Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

They were here now. The bodyguard nodded at her, nudging her to get out and complete the task she had been set by his boss ‘the Principal’.

She got out at 15th and Hamilton Place and looked upward, seeing the two red lights at the pinnacle of the Washington Monument, blinking in the moonlight. She remembered looking upward at that cool, solid needle after completing her very first day’s work at the White House. She had allowed herself to wonder if they were about to make history, if one day there might even be a Baker Monument in this town. She shook her head in disbelief that that was little more than two months ago.

She approached the White House security station, the low-ceilinged cabin wide enough to accommodate two scanning machines and an airport-style arch, through which all visitors had to pass. A guard, young and with a soldier’s buzzcut, beckoned her to open the glass door and enter. She began her explanation, that she was Maggie Costello, former official of the White House and that Doug Sanchez was expecting her. They scanned their list of scheduled appointments and shook their heads. Reluctantly, feeling like a traitor who had slipped into her former comrades’ barracks only to poison them in their sleep, she told the guard on duty to call Sanchez’s office.

While she waited she tried to digest all she had heard in that short, vile flight. The scale and comprehensiveness of their operation was breathtaking. They had thought of everything, not just paying hush money to Pamela Everett’s grief-stricken parents, but getting a United States senator to pose with young Baker so that he would have a perfect alibi, printed and published in the local newspaper. They had taken the time to remove the relevant page of The Daily World from the archive in Aberdeen, such was their determination to leave no trace.

A moment she had forgotten floated back into her mind: Principal Schilling telling her that he had sent the Baker file to his presidential library, but had noticed that it was ‘unusually thin’. Now she knew why.

‘Maggie! Is that you?’ It was Sanchez, looking as if he had lost ten pounds in weight and had had only ten hours of sleep in the several days since she had last seen him. He moved past the security equipment and, having approached warily, now opened his arms for a hug. Maggie let him hold her, hating herself for what she was about to do. She could feel her eyes tingling: she was just so exhausted.

‘So what’s this, you go off the grid in the Pacific North-West and change your whole look?’ Sanchez said, as he walked her into the lobby, then turned left towards the Press Secretary’s office.

Maggie kept her head down as she walked, hoping not to make eye contact with anyone she knew, hoping she wouldn’t have to talk to, or explain herself, to anyone. She wouldn’t know where to begin. Inevitably she glimpsed the one person she least wanted to see: the silver-haired Chief of Staff, Magnus Longley, slipping out of one corridor and into another, a portfolio tucked under his arm. She shuddered at the sight of him. He spotted her too. Taking a second to confirm that, despite her new look, it was indeed her, he shot her a glare that clearly said, ‘What are you doing here? I thought I fired you.’

‘So what the hell happened, Maggie?’ Sanchez, drawing back her attention.

‘It’s such a long story, Doug. And the only person I can tell it to right now is the President. I’m sorry.’

He gave her a long, compassionate look which left her feeling more guilty than ever. Then he nodded, suggested Maggie take a seat in his office and embarked on the short stroll down the corridor to the President’s personal secretary.

Maggie looked at the TV, tuned to MSNBC. She had been here only a few days ago, but now it felt like a different lifetime. The juvenile egghead from the New Republic was on:

‘…I think the word of the hour is “exit strategy”. I’ve been talking to House whips and they say the numbers are just not there on Judiciary for the Republicans to move forward with this thing. Democrats are closing ranks behind the President and those two crucial waverers are no longer wavering. So, as I say, I think the pressure is now on the Republicans to find a way out of this without losing too much face.’

The interviewer was nodding: ‘And what’s turned things around for the President?’

‘Well, the implosion of Senator Wilson is certainly a factor…’

Maggie sighed, knowing that everyone in this building would be jubilant at that news, believing it to be a rare stroke of good fortune. Believing that Baker’s lucky streak had at last been restored.

But all she could think of was Waugh’s smirking face.

Sanchez appeared in the doorway. ‘He’s ready for you now.’

Washington, DC, Tuesday March 28, 10.58

Somehow, despite herself, Maggie had had a decent night’s sleep. Baker had only given her one assignment and that she had promptly delegated to Uri. He had agreed to do it on the strict understanding that she went straight home to bed.

Her meeting with Baker had been awkward, no doubt about it. Trapped behind his desk in the Oval, he had blanched when she finally uttered Pamela Everett’s name, the blood seeming to drain out of his face as she watched. He had shaken his head, murmuring that this was what he had feared – what he had always feared. He began to explain, to tell Maggie what had happened that night and then he had stopped himself. ‘This is something Kim deserves to hear first.’

He glanced up at Maggie and she could see from his eyes alone that condemnation from her was unnecessary, no matter how much she wanted to express it: he was judging himself harshly enough.

He had then picked up the telephone on his desk and asked that all his meetings be cancelled until further notice, all calls held unless it was a matter of national emergency.

He had sat and listened in growing disbelief as she told him what Waugh had told her: that he, Stephen Baker, had been spotted as a teenager, marked out for great things – that he had been their chosen one. She explained how Waugh and his predecessors had smoothed Baker’s path, removing the obstacles in his way one by one. Growing ever more pale, he said quietly, more to himself than to her, ‘My whole career has been a sham.’

Then she spelled out Waugh’s ultimatum: veto the banking bill or he would tell all. It pained her to have to say it, to be acting – even against her will – as the agent of those men. But she regarded it as her duty and, through a feat of determination, forced herself to assess and walk through each option that faced him. She wanted to put aside the shock of the moment and speak practically. She wanted, in other words, to do what Stuart had trained her to do.

He nodded and probed at the right places, responding as she sought to approach the problem from all angles, answering when she asked what level of support the banking legislation commanded in Congress, giving a view on how public opinion might respond. He even allowed her to present possible compromises that might be offered to the other side which, years of service as a negotiator had taught her, could always be found if the will was there.

He listened to it all but Maggie knew he was indulging her. His heart was not in it; his heart was not even in the room. At the end of the meeting, he simply nodded and said he had a decision to make.

They parted with a handshake, the President thanking Maggie for her ‘remarkable’ service. His last words to her were, ‘I know I’ve let you down. But I will find a way to make this right.’

And now Sanchez was on the phone, telling Maggie to switch on the TV.

‘Which channel?’

‘Any of them.’