Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

That was it, cast out like one of her father’s fishing lines and with about as much chance of success. Inside she was wincing at the clumsiness of it.

‘Yep, he sure would,’ the man said.

She was about to press him further when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Tim behind her, looking proprietorial. She made a face that she hoped said not right now . He looked disappointed, maybe even a little offended, but to her relief he moved away.

But when she turned back, the man who had been at her side for the last ten minutes had vanished, lost in the crowd.

She had to call Stuart right away. With this information they could get to work; this could be just the breakthrough they needed. Hurriedly, she thumbed the buttons on her phone, trying his direct line at the office. Straight to voice-mail. Next she tried the mobile. I’m sorry but this phone is no longer in service. I’m sorry but this phone is no longer in service. I’m sorry…

Goddamn it! Now she dialled the White House switchboard. ‘Stuart Goldstein, please,’ she said, as a group of ‘mourners’ jostled her at the cemetery gates.

The operator’s voice was hesitant. ‘May I ask who is calling?’

‘My name is Maggie Costello, I’m on the National Security – I mean, I used to be on the-’

‘Ms Costello, I’ve been told to direct your call to Mr Sanchez. Please hold.’

There was an interminable delay, filled by piped classical music. Maggie could feel her palms grow moist. Finally she heard the voice of Doug Sanchez, though with none of the pep she was used to.

‘Hi Maggie. I don’t know where you are but you may want to sit down. I have some very bad news, I’m afraid. Stuart is dead.’

Diplomatic cable:

From the Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran, housed within the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, Washington DC

To the Head of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution, Tehran

TOP SECRET. ENCRYPTION SETTING: MAXIMUM.

Situation for SB deteriorating. Following our previous conversation, I can report that SB is now without the advice of his chief aide. We may not have the problem of the ‘outstretched hand’ for much longer. Suggest that normal service will be resumed soon. Ends.

New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 11.23 CST

His voice wavering, Doug Sanchez explained that two joggers had found Stuart’s body at six o’clock that morning in Rock Creek Park. Initial examination suggested he had died after swallowing thirty tablets of Dextropropoxyphene – a painkiller whose packaging warned against use by those with a history of ‘depression with suicidal tendency’ – and then slashing his left wrist. The police were about to issue a statement saying they were not looking for anyone else in connection with his death. The President had already spoken to Stuart’s wife. Doug was about to face the press for an off-camera briefing.

Maggie was too stunned to speak. She had worried about Stuart’s life expectancy almost from the first day she had known him. She thought his very existence – carrying that enormous weight, burdening himself with the most intense stress – represented a kind of challenge to science, as if he were pushing the boundaries of the possible. She often imagined him standing at the back of a high school gym at some campaign rally, chomping on a corn dog and keeling over with a massive coronary. But suicide? The very idea of Stu Goldstein, who gobbled up life the way he gobbled up food, killing himself would have seemed absurd.

Until last night. That last conversation they had had unnerved her. She had never heard Stuart sound so exhausted, so utterly defeated before. She heard his voice in her head, softer than usual. There wouldn’t be much left of me, would there? And then: Without Baker, there’s no Goldstein.

Get some rest. That was the best she’d been able to come up with. What sort of a friend was she? Why hadn’t she recognized that he was a man on the edge? She felt the strong need for a drink.

Sanchez was still speaking. ‘Listen, Maggie, I’ve got to go do this briefing. But here’s what’s happening. The President has told me what you and Stuart were working on. About Forbes. He’s asked me to-’ He hesitated, apparently embarrassed. ‘He’s asked me to continue Stuart’s work. From now on, you and I are to liaise.’ Ordinarily there would have been a flirtatious frisson attached to that sentence. But not now.

Sanchez went on: ‘Except where there are things for you to discuss directly with him, apparently.’ He sounded put out. ‘In fact he told me to transfer you over to him once we’d spoken. OK? We’ll talk later.’

‘OK.’ The news was still sinking in. She felt nauseous…

‘And Maggie, listen. I’m sorry I had to be the one, you know, to-’

There was a click and the sound of more hold music. Telegraph Tim and the other reporters were looking over at her now. They appeared curious, maybe even a little annoyed by her deliberate separation from the pack: why was she ignoring them? Who was she talking to so earnestly on the phone? Had she found out something they hadn’t? When she waved for them to go on without her there were a couple of hard stares, but they went, which was a relief. She found a quiet spot by a tree. The cemetery was almost empty now, save for one or two stragglers, including a white man in a dark suit standing by the gates, also talking into his cellphone.

‘Please hold for the President,’ came the faraway voice on her BlackBerry.

‘Thanks.’

Another click and then: ‘Maggie, I’m very glad we’ve reached you.’ It was the same voice she had heard when Baker talked to his children in the kitchen at the Residence, or to her during the early days of the campaign. Warm, gentle, full of empathy. The voice of a strong, protective father.

‘Yes, Mr President.’

‘This is a terrible blow for all of us. I know how close you were to Stuart.’

‘You were too, sir.’

‘Yes. I was.’ He paused, as if fighting to keep the lid on his emotions. ‘But I think we both know what Stuart would have wanted. He would have wanted us to fight this thing, Maggie. Especially now.’

‘I’m not sure that was the mood he was in, Mr President.’

‘He was not himself yesterday, I know that. But Stuart was not a quitter. He was a fighter.’ His tone changed. ‘I just can’t believe…’ The sentence trailed away. ‘Suicide: not Stu-’

‘You’re not saying that…someone might have done this?’ It came out as barely more than a whisper.

‘I’ll tell you what I think, Maggie. I think this presidency is under assault. I think we are facing nothing less than an attempted coup d’état . And we have to fight that with all we’ve got. It’s not about me or my presidency any more, Maggie. This is about the Constitution of the United States. If they can remove an elected president, then they can do anything.’

‘Who’s “they”, sir?’

She heard him sigh. ‘We don’t know that yet, do we? And even to talk about it sounds nuts. But we need to find out who they are. I’m relying on you, Maggie. Keep digging at the Forbes thing. We need information, fast.’

‘I understand.’

‘We’re going to do what we can at this end. I’ve taken four straight days of this shit, on the defensive. We’re going back on offence right now. We’re going to start working the phones, telling those Democrats on Judiciary to grow a pair and start defending their president.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’

‘Now what have you got?’

Maggie tried to focus, to put Stuart out of her mind, to act as if she were briefing the President on an outbreak of violence in the West Bank. She braced herself, extracting a crumb of confidence from the little information she had so far unearthed. ‘Sir, it’s unconfirmed but I strongly suspect that Vic Forbes was in fact Bob Jackson, a former agent of the CIA.’