The Chosen One Page 2

  ‘Of course I know that. Adams ran against him for the nomination.’

  ‘You are up-to-date. Yes. He may even run against him again.’

  ‘A primary challenge?’

  ‘Not inconceivable. The President has assembled what is admiringly referred to as “a team of rivals”. But as Lincoln understood, it may be a team, but they’re still rivals.’

  ‘So he-’

  ‘So he’s not going to let this go. Dr Adams wants to flex his muscles, show that his reach extends beyond the Pentagon.’

  ‘Which means he wants me out.’

  The Chief of Staff stood up. Maggie wasn’t sure if the creak she heard was the chair or Longley’s knees.

  ‘That’s where we are. The final decision is not Dr Adams’s, of course. It rests in this building.’

  What the hell did that mean? This building. Did Longley mean he would decide – or that whether Maggie kept her job or not would be settled by the President himself?

  Longley had pulled his shoulders back, so that he could deliver his final remarks. ‘Miss Costello, I fear you forgot Longley’s First Rule of Politics. Don’t write so much as a note to the milkman in this town that you wouldn’t mind seeing on the front page of the Washington Post. Above the fold.’

  ‘You think Adams would leak it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Revive stories about the Baker-Adams rift, implicitly putting himself on a par with the President? No thank you. The reason he’s inside the tent is so that he can piss out, not all over the Oval Office carpet.’

  ‘Does the President know about this?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that Stephen Baker is the President of the United States of America. He is not a human resources manager.’ His mouth seemed to recoil from the phrase, as if uttering such an absurd, new-fangled term might stain his lips. ‘I don’t want to be unkind, Miss Costello. But there are hundreds of people who work for the President. You are not of a rank at which your employment would be of concern to him. Unless there is a reason you think otherwise, in which case perhaps you would be so good as to disclose that to me.’

  So that meant the final decision rested with Longley. She was finished. Maggie balled her hands into fists as two instincts warred inside her: fight and flight. She certainly wanted to hit this sanctimonious prick, who appeared to be enjoying the situation far too much; at the same time she wanted to run home and throw herself under the duvet. Doing her best to control herself, she bit her lower lip, hard enough to get the zinc taste of blood.

  Longley glanced casually at his watch, a vintage Patek Philippe, elegant, unfussy; unashamedly analog. ‘I have someone waiting for me, Miss Costello. No doubt we will speak again soon.’ She was dismissed.

  Maggie passed Patricia on the way out who, she noticed, did not so much as look up, let alone make eye contact. No doubt a gesture of discretion she had learned in many long years of serving Magnus Longley, who had probably sacked enough people over the years to fill RFK Stadium.

  She waited till she was in her own rabbit-hutch of an office, an eighth the square footage of the Chief of Staff’s, before she would even breathe out properly.

  Once she was sure the door was closed, she used her forearm to sweep everything – two tottering piles of classified documents, magazines, paper bags from the deli, chewed pens and other assorted detritus – off her desk and onto the floor. The gesture made her feel good for about three-fifths of a second. She fell into her chair.

  Was this going to be the story of this year, having a magical opportunity in her hands, only to screw it up royally? Forget this year, was this going to be the story of her bloody life? And all for the sake of one supremely stupid moment of unguarded honesty. Not that Adams wasn’t an arsehole: he was, First Class. But it was absurdly naïve to put it in an email. How old was she? Nearly forty, for God’s sake. When would she learn? For a woman who’d made her name as a skilled diplomat, a peace negotiator for Christ’s sake – with all the sensitivity, discretion and sureness of touch that required – she really was an idiot. Eejit, she could almost hear her sister Liz teasing her in fake bog-Irish.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had a chance. When she had got back from Jerusalem – hailed as the woman who had at last made a breakthrough in the Middle East peace process – she was, everyone told her, able to write her own ticket. She had been swamped with job offers, every think-tank and university had wanted her name on their headed notepaper. She could teach international relations at Harvard or write editorials in Foreign Affairs. There had even been a whisper from ABC News that, with the right training – and a suitable wardrobe – she might have the makings of on-air ‘talent’. One executive had sent a handwritten note: ‘I truly believe you are the woman to make international relations sexy.’

