Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

A sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Jesus Christ. Where did this come from?’

‘I’ve just been at the funeral. I met a former colleague of his who repeatedly referred to “the Company”. He was much older than Forbes, but he said they worked together in Honduras, Salvador and Nicaragua. He said they were both retired.’

There was a silence, two or three beats. ‘You know what Stuart would say, don’t you? “At least with Kennedy, they waited a few years. Gave the guy a chance.”’

‘You don’t think-’

‘Well, what does it look like, Maggie? An ex-CIA agent? That’s who they use, for God’s sake. That’s who they always use.’

‘Who?’

‘I can hear Stuart saying it. “The Watergate break-in? Who were the Plumbers, Stephen? Who were the dirty tricks squad? They were ex-CIA. Howard Hunt, those guys.” Jesus.’

‘So you think Forbes was working for-’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, there can only be two possibilities. Either the CIA had hired Forbes to blackmail you – or he was working for someone else.’

The President spoke more softly now. ‘We’re missing Stuart already, aren’t we, Maggie? I relied on him so much.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘He would say that Hunt and the others – the Plumbers – they were ex-CIA but they weren’t working for the CIA.’

‘Which leaves the key question: who was Forbes working for?’

‘That’s what you need to find out, Maggie. Tell me again, when was Forbes in the Agency?’

‘He was Jackson then. Bob Jackson. Started decades ago. He would have been in his twenties. He was forty-seven when he died.’

‘I’ll put Sanchez on it. See if he can get that confirmed. The Secretary of State is waiting for me. Talk to Sanchez. And stay safe, Maggie. We need you strong, we need you healthy. I’m relying on you: we all are.’

‘Thank you, Mr President. I’ll do everything I can.’ She said the words, accepted the burden, but they rang hollow. What could she do, on her own? She wasn’t a detective. She wasn’t a spy or an investigator. She was just Maggie Costello, failed diplomat, failed White House staffer, failed friend, failed…everything.

Her hands were trembling. She was standing at the gates of a cemetery, rain was in the air and Stuart Goldstein was dead. She felt a desperate, urgent need to be away from here. To be back home, in a hot bath, with a whiskey in her hand and none of this happening.

She headed for the roadside and, as she climbed into a passing cab, she reached for her BlackBerry. Without thinking, led only by instinct and by need, she entered the area of her phone’s alphabetized contacts where she only rarely dared tread: U. For Uri.

The phone rang three times. She knew that, if it went to voicemail, she would hang up. But, as so often in the past, he surprised her. He picked up. Without missing a beat, he said: ‘Hi. How’s my favourite ex-White House official?’

She paused, not wanting her voice to betray her.

‘Maggie? You OK?’

She nodded, knowing the uselessness of the gesture. She swallowed, determined to get a grip.

‘Maggie? What is it?’

‘Stuart’s dead.’

‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry. What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’ She could feel her nose twitching now, the sign that tears were about to follow. ‘They say it’s suicide. But I just can’t believe it.’

‘I know how close you were, Maggie. You always said he had such a big heart.’

At that, she let out a full sob. These last few days had, she realized, left her like a coiled spring; she had been wound so tight.

‘Where are you, Maggie?’

‘I can’t say,’ she said, which only made her want to cry more. ‘In a cab.’

‘Do you want me to come down to see you?’

She wanted to say that was what she wanted more than anything in the world – but it was impossible. ‘I just needed to hear your voice.’

‘OK, so I’ll talk,’ he said. Just hearing his accent, still alien even after all the time he had spent in the States, triggered something in her – despite everything that had passed between them.

‘You know what,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of you today. I was looking at some footage of Baker at the Iowa State Fair-’ The change in his tone suggested he was shifting the subject away from Stuart to safer ground, giving her something else to focus on. He was like that, Uri: sensitive to her moods. Too sensitive sometimes: he knew her too well.

She tried to pull herself together, engage in the conversation. ‘Was I in the pictures?’

‘No,’ he said, the word dipping down in the sing-song voice you’d use to tell a child that the world doesn’t revolve around him. ‘No, none of you. But it did remind me of you. That’s where you first met him, wasn’t it?’

‘You make it sound like a love affair,’ she sniffed. ‘“First met him”.’

‘Well, there were always three of us in that marriage, Maggie,’ he said gently, the smile still in his voice. ‘You, me and the future President of the United States.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in an editing suite in Manhattan, listening to a million hours of interviews all on the same subject.’

‘You doing the Baker film?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? When did we last speak? It happened last month. PBS want ninety minutes. The full life story. Baker the man.’

She did her best to sound enthusiastic. ‘Wow. That’s really good, Uri. Big job.’

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

‘You’d better hurry, though.’

‘It’s not looking good, is it? I don’t get it. The guy was Mr Invincible and now he’s fighting for his life.’

That was too close to the bone. She felt the tears rising again. ‘It’s good to hear your voice, Uri.’ It came out as a gulp.

‘Yours too. You sure you’re OK?’

She wanted to tell the truth, she wanted to let it all out, to hear what sense he could make of Stu’s apparent suicide, of what she had just heard in the cemetery, to piece it together, like co-conspirators, just as they had when they first met, back in Jerusalem. Those days had been terrifying – and violent – and yet she looked back on them now as among the happiest times in her life. Despite herself, and when she hadn’t really been looking, she had fallen in love.

‘I wish I could talk about it. But I’m on assignment. You know, usual rules apply.’ With an iron will she staunched the tears.

‘Mother’s the word.’

‘ Mum’s the word.’

‘Oh, yeah? And how’s your colloquial Hebrew getting on?’

Despite everything, she smiled, imagining the dark curls of hair on his head, remembering the smell of him next to her. And that nearly undid her resolve. ‘I’d better go, Uri. There’s another call coming in.’

‘OK.’

‘Thanks, Uri.’

‘Anytime. And if you want to talk, you know where I am. Day or night.’

She pressed the red button, ending the call. A moment later, as if to keep her honest, the phone rang. Sanchez.

‘We need to meet, Maggie. Urgently. Come back to Washington. Not here. I’ll text you the time and place. There’s something I need to give you. As quick as you can.’

She hung up, her heart pounding, thinking, Now what?

And thousands of miles away a man she had never met was listening to every word.

Undisclosed location, Thursday March 23, 18.00 GMT

‘Are we on a secure line?’

‘Yes, sir. Maximum encryption.’

‘Good.’ He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, bracing himself for the start. The technology was state of the art, but he still resisted this form of communication. Call him old-fashioned, but he preferred to look a man in the eye. Or several men, in this case.