by Sam Bourne
But her instinct said otherwise. If this was a straightforward counter-terrorism operation, then why on earth were McNamara and Richard involved? This was something different, Maggie could feel it.
The key was the target of the operation. She doubted those CIA agents were after the local ranger, the man unlucky enough to have been killed in the crossfire and so far not even named. The brutal truth was that they would not have devoted that much hardware and manpower – Large team of postmen and equipment required – to taking out an African tour guide. Even if he was a secret jihadist fanatic, there would have been easier ways to get him.
No, the place to start was that American ‘tourist’. She knew the basic facts but no more. Who, really, was he?
49
Washington, DC, Saturday, 11.07am
The news stories had revealed one critical fact. Ron Cain was in Namibia stalking a black rhino, one of the rarest creatures in the world. And he had done it with a licence.
Fortunately, those licences were themselves rare – so precious, in fact, that when they were auctioned off at a charity fundraiser in Texas, it made the newspapers. A quick search, using the key words ‘rhino’, ‘licence’ and ‘hunt’ had yielded the story.
Dallas technology entrepreneur Ron Cain sparked controversy with animal welfare groups last night, when he bid $350,000 for the right to shoot an endangered black rhino in southern Africa later this year.
Cain, who founded the KRG broadcast equipment company, headquartered in Dallas, shocked bidders at the annual fundraising gala …
Maggie skimmed the rest, then typed in Cain’s name. A few potted profiles from the business pages of the Dallas Morning News, a smaller item from the Wall Street Journal, various stories on annual profits and then a story from the Washington Post, dated to the election campaign.
… among those suing the candidate is Texas businessman Ron Cain. He claims his broadcast technology firm KRG undertook ‘hundreds of millions of dollars worth of work for this man and we never received a dime’. According to Cain, KRG fulfilled a contract to build a satellite and fibre-optic infrastructure that would allow for a huge expansion into the Texas market. ‘But the customer never paid up. Our company had to pay wage bills for hundreds of workers, as well as suppliers, and we are still waiting to be paid back.’
The Texas case is one of several investigated by the Post, revealing a pattern of ‘stiffing’ contractors that, according to industry analysts, is so constant it ‘all but amounts to a business model’. One of those unpaid contractors, who spoke only on condition of anonymity, said, ‘What you’ve got to understand is that, with this guy, this isn’t a bug: it’s a feature. His default is not to pay his bills. That’s his M.O.’
She now did a more focused search. Ron Cain, lawsuit, KRG. It turned out that Cain hadn’t dropped it, the case was pending. In fact it was due to be heard … next month.
Maggie took a breath, closing her eyes briefly. Her nerves were jangled; she was exhausted; she was getting ahead of herself. She needed to do this methodically.
All right. The next point of reference was Delhi. What had McNamara said? She scrolled through the messages till she found it. Our friends will need instructions on the next package. Shipment in Delhi, dispatch details as discussed.
This search was harder. ‘Delhi’ turned up rather more results than ‘Namibia’. She narrowed it with the President’s name and that produced hundreds too, many of them dwelling on his business interests in India, which were extensive. She narrowed it again, this time by date. She only wanted to see stories from the last month or two.
She rushed through the headlines. Plans for early summit with Indian PM and Trade is our top priority sped by. She needed to narrow it more. She added the name of the President’s company to the filter.
Now she was looking at dozens rather than hundreds. She had speed-read most of them when she came to one from the Times of India. The headline: Heritage park given green light. Below it was a sub-headline: US President joins partners in celebrating ‘new dawn for Delhi’.
She read further and had all but given up when she came to the penultimate paragraph.
The plan was approved by a consortium of landowners in the district after several years of wrangling and legal delay. Opposition had previously been led by property magnate Aamir Kapoor, who died earlier this month. Groundbreaking on the site is scheduled for spring next year, following a programme of compulsory purchases, clearances and ‘voluntary relocation’ of local people, according to the Delhi municipal authorities.
