Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

‘What’s that?’ Maggie said, straining to be heard above the music, which was now thumpingly loud.

‘The second line!’ the woman said, her smile unbroken. ‘It was in my guide book. You dance along with the funeral. It’s a New Orleans tradition!’ And with that, she held up a white tissue and did a twirl.

By the time they reached the burial ground, Maggie had drifted from the journalists. She put her notebook away and watched as the long snake of people now turned into a thick crowd at the gates of the cemetery. The music began to wind down as a priest called for hush.

He said a few words of welcome, dwelling on New Orleans and its customs. As if remembering himself, he then added a quick mention of Vic Forbes before suggesting that they all head to the graveside.

The crowd was thinner now, dominated by the men in red and black – those, Maggie suspected, who were being paid to be there. She hung back, not wanting to claim a proximity she didn’t have, close enough to hear, far enough away not to be visible.

The priest offered a series of platitudes, further evidence that he, like everyone else there, had never so much as met Vic Forbes. The words seemed to waft into the air and die on the breeze.

Maggie looked around, only belatedly realizing that someone was standing next to her. A man with white, thinning hair, sixty or so, in a grey suit – camouflaged to blend in perfectly into a cemetery. Against the grey of the tombstones, he was almost invisible. Like her, he had no notebook. And, like her, he wasn’t dressed like a tourist: he was in a dark, formal suit. Could this man be the one true mourner for Vic Forbes?

She gave him a solemn look, eyebrows raised, the look people give each other at funerals. ‘Hello,’ she whispered. Then, trying her luck, ‘Did you know him well?’

His gaze remained firmly ahead, watching the priest, but he spoke immediately, not answering the question, but asking one of his own. ‘What line of work you in?’

An instinct told her not to claim to be a journalist, not now. ‘I’m in the foreign service.’

Now he looked at her.

‘Did you know him from the Company?’

Intuition took care of her answer. ‘That’s right.’

‘You here as the official representative?’

This was one trick Maggie had learned in a thousand negotiations. However fast your mind was whirring, however hard you were scrambling to assimilate new information, you had to give no outward sign of it. Best to react as if there was nothing to react to. So she looked impassive as she processed what she had just heard. The Company…the official representative. Maggie looked at her own clothes, looked at his, and a realization began to dawn. ‘I’m here to pay the Company’s respects, yes.’

The man exhaled, as if he had just peeled off the first of several protective layers.

‘Figured you must be. Bob didn’t have many friends, if you know what I mean.’ Friends was offered with an emphasis that suggested the word referred to women. ‘That’s good. Didn’t know if you still did that, but that’s good.’

Maggie nodded stiffly, trying to play the role this man had assigned to her. Official representative. Her mind, though, raced with a single word. Bob .

‘Long time ago now, of course. But he was good at his job. Even in some tight spots. Honduras, Salvador, Nicaragua.’

Maggie turned her face towards him, a three-quarter turn meant to convey warmth. The penny had now dropped fully into the slot. ‘That was important work. The nation owes you a debt. Both of you.’

‘Oh, he could be an asshole too, don’t get me wrong. Funny that he ended up in New Orleans. Probably lived up the street from me. Had no idea.’

‘You weren’t friends then?’

‘Hadn’t clapped eyes on him in nearly twenty years. Then I see him all over the tube this week, badmouthing the President.’ He waited for Maggie to nod. ‘I was thinking I should get back in touch – for old times’ sake. Next thing I know, he’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

They both paused, watching the priest throw a handful of earth on the coffin. Maggie had to fight the urge to bombard this man with questions: she had to do whatever an official representative of ‘the Company’ would do. And that, she decided, meant playing it ice-cool.

The funeral party was turning away from the grave now and Maggie sensed her chance was about to slip away. She would have to push her luck. ‘I confess we did not quite know what to make of this…latest outburst.’

‘Like I said, he could be an asshole. That was the thing with Bob Jackson. Marched to his own drum.’

Bob Jackson . Were they dealing with someone who had lived a double life? Was Vic Forbes his true identity, or a fake? Expressionless, she filed that away to be wrestled with later. She pushed again. ‘What about his death? The police here say it was suicide.’

He smiled, as if he’d been told an old, but good joke. ‘I know. But after the guy had been threatening the President like that, you gotta wonder, haven’t you?’

Maggie kept her face impassive. The band was now playing a raucous version of ‘When the Saints go Marchin’ In’. She turned as if to head back, praying that he would not take that as his cue to say goodbye. But he was a man of sixtyish alone in the middle of the day, with memories of the glory years working for ‘the Company’ who had found someone – a woman, decades younger than him – who was willing to listen. Somehow she suspected he was not about to leave.

He walked alongside her, keeping time with her funeral stroll. She said nothing, waiting for him to fill the silence. Men, especially eager men, almost always obliged.

‘Look, I would not rule it out. Jackson was not always the most popular guy around. Loner. Kind of obsessive. He might have made some enemies, even before this Baker thing.’

Maggie raised an encouraging eyebrow. Go on.

‘But here’s what makes me doubt it. Anyone who knew anything about Bob Jackson would have known that he would do what he was trained to do. What we were all trained to do.’

The trumpets and trombones were making it hard to hear. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘The blanket. No point taking out a guy like Jackson. Or any of us. Not if you’re worried about what we know. He’d have prepared his blanket.’

‘Of course,’ Maggie said, even as she thought furiously, What the hell is a blanket? They were now back by the cemetery gates, about to be swallowed up by the crowd that had waited to make the return journey. Maggie could see Telegraph Tim interviewing one of the horn players. Any moment now, he could come over, breaking her cover. She shifted on her feet, hoping to show him only her back.

There was so much she needed this man to explain. Should she ask for his name and number, so that she could arrange a meeting? She could say the Company still had some unanswered questions about ‘Vic Forbes’, and ask if he would be willing to help. But she hesitated. The man was experienced and well-trained. He would demand a business card; he would phone Langley to check her out. She was lucky to have got this far. It would be madness to push any further.

No. She would have to get what she needed now. The two of them had stopped walking, so that for the first time she was looking him directly in the eye. It struck her how similar to Forbes – or Jackson – he looked. The same banal features, the same blandness of expression: faces designed to disappear.

‘Jackson was a pro, no doubt about that,’ Maggie said finally, the official representative paying tribute. ‘He’d have prepared his blanket, just as you would. He’d have known what to do with it too.’