  But it was none of this that had made her return to the States nearly three years ago so thrilling. Instead, and much to her amazement, things had actually worked out with Uri. She had wondered if the relationship would prove to be little more than a glorified holiday romance: they had, after all, come together during the strangest and most intense week in Jerusalem and he, out of his mind with grief after both his parents had died within days of each other, had hardly been thinking straight. She had learned long ago to be suspici ous of relationships hatched on the road, especially those lent glamour and significance by the constant presence of danger and proximity of death. Love among the bombs felt delicious at the time, but it rarely lasted.

  And yet when Uri had invited her to share his apartment in New York she hadn’t said no. True, she couldn’t quite bring herself to sign on the dotted line marked ‘official cohabit ation’: she had kept her apartment in Washington, planning to divide her time between the two places. But when it came to it, both she and Uri simply found that they wanted to spend most nights in the same city – and in the same bed.

  There had seemed to be no reason for it ever to stop. But somehow, just a few weeks ago, she had found herself sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, looking out at a gleaming Washington, DC – scrubbed up and ready for the inauguration of a new president – with Uri at her side, his voice cracking, saying that they had run out of road. That he still loved her, but that this was no longer working. She had made her choice, he said. She had voted with her feet, deciding that her work mattered above all else: ‘The bottom line, Maggie, is that you care about Stephen Baker more than you care about me. Or about us.’

  And, even though the tears were falling down her cheeks, she hadn’t been able to argue. What could she say? He was right: she had dedicated the last year not to making a life with him, but to helping Stephen Baker become the most powerful man in the world. That he had won the presidency – against all the odds – felt almost miraculous. She had been so swept up in the euphoria of that triumph that she had forgotten to pay attention to her own life. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had thought that once things got back to normal, she would concentrate on making her relationship with Uri work; she would patch things up. But suddenly it was too late: he’d made his decision and there had been nothing she could say.

  So now here she was, yet again, another relationship officially screwed up and on the verge of losing the very job that had sabotaged it. This was her life all over. Give Maggie Costello a shot at happiness or success and she’ll fuck up both. She wanted to howl like a banshee, to expel all her frustration and misery: but even in her despair she knew she wouldn’t do it. Washington was the buttoned-down town. No outward expressions of emotion wanted here. That was one of the reasons she was beginning to hate it, from the depths of her Irish soul. So instead, she put her head in her hands and muttered to herself, again and again: Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

  This bout of self-loathing was interrupted by a vibration somewhere near her thigh. She dug out her cellphone. Where the number should have appeared it just said: Restricted.

  A voice she did not recognize spoke without saying hello. ‘Is this Maggie Costello?’

  ‘Ye
s.’

  ‘Please come to the Residence right away. He wants to speak to you.’

  Confused, Maggie replied, ‘Who wants to speak to me?’

  ‘The President.’

  2

  Washington, DC, Monday March 20, 08.07

  There was no time to visit the bathroom: she had been summoned to see him ‘right away’. But there was no way in the world she could go to the Residence looking like this. Maggie swung open the door to the ladies’, praying she would run into no one that she would have to speak to.

  Shit.

  Tara MacDonald, Director of Communications, African-American mother of four and undisputed matriarch, first of the Baker campaign and now of the Baker White House – coiffed and confident in her midlife prime, coming out of the stalls and checking her make-up.

  ‘Hi there, Maggie, how you doing, sweetheart?’

  Maggie froze, reluctant to take up her position in front of the vanity mirror. Lamely, she ducked her head and began to wash her hands.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You seem a little, I don’t know, agitated.’