Now Maggie had a name. A few clicks later she read:
The funeral was held yesterday for Aamir Kapoor, following his tragic death in a road traffic accident on one of Delhi’s busiest roads. Tributes were paid to Mr Kapoor, who was 43, including by the co-founder of his real estate company who said: ‘Aamir never lost touch with his roots. He wanted to preserve the Delhi he had known from his childhood. He stood firm against those who would destroy the city, even when those people were very powerful. He will be sorely missed.’ Mr Kapoor is believed to have been run over by a speeding car on leaving the Nizamuddin neighbourhood. No one has been charged in connection with the incident.
Maggie was feverish now, moving fast between tabs on the screen, always returning to that conversation between Crawford McNamara, perhaps the President’s closest confidant, and Richard, her ex-boyfriend. Even now, having read it so many times, she could hardly believe the words were real.
She was about to get to work on the third ‘package’ they had referred to, the one they gnomically described as ‘mid-Atlantic’, when she came across a line that she had breezed past at least the first dozen times she had read it, but which now leapt out at her.
Get in line. Hey maybe I can get Rosemary on it, see what the deal with those two is.
It was McNamara, talking about the presidential daughter and her husband. Specifically, whether the two of them were having sex any more. But who the hell was Rosemary?
Jake Haynes at the Times thought Rosemary might be the name of an official, possibly the new White House liaison with the intelligence agencies. That had struck Maggie as implausible. She may have seen her entire network of allies, contacts and acquaintances culled in the purge, but even so: there were not so many senior women with backgrounds in national security hanging around the White House that one could exist whom Maggie had never heard of, let alone met. The truth was, such a woman would have been a direct peer – if not rival – of Maggie’s. Of course she’d have known of her.
There was something else too. This President and White House had the most appalling record on promoting women. The chances that McNamara was about to break that habit by handing such a senior role to ‘Rosemary’ were slim.
But now that initial scepticism had a firmer basis. Because here was McNamara, in the transcript, suggesting that Rosemary could be a useful source of gossip on the state of marital relations between the presidential daughter and son-in-law. Which made it more likely that Rosemary was on the social staff or perhaps worked in the Residence. She might be a servant, maybe a cleaner. (Maggie had a sudden, guilty memory of Lieutenant Mary Rajak and of the unnamed cleaner who had been groped and grabbed by the President: she had still done nothing for either of them.)
And yet, if that was right, then why on earth had Jake asked about her? Everyone keeps mentioning this name to me. Rosemary this, Rosemary that.
Who the hell was she?
Maggie reached for the burner phone and dialled the number. When she heard that voice – live, not on voicemail – she felt the relief pass through her, as warm and reassuring as a glass of Laphroaig. ‘Hi there. It’s me. Don’t say anything out loud, but can you meet in the usual place? Great. How about now?’
50
The White House, Saturday, 2.45pm
Maggie went to the women’s bathroom for one last check. It was empty, which given the gender balance of the West Wing these days was hardly surprising. Maggie lo
oked at herself in the mirror. She had applied a little lipstick and just a hint of eye make-up. It was not that she wanted to make herself more attractive: since she was about to go and see Crawford McNamara, she’d have happily aimed for the very opposite look.
No, her primary objective was to disguise the exhaustion that would otherwise be written all over her face, those grey shadows now etched into the landscape as a permanent feature. She knew enough about McNamara to be sure that you showed him no weakness, and visible fatigue was a definite weakness. Strength and self-confidence: that was what the boss projected and that was what McNamara looked for. If he didn’t find it, he’d either ignore you or crush you, depending on his mood. With decent clothes and her best face on, she could pull back her shoulders, hold her head straight – and take him on.
Getting the meeting had been easier than she had expected. She’d emailed McNamara directly:
Have some info that might be useful. Need to brief you. When might suit?
He had replied immediately, from his phone.
Who can refuse an offer like that? Come to my office at 3pm. M.
