The Chosen One Read online

  The procession headed down Bourbon Street, towards the cemetery. The TV guys hastily decoupled their cameras from their tripods and hoisted them onto their shoulders, while the reporters scrambled to catch up. Maggie, back in character as Liz Costello of the Irish Times, did the same, joining the growing crowd behind the coffin.

  These people too were half-strolling, half-dancing to the music, some twirling parasols in the air, others holding a handkerchief aloft. An improbably wide white woman with little sense of rhythm beamed at Maggie. ‘This is the second line!’

  ‘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.’

  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.’

  27

  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.

  28

  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.’

  A sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Jesus Chr
ist. 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.’