  Maggie turned to MacDonald with a harried attempt at a smile. ‘I’ve just been summoned. To the Residence. I thought I’d better…’ she nodded towards the mirror, ‘…you know, make myself presentable.’

  The instant change in Tara’s expression – as if her smile muscles had been suddenly severed – told Maggie she’d made a mistake.

  The older woman pursed her lips. ‘That right? The Residence. That’s quite an honour.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing important. Probably wants some input ahead of the UN speech.’

  ‘Sweetheart, he has a National Security Advisor for that.’ Tara MacDonald went back to the mirror, but Maggie could see she was not done. ‘Well, ain’t you the insider. And there I was thinking you were just an NSC staffer.’

  Maggie ignored the remark, staring at the mirror, aware that she had already been here a minute – which was a minute longer than she should have been. Besides, she had heard this kind of barb before.

  The face that stared back at her looked pale and strained: no surprise, really, given the excruciating little scene that had just been played out in the Chief of Staff’s office. In the panicked dash to get here this morning she’d forgone her usual lick of paint: there had simply been no time to apply concealer to the dark shadows beneath her eyes or the tinted moisturizer that did its best to conceal the tiny crows’ feet that now perched at the corners of her eyes along with the cigarette-lines around her mouth. Just a touch of mascara and a sweep of nude lipstick was all she’d managed, and it showed. Not much evidence at the moment of what the gossip column of the City Paper had recently referred to as ‘the delectable Maggie Costello’.

  After yet another attempt to restore swift order to her hair, she headed off – walking as fast as she could without triggering a security alert – through the press briefing room and then outside along the colonnade towards the White House Residence, home for little more than two months to Stephen Baker, wife Kimberley, their thirteen-year-old daughter Katie and eight-year-old son, Josh.

  The Secret Service agents ushered her through without so much as a question, clearly expecting her. Through one set of doors, then another and suddenly she was in what looked like any other American household at ten past eight in the morning. There were cereal boxes on the table, school bags spilling over with gym kit on the floor, and childish chatter in the air. Except for the minor matter of armed officers posted outside the door and state-of-the-art, encrypted communications equipment in every room, it looked like a regular family home.

  Stephen Baker was not at the table scouring The New York Times over his half-moon reading glasses as she was expecting. Instead he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, jacket off, with an apple in his hand. Standing opposite him, three yards away and staring intently, was his son Josh – clutching a baseball bat.

  ‘OK,’ the President whispered. ‘You ready?’

  The little boy nodded.

  ‘Here it comes. Three, two, one.’ He tossed the apple, slowly and at just the right height for it to make contact with the little boy’s bat.

  Struck firmly, the fruit went flying past the President’s hand and splattered into the wall behind him.

  A voice came from the next room, raised to full volume. ‘Josh! What did I say about ball games inside?’

  The President made a mock-worried expression for the benefit of his son and then, conspiratorially, put his finger to his lips. In full voice he called out, ‘All under control, my love,’ as he retrieved the apple from the floor and wiped the pulp from the wall. Then, catching the eye of the Secret Service agent who had witnessed the entire episode, he mouthed, ‘You too. Not a word.’

  Even here, without the trappings and grandeur of office, he was a striking man. Six foot three, with a full head of brown hair, he was always the first person in the room you noticed. He was lean, his features fine and sharp. But it was his eyes that grabbed you. They were a deep, penetrating green and – even when the rest of him was animated and quick – they seemed to operate at a slower pace, gazing levelly, never darting. During the TV debates, the camera seemed to seek them out, as if it were as mesmerized as the audience. When commentators wrote about Candidate Baker exuding calm and steadiness, Maggie was convinced it was not his answers or policy ideas they had in mind. It was his eyes.

  And now they were looking towards her. ‘Hey Josh, look who’s here. Your favourite Irish aunt.’

  ‘Hi Maggie.’

  ‘Hi Joshie. How’s your new school?’