That suited her well. It gave her enough time to … prepare. And to have the two conversations she needed ahead of this one. Before handing in her phone at the visitors’ entrance – her pass still didn’t work – she had sent one last, confirming text.
About to go in. Wish me luck. M x
Of course he kept her waiting. Five minutes, ten, twelve. Maggie refused to get nervous, even if – especially if – that was the intended purpose. Punctuality and the lack of it were weapons in Washington, rarely deployed by accident. The trick was to be unswayed, to refuse to receive whatever message was being sent. Perhaps McNamara was engaged in a petty power trip – See, I can keep you waiting – but Maggie would not let herself be played. She used the delay to go through the key points one last time.
At first, she had refused to believe it. As the pattern emerged, she had started from the assumption that it was obviously false. She had checked each element, waiting for the flaw, the contradiction, the date or place that did not fit and that therefore blew apart the entire theory. But it had not come.
She hankered for a second opinion; she longed to talk it over properly with Stuart. She thought of heading over there, walking him through the details. But even to talk about it out loud seemed too great a risk. So she’d had to be content with staring at the notepad that had sat on her desk at home, the page steadily growing darker as she filled in more and more of the blanks. The picture she was left with was so striking, she had started all over again.
It had gone on like that for hours, even when she tried to get half an hour’s rest to compensate for that sleepless night. At intervals she would wake, return to her desk, convinced she had found the loose thread which would unravel it all. Half of her wanted to find it. She could then curl up and hide, hoping that everything about this would disappear – taking her with it.
But the harder she looked, the more she interrogated each angle, the more solid it seemed to become. Now, though – only now – would it be tested. To destruction.
‘Ms Costello?’ Maggie looked up and nodded at the absurdly glamorous secretary, in a dress so low-cut Maggie’s mother would have branded it indecent. What, Maggie wondered, had Richard said about this one to McNamara? What fantasy had the two of them hatched, smartphones clammy in their hands, about this woman? Maggie could guess.
‘Mac will see you now.’
Maggie walked in, remembering her memo to herself about posture and eye contact. McNamara was at his desk, cargo pants on, feet up, crunching on a breadstick – one of several, sprouting from a cup like pencils – and using his free hand to scroll pages on his computer.
He raised a hand in greeting, but didn’t divert his gaze from the screen. ‘You know what I love?’ he said, still not looking at her.
‘What’s that, Mac?’
‘These liberals soiling their Depends undergarments about truth. They never stop! Always going on about facts and evidence and all that shit, even when they have the biggest possible dataset showing them – proving to them – that the American people do not give a rat’s ass about any of it.’
‘The dataset being—’
‘—the election. Like, they know it. They can see the numbers, same as you and me. They know our guy was often, you know—’
‘Hazy on the truth?’
‘—in a relationship of creative tension with the conventional wisdom. Let’s put it like that.’ A smirk was budding at both corners of his mouth. ‘But it didn’t matter. Not one bit. They all had their “fact checkers” and their “truth squads”, keeping these little lists of all the President’s “falsehoods” – such a polite word, don’t you think? So dainty! – and they’d tweet out these lists every night’, he did his po-faced, TV anchor impression: ‘“Tonight he made twentythree false statements” – and you know what the voters thought?’
Maggie was not about to reply, because she had decided that, in this meeting, she would not allow herself to be goaded. Still, her resolve was not tested because McNamara answered his own question by placing the heels of his hands to his lips and blowing a loud, wet raspberry.
‘That’s what the folks thought.’ He was still looking at his screen. ‘And yet, our beloved media and the liberals just won’t let it go. They’re doing it again now!’ He was pointing in disbelief at his Twitter feed. ‘And meanwhile the big guy is getting on with making history. Making the weather. Literally in the latter case! I mean it, have you seen the photo-op from this afternoon? Oh, it’s so great. First day out of the hospital and he does this. You know, this sends the perfect message: “Straight back to work.” Video’s all over Twitter. You’ve got to see it.’
