To Kill The Truth Page 2

  After the White House, after everything that had happened, she needed a chance to think – and that, she told herself, is what universities were for. Liz had begged Maggie to come live with her, her husband and kids in Atlanta – ‘If you truly want to make a clean break, you have to leave that swamp of a city’ – and Maggie had considered it, she really had. But seven days with her sister had been enough to confirm it would never work. Too much family, too much scrutiny.

  She needed her own turf and, after the best part of a decade, that turf was Washington, DC. She’d never flatter it with the word ‘home’. To this day, that meant Dublin. But Maggie knew her way around Washington and, for now, that was good enough.

  Still, there was no denying that she needed to make a break. Writing essays and attending seminars felt like the right change. Now if she encountered a crisis, it might result in a missed lecture, rather than a nuclear conflagration and the end of the world. ‘Why are academic politics so vicious?’ ran the old gag. ‘Because the stakes are so low.’ And that suited Maggie just fine.

  This lunchtime debate over the Keane trial, with the potential riot going on outside, was the closest she had got to politics since she’d left the administration. The tension in the hall, which was clearly getting to Baum and Bentham if not to Staat, who seemed to relish it, barely made a dent on Maggie’s central nervous system: she had endured so much worse. But it was, at least, a reminder of the life she had left behind. She felt the first, unbidden stirrings of adrenalin.

  Like a recovering alcoholic who’d risked a visit to a bar, she now cursed her own recklessness. She should never have come. She should have stayed in the library, or at home in her apartment. Studying history was meant to have been her escape from all this, a haven of calm, serene contemplation far away from political combat. This had been a mistake, a needless—

  A thudding noise came from outside. Several heads turned in the hall; Baum seemed to jolt. Had there been an attempt on the door? Had one or other faction pushed forward, trying to break in? Maggie caught herself waiting. For the sound of broken glass or a scream, she wasn’t sure, but something that might explain what had just happened. Instead, there was a resurgence in the chanting, louder now and angrier too. ‘Don’t know, don’t care, nothing happened, nothing’s there!’

  Was this the sound of Keane’s backers – the white supremacists, neo-Nazis and Klansmen – high on a frisson of triumph or, alternatively, the righteous thrill of victimhood? Were they cheering a successful charge on the building, or raging that they had been unjustly attacked by their opponents? Maggie was listening keenly, but it was hard to tell.

  On the platform, Bentham was urging people to settle down. ‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why this centre is so badly needed. As you can see with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, the threat to free speech in this country is real. Yet our future depends on our being able to talk openly with each other, no matter how difficult the topic. That’s why . . .’

  As she spoke, Maggie noticed, the hands were trembling again. Baum was staring at the doors at the back of the hall, as if he feared a stampede at any moment. Many in the audience, perhaps following his lead, were doing the same thing. In the eye of this hurricane sat Staat, the smirk now unbound.

  A sudden vibration made Maggie jump. She realized her heart was thumping as she took the phone from her pocket. A text message, from Donna Morrison, a former colleague from Maggie’s first, happier stint at the White House. Morrison’s response to the craziness of recent events had been to step out from the shadows, to quit the backroom, and run for office herself. She had made some history, becoming the first black woman elected as the Governor of Virginia.

  The message was typical Donna: straight to the point.

  I need your help.

  Maggie put the phone back in her pocket. She’d not been short of job offers. There were old friends, and people she’d never met, constantly pestering her to come back to politics, to help out with this or that crisis. They always said a version of the same thing. ‘You’re the best troubleshooter in the business, Maggie – and I’m in trouble.’

  It was flattering, but Maggie’s mind was made up. She needed a break. Or, as she would tell each would-be employer: she had needed to get out, and the best way of sticking to that was not to get back in.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Sighing, she pulled it out, mentally drafting her ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ reply.

  She read the message and let out a gasp.

  A man is dead, Maggie. I need you.

  Chapter Three

  Richmond, Virginia, 2.30pm

  ‘How about a cookie?’

  Maggie shook her head, though not because she didn’t want to eat one of the chocolate chip treats, as wide as a saucer, laid out on the plate before her. Rather she had been in Washington long enough that at least some of its mores had left their mark on her. When they brought the dessert menu, you only ever ordered coffee or a mint tea. At lunch, the only drink required was a bottle of sparkling water. And in a meeting, all snacks were to be declined. Maggie struggled with the first two, but she had succumbed to the third. She now saw the little fruit platters or bowls of M&Ms left on Washington conference tables not as small gestures of courtesy but as a test, and a poorly concealed one at that.

  ‘Baked them myself?’

  ‘You’re kidding. You’re the Governor of Virginia. There’s no way you’ve got the time to do that.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do.’ Donna Morrison looked up at the door, making sure no one was about to come in. ‘I am the menopausal Governor of Virginia, who feels like she hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since the Bush administration.’ Seeing Maggie’s reaction, she added, ‘What else am I gonna do between two and four am? There’s only so much Fox a girl can watch.’

