Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

He waved aside the offers of an empty seat: he was far too humble for such gestures of deference. Instead, and humbly, he stood close to the door. His body language was politician’s semaphore for ‘I’m here to listen’.

Matt Nylind, the activist who had turned this meeting into the dominant force it had become, called for order. Franklin took a good look at him. Classic behind-the-scenes operative; looked like an overgrown college student. One tail of his shirt was already edging its escape over the waistband of his trousers; his glasses were smeared. Just the fact that he wore glasses: no politician would wear glasses. Who was the last? Truman? But these guys – the dweebs who crunched the numbers, drafted the Republicans’ policies and found the flaws in the Democrats’, who blogged twenty-four hours a day and never stopped working to advance the cause, inch by inch – these guys could look awful. No one cared. No one ever saw them. Maybe Nylind would occasionally do a turn on Fox. But basically they were creatures of the dark. Better that way: if voters ever got a glimpse of them in daylight, they’d head screaming for the hills. No, the current division of labour made the best sense. Men like Franklin – with their gleaming white teeth, full heads of hair and pretty wives – would be front of house while the elves stayed hidden in the grotto, working their magic.

Franklin looked at them and felt a surge of gratitude. If it weren’t for these guys, with their BlackBerrys and their obsessive reading of indigestible pamphlets from the Cato Institute, his job would be so much harder. And he loved his job. He glanced at Cindy, standing next to him, her face a picture of studious concentration, and thought how much he loved the perks too.

Nylind was making his introductory remarks: ‘…some big news overnight, but before we get to that I want to run through other items on our agenda. First, governors’ races in Virginia and New Jersey. Baker stole both of those last fall but we’re trending two points behind on the generics. And that was before last night.’ There was some bullish laughter and a smattering of more applause in Franklin’s direction, which he duly acknowledged by inclining his head minutely. Humbly.

Nylind resumed. ‘OK, the legislative agenda. The banking bill. Polling is horrible for us on this right now. Suggestions for how we can turn it around?’

Immediately a voice piped up, though Franklin couldn’t see whose it was. ‘We gotta death-tax it,’ the voice was saying. ‘When the Democrats called it an “estate tax” it was popular. Once we called it a “death tax”, we killed it. We need to do the same with this bill.’

‘Who is that?’ Franklin whispered to Cindy, enjoying the scent of her that came to him as he bent closer to her.

‘Michael Strauss. He’s the head of the American Bankers Association. Lobbyist for the entire financial services sector. Normally sends a deputy. Must be something cooking.’

Nylind was asking for new names for the banking bill. A woman close to the front suggested the ‘anti-wealth bill’. Nylind nodded, but without enthusiasm. ‘Let’s remind ourselves of its core elements. This bill will cap bonuses from now till these banks have paid back the federal government every last cent they owe. Which could take decades. It will be the biggest cap on wealth and individual freedom since Leonid Brezhnev.’

‘Why don’t we call it the Brezhnev bill?’ asked the woman, undeterred.

Nylind muttered, more to himself than the room. ‘Yeah, ’cause that will play really well with eighteen to twenty-fours.’ Then, his volume duly adjusted: ‘Let’s get to the matter of the moment. Republicans on the Hill have set a remarkable lead, showing an aggressive response to the Iranian Connection with a move to impeach the President.’

More applause, which seemed to make Nylind impatient. Such displays were fine for the TV cameras, but here, in his meeting, they just wasted time. ‘Clearly that’s gonna depend on headcount, pulling in moderate Democrats. Which in turn means shifting public opinion to our side of the issue. I suggest the climate will depend less on the technicalities of donations from Iran and more on the general mood created by the Forbes episode. Where do people think we’ve got to on that?’

This was what Franklin had come to hear.

A man standing directly opposite, also too jammed to get a seat, spoke up, identifying himself as a producer of one of the nation’s best-known talk radio shows. ‘There’s still plenty of flesh on that turkey,’ he began, with an accent Franklin placed in Alabama. ‘Like the psycho piece. More to say on that, I reckon. And what was this bomb Forbes was gonna drop? Folks are mighty interested in that, I can tell you.’

Nylind interrupted. ‘The White House are trying to say that’s all old news now that Forbes is dead. Drawing a line and all that BS.’

‘BS is right. House Judiciary’s gonna keep the Iran story alive. And we’re going to keep hammering away at it on the show. Exactly how much money changed hands? When did it stop?’

‘ If it stopped!’ Someone in the middle of the room, too quick for Franklin to identify.

Now, towards the back, a woman stood up. Franklin recognized her; he’d seen her on Hannity. Sweet-looking, if a little bland; longish hair, maybe some surgery. Attractive, but vanilla cupcake. Kind of like his Cindy, but without the sauce. An image of his assistant in her eyepatch underwear flashed through his mind. He told himself to concentrate.

‘Are we too prim here to talk about the other dimension of the Forbes case?’ Now Franklin remembered. She was a former prosecutor turned TV talking head.

‘The other dimension?’ Nylind was smiling, enjoying himself. He always was a hog-in-shit at these Thursday Sessions, Franklin reflected, but he looked extra ecstatic at this moment.

‘Yes, Matthew.’ Her tone was that of an impatient schoolmistress, circa Little House on the Prairie . And they said conservatives didn’t have a sense of humour. ‘We all know what I’m referring to. The very convenient demise of Mr Forbes. At precisely the right moment for the President.’

Nylind surveyed the room. ‘Once again, let me remind our media colleagues here that the Thursday Sessions are always and forever off-the-record. If you’re here, it’s because you’re a player not a commentator. Remember the rule. You leak, you leave.

‘Good. So we all heard what the lady said. Do we want to go there?’

‘Some of us already have.’ A few titters.

‘But does it make strategic sense?’ Nylind, perennial college boy, was playing the designated adult.

‘There is a risk to it.’ The talk radio guy again. ‘It can make us look wacko. Even if we’re right. Can look a bit, you know, 9/11 truther.’

‘There’s another problem.’ All heads turned towards the back of the room, where the chief aide to Congressman Rice of Louisiana was seated. ‘There’ll be a coroner’s report today, declaring Forbes’s death a suicide.’ The room hushed, the quiet that always comes when meetings used to the hot air of opinions suddenly get a cool gust of fact.

He continued. ‘I got off the phone from the New Orleans Police Department just before I came here. They’re going to announce this morning that their investigation is formally concluding.’

Loud tuts and several shaking heads.

‘It seems awful quick.’ The woman, former lawyer.

Nylind jumped in, ahead of the staffer from the Louisiana delegation. ‘Let’s not forget, gentlemen-’ this in spite of the fact that between a quarter and a third of those in the room were women, albeit women whose political DNA prevented them from crying foul at sexism, ‘-that there are a lot of Democrats in Louisiana. Since Katrina, most of the state officials, in fact. That goes for the mayor of N’Awlins. Who appoints the police chief.’