  ‘S’OK. I play baseball, which is cool.’

  ‘That is cool.’ Maggie was beaming. Josh Baker was a contender for America’s cutest boy and having first met him nearly two years ago she felt as if she had almost seen him grow up.

  That first encounter had come on a summer Saturday in Iowa, at the State Fair in Des Moines. Stephen Baker had been there with his family – Josh, then aged six, kept nagging to ride on the bumper cars – as the candidate tried to endear himself to the ever-discerning, and crucial, people of Iowa. Baker was then the rank outsider in the Democratic field, the little-known governor of Washington State. His name recognition was zero, he had no national experience and carried no regional advantage: historically, Democrats liked governors from the South who might deliver a chunk of votes that would otherwise be hard to reach. Washington State? In a presidential primary, that counted as a disability.

  Still, Rob – Maggie’s old pal from her Africa days, who had ended up in the State Department and had just dealt the death-blow to her nascent career – had been insistent. ‘Just meet him,’ he had said. ‘You’ll know right away.’

  Maggie had stonewalled, resisting, refusing to be swayed by the barrage of calls, emails and texts that followed. Maggie Costello? Working for a politician? The idea was ridiculous. She had ideals, for God’s sake, and ideals had no place in the snakepit of modern politics. The young Maggie Costello had had nothing but contempt for politicians. She’d seen what they and other power-seekers had done to godforsaken bits of Africa, the Balkans and the Middle East, first as an aid-worker, latterly as a behind-the-scenes diplomat. It sounded corny, but as far as she was concerned there was only one mission that mattered: trying to make the world a better place, especially for those on the sharp end of war, disease and poverty. The way she saw it, politicians tended, at best, to get in the way of that process; at worst to profit by others’ disadvantage.

  Besides, she’d argued to Rob, the election was more than a year away; Baker’s candidacy was just a few months old and the Beltway wisdom had already written him off as an also-ran. They suspected he was running as a future vice president, trying to get himself noticed. The only poll she had seen gave him a score of ‘negligible’, too small to measure. And anyway, what did she know about US presi dential politics?

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rob had insisted. ‘You know foreign policy. He’s governor o
f Nowheresville: the closest he gets to foreign policy is having lunch at the International House of Pancakes. Just go, just meet him and you’ll see what I mean. He’s different: he’s something special.’

  So, sighing inwardly, she had gone to the Iowa State Fair and watched Baker mingling with the hog-farmers, eventually crowning a giant pig the winner of the hotly-fought Big Boar Contest. ‘He’s bigger than I am, he’s better looking – why isn’t he running for president?’ Baker had said to delighted cheers. She waited before introducing herself. She wanted to see him in action.

  It didn’t take long to see he was a natural. His manner was easy, his interest in people shone through as genuine, not the synthetic sincerity of the blow-dried, bleached-teeth politicians usually deemed presidential material. Unlike most candidates, he knew there was a difference between listening and staying silent while you wait to speak again. He actually listened. And whatever quality it was that had won over her cynical friend, Rob, it seemed to be working on the usually wary folk of Des Moines – people who had grown sceptical of the procession of suitors who invaded their state every four years smiling brightly with their faces aimed towards the television cameras, making promises they never kept. Baker, on the other hand, had the crowd in his thrall: they watched him eagerly, mirroring his expressions, grinning when he grinned, reflecting back the warmth they felt from him. And unlike other candidates, who seemed to have been parachuted into such events from another planet, he genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself, making real human contact with the people around him, rather than using them as props for a photo opportunity.

  Finally she stepped up to say hello.

  ‘So you’re the woman who brought peace to the Holy Land,’ he had said, wiping an oily hand on his apron as he paused from flipping chops on the outdoor grill beside the Iowa Pork Producers’ tent. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Nearly,’ she had replied. ‘Nearly brought peace.’

  ‘Well, nearly’s a hell of a lot further than anyone ever got before.’