  Maggie felt herself smile, wide and open. Long time since she’d smiled like that, she realized. Though, she now remembered, that was hardly uncommon in a meeting with Donna, who’d headed up the policy planning staff for the president they had both served so proudly. She was warm and welcoming, with an easy laugh. How she had come so far in Washington politics was a mystery to many in the city, including, it seemed, Donna herself. But there were lots like her in that administration, good people handpicked by a president who liked to boast he had a ‘no shits’ hiring policy.

  ‘So,’ the governor said, taking her place on the sofa opposite Maggie, and smoothing her skirt as she pivoted the conversation to business. ‘Like I told you, a man is dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  When she’d first got Donna’s text, and only for a moment, Maggie had wondered if the governor was referring to events directly outside the auditorium at Georgetown. Perhaps the commotion, that thudding noise they’d all heard, was the sound of a man crushed to death by protesters. Maybe the police had alerted the governor and she had instantly called Maggie.

  But a cursory look at Twitter told her that the death her old friend had in mind was closer to home and within her state lines. Shortly after eight o’clock this morning, a cleaner at UVA, Charlottesville, had discovered Professor Russell Aikman, long-serving member of the history faculty, dead in his office. He had been slumped over his desk, his brains sprayed over the antique maps that adorned his office walls. Which was why Maggie was now face to face with the new Governor of Virginia, fighting the urge to pick up a chocolate chip cookie.

  ‘First question I asked, Maggie, was—’

  ‘Is this suicide?’

  ‘But they said no. Ruled it out within an hour. Ballistics and whatnot.’

  ‘Which was not what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘Damn right. I was praying they’d tell me he’d taken his own life. I mean, that would be horrible for his family. Just horrible. Not that this is much better. But at least, we could avoid—’

  ‘All this.’ Maggie gestured at her phone. The tweets had started straight away, as soon as word of Aikman’s death had got out, which would have b
een shortly after the Staat vs Baum debate had begun.

  One conservative talkshow host had got in early, harvesting thousands of retweets within an hour. Tearing down statues is one thing. Taking a man’s life, that’s another. #RussellAikmanRIP

  But those on the other side of the argument had wasted no time either. Widely shared was a tweet by someone whose profile announced her as an activist in #pullthemdown, the campaign to remove Confederate-era statues. Russell Aikman wrote about the history of slavery. Now he has been silenced by those who can’t handle the truth. But #TheTruthLives

  ‘Exactly.’ Donna’s smile had gone. ‘They’re both claiming Aikman as a martyr for their cause, both blaming each other.’

  ‘That’s how things are here these days,’ Maggie said. She was suddenly aware of her own voice, with its Irish accent, and worried that she sounded detached: the smug foreigner looking with pity on the basketcase nation America was becoming. Neither needed to say the name of the man they blamed.

  ‘I know. But it’s getting worse, Maggie. Let’s say one or other of these groups did actually kill Aikman. Let’s say that happened. That is a whole other level of serious. That’s not just talking heads yammering at each other on TV or Facebook or whatever. That’s . . .’

  Maggie watched her run out of words. For all the folksy cookie talk, Donna Morrison looked gaunt, eaten up with anxiety.

  ‘You think this could spread?’

  ‘I tell you why I’m losing sleep, Maggie.’ She corrected herself. ‘Even more than usual. The verdict in the Keane trial is due this week. Friday, most likely.’

  ‘The Keane trial? That guy’s crazy. It’s a publicity stunt. There’s no way he could—’

  ‘That’s not what I’m hearing. That’s not what I’m being told to prepare for.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘The defence say the signs are not good. They think there are grounds on which Keane could win.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. He’s already said—’

  ‘Look, Maggie. You’re not a lawyer and nor am I. I’m just telling you the advice they’re giving me. Keane could win this thing, if only on a technicality.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Just imagine if that happens, Maggie. A court in the southern United States declaring that slavery did not exist. You’re too young to remember the Rodney King riots, but I’m not. Whole of LA blew up because white police beat a black man half to death and got away with it. This would be a thousand times worse. A thousand times. I’m telling you, Maggie, it wouldn’t just start a riot. It would start a civil war.’

  ‘Especially if the two sides are already killing each other.’

  ‘Exactly. Think about it, Maggie. If we get into some death spiral thing here, with tit-for-tat killings, reprisals and all that – then that verdict on Friday will be like pouring a barrel of gasoline on a fire that’s already raging.’ She paused. ‘And they’re angry to start with.’

  Maggie furrowed a brow.

  ‘They’ve got a black woman sitting in the governor’s mansion in Richmond, Virginia. The capital of the Confederacy.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I hear you, Governor, I really do.’

  ‘It’s Donna to you, Maggie.’

  ‘But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m out of this now. I’m—’

  ‘Maggie. D’you know what the president – our president – used to call you?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘ “Troubleshooter-in-chief”.’

  ‘Donna, please. Don’t.’

  ‘ “You show Maggie Costello any crisis, any crisis at all . . .” ’ She was impersonating his voice, and doing a half-decent job. ‘ “She’ll get to the bottom of it. And then she’ll solve it.” That’s what he said.’