Like a movie director, McNamara held up his hands in the shape of a TV screen. ‘OK. So the location is the Rose Garden. There’s a bonfire going, like crackling away, with little sparks and everything. And then, emerging through the smoke, is this figure. And you realize as soon as you see the outline of him: it’s the President. Kind of wreathed in smoke. Very powerful. And then, in front of all the cameras, he takes out this thick document. And he holds it up, so they can all see it. And do you know what it is?’
Maggie shook her head.
‘It says on the cover, in really big letters, Global Treaty on Climate Change. We mocked up the cover, especially for this. Anyway, he holds it up, lets them all get a good look. And then he shows the page with the last president’s signature on it. Holds that up to the cameras too, gives them time to zoom in on the signature. And then he rips off that page, and tosses it on the fire. And of course there’s huge applause.’
‘From the press?’
McNamara did a scold face. ‘From our people. First three rows, as always. They’re cheering and hollering. And he takes out another page and he tosses that on the fire. And then another. And now they’re whooping. And he rips out page after page. And the crowd are kind of ecstatic, you know? Until he’s burned the whole thing. Nothing left. And then he says, “I want to thank everyone for their good wishes and prayers for my recovery. As you can see, your prayers have been answered. Your leader is back – and the work goes on.” Just like that. And he turns around and heads back into the White House, back through the smoke. And the crowd are still applauding. Really, it was great. You should have been there. You’d have loved it.’
Only then, as if remembering himself, did he look at Maggie properly. He leapt to his feet. ‘Where are my manners?’ He smiled widely, his eyes shining with warmth. ‘Talking of applause, I should be giving you a standing ovation.’ He started clapping. ‘Jesus, Maggie Costello, what you only did there. The service you have rendered your country, I can’t even …’ He shook his head, as if overcome by emotion.
‘I didn’t do anything, Mac.’
‘Didn’t do anything? Are you kidding me? It was your work that saved the President’s life! If it hadn’t been for you alerting me to the fact that Dr Fra
nkel had been murdered, we’d have had no idea there was a conspiracy against the President. I’m serious, Maggie. It’s all down to you.’
‘With some help from Richard Parris.’
Maggie saw a flicker in McNamara’s eyes, no more. ‘You gave us the heads-up we needed to give extra protection to the President of the United States. The republic owes you a great debt, Maggie.’ He reached over to shake her hand and then sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. ‘I will make sure that act of patriotism does not go unrecognized.’
‘I’m grateful, Mac. But that’s not why I’m here. I want to talk to you about Gary Turner.’
Not even a flicker this time. ‘I don’t know that name, Maggie. Can you help me out?’
‘Sure. He’s the undercover CIA agent who was killed a few days ago while on duty in Africa. He died from his injuries yesterday.’
McNamara kept up the eye contact, but also reached for the speaker button on his phone.
‘April, can you ask Stowe to send in one of his female staff please?’ McNamara made a gesture towards the phone – as if to say ‘Bureaucracy, what can you do?’ – and went back to his computer screen.
Maggie was watching McNamara’s face closely when a tall, toned and ludicrously glossy young woman – long, bottle-blonde hair falling in thick curls, lustrous red lipstick and a tightly fitted uniform – knocked on the door and walked in, looking to McNamara for instructions.
‘Maggie,’ McNamara said, ‘this is purely routine but I’m going to step out for a minute or two while this nice young lady checks to make sure you’re not wearing a wire. Not happy about it, but given what happened to the President we’re having to tighten some of our procedures around here. OK?’
Maggie clocked McNamara’s obvious excitement at the scene he had created, but understood there was no option of saying no. She stood, ready to be patted down. What followed was, in fact, a much more intrusive, intimate search. This woman, who said nothing, closed the internal blinds in McNamara’s office, and then asked Maggie to remove her clothes, item by item. She checked Maggie’s underwear, running her fingers under the straps of her bra, peeking into each cup, as well as examining under her armpits. She had Maggie remove her shoes and she looked through Maggie’s hair, the way the nuns at the convent used to search for lice.
