Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

She had seen that it was elegant, located in the much-admired art-deco grandeur of the Kennedy-Warren building, and stylishly furnished, with a sprinkling of items that hinted at her past life of constant and exotic travel. But she had also seen that it was, however subtly, empty. That it was, visible to the naked eye, the home of a person alone. And, her eye falling on the crisping leaves of a dying ficus, one without the nurturing ability even to keep a houseplant alive.

‘Stuart,’ she said, stepping back with a sweep of the hand in the exaggerated manner of a butler ushering him inside – a small piece of theatre designed chiefly to avoid any confusion over whether there would be a kiss on the cheek or handshake. The issue had never arisen at work or during the campaign. But they had never visited each other at home before.

She headed straight for the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, though Stuart told her not to: ‘I’ve had so much coffee, I’m schvitzing . He had clearly been up for several hours. When had Forbes died? How long had Stu known? She tamped down the ground beans: he might not need it, but she certainly did.

He joined her in the kitchen, impatient to get on with things, pulling out a chair tucked into the small kitchen table and lowering himself into it. The fixedness of his gaze told Maggie to do the same.

Their faces now just a few inches apart, the words raced out of him. ‘Forbes was found hanged in his bedroom in New Orleans.’

She knew this already. ‘Right…’

Stuart lowered his voice. ‘He was wearing women’s underwear. Stockings, garters, the whole deal. With an orange stuffed into his mouth.’

‘A what?’

‘A segment of orange. Apparently it’s used to disguise the taste of amyl nitrate. It’s bitter, so you bite on an orange as a chaser.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

‘He was wearing stockings?’

‘Yes. It’s still unofficial, but that’s what the police are saying.’

‘Jesus.’ Maggie stood up so that she could pace.

‘The police say it’s not as uncommon as you’d think. Couples strangle each other for kicks. Guys who are alone hang themselves. Starving the oxygen to the brain gives you a rush. “Auto-erotic asphyxiation” they call it.’

‘I may be a convent girl, Stuart, but I’m not a bloody nun. I know about that.’ The expression on his face made her rush to qualify. ‘I mean, I’ve heard about it. Christ.’ There was a pause. ‘And what was the orange for again?’

‘Hide the taste of the amyl nitrate. Which apparently adds to the ride.’ He made a shrug which said, what do I know from such things? ‘One theory is that Forbes was getting off on the success of his little project. Making contact with the President, interviews on cable TV. Seems like he was aroused.’

‘Is that what the police are saying?’

‘No. All they know is that he’d been in the news during the last forty-eight hours, as the source for a couple of stories damaging to the President. Remember, no one else knows what we know. Do you have any cereal?’

‘What?’

‘Breakfast cereal.’

Maggie passed him a box of Cheerios. He immediately plunged a hand deep inside and fed himself a large mouthful.

Neither of them had said what she knew he and everyone else in the White House must be feeling – what, for that matter, she was feeling. Ordinarily, she would have resisted saying it. She would have known that, as a White House staffer, it was unwise even to voice such a sentiment to a colleague, lest it get out. But to hell with that. She was now Maggie Costello, independent citizen. She could say whatever she liked. ‘Solves a problem, though, doesn’t it, Stu?’

‘I was worried you’d say that.’

‘Worried? Why?’

‘Because if you’re saying that, so will plenty of other folks. In fact, they’ve already started.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Blogs. Wingnuts mainly. But that’s how it always starts. On the margins, then spreads inward.’

‘They’re claiming Baker had something to do with this?’

Goldstein reached into the pocket of his triple-extra-large jacket and pulled out his iPhone. A few stabs at the screen, followed by a swipe or two, and he was reading. ‘“ It was Napoleon who said he wanted generals who were neither courageous nor brilliant, but lucky. Seems as if Stephen Baker is one of life’s lucky generals. Just when he was on the precipice, staring into the abyss, guess what happens? That’s right: the guy who was going to push him over the edge wakes up dead in New Orleans. Love him or hate him, you’ve got to admit it, this Prez has someone up there who likes him. Though they do always say, you make your own luck…”’

‘So?’

‘Come on, Maggie. “You make your own luck”? We know where this is heading.’ Goldstein’s phone vibrated in his hand. He stared at it, then held it up so that Maggie could see the screen. ‘Another one.’

Maggie stepped forward, leaning over to stare at the tiny screen. An email from Doug Sanchez. No message, just a grab from another political website, not quite mainstream but well-known. Its headline: ‘ The Baker presidency turns into The Godfather : key tormentor now sleeping with the fishes .’

Goldstein let his weight fall back into the seat which, being a modest Crate & Barrel kitchen number, was fighting a losing battle to contain it. ‘I’d say we’re twenty-four hours away from an outright accusation of murder.’

Maggie said nothing. She understood perfectly: Stuart was right to anticipate this reaction to Forbes’s death and right to want to get ahead of it. He did not seem to feel any of the relief that had washed over her the instant she saw the news. Instead, he seemed just as troubled as he had been when Forbes had hacked his way onto Katie Baker’s Facebook page, announcing his intention to destroy the Baker presidency.

She poured herself a coffee, then returned to the table.

‘We had seven senators calling for an independent counsel before this broke. It won’t just be Rick fucking Franklin talking about a special prosecutor now, you mark my words,’ he said bitterly. He fed himself another fistful of Cheerios.

‘I see.’

‘It’s all about context. That’s politics, Maggie. Context . Normally the only people who would give two shits about Vic Forbes swinging from a noose with his dick in his hand would be right-wing nutcases who think the Federal Reserve is a European plot to destroy America. But as of two days ago we’re in a different context.’

‘Thanks to Forbes.’

‘Ironically, yes. Thanks to him, people who used to trust the President now don’t. They think he might be crazy and in the pay of the ayatollahs. So now they’ll be ready to believe he is capable-’

‘-of murder.’

Stuart looked at her hard. ‘You heard what he said last night.’

Maggie hesitated. Of course she had heard what Stephen Baker had said last night, but had – she now realized – made an instant decision to push the memory of it out of her mind.

‘Do I need to remind you?’

‘You don’t need to remind me,’ she said in little more than a whisper.

‘“I want him gone.” That’s what he said.’

‘I heard it.’

‘Well, if you heard it, then so did everyone else in that room.’

‘Jesus, Stuart, you think someone in the team is going to leak this?’ The very word – team – stirred a brief but bittersweet sensation of nostalgia. White House personnel were known as ‘the staff’, but the group of veterans from the campaign had always been and were still known to each other as ‘the team’. She might have been dumped from the former but she would always be part of the latter. Magnus Longley couldn’t take that away from her.