  ‘He was a very generous man.’

  ‘Generous, my ass. He called it as he saw it. No bullshit praise from him.’

  ‘I’ve moved on now.’

  ‘Moved on? You’re doing some hippy dropout college course!’

  ‘I’m taking some time, to get my—’

  ‘What? Get your head straight? Look, I get that. I really get that. Nothing I’d like more right now than a big long rest. Sheesh! And you went through a lot. I mean, a lot. We’re all aware of what happened in the White House. You did something incredible. The nation owes you a great debt for that.’

  ‘You don’t need to flatter me, Donna.’

  ‘No? Well, tell me what I do need to do, Maggie. I’m serious. Tell me what the fuck I need to do to get you to help me. To get to the bottom of this Aikman thing and shut it down, before it gets out of hand. Because I think a race war is about to erupt in my state and I am genuinely terrified that it could devour the whole country.’

  Maggie stared at the floor. She didn’t dare meet the governor’s eye. She knew what it would do to her resolve.

  ‘I need my life back,’ Maggie said at last.

  ‘I know you do,’ Donna said quietly. ‘And once this is done, you will and you must get your life back. But right now, you’re the only person who can help. Please.’

  There was a long silence, eventually broken by Maggie. ‘I’ll give you one week,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘No more.’

  The governor took her hand, clasping it tightly. ‘We don’t have a week, Maggie. We have less than five days.’

  Chapter Four

  Northern Virginia, 3.40pm

  She was glad for the hour’s drive to Charlottesville in the autumn sunshine along 1-64. She would use the time to clear her head and work out something approaching a gameplan. Under blue skies, with trees rushing past in glittering shades of red, russet and gold, she would sift through what she knew as well as the larger and more important category of what she did not know.

  She was drawing up a list of the known unknowns about Russell Aikman, when the supposedly alternative music station on the radio was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing. The dashboard screen told her it was her sister Liz.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Well, hello to you too, Maggie. I’m grand, thank you very much for asking.’

  ‘But it’s the middle of the day. You always call in the evening.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mags. I’m just calling my big sister because I feel like it. Why’ve you got such a big stick up your arse?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘So nothing wrong? You and the boys all OK?’

  ‘All grand here in sunny Georgia. How’s malarial DC?’

  ‘Same as always.’ With Liz, Maggie’s instinct was always to hold back what she knew. Not out of a sense of professional confidentiality, though she was always careful about that. But because there was no point in exposing Liz to anxiety and fear her sister could do nothing about. What good would it do her?

  ‘The same, eh? Well, I for one have just made a change in my life.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t tell me something’s up with you and Paul.’

  ‘No! Why the fuck would you think that?’

  ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘No, Margaret Costello, I am not having an affair.’

  ‘So what is it then? What’s the big “change”?’

  There was a moment’s silence and then: ‘I don’t want to tell you now.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Liz.’

  ‘It’ll be an anticlimax.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Please, Liz. Please.’

  ‘You’re a right cow, sometimes, do you know that?’

  ‘I do. I am a right cow. Now go on. Tell me.’

  ‘All right. I am now seeing somebody.’

  ‘So you are having an affair.’

  ‘No. I’m seeing somebody. Like I told you I would. You know, a therapist.’

  ‘Oh. You probably need to work on how you announce that.’

  ‘Just had my third session.’

  ‘Really? Just now?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And how was it?’

&
nbsp; ‘It was great actually. Really great. I just talked and talked.’

  ‘Yes, somehow I can imagine that.’

  ‘I mean, really talked. We went deep.’

  ‘Wow. What’s she like?’

  ‘It’s a he actually. Yves.’

  ‘Yves?’

  ‘Yves Lamarche. He’s French.’

  ‘Sounds handsome.’

  ‘He is quite, actually. Not that that’s relevant.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You know, all that stuff about transference. Projection.’

  ‘Now you’re just saying words. I’m ignoring you. I think it could be really good for me. Really clarifying. Yves says that—’

  ‘What did it clarify?’

  ‘I’m not going to get into that now. Besides, we’ve only just started. He says there’s a lot of work to do.’

  ‘I bet he does.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Ignore me.’

  ‘No, what do you mean, “I bet he does”?’

  ‘Only that he’s not doing this for free, is he?’

  ‘I’m going to ignore you and your cynical, negative energy. Because the thing is, Maggie, I bet you’d really benefit from doing it too.’

  ‘What, seeing a therapist?’

  ‘Don’t say it like it’s the weirdest thing ever.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because it might help. Maybe you’ll work out why you keep bouncing around, never really settling in one place—’

  ‘I’ve lived in Washington for—’

  ‘Never committing to one man.’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t wondered.’

  ‘I can’t bloody avoid wondering when I talk to you, can I? You talk about nothing else.’

  ‘I mean it. Maybe it would help. Today Yves said we’re going to go right back to the beginning. Talking about Quarry Street, growing up, all of it.’

  ‘You don’t even remember it, do you?’