living in Towson, Maryland.”
    â€œWhat about an e-mail account?” Mahoney pressed. “We need more for probable cause.”
    â€œGot it. This guy visited the Web site of the service and searched around. We traced the cookie to his Gmail account.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œHassan Qatani. Single male, twenty-six years old. Here’s the best part: he turned up on a watch list of individuals with known ties to Islamic extremist groups. His passport records indicate he spent time in Pakistan two years ago.”
    â€œSay no more,” said