Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

So Senator Franklin felt able to hum ‘Happy Days are Here Again’ as he straightened the blotter on his desk and moved the paperweight – the one that, if you looked closely, revealed a Confederate flag preserved as if in amber inside the thick glass. Things were going according to plan.

He carried on humming even as there was a gentle rap on the door. Cindy, his Head of Legislative Affairs, coming in with a smile he hadn’t seen since the night he was elected more than four years ago. It always gave him pleasure watching her move, her rear end tightly contained in a skirt that was never any lower than the knee. But now there was a spring in her step that gave him an extra pulse of enjoyment.

‘I can see you come bearing glad tidings, sweetheart.’

‘I do, sir, I do.’

They played these games, the Southern gentleman and the demure young lady, with dialogue sub- Gone With the Wind – but only when the political or personal weather was clement.

‘Pray tell.’

‘I do declare, Senator,’ she said with a girlish flutter that, even though he’d seen it a hundred times, still sent electricity to his groin, ‘that the source of MSNBC’s recent tales of woe has been – what’s the word – outed .’

‘Outed? Already? What the hell’s happened?’ The game was over. Too important for games.

‘Daily Kos. They’ve named him. Seems some liberal hacker broke into the MSNBC system and found the emails between their Washington bureau and the leaker. Then went ahead and named him on his own website. Kos picked it up.’

‘You sure the White House weren’t behind this?’

‘Can’t be sure. But Kos are adamant that it was some ultra-liberal crazy outraged his beloved Baker was being slammed. Seems to add up.’

‘And what have they found about him?’

‘The hacker?’

‘No! Fuck him. The leaker.’

‘All they have so far is that he’s late forties, white and from New Orleans.’

Washington, DC, Tuesday March 21, 10.55

‘Get in. I’ll brief you in the car.’

Maggie did as she was told, impressed by the authority of this woman, who could only have been in her late twenties. Maggie had seen her in the White House Residence, dressed like an au pair, young and unshowy. Her name was Zoe Galfano and she was the lead Secret Service agent assigned to the Baker children, with particular responsibility for Katie.

‘It’s a classic threat message,’ Zoe said, as Maggie strapped on her seatbelt. ‘Not especially unusual in the White House. Except this was different.’

‘Because it was addressed to Katie?’

‘That, and the fact that it’s not easy to get a direct message to her. Hijacking a Facebook identity took ingenuity.’

‘Was it hard to trace him?’

Zoe turned to look at Maggie with a smile. ‘We don’t know it’s a him.’

‘Right.’

‘No preconceptions. That’s part of the training.’

‘And all this internet stuff, you learn that too?’

‘I did. Figured I was never going to have the edge in the muscles department.’ She flexed a bicep. ‘So I decided to focus on those areas where I could compete with the men on a level playing field.’

‘I hear that,’ Maggie muttered, looking out of the window.

‘Graduated top of my class in psychology and computer studies.’

They were driving out of the District and into Maryland, two other agents following two cars behind. It was strictly against protocol for White House staff to meddle in Secret Service business, but Goldstein had spotted a loophole: ‘As of today, you’re not White House staff any more. You’re a family friend. Katie Baker wants you there, so you’re there.’

Just before she had got into Agent Galfano’s car, the identity of the alleged leaker of the MSNBC stories had begun to surface on a blog, though there had been no official confirmation from the network. And still no name. A white male from New Orleans was all they knew. Maggie’s first job was to see if the creep who had terrorized Katie and the guy who’d been feeding MSNBC were one and the same.

Zoe parked up. They were on a residential street in Bethesda, quiet on this midweek morning. The agent checked the address once more and looked back up at the house. Number 1157. Out loud, she confirmed that this was the right street, right block. Four houses away, a woman in her sixties was bending down, ostrich-style, apparently to examine the bottom of a rosebush. Zoe turned to Maggie. ‘We’re going to have to do this quietly.’ She spoke into the radio on her cuff. ‘Are you good to go, guys?’

Maggie heard nothing in reply.

‘Wait for my word, Ray. I’ll go first, walking pace, you two hang back a few yards. Remember, weapons are not to be visible. Repeat, not visible .’

She turned to Maggie. ‘Now, Ms Costello. The suspect is likely to be armed and dangerous. Do you understand?’

Maggie nodded.

‘I consider it a great risk that you’re here. But Mr Goldstein insisted that you accompany me at all times, so here you are. That means you do whatever I tell you to do. Duck, run, hit the floor. Instantly. Are we clear?’

‘We’re clear.’

She watched Zoe check out the house once more. Curtains open on the top floor, blinds, halfway between open and closed, on the ground. Garden neatly kept. No car in the driveway. Light on upstairs. She saw the agent feel for her gun, holstered just below her armpit.

Zoe raised her cuff once more. ‘Go.’

Not waiting for an answer, she opened the car door and strode purposefully up the path, not waiting for Maggie to catch up with her. She passed the mailbox, flipping it open in a single quick movement: empty. She glanced over her shoulder to see the pair from the other car start out on the sidewalk, three yards behind her.

They were not in uniform but they were hardly disguised. If the black SUVs with tinted windows didn’t give it away, the dark suits and curly wire in the ear surely did. Zoe had told Maggie that she had thought about putting in a request for different vehicles, but that would have meant form-filling and more explanation. Mr Goldstein had been clear: no widening of the circle and no time to waste.

The front door revealed nothing. No nameplate. Zoe looked back towards the other agents, one of whom was looking into the recycling bin, searching for old letters or envelopes that might yield a name. He shook his head.

Zoe rang the bell, moving her ear close to the door to pick up any footsteps. Maggie pictured the man inside, in a bathrobe, legs apart, his face blue from the computer screen, jerking himself off as he stared at the bodies of girls not much older than Katie Baker.

No preconceptions. That’s what Zoe had said.

The agent knocked on the door, loudly. Maggie saw her glance at her watch, give it five seconds and then nod to Ray. Without hesitation, he shouldered the full weight of his two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame into the door, busting its lock on the first attempt.

Zoe was first in, legs astride, weapon brandished in a double-handed grip. Ray and partner followed; then it was Maggie’s turn. She hesitated, then stepped forward, the way she had once closed her eyes and jumped off the tallest rock at Loughshinny beach: don’t even think about it.

‘SECRET SERVICE!’ Galfano bellowed. ‘Put your hands up!’

Something caught the agent’s eye. She swivelled around, to see an archway leading to what seemed to be the kitchen. A nod towards Ray instructed him to join her and head that way. A flick of her revolver told the other agent, now in the doorway, to check out the upstairs.

She stepped forward gingerly, noting the change in the light coming from the kitchen. One pace behind, her heart banging in her chest, Maggie sensed it too. Someone was moving in there. Silently, but moving all the same.